The Revenge Playbook

by Rachael Allen

  People like Liv and Peyton think having a big talk and letting it all out will make everything wonderful. Like, if I go tell all my secrets to Melanie Jane, our friendship will magically be repaired and we’ll go riding off together on matching unicorns. But I’ve already tried the whole spilling-my-guts-to-a-third-party thing, and it most definitely did not result in any kind of helpful friendship mediation. If Melanie Jane and I talk directly, it’ll probably only make things worse.

  I should have learned my lesson after I told the counselor. Should have realized that in this town, at this school, no one was going to be on my side. But I hadn’t heard from Melanie Jane all weekend, and she wasn’t answering my calls. I was desperate to talk to her—she was my best friend, the only person I really wanted to tell. Plus, she was the last person to see me that night. Maybe she knew things that could help.

  I saw her in the hallway after I left the counselor’s office (well, after I left the bathroom where I had a sob fest after I left the counselor’s office). The bell had rung a minute before. Classes were changing, and she was standing there in the hallway. I wanted to fall into her. Cry everything that happened into her shoulder. But something in her face stopped me. It was her mouth. It was so tense. And before I could think of what to do next, she was walking away.

  On top of everything else, now my best friend was acting like she’d been replaced with a Cylon. None of it made any sense, and it set me crying all over again. I found my way to a back hallway. To the cement stairs outside the drama room. There was a good view of the pine forest that snuggles the left side of the school there, and the stairs were usually empty. Not today, though. Apparently, Chloe Baskins came here for her nicotine fix. It was too late. She’d already seen me.

  “Don’t let it—”

  “Close,” I finished. “I know.”

  The door locked behind you automatically if you didn’t wedge a stick or piece of paper or something into the crack. My hand was on the door handle. A retreat seemed like the best possible idea.

  “Hey, are you okay?” asked Chloe.

  I froze. I couldn’t very well walk away after she’d asked me a direct question, so I adjusted the stick she had tucked in the door and sat down beside her. The steps were hard, but it felt good to have something solid underneath me.

  “Not really,” I said.

  She took a puff of her cigarette and blew a smoky breath at the pine trees. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I knew what kind of girl Chloe was. Debutante. Gossip. Annoyingly perfect, at least on the outside. But I also knew she was Melanie Jane’s friend. And out here on the steps, hiding her cigarettes, she seemed like a different person. Like the kind of person you might actually want to talk to.

  So, even though I shouldn’t have, I did. I didn’t tell her the whole story, just the skeleton. Enough for her to know what Chad did. That it wasn’t my fault. And that I was worried about what Melanie Jane thought of me. She was a better listener than I expected.

  “Do you think you could talk to Melanie Jane for me?” I asked, folding and bending my fingers into knots. I felt like I was one step away from having things get better, and I was desperate for any scrap of better I could get.

  “Sure.” She flicked her cigarette butt on the ground and dug her heel into it. “I’ll do it today.”

  I should have known by her gentle smile and the delicate way she patted my shoulder. Chloe Baskins is not gentle. By the next day, half the school knew that I was trying to ruin the life of Chad MacAllistair, star receiver and all-around Boy Scout. That Ranburne’s chances at State might be torpedoed because some dumb slut did things while she was drunk and changed her mind the next morning. That was when everything really started to go to hell.

  The missing purple panties showed up. I found them taped to my locker one morning, the words Lying whore bitch scrawled beside them in red. People were clustered all around, waiting to watch me find them. Faces twisted and mean like I was surrounded by fun-house mirrors instead of actual humans. I couldn’t take them down, much as I wanted to. The people or the panties. Seeing them again dragged me back into the nightmare, so I ran away crying. I’m sure it was everything the vultures were hoping for. I hid out in the old tree house where the guys and I used to have campouts. I didn’t want to explain to my mom why I was home from school. Grayson found me after. He had cleaned up my locker for me. He sat beside me for a long time, but we didn’t speak. I was done telling people what happened.

  A video surfaced. Me dancing with Chad. All blurry like it came from a drunk guy’s phone. And the video, well, I’ll admit it. It looked bad. I was dancing all over him and grinding. No wonder Melanie Jane wouldn’t talk to me. No wonder people believed him. It didn’t change the truth. I wanted to dance with him after he gave me that shot. Probably because he gave me that shot. But I didn’t want any of the things that came after. Unfortunately, I was alone in this belief. So, I quit. I quit the cheerleading squad. I quit trying in school. I quit life for a while. At some time I can’t pinpoint, the days started getting easier instead of harder.

  Now I have a chance to do something about what happened. Stealing the football—I feel like it could be something bigger. It’s why I’m not about to let anyone give up.

  Things that haven’t gotten us any closer to stealing the Football of ’76:

  • Melanie Jane’s attempts to wheedle the trophy case key out of Coach Fuller

  • Spying on the Varsity initiation ceremony (though, let’s be honest, I did feel some shivers when we made that vow at the end)

  • Flirting with boys at parties (I can’t believe any of us thought that was going to work to begin with)

  Getting that breakup list hasn’t been going so well either. We know it exists, and we know it’s in an email, but since none of us are hackers, all that knowledge adds up to jack squat. I’m starting to get worried. Without a clear plan, everyone is losing steam. Well, everyone except me. After I saw what they did to Grayson, I knew I couldn’t let this thing die. Besides, if I don’t think of a way to boost morale soon, Liv might do something crazy like try to seduce Chad.

  So, as guilty as it makes me feel going to Toby again, that’s what I’ve got to do. Today we’re doing the one-minute version of Game of Thrones, episode 4, which means jousting, which means all the boys are acting like they’re twelve years old. Isaiah screams, “The seed is strong!” over and over. Grayson’s running around shirtless, but you can’t see the marks they gave him anymore. Not on the outside anyway. I tuck stray wisps of black hair under a silver wig because we’re supposed to film the Daenerys clip next. If I can ever get them to stop jousting, that is.

  Grayson comes over and bumps me with his hip. “I still think I look way more like Princess Daenerys than you.”

  I fix him with a regal glare. “You dare to question the Mother of Dragons.”

  “Okay, okay,” he laughs. “That was good. I’ll give it to you. Maybe not Grayson-level good, but we can’t all be me.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. It’s weird, though, laughing with Grayson when what I really want to do is ask him if he’s okay. I haven’t mentioned anything since the day I drove him home, but every time we’re together now, it’s like the air is full of unasked questions.

  “Hey, Grayson . . . ?”

  He looks at me, but I hadn’t really figured out the stunning conclusion to that sentence.

  “I’m okay,” he says, throwing an arm around my neck and giving me a squeeze. “Thanks for asking.”

  Then he runs back into the jousting frenzy.

  I have to wait for them to take a water break before I catch Toby alone. “Hey, Tobes, how’s it going?”

  He goes on about his new girlfriend for a while. I tell him he should bring her around next time we’re taping because she sounds pretty cool. After an appropriate amount of conversation, I ask what I really want to know: “Are you going out with the football team the night of the scavenger hunt?”

  He fro
wns. “I told you, I don’t get to do stuff like the scavenger hunt. Water boy, remember? Second-class citizen.”

  “Well, I thought you might still be hanging out with the older guys. Don’t they usually party at some of the stops on the hunt? Like at one of those places where they line dance?”

  “I don’t know.” He suddenly looks hopeful. “Yeah, maybe they’ll ask me.”

  “Cool. So do you know where any of this year’s stops will be?” I pretend like my complete focus is on my stage makeup, like the answer to my question is the least of my concerns.

  “Why do you care?”

  Oops. Maybe Grayson’s right and my acting could use some improvement.

  “I don’t. Some girl in my first-period class desperately wants to go, and when I told her I might have a friend who could tell us, she about peed herself, so I felt like I had to ask you.”

  “Oh.” Toby sits taller, pleased to think of himself as a football insider. “That’s kind of cool. Well, I know they’re pregaming at some fraternity at Vanderbilt. And then they’re going to be at this country bar, The Jackrabbit Saloon, that lets teens in—that’s where the cheerleaders and people are meeting them.”

  This I already know. Melanie Jane has been complaining about how she’s obligated to go, and she doesn’t feel like dealing with Weston following her around like a puppy. Or stalker.

  “Anywhere else?” I ask.

  “Well, they always end it at this strip club out in Slocomb that doesn’t card.” He laughs. “Apparently, there’s this stripper who’s older than dirt that guards the football. I don’t think your friend is going to want to go to that though.”

  I laugh too. “Yeah, probably not. I’ll let her know about the bar thing though.”

  Toby has given me exactly what I needed. There is a window of opportunity when the Football of ’76 is not in the trophy case or the ham-like hands of a football jock. I seriously doubt any girls from our high school would dare show up at that strip club. Any girls but us.

  Saturday, September 12

  MELANIE JANE

  Another date with Michael, another day of sneaking down the driveway to his car so I don’t have to tell my parents about him. I’ve heard that a frog will let you boil it to death in a pot of water. Not if you throw it right in the boiling pot—then it hops out. But if you put it in warm water, and then turn up the heat by degrees, it’s like it doesn’t realize what’s happening, and it sits there until it’s cooked. Sometimes, I worry that getting more comfortable around Michael means I’m the frog.

  It’s not that I don’t still get the jitters around him—I do. Oh man, do I get them. But that reinforced concrete surrounding my heart? It’s cracking. And so is my resolve. I go whole hours now forgetting the pain that comes with caring. Forgetting how dangerous it is to let someone near your fragile insides.

  Tonight we’re going to see a movie. Some kind of action-y superhero one. Totally safe. Plus, there isn’t much choice when there’s only one movie theater in town and it only has three screens. It’s opening weekend, and I forget what that means until we walk into the main lobby, and everyone from our high school is either waiting in line for popcorn, or gossiping by the new release posters, or in the bathroom putting on makeup. It’s not like I’ve been keeping Michael a secret—anyone with eyes can see us talking in the hall and stuff—but I haven’t exactly told people about him either. A fact I become very aware of when we pass by a cluster of cheerleaders, and Chloe nudges Beth and whispers something into her ear.

  We find our theater and watch the previews before the previews—the random, boring stuff when the lights are on and it’s still okay to talk. Michael’s hand finds mine as soon as we sit down, like it’s the most normal thing, like that’s where my hand is supposed to fit. I lean into him while I tell him about this Halloween project I’m helping out with for Friday Morning Fellowship. He’s stroking the back of my hand, and the water in the pot is bubbling all around me, and I’m thinking maybe we’re strong enough to survive my parents knowing about us. Maybe I’ll tell them when I get home tonight.

  “So, what religion are you?”

  “Huh?” I realize he is asking me a question. “Oh. I’m a Christian. What about you?”

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, are you okay with that?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Outside, I am smiling and calm. Inside, not so much. I don’t care that he’s Jewish. I secretly wished for a Jewish best friend growing up so she could teach me all the cool Yiddish words. But my family—we’re Baptists. And not just on Christmas and Easter. It’s every Sunday and every Wednesday and random other days of the week when my mom decides the less fortunate need more casseroles and baked goods. I was going to tell Mama and Daddy tonight, and oh my gosh, how am I going to tell Mama? She thinks our neighbors across the street are pagans, and they’re Catholics. Just last week she was telling me how she thought she heard them sacrificing cats to Mary in their basement—because didn’t you know that’s what those Catholics do for fun?

  The theater goes dark, and the future of our relationship right along with it. I am so screwed.

  I have no idea what happens during the movie because my brain is chasing itself in circles. And it only gets worse when I realize I have half a dozen texts from the cheerleading squad asking who I’m on a date with.

  Afterward, they jump me in the bathroom. Not the cut-a-bitch-take-your-Coach-bag kind of jumping. The cheerleader kind. It is much scarier.

  “Hey, Mel-Jay, who’s the new guy?” asks Chloe.

  She and Beth appear in mirrors on either side of me like a planned ambush.

  “He’s just a guy. He’s Michael.” The girl in the mirror’s cheeks turn pink, and I curse her for giving so much away.

  Beth smirks. “Now we know why we’ve hardly seen you lately.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Chloe draws out the word like we’re in seventh grade.

  “No. Not yet, anyway. We’ve only been on, like, three dates.”

  Aubrey joins us at the sinks. “How come you didn’t tell us about him?” She says “us,” but she means “me.” Even if I didn’t want to tell Chloe and Beth, why did I keep it from her?

  “I’m sorry.” And I mean it. She’s a good friend. “It’s just Weston and I just broke up, and he’s being kind of weird and jealous.”

  “But he broke up with you,” says Beth.

  “I know, right?” I shake my head like his craziness is sooo beneath me. “So anyway, I’m trying to be chill about stuff with Michael so he doesn’t completely flip out or something.”

  Deflecting the gossip mill onto Weston is definitely the best strategy. Especially since everything I’m saying is true.

  Aubrey squeezes me to her by the shoulder. “Well, you’re off the hook for the past couple of weekends since you’ve got a new guy, but you have to hang out with us on the scavenger hunt. No squelching.”

  “I promise,” I say. I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time after we get the football. Plus, having an alibi can only be a good thing. I hug her back and hope she gets the message: I really am sorry I didn’t tell you. You’re not like the others, I promise. “I better go, though. He’s probably wondering where I am.”

  Michael waits by the water fountain, grinning when he sees me. “Did you fall in?”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “No. Some girls from the cheerleading squad wanted to talk to me.”

  We walk to his SUV, the stars overhead twinkling like they’re exchanging messages in Morse code. He stops at the bumper instead of moving to the door. He runs his fingers over the waves in his brown hair. Once. Twice. I wonder why he’s so—kissing! He’s finally going to kiss me. Three dates is an eternity when it comes to waiting to be kissed and, as a lady, I never kiss first. I’ve had so much time to obsess and imagine. Will he be gentle and hesitant or will the waiting unleash a torrent of passion? Would he mind if I ran my fingers through his hair bec
ause it looks so very soft and I have been dying to do that? Ana told me they call that cafuné in Brazil. I don’t care what it’s called as long as I get to cafuné the crap out of him while he kisses me. The cautious side of me whispers that the kiss will turn me into a lovesick zombie—a sort of reverse Sleeping Beauty effect. I ignore her and take a step closer. Tilt my chin up ever so slightly. It’s okay. You don’t have to be nervous. I want this.

  He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Aw. He’s about to ask permission. That is adorable.

  “Melanie Jane?”

  “Yes?” I say in a voice that is not unlike one of those breathless damsels.

  “Is it a problem that I’m Jewish? You’ve been different since I told you.”

  I think my mouth is hanging open. I shut it. Yep, it was definitely open. “No, it’s not a problem at all.” I rush to get the words out because the waiting looks like it’s killing him by degrees. “I mean, it’s not a problem for me, but . . . I haven’t actually told my parents about you yet.”

  “Is that why you always tell me to wait at the bottom of the driveway?”

  I nod. “My mom is such a control freak. My boyfriend from eighth grade wasn’t good enough for her because his parents didn’t own half of Nashville. I don’t want to think about how she’ll react to this. She’s, like, the queen of the country club and volunteering at church and stuff.”

  “Yeah, I’m nervous about my mom too. She’s the stereotypical Jewish mom.” I look at him vacantly, and he smiles. “That means she’s a control freak too. She wants me to marry a nice Jewish girl and have a billion grandchildren.”

  A wave of relief radiates through my body. “You know, it makes me feel better to hear that. Like, at least I’m not the only one. I know she cares about me, but she forces me to do all this stuff, and sometimes I feel like she’s trying to live vicariously through me.”

  We swap stories about our crazy moms until I feel much better. I still have no idea how to tell my parents, but at least there are no longer ulcers forming in my stomach.