The Revenge Playbook

by Rachael Allen

  Michael shoots me a sly glance. “You looked so shocked when I asked you. I thought you were going to pass out or something.”

  “I wasn’t—I just. That wasn’t what I was expecting to happen.” How do I always end up a stuttering mess around him?

  “What were you expecting?” The sly smile is back, and suddenly he’s standing so very close, and my skin tingles from all the places he could be touching but isn’t yet. “This?”

  His lips touch mine, and his hand slides behind my back, and I forget to analyze how good a kisser he is. I forget that we’re standing in the middle of a parking lot with half the student body of Ranburne High. Forget to worry about telling my parents about us. I forget everything but the press of my body against his and this moment and his tongue parting my lips and the feeling that if he let go of me right now, I’d float away like a helium balloon. My fingers find the back of his neck and then his hair and, oh my gosh, it is every bit as soft as I thought it would be. I am totally the girl making out in public against the back of a car. It is completely unlike me, and I don’t care. Being a lovesick zombie feels good.

  A horn blares right next to me, and my heart nearly stops. Michael and I jump apart. A Ford Bronco with Weston riding shotgun peels past us, him glaring as one of his friends burns rubber out of the parking lot.

  “Who’s that?” asks Michael.

  “He’s no one,” I say. “We used to date, but it’s over now, so he’s no one.” I wrap my arms around him and pull him into another kiss because this moment isn’t over until I say it is.

  RANBURNE PANTHER SCAVENGER HUNT

  In Ranburne:

  1. Fill a condom up with water. Draw a face on it. Put it on Principal Corso’s doormat, and ding-dong ditch. (One person)

  2. The egg-on-a-string trick. Hang an egg from a power line by a string and watch a car run into it. (Everyone)

  3. Paint the David Bowie statue at Old Lady Howard’s corn maze. (Everyone)

  4. Chair race through Walmart. (Everyone)

  5. Get a picture of the team with the Ranburne Panther. (Everyone)

  6. Go to the Dawsonville football field. Find that stupid rock they touch before their games. Pee on it. (Everyone)

  In Nashville:

  7. Visit the illustrious Delta Tau Beta fraternity at Vanderbilt. Have a beer with Panther alum TJ McNeil and take a picture of the legendary scar he got during a game-winning play against Dawsonville. (One person)

  8. Go to LP Field and reenact the “Music City Miracle.” (Everyone)

  9. Go to Centennial Park and jump into the pond behind the Parthenon. (Everyone)

  10. Go to The Jackrabbit Saloon. Walk to the very middle of the dance floor and attempt to do the worm. (One person)

  11. Go up to a girl who is totally out of your league, get down on your knees, and ask her to marry you. (One person)

  12. Go up to a fat girl and tell her “You’re so beautiful . . . for a fat chick.” Bonus points if she throws her drink on you. (One person)

  13. Hug a biker. Bonus points if he has a mullet. (One person)

  14. Get a girl to give you her thong. (One person)

  DARES REMAINING: 3

  1:05 A.M.

  LIV

  Peyton, Ana, and I are at the edge of the dance floor, at a table made out of a barrel, watching Melanie Jane’s drama unfold. Apparently, girls sitting still is the universal signal for every loser in the bar to come over and harass us because that is what happens. I am irritated with all of boy-kind.

  An unsuspecting football player stumbles over and asks if any of us are wearing a thong he could have—they seem to be having trouble with that one.

  “I’m doing this scavenger hunt thing,” he explains.

  He must not realize who I am. I don’t have the patience for this.

  “Sorry, sweetie. I don’t wear underwear because I’m a huge whore, remember?” Not actually true. I have on undies, with a back and everything.

  His eyes go huge as he backs away. Peyton and Ana raise their eyebrows at me. I don’t usually lash out at people like that. I don’t usually want to.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just frustrated with getting hit on by weirdos. And with the football team in general.”

  I snag Ana’s camera from across the table and start recording. Nothing in particular, at first. Some people dancing. A lady wearing cowgirl fringe and not in the ironic way. The table’s centerpiece, which happens to be a jaunty raccoon eating Cracker Jacks. The camera somehow ends up zooming in on Trevor. All on its own, of course. I’m not so lame as to creepily film my ex-boyfriend. Just because he hasn’t come over to talk to me, and I thought he would have by now, and who cares! Certainly not Trevor. And I don’t want to talk to him anyway!

  Some skeezy-looking guy has taken the empty barstool next to Ana and seems to be feeding her obscene pickup lines, so I sneakily angle the camera in that direction instead. She notices, and it’s like I can see something click behind her eyes.

  She turns toward the skeezy guy who is right in the middle of saying, “I’m hot. You’re hot. It only makes sense that we should go dance together right now.”

  “You are really hot,” Ana says like it’s just dawned on her.

  The guy freezes as if sudden movements will make her change her assessment, but then he gets this annoying, cocky grin. “You think I’m hot?”

  Ana nods. “Super hot . . . for an asshole.”

  “BOOM!” I close the camera as he wanders off, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like bitch. “That was the last bar one! And it was awesome! How did you think to do that?”

  Ana flicks imaginary dirt off her shoulder. “Just naturally gifted.”

  “We better get Melanie Jane and go. We still have two more, and we have to drive to both of them, and I don’t want the boys to beat us!”

  I don’t have to do any convincing. They can taste victory too. We rush over to where Melanie Jane is helping Michael clean up his pants.

  “We have to leave. Now,” says Ana.

  It is clearly not a good time for Melanie Jane. “Right now?”

  “Sorry, sweetie.” I put my arm around her. “But we finished everything we needed to do here.”

  Her eyes spark. “Seriously?”

  Peyton grins. “We’re so close.”

  “Okay.” Melanie Jane is back to business. She turns to Michael, an apology on her face. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go now. And I’m sorry about the thing with the thong.” She cringes. “And also about your pants.”

  “It’s okay,” he says, holding her hands. “It was the most interesting night I’ve had in a long time. And you’re definitely worth it.”

  Peyton, Ana, and I collectively sigh because damn. And then he pulls her into a kiss so fierce and hot I have to turn away for fear I will catch on fire. Someday, I’ll get kissed like that again.

  As if I’ve called him into my presence by thinking of passionate kisses, Trevor is suddenly standing beside me.

  “You’re not leaving, are you? I’ve been so busy with scavenger hunt stuff, but I really wanted to talk to you.”

  “Um.” I estimate that I have at least two minutes until the lovebirds next to me are finished. “Can you make it fast?”

  “Oh. I guess so.” He runs a nervous hand through his blond hair. Steers me away from the rest of the group. “It’s just that the season doesn’t have that many weeks left, and I miss you so much, and I was hoping, soon, maybe we could go on a date? Or I could just call you. Whatever you want.”

  He does care! Maybe it’s not the thong-wearing, drinks-down-your-pants level of caring, but maybe it is. Maybe I won’t know unless I give him another chance. I think about the email. It was clear he didn’t want to hurt me, that he did love me. But he wasn’t strong enough to keep fighting for me. Is he strong enough now?

  Before I can give him an answer, Chad saunters over and slaps him on the back so hard he starts coughing.

  “Hey, there, Trev. What h
ave I told you about talking to this girl?”

  Ugh. And speaking of the email, I can’t see Chad without wanting to cause him bodily harm because of all the things he wrote.

  “Oh, um . . .” Trevor’s eyes dart back and forth between us, but I don’t want to see who wins this tug-of-war.

  Nothing has changed. They still own him. The seedling of hope sprouting in my chest dies.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say sadly.

  “No, Liv, wait!”

  He chases after me, completely ignoring Chad’s continued heckling. I wonder how he’ll pay for that later.

  “I’m sorry. Just ignore him. It doesn’t change what I said.”

  “Now’s not a good time. Maybe later, okay?” His face says he wants to argue. Over his shoulder I see Weston attempt to drive-by hug one of the bikers. A chair is flipped. Punches are thrown. I point in their direction. “You should probably go see about your boy.”

  9

  Friday, September 18

  PEYTON

  I tap my pencil against my desk while Coach Mayes passes out the quiz sheets. I studied so hard, and I’m itching to get started before all that knowledge up and evaporates. The first question is an easy one, and I breeze through it. Every time a problem starts to trip me up, I just imagine Rey’s calm voice explaining the angles.

  It’s going great until Coach Mayes steps out of the room. That’s when Casey and Nate start whispering—first about what they think the answers are, and then about Angelica Davies’s sudden change in cup size.

  “I don’t care how big they are,” says Nate. “You can always see her nipples through her shirt.”

  Casey snorts. “And this is a bad thing, why?”

  “Because they’re always going in different directions, and it freaks me out. Like one’ll be pointing north and the other’ll be going southeast.” Nate mimes multidirectional nipples with his fingers. “It’s creepy.”

  I have to work extra hard to block out that mental picture, and even harder when Casey decides it would be a good idea to flick rolled-up balls of paper at me. I have to reread question six about eighty billion times—it’ll be a miracle if I get it right. Somehow, I finish and even have time to check my work before Coach Mayes gets back and calls time.

  “We’re going to spend the rest of the day on the library computers. There are some interactive geometry games I want to show you guys.”

  Everyone races to get their stuff together because library time pretty much means free-for-all. I hang back.

  “Hey, Coach?”

  He shuffles the quizzes into a neat stack. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering. Is there any way you could keep Casey from bugging me? Like, especially during quizzes and stuff? It makes it really hard to concentrate, you know?”

  “I can take care of that. Sure thing. You don’t need to go tattling on me again.” He’s grinning like it’s a joke, but there is most definitely a flicker of annoyance in his eyes.

  “All right.” I feel good, but also a little uncomfortable. “Thanks, Coach.”

  I go to the library and find an open computer and start following the instructions on the handout. Casey plops down beside me and starts checking his email. I wait for the inevitable. It doesn’t take long.

  “Hey, Church Girl, I mean, Peyton. Hey, Peyton.”

  I resist banging my head against the keyboard in front of me, but seriously, if I have to sit through Casey talking to me for the rest of the class, someone is going to need to put me out of my misery. I look around for Coach, but he’s on the other side of the room grading our quizzes.

  “Hi, Casey,” I say in the most bored, sarcastic voice I can manage, which for me isn’t saying a whole lot.

  “So, what do you think of—”

  Smack! One of those little foam footballs beans Casey in the back of the head and ricochets around between the table and computers.

  “What the hell?!”

  We both turn around to see Nate and Brian duck behind one of the bookshelves laughing.

  “Oh, you’re gonna pay,” Casey half yells because apparently, football players are exempt from using indoor voices in the library, along with everything else. He grabs the football and chases after them.

  Saved.

  I take a deep Casey-cleansing yoga breath, and stretch my neck from side to side. That’s when I notice the screen of Casey’s computer. His email account is still open. My fingers twitch against my keyboard. I could probably find The List. Right now. I’m sure it’s still there. A guy who has—I glance at his screen again—1,486 unread emails probably didn’t delete it. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat itself practically to death against my chest. What if he catches me? What then? I do this combination flip-my-hair-over-my-shoulder, turn-my-head-and-look-at-him move that I’m sure is the very opposite of stealth. He’s still on the other side of the library, engaged in an all-out war with Brian and Nate. The football flies over five stacks of books and disappears, and the boys chase after it. This is my shot.

  I slide into his chair and spend two blank seconds that feel like an eternity staring at his screen and freaking out because I have no idea what to do next. It’s not like I can wrinkle my nose and the email will magically appear. I take a deep breath. A search. I can search for it. Yes, I’ve used email searches before. I can do this. A low giggle that is not altogether sane escapes me as I type LIV into the search window and click ENTER. It’s searching! This is so exciting! I am totally a spy! I check over my shoulder again to make sure I won’t be a dead spy, but the boys are still occupied. Pelting each other with a football and objects found around the library requires a lot of attention.

  A few hits come up, including one with THE LIST as a subject line. Well, that was easy. I click on it, and skim for the part about Liv. LIV LAMBROS. THIS SLUT HAS HAD SEX WITH MORE GUYS IN MORE PLACES—

  I cringe. This is it, all right. I start to click FORWARD. No, wait! That leaves a trace! I open my own email and copy and paste the message into a new email instead. I feel like I’m taking forever. I hope no one’s watching me. I type in LIV, and her email address comes up, but as I move the mouse over the SEND button, it’s like my finger doesn’t want to press it. Should I really be sending this to her? The things in this email are horrible. What if she reads it and—

  “Hey, Peyton!”

  Uh-oh. It’s Casey. I hit SEND and then close both our emails, and not a moment too soon because he’s right behind me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Huh?” I blink up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were done. I closed your email. My computer was being funny, so I wanted to check my email on yours.”

  I can’t believe how calm my voice is. It’s like listening to someone else talk who isn’t freaking out. I hope he can’t see my hands shaking.

  “Oh, that’s okay.” Casey grins at me. “You can use anything of mine you want.”

  And then, I kid you not, he looks pointedly at his crotch. There is some kind of justice in it being his email that we finally used to get The List.

  “Awesome,” I say in a voice that clearly means it is anything but.

  “Pack it up. Let’s go,” barks Coach Mayes over the not-at-all-quiet-anymore library.

  Everyone gets their stuff, including Nate and Brian, who didn’t sit in front of a computer for a single minute of the library visit, and who are getting away with it because life isn’t fair. Coach Mayes catches Casey by the shoulder, and I’m so surprised, I trip, and Jimmy Ferraro runs into me.

  I wait for Coach to say something about Casey bothering me during class, but instead he says, “I need to talk to you about one of your answers on today’s quiz.”

  Oh. Oh, wow. Did he catch him having the same answers as Nate or something?

  “I don’t think you understood what I was asking with question number three. I just want to make sure you get it.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Casey grins, and I
get the feeling this has happened before.

  Friday, September 18

  LIV

  When I check my phone between classes, there’s an email from Peyton. Subject line: The List. Ohmygosh, is she serious?! I open it. She is! She totally got The List! I feel like doing a victory dance in the middle of the hallway. And then I read a couple of sentences, and my stomach drops. I can’t read this at school. Not unless I want to look like I spent last night binge-watching The Notebook. So I spend the rest of the day taking out my phone and staring at the email I can’t read. Opening it. Closing it. Reconvincing myself that saving it for later is the best policy.

  And then, because it’s a football bye week, I have to go to dance team practice even though it’s a Friday. Peyton asks me if I’ve read it, and when I tell her no, she says I have to call her when I do. Before I do anything drastic. As if I would ever do anything drastic. Although, if I don’t get to read this freaking email soon, I just might.

  And it gets worse. Because when my mom picks me up, she announces we’re all going to family dinner together at the restaurant on the way home. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket, but I have promised myself I am only reading this email in my bedroom, all alone, on my laptop, ideally with a metric ton of chocolate on hand. The seconds tick by with painful slowness while my brother and sister attempt to use silverware like civilized humans and my mom asks me questions about school and stuff. I have no idea what I tell her. All I can think about is getting home. I AM NOT GOOD AT DELAYED GRATIFICATION, PEOPLE!

  By some kind of miracle, I finally get back to my bedroom and barricade my siblings out. I open the email, and also a square of extra dark with sea salt, just to be safe. And I read.

  Gentlemen,

  A new school year is upon us, and a new crop of Varsity players is chomping at the bit to get on the field. And you know what that means. It’s time for The List.

  We have certain standards here at Ranburne High, and while I’m sure you all thought you were hot shit when you were on JV, you’re not. You turds don’t know shit about shit, and you definitely don’t know shit about women, which is why we have to help you out every year by making certain you’re not dating fat, ugly losers. We just want you to live up to your potential, gentlemen. We do this because we care.