The Revenge Playbook

by Rachael Allen

  “You told him?” Toby, my Toby, told Chad of all people? “Do you know how bad this is? How could you do that? You completely betrayed me.”

  He stares at me through the screen, his eyes turning red at the corners. “You betrayed me first, Ana.”

  His words cut me straight through the heart because they’re completely true. I did hurt him first. I used him, more than once, and I gave myself a free pass because I felt like it was worth it. Now I’m thinking it wasn’t.

  “I’ll see you later, okay?” Toby walks away through my backyard and disappears between the hedges.

  I want to yell out his name, but I’m scared of how much it will hurt if he doesn’t come back.

  A few minutes later, my phone beeps in my pocket. My heart does a backflip. Toby? Oh. It’s just Liv.

  We’re in the tree house. Grayson said you might be able to meet us. Can you get out?

  I almost cry when I read the text. It feels that good to have someone waiting for me. I can’t believe the other girls were able to sneak past their parents and come all the way over here. They must really care about me. I slip out to the backyard, telling my mom first that I’m going to the tree house to think. She’s used to me doing this, so she gives me a hug and lets me go. When I climb the wooden rungs to the top, the girls are all there, as promised.

  Liv squeezes me in a hug before I can catch my balance. “Are you okay?”

  “As good as I can be, I guess.” I find an open space to sit. It’s kind of a tight squeeze in here with four grown-up-sized people. “What about you guys? Are you okay?”

  They pass confused glances back and forth. “What do you mean?” asks Melanie Jane.

  “We got caught.” Our lives as we know them are going up in flames. How are they all so calm?

  Peyton shakes her head slowly. “You got caught. We’re still not sure how.”

  “It was Toby,” I say. “He told Chad.”

  “What?!” Melanie Jane looks like she’s about to fly out of the tree house on a broom. Possibly with a legion of flying monkeys with which to attack Toby. “I’ll kill that little dork.”

  I put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. We’re kind of even.”

  “They never called the rest of us to the principal’s office.” Liv shifts her legs into a butterfly stretch. “We kept waiting.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t tell on you guys.”

  “That was really cool of you,” she says, and the other girls nod.

  “Yeah. I mean, we’re in this together. Things are bad for me right now, but they don’t have to be bad for everyone.”

  They breathe a collective sigh of relief.

  “Oh, good,” says Liv. “Because I don’t think I’d have a chance of getting a scholarship with something like this on my record.”

  “Miss Nashville is right around the corner,” chimes in Melanie Jane.

  “I’d hate for Rey to know I was a part of this,” says Peyton.

  “Sure,” I reply, feeling suddenly alone in this very cramped tree house. “I can take the fall by myself. It’s not a problem.”

  I falter on the end of my sentence. Melanie Jane is picking at her cuticles. Liv seems very interested in her split ends. Peyton is the only one of them who has the decency to look at me, and even she seems like she’s about to burst into tears. And just like that I am dragged back into the darkness that consumed me for most of last year. Was this the only reason they came over? Did they care about how I was doing at all? I thought the whole point of this was for us to band together, but I guess I was wrong.

  “I should probably go.”

  I crawl out of the tree house before they can stop me. Back into my house. Back into my bed. Back under the covers pulled up over my face. My parents hate me. Toby hates me. The kids at school never liked me to begin with. My girls have abandoned me. I have no one.

  Thursday, October 1

  MELANIE JANE

  There is no vlog today. Though that doesn’t stop people from checking at 9:30. And 9:31 and 9:32 and 9:40 and then at 11:00 just in case. The excitement of Monday and Tuesday is gone. All anyone can talk about today is that bitch Ana Cardoso.

  “It just makes me sad, you know?” Chloe slides into the desk next to me in Spanish. “They’re such great guys, and they totally don’t deserve this. Ana Cardoso is a stupid bitch drama queen who likes to make other people’s lives miserable. It’s really lame.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t think it was lame Tuesday before you found out it was Ana.”

  Chloe looks me up and down like she doesn’t even know who I am anymore. “What’s your deal, Mel-Jay? This is Ana we’re talking about. Besides, that video she posted yesterday was way over the line. You can’t just out someone’s secret ceremonies. That’s just wrong.”

  I shrug because if I open my mouth again, bad things are guaranteed to come out.

  Ana is screwed, and I am drowning in guilt. Liv and Peyton too. We talked about it for over an hour after Ana left last night. Keeping our secret seemed like the best idea at the time, but now I’m not so sure.

  Chloe snort-giggles next to me. “OMG. Have you seen this?”

  She pushes her phone in front of me. It’s a photo of Ana looking totally wasted, horns and a mustache edited onto the picture later. It’s posted on some kind of website. I scroll down to find dozens, maybe even hundreds, of comments.

  Ana Cardoso is a stupid skanky narc who needs to learn to keep her mouth shut.

  She just wants to make everyone else as miserable as her.

  She’s a liar.

  Slut.

  Bitch.

  And after the comments, there’s another post. A video. The caption above it reads, WHAT ANA CARDOSO LIKES TO DO FOR FUN.

  “Oh! That’s the best part. Here.” She clicks PLAY. “It’s hilarious.”

  I feel like I’m going to be sick. This is the video from the night Chad tried to rape Ana. To anyone who doesn’t know Ana was on drugs, all the dancing around probably would seem pretty funny. To me, it is disgusting. A thought hits me like a sucker punch: I wonder if Ana’s seen it. Is she watching it right this minute? Is it dragging her back into that nightmare? Making her feel like she’ll never be able to outrun it no matter what she does?

  The video settles it. We have to confess. Take some of the attention off Ana. Give back the football and try to get through the next 2.5 years with our heads down. The more I think about it, the better I feel. It’s going to suck, really badly, but telling is the right thing to do. And I think I know how I want to do it.

  I give Chloe’s phone back and pull out my own where Señor Barbas can’t see it. I text Michael.

  Me: I know we were planning on Saturday, but can I come over tonight?

  Michael: Sure.

  Me: Awesome. And can Liv and Peyton come too? It’s really important.

  Michael: Yeah. Is everything okay?

  Me: I think it will be. Also, do you have any video equipment?

  There’s a delay. He must think I’m so weird. Chloe is leaning over her desk trying to read my screen, so I scoot it farther under my Spanish book. Michael texts back.

  Michael: Yes, but you have to know, after the thong incident, getting texts like this from you is very scary :)

  Yep. Definitely thinks I’m weird. Fantastic.

  Me: You’re the best! I’ll come over after cheer practice! And don’t be scared :)

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this,” says Peyton. “I’ve been feeling awful.”

  “Me too,” says Liv.

  We get right to work making a new vlog post. It feels weird doing this without Ana, but I’m hoping she’ll forgive us when she sees it. Michael films for us—he’s pretty amazing about rolling with whatever crazy thing I throw at him. We kind of had to tell him what was going on, but he had figured it out for himself after watching all of our shenanigans this weekend. Before I know it, we’ve wrapped, and the post is set to go live tomorrow, and Michael and I are alone in his bedr
oom. There is nothing left to do but make out. It is obvious. And it is creating an awkward silence.

  Michael scratches the back of his neck. “Just so you know, I really wasn’t inviting you over here as a sex thing.”

  “Good.” I sit on his bed and swing my feet back and forth just a little. “Because we’re not having sex.”

  I scrutinize his face for the wrong reaction, but he seems pretty okay with what I just said. “Are you a virgin?”

  “Yep.”

  Some girls are embarrassed about being virgins. They get all shy and flushed every time they have to tell a boy because they’re worried about what he’ll think. Well, not me because I know what those girls don’t. Every time I’ve ever told a boy I liked that I was a virgin, they had unilaterally the same response: they thought it was “so cool” or “very cool” or “really cool” or sometimes just plain “cool,” but cool was always the word of choice to describe having retained one’s virginity.

  The problem is, even though they said it was “so cool,” that’s not what they meant. What guys mean when you tell them you are a virgin, and they tell you it’s “so cool,” is that it is “so cool that you have never had sex with anyone else as long as you are planning on letting me eventually have sex with you.” Which is not, in my opinion, cool at all.

  “I thought so,” he says. And I must be giving him some kind of evil eye because he rushes to explain. “You said something about it at the bar. About Weston dumping you?”

  Oh. Right.

  “Is it tough?” he asks. “Waiting?”

  “Sometimes.” It probably will be with you. “What about you? Are you a virgin?”

  “No. She was my girlfriend. Before I moved from Boston.” He sits beside me. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Yeah.” It only puts a ton of pressure on me. “I have to ask you something else. Do you have any STDs or anything?”

  “Nope. Do you?”

  “No.”

  We both laugh awkwardly.

  “Well, now that I’ve totally killed the mood . . .”

  He grabs my hand. “No, you didn’t. And now we can have fun without having to worry about anything. So. You just let me know if I ever do anything you don’t want me to. I never want you to be uncomfortable, and I don’t really know how this works.”

  “Okay.”

  I have no idea what I do or don’t want him to do. This would be a whole lot easier if I had created a complicated formula taking into account the number of weeks we’ve been dating and how much I like him and doling out precise allotments of physical affection. Not that I normally do that. Okay, fine, I totally always do that. But not this time. Not with Michael. That boy is my exception. I’ll have to be careful not to unleash years of pent-up sexual desire onto him all at once.

  I kiss him until we’re gasping for air, and we do things, wonderful things, and I have feelings I didn’t know were possible. We don’t do Everything, but I never realized how much the things we do could mean. It’s euphoria—this freewheeling, flying, falling-in-love-for-the-first-time feeling. The Norwegians call it forelsket. And then we’re wound up together in his sheets, my head resting against his shoulder. He opens one eye when I snuggle closer.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  We stare at each other, our eyes passing secrets back and forth about the last hour. He touches my cheek with the back of his fingers.

  “I love you, Melanie Jane.”

  “I love you too.”

  Did we really just say that? This early? Oh, yes, my brain has definitely been washed. And dried. And maybe ironed with starch too. Before I can get a really good internal freak-out going, my phone vibrates on Michael’s floor. I lean over and pick it up. And nearly swallow my tongue because on my screen in serious black letters is a text from my mother.

  We need to talk about your boyfriend.

  We need to talk about your boyfriend. Quite possibly the seven most chilling words in the English language. I turn them over and over in my head, like a pancake that just won’t cook, as I climb the stairs of my house to find out my fate. My mother waits for me in the living room.

  “Hey, Mama.” I pause for the storm I know will follow.

  “Melanie Jane, hello there. I was wondering when you might show up,” she says sweetly. I am not fooled. I know what’s underneath that sweetness.

  “I saw your text.”

  “Yes, Chloe called the house tonight to ask where you were, but she figured you might be at your boyfriend’s.” Here we go. “Imagine my surprise. I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”

  I am in panic mode. I do the only thing I can. I lie.

  “Mama, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “So, you’ve spent the past five hours with a boy who isn’t your boyfriend?”

  Ooo. I walked right into that one.

  “Okay, he is my boyfriend.”

  “So you just lied to me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve obviously been lying to me for Lord knows how long.”

  Uh-oh. We’ve been talking for less than a minute, and she’s already bringing the Lord into the conversation. I decide to try a new tactic.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Mama sighs. “Well, why didn’t you just tell me you had a boyfriend?”

  Because you’re the most judgmental person I know. Because I knew the minute I told you I could expect calls from every living family member asking about my new boyfriend. Because you’d somehow find a way to ruin our relationship.

  I hang my head. “I don’t know.”

  “If you and this boy are serious, we’d really like to meet him.”

  I think about my mother meeting Michael. My stomach nearly turns itself inside out.

  “No,” I say softly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You can’t meet him.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

  Ugh. She is like a dog with a piece of meat. “That’s exactly why you can’t meet him,” I snap. “You have to pick everyone apart. Find every little flaw. No one could ever live up to your standards. I know I’ve never been able to.”

  I shut my mouth fast, but it’s too late. The words are already out there. There is silence, and my heart is doing backflips, and then:

  “I just want what’s best for you. I didn’t realize that made me a terrible mother.”

  “No, Mama, I don’t think—”

  She cuts me off. “You have wounded my spirit. I can’t talk to you any more right now.” And then as if she feels it’s inappropriate for a Southern woman to have such an emotional outburst, she adds, “I have a lot of work to do for the Junior League fashion show. I’ll see you later,” before whipping out of the room.

  I could hear the lump in her throat. I know she ran out to avoid crying in front of me. I stare at the now-empty doorway and burst into tears myself.

  Daddy finds me about an hour later, still tucked into the same chair in the living room.

  “Hey, Mel Belle.”

  “Hey, Daddy. How bad is it?”

  “Well. Remember that time you cut up your pageant dress to make a butterfly net?”

  I gulp. “Yes. Mama’s face turned four shades of purple.”

  “Well, this time isn’t like that time. Your Mama’s not angry. She’s hurt.” He clears his throat. “So am I.”

  The fact that my actions might have affected my dad hits me all at once. I’d been so worried about Mama, it never occurred to me he might have feelings. When I try to speak again, my breath catches.

  “You are?”

  “We used to be so close, but we’ve hardly talked since school started.” He sighs, and it breaks my heart. “Why didn’t you tell me? You always tell me everything, and I always help you work it out. That’s what we do. And now I guess you have someone new to tell your problems to. I feel like you don’t need me anymore.”

  My tears spill over again. “I’m so sorry. You aren’t replaced. The only reason I didn’t
tell you is because I didn’t want Mama finding out.” I sniffle into a tissue. “I’m realizing that trying to keep him a secret was a huge mistake.”

  He sits on the arm of the chair and rubs my back. “Aw, princess, I wasn’t trying to make you cry. Hey, how ’bout you tell me about him now?”

  I sniffle some more and wipe my cheeks.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything,” he says. “I don’t even know his name. What is it?”

  “Michael.” Even though I’m crying, my voice takes on a dreamy quality.

  “Sounds pretty serious.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, what’s he like?”

  “He’s in all the hard classes just like me, so he’s really smart. And he’s funny and kind and soo cute, and I sound like a girl in a romantic comedy, don’t I?”

  Daddy laughs. “Nah. He sounds great. Why couldn’t you tell your mama all that?”

  “Well, because he’s also Jewish, and a Yankee, and quite probably a Democrat.”

  “Oh.” He pauses. “Have fun telling that to your mother.”

  “Daddy!”

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “You should just tell her. All of it.”

  “I will. I just have to figure out how.”

  Friday, October 2

  I sneak down to the kitchen the next morning. Mama is at the table eating an egg white omelet, but she doesn’t seem angry. Daddy slides another omelet onto a plate, and jerks his head in her direction. Message received. I accept the plate and sit across from her. And then I eat half my omelet in silence because I’m a chicken. I finally work up the courage to speak.

  “Hey, Mama. I’m sorry for saying those things to you.”

  “No. I’m sorry.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I’m sorry they’re true. I would never want you to feel like you’re not good enough for me. You are a strong, phenomenal woman, and I’m proud of you every day. I’ve spent all this time pushing you because I wanted you to have more opportunities than me. I wanted life to be easier for you.”