The Revenge Playbook (12 page)

I hang back.

“Um, Coach Mayes?”

He turns from where he's erasing the board. “What's up?”

I pull at the bottom of my shirt, my fingers fidgeting with the hem. “Well, I was wondering, I mean, I know the homework was due today, but I'm meeting with my math tutor this afternoon, so I was hoping I could get an extension?” Whew. I hate asking people for things. It makes me feel all sweaty and vomit-y.

“Mmmm.” Coach Mayes is making the “no” face. I must be an easy person to say no to because people make that face at me a lot. “I'll have to take ten points off for being late. It's in the syllabus.”

“Yeah, I know, it's just . . .” I bite my lip and check to see if there's anyone within hearing range. Casey and Brian are still sitting on desks at the back of the room. I lower my voice even more. “I have an IEP. So I'm supposed to get a little more time.”

Coach frowns. “I don't have an IEP on file for you.”

“You don't?”

He shakes his head.

“Oh.” And then Casey and Brian are standing behind me, so I just say, “Okay, thanks, Coach,” and make a quick exit.

I lean against the wall outside the classroom. How could I not have an Individualized Education Plan? I've had one ever since second grade when they tested me for ADHD. Did my parents forget to do something this year? I wouldn't be surprised with the way they've been acting lately.

Loud voices, boy voices, drift out of the classroom.

“Hey, Coach, I was in the gym all weekend getting ready for the Canyon Springs game this Friday, so I didn't have time to do the homework,” says Brian.

“Yeah, me neither,” says Casey, who I think is taking geometry for the second time. “It was a serious workout weekend.”

Uh-huh. With the amount of beer I saw them both drinking on Friday, I have a feeling they spent the better part of Saturday working beastly hangovers out of their systems.

“Okay, but make sure you get it in tomorrow.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “And make sure you bring the pain when we play Canyon Springs. I want to literally beat the piss out of those guys.”

My mouth hangs open. I can't believe he just gave them the extension he wouldn't give me. An extension I actually deserve! Casey cocks his chin at me as he passes. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. This is eighty different kinds of unfair.

I am in a spiral of suck. When I got home from school, Karl called, and like an idiot, I answered. I don't know why I keep doing this to myself. I tell myself we're over. That I have to stop letting him and his poison back into my life. But then he calls, and I have to pick up. Or I'll see him coming toward me in the hallway, and my feet will forget how to move. I wish he'd up and transfer to another school, because I can't seem to tell that boy no. I never have been able to.

Mom brushes my hair out of my face. “You okay, there?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine.”

“You don't have to tell me what's wrong. But do you maybe want to call Candace?”

Candace and Karl? Not buds. He practically did a happy dance when she moved, and she was so proud when I finally dumped him. But since I don't feel like admitting to her that I let him get to me again, I just say, “I'm fine. I promise.”

“You sure? You're usually digging into Thai food before I can get the bags open.”

I join her at the counter, unpacking the Penang curry and pot stickers. The tamarind shrimp smells so good I want to eat it straight from the box. Mom slides a plate in front of me just in time as
if she can tell what I'm thinking.

“That's better,” she says.

Ever since she and Dad got divorced, we're like bachelor girls. We eat take-out food all the time (girly, healthy takeout—the kind we could never get Dad to agree to). We do yoga before church on Sunday mornings. Sometimes we feel more like roommates than mother-daughter. Sometimes I like it. I don't like when she goes out with her single friends and I stay up worrying about her. And I definitely don't like hearing about the guys they meet. Mostly, I hate how everything's a competition between my parents now. Mom gets a cat, Dad gets a puppy. Dad buys a motorcycle, Mom buys a convertible. Who can act the most young and fun? Who's recovering from the divorce the fastest?

I want my parents to act like parents. I want a fridge filled with more than just diet shakes and to not run out of toilet paper all the time because they're too busy going on dates and saying “YOLO” as a justification for doing all manner of stupid, embarrassing crap. Instead, I have a dad who highlights his hair, and a mom who steals my clothes. Which reminds me.

“Hey, Mom?”

She sets down her fork. “What's up?”

“I had a problem in geometry today. I asked for extra time on the homework, but my teacher didn't have an IEP for me. Did we forget to do something this year?” I say “we” because as annoyed as I get with her, at least she's here. With me.

She shakes her head. “You don't have to file a new one every year. They should have everything from last year, and it should get sent to all your teachers. There haven't been any major changes.”

“Oh.” I'm really glad I said “we” now because it seems like it wasn't her fault.

“It's probably just a mix-up or something. I'll call your case manager tomorrow and get it straightened out.”

And because I'm still feeling guilty for thinking it's her fault, I tell my cynical side to shove it when it wonders how many days it will actually take her to call and if it would be easier to go see my case manager myself.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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N
ormally, I hate gym days. Gym days mean Coach Fuller has us file into the gym (or worse, outside to the track) for the physical education portion of our health/PE class. They mean he makes us do something god-awful like play dodgeball or see how many sit-ups we can do before our ab muscles give out. Worst of all, they mean I get sweaty. And as dainty and belle-like as I pretend to be, I sweat like a pig. Or a whore in church. Or a turkey on Thanksgiving. Or a fat man eating hot wings. Take your pick. Mama
always has a variety of metaphors on hand to describe the fact that what I do not sweat like is a girl. I don't glow. I don't glisten. I sweat bullets and buckets and great big drops of grossness.

And it's not so bad if I get sweaty at cheerleading practice because then I can go home and shower, but I have two more classes, plus lunch, that I have to get through after PE, and I'd rather not do it coated in a sheen of my own electrolytes.

What this all means is Coach Fuller is no stranger to me coming up to him and asking if I can do some different (and by different, I mean “sweat free,” but he doesn't have to know that) activity. Which, for today, is perfect. I put on my best pageant smile and skip on over to where Coach Fuller is instructing people on how to properly serve a volleyball.

“Hey there, Coach. Do you mind if I get a yoga ball from the closet? Miss Nashville's right around the corner, and I really need to work on my core.”

I smile bigger. I can feel my dimples popping on my cheeks. No one says no to my dimples.

He scratches his head and leaves the volleyball players alone for a minute. “Work on your core, huh?”

“Well, yeah.” I giggle. “The swimsuit competition knows no mercy.” I playfully poke at his tummy, which is actually impressive for a guy his age. “You probably know all about core exercises.”

He grins and holds himself a little taller. “I may still do sit-ups every day.”

“I thought so. Can I have the key, then? To the closet?”

His head is still cloudy with the compliment I just gave him. “Oh, sure. Sure.” He pulls a key ring out of his pocket. Jackpot. The key to the trophy case has to be on there. And . . . I won't be finding out because he slips a single gleaming key off the ring before pocketing the rest. “Here you go,” he says. “Bring it back when you're done. And good luck with, you know, your core.”

So what can I do but go to the sports closet and grab a big pink yoga ball? I had visions of this working perfectly and me presenting the girls with the football later tonight. It's okay, though. We'll get another chance at that football initiation thing. And at least I don't have to go through the rest of the school day with sweaty hair plastered to the sides of my face. A fact I am extremely thankful for when I turn the corner onto the A hallway after PE and run smack into Michael.

“Hey!” He grins at me as he dislodges his arm from my backpack. If he had a tail, it would totally be wagging right now.

“Hey.” I smile too because seeing him again sends a rush of tingles up my back, but underneath, I am freaking out.

“I was worried I'd never see you again.” He blushes a little when he says it. “You always end up running away. Actually, you kind of look like you might run right now.”

“What? No way.” I wasn't just planning the best exit route in my mind. Nope. Not me.

He grins again. Man, is he happy. “Well, good. Because there's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Oh, yeah?” My eyes dart from side to side, and then I forget all about Michael for a second because a hulking figure in a letter jacket I used to wear is lurking just a few lockers away. Weston.

“. . . this Saturday,” finishes Michael.

“What?” I cock my head to the side, trying to get my brain to replay the rest of what he just asked.

“This Saturday? Are you free?” For the first time, his smile falters. “But, hey, if you're not, it's cool.” He must think I'm stalling so I can think of a way to say no.

Weston is eyeing us like he owns me, tight jaw and a vein pulsing in his forehead. I half expect him to start cracking his knuckles. Hot rage slices through me.
Who does he think he is?
He broke up with me based on a list. A list I can't even talk to him about. But you know what I
can
do? I can stop being afraid of this other guy who is probably better than Weston in every way. I can stop beating myself up because the last time I liked a guy this much it cost me a broken heart and a best friend. I can say yes.

“Yes.” I grab Michael's arm to stop him from walking away.

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Well, no. I mean, I can't this Saturday because I already have plans, but how about next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday is great!” He can't keep the exclamation point out of his voice, and it is kind of adorable.

We switch phone numbers and he walks, no, bounces, down the hallway, and I would bet you anything that when he rounds that corner he punches his fist into the air.

My heart is in so much trouble.

I lift my chin high as I pass by Weston, determined not to talk to him. My plan doesn't really work because he throws an arm out and practically clotheslines me.

“Excuse you.” I push him away and shoot laser beams through him with my eyes.

“Hey, who was that?” He's wearing that pouty look that used to be cute but is now irritating as all hell.

“He's none of your business. You broke up with me, remember?”

“Sometimes it feels like the other way around.”

I flash him a pageant smile minus the smiling with the eyes part. “Not my fault.”

He's still stuttering behind me as I stride away. Life is as it should be. Except that I'm going out with a guy who might not have an expiration date.

I slide into my desk in Spanish II, still wondering whether saying yes to Michael was a good idea. Or rather, wondering just how bad of an idea it was. Señor Barbas hands back our homework. He passes the paper to my right side, but I take it with my left hand because it's way too hard to grab a paper and keep my finger hidden at the same time, especially with Chloe Baskins sitting right next to me. I check the grade at the top: 100 percent correct, with smiley face. Not that I'm surprised. I love foreign languages. I'm probably the only person in this school taking both French and Spanish. I can't wait till college when I can take something really cool like Arabic or Mandarin Chinese.

When I was little, Mama told me that if I could read, no one would be able to write down secrets
and keep them from me—it's the whole reason I learned. She was wrong though. Grandma helped me figure that out.

My grandma used to tell me all kinds of wonderful stories about when she was a kid. She had the best and bravest adventures, a new one every time I came to visit. Stories about saving a band of children from a cave inhabited by a yellow jacket big as a house, and a journey to the North Pole to meet an Ice Man, and a daring escape from an old woman named Spearfinger who liked to catch children and eat their livers. Later, when I was older, my mom told me the stories weren't real. Or, well, they were, just not how I thought. My grandmother had taken all these Cherokee legends and inserted herself as the star. It didn't really change the important thing though—that my grandma was the best storyteller in the whole world and could weave words into otters and eagles and intrigue.

One day I let Grandma in on my plan—the one where I learned to read so that no one would ever be able to keep a secret from me again. She kind of ruined it for me. It wasn't her fault—the plan had a gaping flaw. If I learned to read, no one would ever be able to keep a secret from me again.
In English.
She opened my mind to the idea that people could talk and write in all kinds of other languages and those are secrets too. They could even write in code. That idea stuck in my brain like a weed, and I decided I wanted to learn as many languages as possible.

But then it got better. My grandma knew a language that almost no one else could speak: Cherokee. And if she taught it to me, even Mama wouldn't be able to tell what we were saying, and would I like to learn it? Um, obviously. The idea of having a secret language from my mom was reason enough. Unfortunately, I only learned six words from Grandma on that visit, and we never got to have another one because of the heart attack. I still remember those six words though: