The Revenge Playbook (13 page)

Wahya
(wolf)

Saloli
(squirrel)

Ugidali
(feather)

Ama
(water)

Nvda
(sun)

Ditlihi
(warrior)

“Mel-Jay? Are you even listening to me?” I realize Chloe is staring at me and looking kind of annoyed.

“Sorry. What?”

“I said I just ran into that bitch Ana Cardoso in the hallway, and she actually had the nerve to act like it was my fault.” She flips her white-blonde hair over her shoulder. “I can't even believe she still goes to school here. Wouldn't you, like, move to another state or something?”

My mind runs over every mean thing I've seen someone do to Ana in the past year. “Yeah, I probably would,” I say. But I don't mean it in the vengeful way, not like I would have before.

Chloe giggles. “Why were you ever friends with that slut anyway?”

“She—”

But I'm saved from having to answer because Señor Barbas starts class.

Sometimes I think back on the day of the party, when I caught Chad and Ana. Betrayal and humiliation and this feeling of being less than, which I've struggled to hide my entire life, compressed inside that one moment. In Czech, they call it
litost
, that acute sense of clarity and agony that drives you to lash out in revenge. But if I hold up the memory and peel all that away? I don't know. I wonder if I really saw what I thought I saw. I was only fourteen when it happened, and I'd only ever kissed a boy. I was certainly no expert on the things men and women do in dark rooms alone. I'm still no expert.

I think about our meeting at Jake's. About the look on Ana's face when Liv brought up Chad MacAllistair. And for some reason, I feel inexplicably sick to my stomach.

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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)

1.
  
   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)

2.
  
   Go to LP Field and reenact the “Music City Miracle.” (Everyone)

3.
  
   Go to Centennial Park and jump into the pond behind the Parthenon. (Everyone)

4.
  
   Go to The Jackrabbit Saloon. Walk to the very middle of the dance floor and attempt to do the worm. (One person)

5.
  
   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)

6.
  
   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)

7.
  
   Hug a biker. Bonus points if he has a mullet. (One person)

8.
  
   Get a girl to give you her thong. (One person)

DARES REMAINING:
9.

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8:45 P.M.

LIV

The football team is still ahead of us. At least, I think they are. But we're catching up, we just have to be. And that means we need to be extra careful. The boys could be at Old Lady Howard's this very minute, and I definitely don't want to run into them again. I wonder what Trevor's doing right now. Is he studying the scavenger hunt dares and planning their next move? Aiming a can of spray paint at the goblin king's fabulous hair? Laughing in the background and snapping photos? Is he thinking of me too? Scratch that last one. I'm not pathetic enough to want the answer to that.

There are no other cars in the dirt lot next to the corn maze. Either the boys are gone or they parked on the street. We creep toward the cornfield with our flashlights off, tripping over rocks and each other. A few flickering mosquito lanterns sway in the breeze on Old Lady Howard's back porch. In the feeble halo of light, I can see we're alone. And based on the empty cans of paint and beer that litter the grass surrounding the statue, the football team has already been here.

Melanie Jane approaches the goblin king and touches a tentative finger to his thigh. “It's still wet,” she whispers. “We can't be far behind now.”

“Damn straight.” I clap my hands together. “They better watch their backs!”

“Shhh,” hisses Ana. She cocks her head toward the house. “She's probably still awake.”

We circle around the statue, surveying their paint job in crisscrossing flashlight beams. It's terrible. And I don't just mean their technique—clumsy streaks of spray paint in black and silver with a little purple thrown in too—Panther colors. They've sprayed the words
Panther Football Rocks
across his chest, a purple penis directed at his mouth, a silver one at his butt, and does that say what I think it does? I shine my light at his crotch where someone has painstakingly painted the word
Fag
in skinny purple letters.

Ana looks like she's grinding her teeth into dust. “What do you want to bet Big Tom was behind this?”

“How do you know?” I shine my flashlight at her, and she squints. Oops.

“Because a few weeks ago he—” She catches herself. “It's not my secret to tell, but let's just say intolerance is one of his hobbies.” Her eyes are so angry, I swear they could split that statue right down the middle. “We need to fix this before I punch something.”

Peyton rustles through her Walmart bags. “Here.” She holds out two cans to Ana. “Do you want black or silver? I also have—”

“Those'll work.” Ana takes them both, and eyes the statue in disgust. “I'll be on hate-crime duty.”

“Do you have any hot pink?” I ask Peyton.

She grins. “Yes.”

“Excellent. I know the goblin king didn't have hot-pink boots, but I totally feel like he should have.” I bounce over and get to work on the wardrobe change.

Melanie Jane drags a tree stump over so she can reach his face. Peyton alternates between photo documentation, shining her flashlight so we can see better, and throwing the trash the boys left into an empty Walmart bag. Oh, and turning her head to glance at Old Lady Howard's house at five-second intervals because she is still peeing her pants over the thought of getting caught.

I finish the front half of the boots, stretch, and check out Melanie Jane's handiwork. She has somehow managed to cover different parts of his face with a bag while spraying so the paint looks almost like
makeup. I move around to the back. Ana has painted over his entire cloak in black so you can't see the penis anymore, and is just finishing up a huge silver equality sign on his back.

“Nice,” I say.

“You too.” She smiles at my pink boots, which I have to say do look pretty amazing.

Ana paces around to the front and is about to black out
Panther Football Rocks
when I say, “WAIT!”

She holds up her hands in confusion. “What? I didn't realize ‘Panther Football Rocks' was a critical message to share with the rest of the world.”

I giggle. “Just black out the ‘Rocks' part, okay? I'll take care of the rest.”

We exchange evil-genius eye glints. “Cool,” she says.

I'm putting the final touches on David Bowie's go-go boots, when I hear it.

Music.

Softly at first, and then it's blaring through the yard over the outdoor speakers. Floodlights tear apart the night sky, and we blink like frightened mice. Old Lady Howard stands silhouetted in the doorway, nightgown billowing around her, silver hair reaching in every direction like it could snatch moths from the air and gobble them up.

I think I hear Peyton whisper, “We're all going to die.”

“What are you doing?” she asks with a voice like rusty nails.

Me? Is she asking me?
I always thought her lazy eye made her look kind of sweet and discombobulated, but now I can't tell if she's looking at me, and it is absolutely nerve-wracking!

Melanie Jane recovers before the rest of us and bravely approaches the wooden porch with the warped slats. “We can leave right now,” she says, her voice impressively calm. “We're very sorry to have disturbed you. There's no need to call the police or anything. We're leaving right now.”

When she stops talking, I catch a few words of the song. “. . . power of voodoo . . .” Wait. Is she playing “Magic Dance”? She
is
. I feel an odd sense of relief. Anyone blaring music from
Labyrinth
probably isn't going to maim us or send us to jail. Right?

We back away with slow, careful steps, edging ourselves away from her and in the direction of the car.

“Just where do you think you're going?” she shouts.

I cringe and stop moving. “We were just going to leave, ma'am. If that's okay.”

She nods at the Bowie statue. “Did you finish the job yet?”

I blink. Does she mean what I think she means? We compare notes with our eyes, all wondering the same thing.

“You didn't disturb me,” she says, leaning against the railing for support. “Them boys did. Hootin' and hollerin' like a bunch of banshees. And I ain't gonna call the police neither.” She points a gnarled finger at Peyton who nearly faints on the spot. “I seen this one picking up trash.”

I close my eyes and thank the Lord that Peyton loves the environment.

“You better make sure you're finished, though. I don't like people leaving a job half done.” Old Lady Howard creaks down the steps and out into the yard, where she circles the statue with eagle eyes. “Not bad. Not bad at all. Are you sure you're done?”

Ana and Melanie Jane nod furiously. When I say “Almost,” I think they are going to skin me alive.

I pick up my can of paint and spray the word
Sucks
underneath
Panther Football
in bubbly pink letters. “There.” I smile and tuck the can of paint into our makeshift trash bag.

“Anyone else?” asks Old Lady Howard.

Peyton, who up until now hasn't even touched the statue, takes a step forward. “Well, actually, um . . .”

She removes a round container from one of the bags and approaches the goblin king with delicate steps. A lid pops off. Her dainty fingers reach inside. And she sprinkles the crystal ball on the end of his cane with glitter. GLITTER. Can you believe it?

“That looks real nice,” says Old Lady Howard before she hobbles back into the house on arthritic knees.

I throw my arms around Peyton's neck. “Have I told you that I am in love with you?”

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I
catch Grayson by the sleeve on the way to my last class of the day.

“Hey, I don't have work today. You want a ride?”

He holds out his hands like Lady Justice. “Hmm. Riding the bus with the unwashed masses or getting chauffeured by one of my best friends? I'll meet you in the parking lot.”

“Cool.” I squeeze him on the shoulder and head to class.

It's usually just the two of us on the days when I don't work. The other guys have clubs or sports or whatever, but Grayson and I aren't really joiners. Well, I'm not anymore anyway.

I don't see him in the hallway after the last bell. He isn't in the parking lot yet either, so I sit in my
car and wait. It's safer that way. Standing around while the other kids pass me by is asking for trouble because you never know who's coming out of those double doors next. I check my phone, but there's nothing. He would have texted me if he'd changed his mind—and then I'd have to wonder if his body had been taken over by aliens. I guess I can give him a few more minutes. I flip on the radio and am hit with an insatiable need for lip balm. I dig through my purse because there's always at least one tube in there, and I swear I can feel the skin around my lips cracking. My fingers close around some Burt's Bees Pomegranate. Whew. I run the lip balm over my lips, my eyes closing, a satisfied sigh escaping me. My obsession with non-dry lips used to crack Melanie Jane up. She called them my “Lip Balm Panic Attacks,” and the guys picked it up too.

When my eyelids flutter open I finally see Grayson. And I know something is wrong.

His shoulders are hunched, his backpack hanging from his hand and bumping against his leg as he walks down the stairs. Grayson is usually one of those ray-of-sunshine people. It's the kind of personality I find annoying on most people but endearing on him. The closer he gets, the more I worry. His hair is messed up, and not in the artful, Grayson way, and there are splotches all over his shirt. They're white and they look kind of like . . .

I roll down the window. “Is that—?” I can't even bring myself to say it.