The Revenge Playbook (14 page)

“It's mayonnaise,” he says.

I fall back against my seat in relief, but only for a second. “What happened to you?”

“Big Tom and a couple other guys jumped me in the bathroom.” He opens the door and sets his backpack on the floorboard. “They roughed me up a little and squeezed mayonnaise packets all over me. I'll be fine.” He looks down at his shirt. “I guess I shouldn't wear this in your car though.”

He pulls his polo over his head, but his white undershirt sticks to it in the places where the mayonnaise seeped through, and I catch a glimpse of the angry red welts on his stomach before he can tug it back down.

“Oh my gosh! Grayson!” I caught at least five places where they pinched and twisted his skin, and I didn't even see that much of him.

“I'm fine.” He sits down and smooths his hair back, and when he takes off his sunglasses, his eyes are red.

I think I can actually feel my heart breaking. “You're not fine,” I say softly.

“Can you just take me home?”

His voice has pent-up tears in it, and I know how horrible it is to cry where someone might see you, so I don't say anything else. I drive to our neighborhood in silence.

When I get to his driveway, though, I have a hard time staying quiet.

“This is really screwed up. Has it happened before?”

His lack of an answer means it has.

“But they can't keep getting away with this. You have to tell someone.”

“You mean the way you told someone?”

There isn't enough air in the car. “I don't—”

“Oh, come on, Ana. We know you don't want to talk about it and we're all okay with that, but you can't pretend like nothing happened.”

Grayson would understand. I know he would. But I've gotten so good at hiding the old wounds that the thought of opening them again, everything fresh and raw, is overwhelming.

“I can't,” I whisper.

He pulls my hand into his lap and squeezes it. “I can't either,” he says sadly.

I can't cry in Grayson's driveway when he's the one that got beat up at school. I'm pretty sure that would make me a bigger drama queen than Melanie Jane. I can't cry in my own driveway either because one of my parents might see me, and they'd be all, “Are you okay,
princesinha
?” and then I might tell them what happened, and then they might disown me.

I drive a couple blocks until I'm halfway between my house and Grayson's and halfway blinded by tears. Not telling is definitely the best policy. I learned that pretty quickly after. I only told two people. The first was one of the school counselors. It was the Monday after the party. They're always saying how “the door is always open.” And “you can talk about anything.” The first part was true.

I had knocked on the door even though it was, in fact, open. A small knock. Quick and light. An I-don't-want-to-be-here, please-don't-hear-this-so-I-can-turn-and-go knock. The counselor saw me before I could take more than a step away from the door.

“Ana?” Damn.

“Oh, yeah, hi.” I shuffled into the office and closed the door behind me. There was no way in hell I wanted anyone overhearing this.

“What can I help you with?” Her smile was so big it hurt to look at it. I was a freshman cheerleader. School had just started. She probably thought I was there for a schedule change. What kind of problems could a girl like me possibly have? She'd know in a minute.

“I needed to talk to someone,” I said to the coffee mug on her desk. “About something.”

She frowned, but it still wasn't nearly serious enough. “Well, sure. What do you need to talk about?”

“I was at a party this weekend. And someone did things to me.” I somehow got the words out. My hands clenched into fists on top of my jeans. “I didn't want him to.” I cracked open, and the pain spilled onto the floor.

“It's going to be okay.” She finally looked properly horrified. “Have you told the police or your parents? Have you been to a doctor?”

I shook my head.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

This was the hardest thing. “I don't really know. I mean, I know something happened. But it's hazy. I remember . . .” That awful shot. Dancing. Euphoria. Lines between objects melting together like watercolors. His breath in my ear. Stumbling. A bed. Hands where I didn't want them. Heavy
eyelids. Dead limbs. “Things. Chad gave me a shot and after—things happened.” I sank my teeth into the inside of my lip, a distraction from the other kind of hurt.

“Chad? Chad MacAllistair?” And it was like her whole face changed.

I nodded. “I think he put something in my drink.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, I felt so out of it so fast. And I only had one drink.” One horrible-tasting shot that clung to the inside of my mouth.

“Are you sure?”

The question caught me by surprise. “Yes.”

Wait. Did she not believe me? Was that what this was about?

Her eyes were sharp. “But you said your memory is hazy. It's possible you had more drinks after the first one?”

It wasn't, and I knew it. But did I? Really? There were bigger things about that night that I didn't know.

“I guess so,” I finally said.

She nodded. “And maybe the first one was very strong.”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

She nodded again like now we were getting somewhere. “So, you were with Chad and you were drinking. What happened next?”

“Well, we were dancing. I started feeling really dizzy, so he said we'd go upstairs and get me some water. And then we ended up in this bedroom, and—” My voice cut off, and the sick feeling in my stomach became almost unbearable. I never realized memories could feel like physical things that tore at your insides. I took a deep breath and tried again. “He was kissing me, and I know he did other things too.”

“And during this time, did you tell him no? Did you try to stop him?” Her voice was kind, but I had an uneasy feeling, like I was on a witness stand and she was the lawyer for the other team.

The powerless feelings flooded me again. I wrapped my arms around myself. “I said no. I couldn't move very well, I think because of the drink.”

“And then you and Chad had sex?”

That was the question that broke me. I started crying then, great big angry sobs that shook my whole chest. She handed me some tissues. It was a long time before I could talk again. “I don't know exactly because everything went dark.”

The ugly, broken thing was out there in the open. The part that made me want to never get out of bed again and turned my insides cold. Because how was I supposed to explain to my dad, the man who had taken me to mass every week since before I could remember that I didn't know if I was a virgin anymore?

The counselor held my hands and let me cry for a while. Then she was back to business. “I want you to think very carefully about what to do next,” she said. “What you're telling me is you and Chad
were drinking and dancing and then you went upstairs with him. You said no, but you didn't do a whole lot to try to stop him, and you don't actually know that anything happened.”

Her words cut like a knife. When you put it that way, I sounded like a lying, conniving slut. She was twisting everything. “But—”

She held up her hands to stop me. “I'm just saying to be careful. Chad's one of the best receivers in the state. He's probably going to get a football scholarship to a good college. Do you really want to ruin all of that for him over something you're not sure even happened? Do you really want that kind of spotlight on you? It might be better for everyone if you could forgive him.”

She had this look on her face like the right answer was clear, and I just needed to see it. And she was right about the spotlight part. I hadn't thought about that. I couldn't imagine everyone knowing. Facing that kind of judgment. But she was wrong about everything else and I knew it.

It was all too much, and I didn't have anyone. I found myself saying, “I'll think about it.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
might as well be naked. The three-inch strip of skin between the top of my tight, black pants and the bottom of my cropped zip-up hoodie feels like it's on fire. The sparkly dance top underneath pushes my girls up in a way that violates laws of physics and the school dress code all at once. That dream you have where you show up to school without any clothes and everyone stares at you? I'm living it. The girls at Friday Morning Fellowship are tearing me up one side and down the other with their eyes, and it's all I can do not to run away and hide in the bathroom. They're dressed as scandalously as they can be (some of them are probably hoping to catch a Christian boyfriend here, after all), but they have to adhere to the school guidelines or face the wrath of Vice Principal Crutcher, and I get to sidestep those same guidelines because this is the official dance team uniform.

I see a girl glance at me and whisper something to her friend, and I can't handle it anymore. I zip my hoodie all the way up even though that's not technically how we're supposed to wear it. I want to clamp my arms around my waist too, but I figure that would only draw more attention, so I hurry to find a seat and hope this will all be over soon.

Pastor Dave steps up to the microphone—he's a youth pastor at a church nearby, and he always leads Friday Morning Fellowship. “Hey, guys. Before we get started today, Rey Lemalu has an announcement to make.”

Rey steps up to take the microphone from Pastor Dave, practically casting a shadow on him he's so big. The entire auditorium goes quiet. Everyone knows who Rey is, even though he's only a freshman. Most freshmen aren't six two and 210 pounds, and they aren't starting at defensive end
for the Varsity football team. And in case you're wondering why I know his exact height and weight, no, I'm not a creepy stalker. It's just that the coaches here at Ranburne were salivating over Rey the whole time he was in middle school, so people are always talking about him. How big he is. The number of sacks he got last year (thirteen). Whether he really got tattoos over the summer when he went back to Samoa to see his family.

Rey clears his throat. “Yeah, hi.” His voice is softer than you would expect. He's the kind of person that doesn't say a whole lot, but when he does talk, it's important. “So, I have this idea I'm hoping you guys can help me with. I've been volunteering with a group of elementary school kids over the summer—it's been really great. They don't have a lot, and their neighborhood isn't really safe for trick-or-treating. One of the teachers was telling me a lot of them don't get to do it. So I thought it would be cool if we set up the gym here with booths and candy. Maybe a haunted house and some games and activities and stuff. I know it's only September, but we'd have to start planning now. The kids are so great, you guys. They treat me like I'm a hero just because I taught some of them how to catch a football. They get so excited over having someone care about them. Anyway, I think it would be a really cool way to make a difference.”

I see nods around the auditorium. I'm definitely in. We'd be helping so many kids. That's my favorite part of religion, connecting to other people in a bigger way, feeling like what you're doing means something. Plus, the way Rey talks about things, he's just so inspiring. I know other people are feeling the same way. This is the Rey Lemalu I met at the party on Friday, the one who seemed so concerned about Trevor and Liv. The real thing is so much more interesting than the football myth.

While everyone else is singing and listening to Pastor Dave, all I can think about is Rey's Halloween idea and how I can help. I walk to class without even noticing whether people are staring at my clothes, though at least one person must have been because one of the senior dance team girls swoops in to return my zipper to its proper boob-baring height.

When I get to geometry, the high I'm riding on dissolves. Casey whistles as soon as I enter the classroom.

“Woo, did you know Church Girl was hidin' a body like that?”

Snickers erupt all around him, but I try to ignore them because I have more important things to worry about. I pull my IEP out of my backpack. You get one if you have any kind of special needs, and mine has pretty standard modifications for ADHD:

I have to sit at the front of the room.

I need both visual and verbal instructions (because if it doesn't get written on the board, there's a 200 percent chance I'll forget it).

I get more time on assignments and stuff.

I need “cuing.” This one totally sucks because every time a teacher catches me spacing out and redirects my attention, I'm positive everyone in class knows what's going on and thinks I'm stupid.

I have to have a learning environment with minimal distractions (so, pretty much the opposite of geometry class).

I stand by Coach Mayes's desk for a very long two seconds before he notices me.

“Hi.” I hand him my folder. “Dr. Barnes gave me a copy of my IEP to give you.”

He flips open the folder and glances over the front page before shoving the whole thing into a desk drawer. “Yeah, Dr. Barnes told me you talked to him.” Something flickers in his eyes. Anger maybe. Or annoyance. Did Dr. Barnes tell him I mentioned how distracting the learning environment was? Is that what this is about?

I feel superawkward, so I just say, “Um, okay, sounds good,” and make a quick retreat.

Casey whistles again as I take my seat two desks ahead of him. He nudges Nate.

“'Scuse me, gentlemen.”

He moves to the desk behind me and taps my shoulder. “Hey, you sure are lookin' good.”