The Revenge Playbook (3 page)

“Liv,” he calls after me.

I turn. His face tells me there is so much he wants to say to me right now, but I shake my head sadly. “Don't ever talk to me again.”

I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even though it hurts. With every step comes a flash of a perfect, wonderful moment with Trevor—the time he kissed me in front of the duck pond, the day we came back from Chickasaw Trace Park soaked to the skin because a summer storm crept up on us, the baby rhino picture he emailed me last week because I was at my
dad's house and feeling sad. I stomp those memories to pieces. When I reach the parking lot, I'm lost. I really don't want to be alone right now. Marley already left, and because this is a time of crisis, of course her phone is dead. A couple other girls from dance team are sitting in one of their cars listening to music, but they're both kind of dramatic, and I don't think I can handle that. I decide I'll just sit on the curb and wait for my mom to pick me up.

There's a rustling beside me. “Hey, um, are you okay?”

I jump. I thought I was the only one here, but there's a girl from tryouts looking at me with the widest, most innocent eyes I've ever seen. I swear if she didn't look like Bambi, I wouldn't be spilling my guts to a total stranger, but I find myself trusting her. “My b-boyfriend just broke up with me.”

“Oh.” She frowns, and her giant eyes look genuinely sad on my behalf. “We could walk to Jake's and get ice cream?”

Ice cream. That's what you're supposed to do when you get dumped, isn't it? I'm not sure how eating my weight in dairy is going fix the colossal hole in my heart, but it does seem like a pretty good idea. I realize the girl has already turned away from me like she's not expecting an answer.

“Ice cream sounds good,” I say. Now if I can just get through this without ugly-crying in public.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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I
could have forgiven them for the drops of melted ice cream dotting the end tables. And for the cups and spoons they didn't throw away but instead left on the coffee table arranged in the shape of a giant penis. And yes, even for the M&M's I keep finding in every corner and under
every
chair and between
every last freaking
set of couch cushions, probably the result of failed attempts to toss them into each other's mouths. But this, this is unforgivable.

I peel the chocolate-soaked napkin away from the cover with an acute sense of dread.
The Once and Future King
by T. H. White.
Merda
. Those stupid, primeval JV pissants! Don't they understand this book is life-changing?! And magical! I scrub at the cover with a clean napkin, but it is sticky with a chocolate sauce stain that is never coming out. And worse, the napkin does that fragment-y thing where pieces cling to the chocolate like cheap toilet paper. I take the book back to the main room where the front counter is because we keep hand towels near the register, and maybe if I use some warm water, I
might
be able to fix this.

Jake's isn't like other ice-cream places—it is the best ice-cream shop in the whole world. It's a converted house, and the main room is about what you would expect with the round tables and the register and the display freezer that looks like a child's watercolor palette with its colorful tubs of ice cream. But there are all these other smaller rooms with squishy chairs, tons of board games, and
antique floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Most people are pretty cool about taking care of the games and books, but some people, well, some people suck.

The bells attached to the front door let out a happy jingle, and just when I think today can't get any worse, Melanie Jane Montgomery walks in dragging her boyfriend, Weston, behind her.

Everyone else thinks Melanie Jane is the most perfect girl in the entire state of Tennessee. I know better. She's not perfect, and she's terrified people will find out and she'll fall from her castle in the sky so fast she'll get whiplash. I may very well be the only one in school who knows her secret: Melanie Jane is missing part of a finger. Not like a big part or anything, just the tip of one of her pinkies—like, if you hold out your hand and cover up your pinkynail, that is what her hand looks like. She was born that way—she told me in eighth grade, back when we were still BFFs. The reason no one else knows is she's completely OCD about positioning her fingers so the top of that pinky never shows.

It's not even a big deal or anything. She's the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen. But it is the chink in her armor of perfection, so of course it drives her absolutely batshit crazy. I can't believe I was ever friends with someone who cares more about appearances than actual important stuff. Like
the truth
.

Melanie Jane paces back and forth in front of the glass case. “Can I try the Chocolate Slap Yo Mama?”

“Sure.”

I scoop some up with a tiny plastic spoon and hand it over. It's one of our biggest sellers—a chocolate ice-cream base with chocolate syrup, mini-chocolate chips, and finely ground fudge-covered Oreos—and it's so freaking good it could make you, well, slap yo mama. I realize Melanie Jane is wincing at me.

“Can I try something else?” she winces.

I sigh. “Sure. What'll it be?”

She flips her so-brown-it-is-almost-black hair over her shoulder.

“Mmm . . . the Cinnamon Apple Piescream?”

This time when I hand it to her I purposely stare directly at The Finger. I don't mean to seem like an ogre, but the girl is as fake as the prosthetic fingertip she wears during pageant competitions. She always leads the singing at the Friday morning church-group-before-school thing, and she always acts like she's soooo holy, even though if you really love God you're supposed to forgive people when they mess up, and also it bothers me that she's always preaching virginity when you know she screws Weston six ways from Sunday.

Anyway
. Weston gets a Chocotella Dream, and Melanie Jane orders a Brown Sugah Vanilla like she always does because I think she can tell I am going to leap over the counter at her if she asks to try another flavor. He follows her to a table by the window, and even though I'm trying to concentrate on cleaning the book, they're the only people sitting in the main room, so I can't help but overhear, especially now that Weston's voice is getting louder. I've gotten the book about as
clean as it's going to get when Weston says something about sex. I make an effort not to glance in their direction, pretend that wiping down the counters is an all-consuming task, but he won't stop talking about it.

“We could compromise. Just let me tell the guys we've had sex,” he says. “There's so much pressure on me.”

And I stand corrected. Apparently, Melanie Jane practices what she preaches after all.

“I told you what to do about that,” she says, unconcerned. “If they ask, just say, ‘A gentleman never talks.' And they'll assume what they want, and you're off the hook.” She checks the purple polish on one of her thumbnails.

“Yeah, and that was enough. When I was on JV. But I'm on Varsity now. There are all these expectations. I need to be able to say we've had sex. Or at least that we're getting close.”

She shakes her head. “Being vague is one thing, but I'm not okay with you making stuff up.”

“Yeah, I'm not either. All the guys are really honest with each other. I'm part of a brotherhood. I can't lie to these guys.” He is so serious about this brotherhood business that I'd laugh if it weren't so tragic, but she doesn't seem to notice.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay. Then tell them we don't have sex.”

“I don't want to.”

“Okaaay. So don't tell them we don't have sex. That's what you're already doing. Why are we even having this argument?”

She is eating her ice cream like it is the most important thing in the world. He rakes a hand through his hair. “I don't think you're hearing me. I want to be able to tell them I'm having sex with my girlfriend because I'm actually dating a girl who wants to have sex with me.”

“Wait.” She finally sets her spoon down for one freaking second and looks him in the eyes, and what she sees makes all the color drain from her face. “Are you breaking up with me?” She checks to see if I'm listening and lowers her voice. “Are you?”

“It doesn't have to be that way.”

Holy crap, I can't believe Melanie Jane Montgomery is getting dumped, and in public no less. This is probably the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

“You just said you want to be dating a girl who has sex with you.”

“You could be that girl.”

“No. I couldn't. You
know
that.”

He gives her a look like he's the one being dumped. “I want you to be.”

“Don't you make that face at me. You are breaking up with me because I won't have sex with you. You don't get to make that face.”

“That's not why I'm breaking up with you.”

“It isn't?” Her voice has a dangerous edge now, but Weston is no Hermione Granger so he misses it.

“No.”

She stands and saunters toward him, running her fingers along the tabletop and then up his arm. She crawls into his lap and nuzzles her head against his neck, and I think . . . ew! I think she just nipped his earlobe.

“So, what if we went into that bathroom over there and did it right now?” she asks, her voice a purr I can barely hear.

“H-here? At Jake's?”

“Mmm-hmm. I think I want to after all. If we did that, do you think we could work something out? Stay together?”

Boy, if you say yes, you are every bit as dumb as I've always thought.
I practically lean over the counter to hear his response.

“I mean . . . yeah. Of course. I love you. I don't want to break up. But are you sure you want to do it
here
?”

She gets up off his lap. “So you
are
breaking up with me because I won't have sex with you.”

Oh, she is good.

Weston needs a little more time to make sense of his impending doom. “Wait, what?”

“I want to remain a
virgin
until my wedding night. Do you really think I'd lose it in a bathroom? What is wrong with you?! No, you know what, don't answer that. We're done here. Get. Out.”

“But how are you going to get home?”

“I'll figure something out. Just go. Don't act like you give a shit.”

“I thought you said God doesn't like it when we swear.”

Wrong. Wrong thing to say.

She fixes him with a glare that could singe your eyebrows. “God makes exceptions for asshats like you.”

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HarperCollins Publishers

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I
am in shock. I do believe this is the first time I have ever been dumped. I. Just. Got. Dumped. I am the reigning Mule Day Queen of Ranburne, Tennessee. You don't dump me! And in front of Ana Cardoso. This is kind of the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

It's not that I was over-the-moon, going-to-marry-him in love with Weston. I never get that close to any of the guys I date. They're fun and sweet and distracting, but whenever I feel us getting to a point I'm not ready for, I think of a reason to break up with them. It sounds awful, but when I go into a relationship knowing there's an expiration date, there are a lot less hurt feelings involved. For me anyway.

Weston's expiration date was next month, but
I
was supposed to dump
him
, and did he have to do it in front of Ana of all people? I know she was listening. She pretty much has no moral standards whatsoever, so I don't know why I'm surprised. Plus, she's always so angry and hipster-y, and she wears the weirdest clothes like the vintage blue-and-yellow-print dress she has on today that could actually be kind of cute except that she paired it with canary-yellow chucks.
Gross
.

And I saw her looking at my finger!

When I glance up, Ana is headed my way. She doesn't meet my eyes as she clears the empty ice-cream bowls and sets a new bowl in front of me. “Extra scoop. On the house,” she says.

“Thanks.” I blink. That was unexpectedly nice of her.

She hovers over the table.

And hovers.

Oh. Oh,
gosh
. Is she going to try to talk to me about it? Oh, please, no.

Before anything catastrophically awkward can happen, the bell rings, and Ana has to scurry back behind the counter, and we are saved. A couple girls who I think are on the dance team walk in, one of them crying while the other hesitantly pats her shoulder. They scope out the selection—I'd bet my Tiffany bracelet they're getting post-breakup ice cream.

Post-breakup ice cream. I poke at my sympathy scoop with my spoon. I guess that's what I'm eating now too.

I scroll through my phone, trying to decide who would be best to call to pick me up. Definitely not my parents. I groan just thinking about them. They loved Weston—they'd gotten really attached to this one. I'm sure my mother will never let me hear the end of it—she's always getting onto me for “chasing off perfectly good men.”

The dance team girls take their ice cream to a little room near my table and curl up on an eggplant-colored fainting couch. I have a clear view of them because the doorway between the two rooms is so wide, and I'm compelled to listen in because, (A) it helps take my mind off my own breakup problems for a minute, and (B) I have to know everything about everyone. (No, for real. Perez Hilton is my spirit animal.)