The Revenge Playbook (7 page)

“You know, I guess it
was
a pretty jerk move to keep it a secret, so here's how you're going to make it up to me,” I say. “I have questions. About the football team.”

Toby is one of their trainers (which is a fancy way to say “water boy”), plus he's the kind of guy you just want to tell secrets to, so I have a feeling he hears
everything
.

He snort-laughs. “You do?”

I shrug and go back to thumbtacking my egg so as not to seem too interested. “Yeah, I mean, that stupid football, for instance. Do they really only take it out for games? I bet they take turns bringing it home at night and snuggling with it.”

Toby rolls his eyes. “They don't do that. But, well, there are certain
special occasions
they take it out
for.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, you know they take it out for the scavenger hunt.”

“Oh, yeah, everybody knows about that.”

I am not exaggerating. For all their secret brotherhood BS, the football team can't keep their collective mouth shut when it comes to bragging about the scavenger hunt. It happens every year the weekend before Homecoming, and the new guys have to get through an entire list of crazy dares, and at the very end they get the football. Oh, and if they fail, they have to walk onto the field naked at Homecoming. That's weeks away though.

“They're taking it out next Saturday too,” says Toby.

“Really? What for?” I manage to keep my tone disinterested (I hope).

“This induction thing for the new Varsity guys. They're doing it at midnight in this abandoned barn at Big Tom's, and it's supposed to be the ‘most badass thing ever.' I'm not allowed to go.” He jabs a pin into his egg with an unnecessary amount of force. Then his eyes get big. “Hey, please don't tell anyone what I told you, okay? The guys would kill me.”

“Of course not,” I say, but the lie makes me feel like the worst friend ever. I have to make a getaway before the guilt becomes intolerable. “I think it's almost time for dinner, so I better go. I'll come back after though.”

I wave bye to the rest of the guys and open the door to the kitchen—loudly so my parents know to stop making out. I'm greeted by a frenzy of licks.

“Falcor!”

When I was nine years old, I watched
The NeverEnding Story
for the first time and realized that my life would not be complete until I owned a luckdragon. You should have seen me at the pet store when the owner told me they didn't sell those—I bawled the entire way home, against my dad's entreaties that we buy a dog or maybe a guinea pig. I insisted nothing but a luckdragon would do and locked myself in my room with my book copy of
The Neverending Story
.

Two weeks later, I got Falcor for Christmas. He was sixteen pounds of wiggly Great Pyrenees goodness, and he looked pretty dang close to a luckdragon. But my dad wasn't finished there. We bought out the nearby Michael's of all their faux pearls and rhinestones, and my dad helped me build a custom-made harness that was a precise replica of Falcor's back. You should have seen him holding the tiny pearls in his huge fingers, painstakingly applying each one as I directed. The harness was, and still is, a thing of beauty. For a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-thirty-pound Brazilian man, my father is quite the BeDazzler.

I spent the rest of Christmas break taking Falcor on walks around the neighborhood, dressed up like Atreyu, pumping my little fist in the air.

I scratch Falcor behind his ears the way he likes and drift over to the pan of
pão de queijo
(the Brazilian version of cheese bread) my mom just popped out of the oven.

“Not yet,
princesinha
, they're hot,” she says, squeezing me into a hug and kissing both cheeks.

I pause, my fingers centimeters away from the one with the most cheese sprinkled on top. My dad winks at me as he snatches one up and bites into it.

“Ah!” He drops it back on the tray.

“Told you,” says my mom without turning around.

I snicker and hand him a glass of water.

“Thanks,
princesinha
. Hey, what do you have there?”

I flip over the piece of paper I'm holding. “Pay stub.”

“It's a lot to keep your grades up and have a job.” He wraps his arm around me tight because I've been in the house for a whole thirty seconds and haven't received one of his bear hugs yet. “I'm really proud of you, you know?”

“Thanks,” I say without looking at him.

If he knew what happened at that party last year, I wonder if he'd still be saying that.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

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:
12.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

7:10 P.M.

ANA

The boys could be anywhere. Leaving a prophylactic at Principal Corso's house. Hanging an egg over any of Ranburne's dusty streets. Driving up to the front of the school
right now
where they'll catch us, and figure out exactly what we're doing, and maybe—probably—murder us. The girls laugh as they cluster around the panther statue, Liv jumping onto his back while Peyton and Melanie Jane plant a kiss on each of his granite cheeks. I want to join in, but I can't shake the dread I'm feeling.

I attach the camera to a tripod and aim it at the panther. What happens if Chad figures out there are girls doing the hunt? And that I'm one of them? I sweep my bangs out of my eyes and force all thoughts of Chad from my mind. He's probably at The Jackrabbit Saloon already working on getting drunk off his ass. I don't have to worry about running into him. Yet.

I set the timer and run at the panther, climbing on his back behind Liv. By the time the camera flashes, I'm smiling, but I know it's not a very good one.

“We need to get out of here,” I say, rushing back to the camera.

My friends are still laughing, and I look up from where I'm dismantling the stand. “C'mon. I have a bad feeling.”

That's a good enough reason for Peyton. Melanie Jane and Liv shrug and hurry along behind us. They offer to help me carry the camera equipment, but I'm all right. Scooping ice cream all day gives me mad biceps. The girls decide the egg-on-a-string prank is next. I need to get us a safe distance from the school. To a road where we're not likely to run into the boys. I turn out of the school parking lot. My head darts left. Then right. Is anyone around? Did anybody see us?

Melanie Jane touches my arm. “Ana, calm down, no one is going to—”

Peyton screams, and my heart almost explodes. Somehow, I manage to slam on the brakes in the middle of the intersection. A truck skids around us, and there's the sound of a horn blaring, and I don't know if it's theirs or mine or both. The truck fishtails to a stop in front of a ditch on the other side of the road.

“It was green! I swear the light was green!” I tear up almost instantly now that I know we're okay.

“It was. I saw it.” Melanie Jane's voice is steady, calming my raw nerves. “The other car ran a red light.”

The other car. I wipe my eyes and really focus on the shiny red truck, the back of which I suddenly notice is crammed with swearing boys. The taillights cast enough of a glow that I can make out cans of something (beer?) in their hands.

“Go! It's the boys! Go!” yells Liv.

I floor it even though my hands are shaking so bad it feels like they might slip right off the steering wheel. The truck shrinks in my rearview mirror.

Melanie Jane recovers first. “That was way,
way
too close.”

“We almost got caught,” says Peyton.

“We almost DIED,” says Liv.

“I told you I had a bad feeling!”

“Next time you have a bad feeling, I'm listening.” Melanie Jane shudders, and then wrinkles her nose. “Ughhh. I'm totally sweating now.”

I smirk at her. “What's the matter? Running out of baby wipes?”

She narrows her eyes in a fake-mad kind of way. “You be nice or I'll hide your lip balm.”

She snatches it from the center console and waves it back and forth in front of her like a magician does before they make something vanish.

“Go for it. I have at least three others in this car right now.”

“You are one sick individual.”

I laugh, remembering what it was like to be like this with her. My fingers finally relax on the steering wheel—my brain already figured out we're safe, but it took a while for the message to trickle down.

Liv points out a good spot for the egg prank, and I park my car on the next street over because I sure as hell don't want anyone taking down my license plate number. We traipse through the woods with our supplies (egg carton, string, video camera), and stare up at the power line that Liv has deemed ideal pranking material. The girls get started while I videotape.

I thought it would be easy.
Thought
being the operative word. We break four eggs and almost get hit by a car trying to get the damn thing into position. Melanie Jane eventually throws a rock tied with string and makes it over the power line. She ever so carefully ties the string around egg number five, and we duck behind some bushes and wait.

And wait.

And wait. This. Blows. The moon is already out, and despite their drunken handicap, the boys are beating us, and I can't do anything but sit here and hope a car comes along. I'm about to suggest moving to a busier street when Melanie Jane points into the darkness.

“Look,” she says. “Lights.”

The lights get closer. And bigger. Holy crap, that is one big-ass truck. It tears past us, the egg exploding against its windshield. It slams on the breaks. Tires squeal against the road.

Melanie Jane claps her hands together. “It worked. It really worked!”

I squint at the truck through my viewfinder. “Is that like one of those monster-truck-show trucks?”

Liv giggles. “Oh my gosh, it is. It's like: come see Gigantor take on the egg. THIS. SATURDAY. ONLY.”

She makes her voice deep and twangy, and we all crack up laughing. I watch the truck, waiting for it to drive away, possibly to the nearest gas station where the driver can clean off its windshield. Instead, I hear a door slam. Oh, shit.

“You guys,” I hiss. “Someone's getting out of the truck.”

There's a flurry of whispers and swearing around me, and then silence, thick and scared.

“Y'all think that was funny?” a voice yells.

I am 97 percent sure the voice belongs to a big, scary redneck, and 98 percent sure he intends to kill us all. I hear the scrape of work boots against the gritty street, and then he steps in front of the headlights, and my blood freezes in my veins.

He's got a gun.

“I said.”
Ah sayud
. He cocks the gun with a terrible
click-click
. “Did y'all think that was funny?”

No, please, no. It wasn't funny at all. Please don't kill us.
And then he starts yelling about what he's going to do to us, a symphony of threats and obscenities. The girls don't move. They must be paralyzed with fear like I am. I stare at the gun while panic churns my insides. He's waving it around when it happens. A flash of light. And then a blast, so loud I'm sure I've been shot. But no, he's got the gun pointed in the air.

The shot is what finally gets us moving. I tear my eyes away from him. I hear the gun cock again, empty shells clattering against the road, and I race through the trees with my friends, praying we all make it back to my car with our young lives intact.

It's only after we're safely inside that I calm down enough to think about how dangerous that really was. And not just because of the gun. There could have been an accident. But they do this, year after year, hunt after hunt. Drinking and driving and hazing and racing and fighting. It's a wonder the football team hasn't killed anyone yet.