The Revenge Playbook (5 page)

But the thing is, I do kind of know why people call me a slut. Nice girls aren't supposed to wear short skirts or dare everyone to jump in the lake naked because the water is exactly the perfect temperature. And they aren't supposed to kiss their boyfriends the way I do. You know how people get when they've had a few drinks and suddenly everything seems like a good idea? Well, that's what it feels like to be me ALL THE TIME. I'm energetic. And impulsive. And passionate. But just because I'm all those things doesn't mean I give my body away like free samples at the perfume
counter. I wish I could make people understand that.

Ana's voice brings me back to reality. “So when do we start?”

“The football team is having their back-to-school party next weekend,” I say.

Melanie Jane grins. “Perfect. I always go to that anyway.”

“We'll go too.” I gesture to myself and Peyton, whose eyes get a little big.

Ana's lip curls. “There is no way I'm going to a football party. I'll do my own football recon that weekend,” she adds when she sees the question marks in our eyes.

After that, my mom calls to tell me she's outside, and we all throw away our trash and go our separate ways, and it's weirdly anticlimactic. I get in the car and stare out the window, and that's when the full, crushing weight of the breakup starts to hit. My boyfriend, the guy I love, the guy I lost my virginity to, broke up with me, and it didn't even seem like he wanted to. I pull out my phone—Trevor called and texted about a dozen times while I was at Jake's, but I ignored him. Now I need to know. I start with the texts first.

I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me.

I need to talk to you. Will you please call me?

Just five minutes so I can explain. Please?

What if I come by your house later tonight?

I'm sorry you overheard the guys like that. It must have been awful. I understand why you don't want to talk to me.

I'm going to leave you alone now so you don't think I'm creepy, but call me when you're ready?

None of them say what I'm hoping for:
This isn't what you think. I know we can work this out.
So I delete all of them. Just as I'm about to start in on the voice mails, another text comes through.

I love you.

I burst into tears.

“What's the matter, cutie?” Mom manages to stroke my hair even though she's driving.

“Trevor. He—he broke up with me. And. All these guys at school were saying stuff about me.” I can't tell her what. It's too horrible.

“Trevor made you cry?” asks my six-year-old sister from the backseat in a voice like someone just told her all the candy in the world had disappeared.

“I like Trevor!” says my four-year-old brother.

“Well, we don't like him anymore!” says my sister.

I laugh a little as I wipe away the tears. “We sure don't.”

We pull into the driveway, and I want my mom to ask me more about it, but we're already trapped in the frenzy of our evening routine with dinner-making and my brother spilling most of a bag of dog food on the floor in an attempt to “help.” Then my mom hurries to change clothes for the restaurant, and I hand her her dinner in a Tupperware, and that's all the time we have. It's hard with her being so busy, but I know I'm lucky. Lots of kids have parents who don't even care, and I know my mom loves us. She loves us so much she works two jobs and then cries at the dinner table after she thinks we're all asleep.

“Hey.” She runs a hand along my cheek. “We'll talk about this when I get home. I'll see if I can get off early, okay?”

I force myself to smile so she won't worry. “Okay.
”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
n the end I call Aubrey. She's the biggest gossip on the cheerleading squad and my current closest friend, and I need to put my own spin on this breakup fast. Telling her goes better than I thought, but that doesn't keep me from feeling any less sick when we get to my house because now I have to tell someone much worse. My parents.

They are onto me the moment I open the front door.

“Where have you been?” Mama calls from the kitchen. “Cheerleading practice ended over an hour ago.”

I find her making homemade salad dressing. (Hers is so much tastier than store-bought.) Daddy is on the back deck manning the grill, but he comes inside when he sees me.

“Hey, princess.”

“Hey.” I give him a hug. “Weston and I were at Jake's getting ice cream,” I tell Mama.

“You ate ice cream? Miss Nashville is right around the corner.”

I roll my eyes. “Mama, it's still weeks away. One bowl of ice cream isn't going to ruin my chances.”

She shakes her head, her glossy black hair reflecting the light. “That's the kind of attitude that gets you first runner-up. The judges expect perfection.”

“Mama, I—”

“That reminds me, your pageant coach is coming over tomorrow, so make sure to come home right after practice.”

I wrinkle my nose where she can't see. I hate meeting with my pageant coach. She's always trying to make me memorize canned answers to questions on current events (um, hi, unlike all those other girls you coach, I have strong opinions about things like global economics and the state of our education system, so you can peddle world peace somewhere else), or worse, find ways to help me capitalize on the fact that I'm 25 percent Cherokee, which makes me feel 100 percent gross.
“Mama.”

“And when was the last time we deep conditioned your hair? It's looking a little damaged.”

“Mom.”

“I'll set up an appointment with Charmaine.” She squints at my forehead. “I think you're getting a breakout. You should—”

“Weston dumped me!”

My parents stare at me in shock. “He did?”

I nod pitifully. “In front of Ana Cardoso.”

Mama makes a clucking sound with her tongue. “That girl dresses like a heathen, bless her heart.”

I feel deflated. I pull up a bar stool and slump into it, my perfect posture shot all to hell. “It was awful.”

“Why would anyone ever dump you?” says Daddy.

“He always seemed like the nicest boy. I can't believe he would do something like that,” says Mama.

“That boy is obviously a dumbass,” says Daddy. “Do you want me to kill him?”

I shake my head, but it makes me smile because my dad could never hurt anyone. Mama, on the other hand . . .

“What happened?” she asks.

I can't tell them the real reason. Talking about sex with your parents is worse than Chinese water torture. “Um.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, princess?”

“Um.” And then for the first time today, tears fill my eyes.

Daddy runs to get a glass from the cabinet. “Do you want some water?”

“You need to drink something,” says Mama.

“Do you want some tea?”

“I have some that I made with agave nectar,” she says. “There's hardly any calories.”

“How about some juice?”

“Juice has too much sugar.”

I cry harder.

Mama makes her solving-a-problem face, probably because I've never cried this much over a boy. Not since that thing that happened last year with Ana anyway. “What's wrong? Did you do something?”

I stare at her, my mouth wide open.
Seriously?

“What? What did you do?”

And then I explode. “Of course you think I did something. Of course you think it's all my fault because you could never believe a sweet Southern gentleman like Weston could do anything wrong. Well, he is not as sweet as you think. And this is not my fault.” Daddy still hovers with the glass, now filled with tea. “And I don't want anything to drink!”

I flounce upstairs to my room, really unleashing my inner pageant diva with foot stomps and door slams. It feels good. Not quite as cathartic as going off on my parents, but good. I flop onto my four-poster bed and bury my face in my pillow. I wonder if the boys I dumped felt this bad when I dumped them. A few minutes later, I hear a quiet knock at the door.

“Mel Belle?” says Daddy. “Can I come in?”

I lift my head just long enough to say, “Not now, okay?” before letting it squish back into my pillow.

“I'm just going to leave a tray outside for you, then.”

After I hear him go back downstairs, I open the door, and my heart melts. There is a glass of tea, a plate with some Tagalongs (my most favorite of Girl Scout cookies—how he has managed to hide them from Mama's sugar purges, I'll never know), and a note, smiley face included.

I'm sorry we upset you. Please come down to dinner soon. Love, Dad P.S.—That boy really is a dumbass. :)

Daddy's note gets me crying all over again. My parents really are sweet in their own suffocating way. I pull the tray inside and drink the tea and eat the cookies. Just two though. I don't want to have to worry about
Kummerspeck
on top of everything else. (Side note: whoever it was in Germany that thought up a word that (A) means the weight you gain from emotional bingeing and (B) literally translates to “grief bacon” is a genius.) The tears trickle off, because really, who can cry when they're thinking about bacon?

I stand in front of the mirror, taking in my puffy eyes and red nose.
Do you see how hideous crying makes you look? Don't do it! Especially not over Weston.
He had an eight-month expiration date—he is totally not worth a Scarlett O'Hara tomorrow-is-another-day scene.

Scarlett had that part of it right though. Tomorrow
is
another day. And I will go to that party next weekend and pick out another boyfriend, and then I will find a way to steal that stupid football and make Weston sorry he ever dumped me for a bunch of sweaty guys.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
he list is up. People have been stalking the bulletin board all day, but the coaches waited until the very last bell so as not to interfere with any learning. Because you totally learn a lot on the first day of school. Now the first day is over, and I can see the white sheet of paper flapping in the school's subzero air-conditioning. Girls on either side of it are jumping up and down and squealing. Or crying.

I stare at the list from across the hall and work up the courage to walk to the bulletin board. If I were still with Karl, I wouldn't have to make the walk by myself. I miss having someone to be here with me. I don't miss what came along with it. Sometimes you think someone is holding your hand when really they're holding you back.

“I can do it myself,” I whisper, but my heartbeat disagrees. As I walk through the sea of girls surrounding the list, I assess the butterflies in my stomach. Today's feel like monarchs.

I approach the list. Search for my name.

PEYTON REED.

There it is! I touch my index finger beside it just to make sure it's real. As I turn around, a huge grin plasters itself across my face. You know, the kind that makes you look goofy when you're trying to appear calm and sophisticated? That's the one. I am a Ranburne High Pink Panther. And I made three new friends this week. Not that that was the only reason I agreed to be part of the football team revenge plot. I mean, it was part of it, for sure. Ever since Candace moved away, I've been hoping to find that kind of friendship again. But I really do think things are screwed up at our school, and I really do love the idea of being part of something that could change that. This week is everything I wanted but never thought I could have. My grin gets, if possible, even bigger and goofier.

And then I am on the floor.

From a hug—at least I think this was meant to be a hug. It could also be a mauling.

“You made the dance team! I am so excited! You were the best in my group!” Liv squeals all of this rapid fire into my ear. It feels awesome.

“I can't even believe it,” I say as I untangle the two of us and help her up.

“You'll believe it when Coach Tanner kicks your butt at practice tomorrow.”

I grin, excited at the prospect of getting my butt kicked by dance.

But something's off. I feel him watching me before I see him, almost like my body is programmed to be on edge whenever he's within a thirty-foot radius. I search the hallways and, sure enough, Karl is standing by the double doors leading to the parking lot.

“I better go,” I tell Liv. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Okay! And you have to come over to my house this Friday to get ready for the party, okay? My friend Marley's coming, and I really want you both to be friends too!” says Liv, bouncing forward on the balls of her feet.

“Definitely.” I can't help but smile even though Karl is still waiting for me.

I pace over to him, hoping we're far enough away that none of the dance team girls will hear us if things get ugly.

“Hi,” I say, for some reason feeling the need to stretch to my absolute tallest.

“Looks like you made the dance team.” It sounds like an accusation.

His hard blue eyes won't let go of me, and I start to splinter into familiar pieces. I feel an overwhelming need to defend my choices. To apologize. To beg for scraps of approval like a half-starved dog.

I force my mouth to form short, strong words. “Yes. I did.”

Karl sways a little on his feet like I pushed him. He recovers quickly. “Good for you.” His voice says he thinks it is anything but good. And then he's standing right next to me, and there's no breath in my lungs. So close I can feel him even though he hasn't touched me yet. “Do you want a ride home?” His lips hover dangerously close to my ear.