The Revenge Playbook (19 page)

“Thanks for the help,” he says, preventing me the embarrassment of having to stumble through a response. “It was for that scavenger hunt thing we're doing.”

“Right.” I nod awkwardly. I'm not supposed to know that already.

We both stand there, not dancing, not talking, just staring at each other, and not in the comfortable way. Just when I think this moment can't get any more agonizing, Casey appears. I guess the older guys are finished playing pool.

He slings an arm around my shoulders. “Hey, Church Girl, I didn't know you were coming out.”

“Her name is Peyton.” Rey says it before I can.

Casey narrows his eyes, first at Rey rising from the kneeling position, then at me, the pieces clicking into place in his brain. He squeezes his arm tighter around me. “What are you doing talking to my girl?”

In his intoxicated state, Casey seems to have forgotten a number of things: my name, our relationship status, societal norms about personal bubbles. And most important, the fact that Rey is twice his size.

“I think you're making her uncomfortable,” says Rey.

“Like hell I am.”

He lunges at Rey, who simply holds out an arm in self-defense. Casey runs into it, effectively clotheslining himself.

And then Chad's in the middle of them, trying to keep Casey from hurting himself any further. All Rey is doing is standing there—he isn't even speaking, but Casey tackles Chad to the floor trying to get at Rey. Something falls out of Chad's pocket in the scuffle. Keys. On the floor. Right in front of me. The girls are at my side, asking if I'm okay, but when they see the keys, they stop mid-sentence. I know what they're thinking. What we wouldn't have given to get our hands on those keys a few weeks ago.

Big Tom pins Casey's arms behind his back and jerks him away. Chad pockets the keys and puts a hand to Rey's chest.

“All right, Casanova. Let's get going.”

The boys are pulling at him and the girls are tugging at me, but our eyes refuse to let go of each other.

They keep pushing, but he manages to get out some last words: “I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” I say, but they've already dragged him away.

I'm sorry for what I'm about to do to you.

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K
ey Thievery—Take Two. If I ever want to have a future in the CIA, I should at least be able to steal a key from a bumbling high school football coach. I knock on the door to his office. Classes just ended, but maybe I can catch him before he leaves for any all-important game night preparations.

“Come in,” he bellows. And then when he sees I'm not a teenage boy, “Oh, hi. What can I do for you?”

I recite my carefully prepared speech. “The cheerleading squad wanted to make a special banner for tonight's game. We were going to use some of the old plaques and trophies and make rubbings of them. Kind of like a victory-through-the-ages-type thing?”

“Well, that sounds real nice. You know, I'm in one of the pictures where we won State way back when.” He goes back to his playbook like the conversation's over. Then he realizes I haven't moved. “Was there something else?”

“Yes. We need the key. So we can get the plaques and stuff out of the case? I promise we'll be supercareful with everything, and I'll bring the key back to you when we're done.”

I look around his office, taking in the motivational sports posters on one wall, pretending I couldn't care less about whether or not he decides to give me that key.

“Well, sure,” he says. Perfect! “I'll walk down with you and unlock it myself. I need to get something before the game anyway.”

Oh.

“Sounds great. Thanks, Coach!” I say brightly.

When we get to the trophy case, I try very hard not to stare longingly at the football. Instead, I pretend I actually care about the history of the Ranburne empire, and stand at one end of the case staring at awards given to boys who thought they were gods only to be disappointed when they tried to assimilate into the real world. The key clicks in the lock, turns with a scrape, and still I don't allow myself to look away from the glass. I wonder if it really is bulletproof like people say. I tap at it with a fingernail and nearly jump out of my skin when Coach Fuller jingles the key ring in my ear.

“Here you go.” He hands over the keys. “Make sure to lock up and give them back to me as soon as you're done.”

“No problem.”

I make a note of which key goes to the trophy case, so I don't have to try every single one when I close it. I try to decide the best course of action—making a copy of the key, maybe? I can't very well steal the football right now. It'd be obvious I did it. I wonder if they have any kind of surveillance going. As I'm scoping out the walls and ceiling for hidden cameras, it hits me.

The football. It isn't there.

Did Coach Fuller take it with him? I wasn't paying attention. He must have—it was there when he
opened the case. He probably took it for tonight's pregame football-rubbing ritual. The track lighting seems extra bright as it highlights the empty space. I tell myself this is fine. The key is what I need right now, not the football. I can go make a copy and be back before—

“Mel-Jay!”

I turn to see Chloe and Beth balancing a huge roll of banner paper between them, and Aubrey carrying art supplies. Oh, right. The banner. I had kind of forgotten we're actually making that.

Twenty minutes pass, and I am still in banner-making hell. Liv, Peyton, and Ana haven't returned my calls, and I can't find any excuse good enough for the rest of the cheerleaders to let me slip away. In fact, they seem kind of offended when I try, especially Aubrey. I feel guilty because I know I haven't been around so much lately, and she deserves a better friend. I just, I don't know, ever since Ana, I've been scared to put myself out there. I don't think I'm ready for the BFF-necklace-level of friendship. Now or maybe ever. I'm struck with a terrible sense of wanting. For Ana? For that kind of closeness in general? I couldn't say. There's a Portuguese word for the longing that comes with losing something you love:
saudade
. The word even sounds like how I feel.

I put the old trophies and plaques and stuff back in the case since we're finished with that part of the banner. Just as I'm locking it closed, my phone rings. It's Ana, and it's perfect timing.

“Perfect timing,” says a voice behind me.

Wait. What?

I answer my phone and turn around, and there is Coach Fuller taking the keys from my hand. I want to grip them tight in my fist and run out the door.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Hi, Ana. Sorry. Thanks, Coach.”

“What's up? Did you need something?” asks Ana.

I sigh. “Not anymore.”

I wonder if I had worked it out with Ana ahead of time if she could have made a copy fast enough that Coach Fuller wouldn't have noticed. It was stupid of me not to tell the girls, but I really wanted to be the hero, okay? I trudge back over to where the rest of the squad is giggling and painting like “OMG, making a banner is the funnest thing ever.” This sucks.

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The day after I gave Michael my number (not three days later), he called (not texted, not emailed) on a real, live phone, and we talked until we couldn't keep our eyes open. Then, yesterday he called again to ask if he could pick me up at four p.m. to go on a good old-fashioned date. My mama would approve. If she knew about it. I frown. I haven't told either of my parents about him. I keep telling myself, “Well, it's not like it's serious or anything. This is our very first date.” But I'm lying.

In eighth grade, she saw me holding hands with Charlie Swanson after school one day. She forced me to bring him round for dinner, then interrogated him about his family and their connections, his extracurriculars and life goals. She did all this while comparing him alongside
another boy she felt would be a more appropriate choice (“You know, Matthew Lawrence already has plans to intern at his father's company.”), ignoring my father when he coughed the words
eighth grade
into his napkin.

I've brought home other boys since then because I didn't care. Taking them home to Mom is a safe thing to do because it gets rid of them faster. The fact that I don't want to tell her this time shows just how serious it really is.

“Who's the lucky boy?” I hear my mother's voice before I see her. It nearly sends me into a panic spiral.

“What?” How did she find out?! I've been so careful!

She runs her fingers over the pile of discarded clothes on my pink comforter. “This amount of reject outfits says first date. So, are you going to tell me about him or not?”

I try not to visibly breathe a sigh of relief. She doesn't know. Yet.

I plaster on a smile. “Mama, I have to look extra good after breakups too. You never know, I could run into Weston, so even though I'm just going out with the girls, I have to dress for revenge.” I say this with a tinkling, Southern belle laugh, like revenge is something only delicate women can pull off properly.

Mama analyzes my sundress. “Well, in that case, you need to change. Peach isn't your color.” She flicks through my closet. “Here.” She hands me another dress like I don't get a say in the matter. It's a shade of green that would look hideous on most people.

I slip out of the peach dress and into the green one, hurrying before she can notice something about my body to complain about. I kind of want to cover up the mirror when I see my reflection. The dress fits me perfectly, and the color—like grass dialed up to an intensity that should never appear in human clothing—makes my green eyes pop and my tan skin glow. I want to take it off in protest. But I also want Michael to see me wearing it in half an hour. Which flavor of pride will win out today?

“Well?” She is smiling the most satisfied smile. I really, really want to take off the dress.

I shrug. “It looks okay. I'll think about it.”

“Whatever you want to do is fine.” She stands beside me in the mirror and kisses me on the temple. “You look really beautiful.”

And as much as she frustrates me, I love that I never have to doubt her compliments. I want to store them in glass jars like fireflies, wrap them around my wrists like bracelets.

She floats away before I can say thank you.

I peek out my window for Michael for about the fifth time. I know it's too early, but I can't squish down my excitement. Believe it or not, there is actually an Inuit word for this specific subtype of anticipation:
iktsuarpok
. I close the blinds. Since Michael clearly isn't going to materialize outside my window, I text him to ask what we're doing today, because as cute as this dress is, I have no idea whether it's practical. Then I carry a couple dirty dishes down to the kitchen. Daddy is there making a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich. (Seriously, where is he keeping all these contraband items?)

“Want a bite?” he asks when he sees me.

“Um, obviously.” I lean over to take the offered bite of sandwich and promptly ascend to a higher plane of Nutella-enhanced being. “Mmm. How did you get Nutella past Mama?”

“I have my ways.” He winks. “You look beautiful, princess.”

I love that he would say it even if I was wearing a burlap sack and sporting leprosy-like acne, but I simultaneously know it doesn't mean as much as when Mama said it. Daddy's compliments make me feel comfortable and happy. Mama's make me soar.

“Thanks.”

“What are you up to today?”

“Oh, um.” I am incapable of lying to my daddy outright. Which means I am screwed. Luckily, my phone rings. I glance at the screen and see that it's Michael. “Oops, sorry, Daddy, gotta get this.”

I kiss him on the cheek and hurry out of the room, so I can answer the phone.

“Hey! Where are we going today?” I ask once I've reached the safety of the hallway.

“To a maize maze.”

“A what?”

“You know, one of those mazes made out of corn. A maize maze.”

“Oh, perfect! I love going to Old Lady Howard's. She makes the best apple cider.” Plus, a sundress is totally corn maize–appropriate attire. If you're me, I mean. I'll have to ditch the heels for some flats though.

“Awesome. I'll pick you up in fifteen?”

“Sounds good.”

I hang up, and my blood pressure returns to normal. Talking on the phone with Michael. Hiding talking on the phone with Michael from Daddy. It's a bit much.

Even though I know I didn't lie to my dad, I get the grimiest feeling from being evasive with him. The situation can't be helped though. Telling my father would be tantamount to telling my mother, and there is no way I'm telling the woman who has crushed many a fledgling relationship. My brothers are scared to bring their girlfriends home for Thanksgiving for the very same reason. This is just how things are in our family, I tell myself. I still feel gross when I sneak to the bottom of my driveway.

Michael opens the car door for me. This is the sort of thing my brain normally files away in a mental spreadsheet of pros and cons, possibly with a comment like, “A Yankee who opens car doors! Will wonders never cease!” Michael is more than checks and balances. He is skipped heartbeats and a tingle on the back of my neck and sweaty palms and a thousand daydreams about what his lips would feel like against mine. He turns me into one of those dumb girls who believes in white horses and all kinds of other sentimental crap. I wonder if he knows how terrifying he is.