The Beginner's Guide to Revenge

by Marianne Musgrove

  I glance down at the friendship band on my wrist and see that it’s started to fray. When did that happen? ‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’ I say as I scoot out the door, ensuring she can’t quiz me any further.

  By the time I cycle to Riley’s, Mrs Lewis explains that I’m too late. Riley’s gone out for the day. ‘You’re welcome to come inside and collect your things,’ she says, holding her hand over the phone, ‘if you wouldn’t mind getting them yourself. I’m in the middle of dealing with something.’ She points at the phone. ‘You know where the rumpus room is.’

  I walk down the corridor and into the room where Riley and I ‘exchanged words’ three days ago. As unpleasant memories rise up, I re-bury them, chucking in a quick funeral service for good measure. Yet even after this ritual, I can’t help wondering what made Riley go off me. If I could just figure out what I did!

  When I first joined the group, Riley was really nice to me. She told me which teachers were strict about deadlines and which would grant extensions. She bought me lunch one time when I’d forgotten mine. She gave me the friendship band. Somewhere in between that and her party, something happened.

  But what?

  At my last school, my Defence Transition Mentor said I was highly original and that some people can find that threatening. Well, I’m sick of being original! I just want to be ordinary, regular, normal. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head back down the corridor. As I pass Riley’s room, I wonder what the bedroom of a normal girl looks like.

  Mrs Lewis’ voice drifts down the corridor. ‘No, Wednesday’s too late. In that case, I’d like to speak with your supervisor.’ She’ll be occupied for a while.

  Nudging open the door, I step inside Riley’s bedroom. At first glance, it looks an awful lot like mine: fairy lights strung above the bed, posters on the wall, even a dreamcatcher hanging in the window. On her desk is nothing remarkable either: laptop, stapler, a letter from her orthodontist, a half-finished school assignment. I bend down and take a casual peek under her bed. Again, nothing miraculous – just some shoes and a bunch of old Dolly mags. So much for that.

  I turn to leave empty-handed, when I spot something hanging on the hook behind her door – something bold, bright, beautiful and horrifying: my peacock bag.

  I gasp. What’s that doing there?! I know the answer even before I’ve asked the question and my stomach drops. Riley tricked me into not buying the bag then bought it for herself. She stole it! I sink down onto the bed to recover. I feel as if I’ve been bashed in the stomach with a truncheon. How could she do that? That sneaky, selfish, underhanded …

  As my thoughts trip over each other, I notice a bottle of nail polish on the bedside table. Its label reads ‘Thumbelina Thumbsucking Deterrent’. What? I pick it up and inspect it more closely. The instructions say to paint it directly onto the thumbnail – the idea being that it tastes so disgusting that you stop sucking your thumb. I twist the lid open and lick the tiny brush inside. Ugh! They weren’t kidding.

  Then I remember the letter from Riley’s orthodontist lying on her desk. I go over and take it out of the envelope.

  Dear Miss Lewis,

  Your next appointment with Dr Solomon is on 18 May at 4.15 p.m. to adjust your braces and review your nocturnal thumbsucking habit.

  Yours sincerely,

  Pamela Grey

  Office Manager

  Canberra Orthodontic Surgery

  Like a relay race, my mind passes the baton from one thought to the next. Riley … a thumbsucker? Riley is a thumbsucker! A sucker of thumbs. A nocturnal sucker of thumbs. She’s never mentioned this before, which is hardly surprising. No wonder she never goes on sleepovers … And I thought she didn’t have a single problem – I thought she had it made. Well, well, well …

  ‘Romola!’

  Mrs Lewis! She must be off the phone. I try shoving the letter back in the envelope but I’m overcome with an unco attack and I can’t seem to get it in. I start again but this time the envelope buckles. As Mrs Lewis’ heels clack in the corridor, my hands begin to shake. Come on, Romola! Come on!

  ‘You still here, dear?’

  It’s no use! I thrust the envelope and letter in my pocket just as she appears in the doorway. ‘Oh hi, Mrs Lewis. Sorry, I got a bit lost. This place is a labyrinth! Well, I should get going – Mum’s expecting me. Thanks for looking after my things. Okey-dokey, better go.’ Before she can get a word in, I squeeze past her and head down the corridor.

  ‘Thank you for coming round,’ she calls. ‘We’re glad you made it home safely. You had us all worried.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ I reply over my shoulder. ‘Thanks for everything. Bye!’ I open the front door, jump on my bike and whack on my helmet. As I take off down the street, my legs pump up and down, Riley’s letter crackling in my pocket.

  I’m about halfway home when the full force of Riley’s meanness hits me. A sob works its way up from deep inside and I howl the rest of the way. I’m crying so much the trees become a green streak against the grey smear of the road. Why don’t eyes come with mini windscreen wipers?

  By the time I’m at Beryl Place, I’m still hard at it. The last thing I need is Mum catching me like this and hassling me about what’s wrong. I park my bike behind a tree, cover my mouth with my hands and wait for the sobbing to pass. When it eventually does, I wait a little longer for my eyes to de-puff. Unfortunately, this only gives my brain more time to dwell on how mad I am at Riley. Dwell is right. My thoughts are currently dwelling in a city called Anger but I’m not sure it’s a city I should stick around in. It’s pretty out of control there, and if a riot started, I’m not sure I’d be able to stop it. What I need is someone to talk to – someone who won’t grill me like a toasted cheese sandwich. Someone like Sebastian.

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I demand, marching into his room.

  Sebastian is lying on his bed reading his book of myths and legends. He sits up and stares at me, bewildered. ‘I … uh … nothing?’ he replies.

  ‘Well, there must be,’ I counter, ‘because every time I get a friend, things end up badly. Every time. I know I’m weird, but still …’

  He lays down his book and smiles at me in a wary kind of way, which makes me realise how crazy I must appear. ‘You’re not weird,’ he says.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay, you’re a little weird, but so what? Better than being a clone, right?’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe.’

  Sebastian gestures for me to take a seat. ‘You’d better tell me what happened. I’ve got a bit of time before I leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ Only then do I notice his bag is packed and leaning against his bed.

  ‘They found Dad!’ he says, beaming. ‘He’s been driving a truck in Roxby all along. I was looking for Woody Miller when I should’ve been looking for Evan Miller. Woody’s his nickname, right?’

  Can your heart sink and rise at the same time? I’ll be losing another friend, but Sebastian’s found his dad and that’s great. ‘Fantastic news!’ I say.

  ‘I know! Dad’s calling any minute.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t talked to him yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve already packed. How do know he’s going to say yes?’

  Sebastian looks at me as if I’ve asked the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard. ‘Of course he’ll say yes. Now, spill.’

  After I’ve finished telling him the whole story, Sebastian re-reads Riley’s orthodontist’s letter. ‘This could be a good thing,’ he says.

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve found her Achilles heel. You know about Achilles, right? How his mum wanted him to live forever so she dipped him in the magical River Styx?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Okay, well, the story goes that whatever part of your body touched the water became invincible so Achilles’ mum dunked him in. Unfortunately, she had to hold him by his heel, which meant that that part didn’t get wet. When he got older, some dude shot
him with an arrow in that very spot and he carked it. When you talk about someone’s Achilles heel, you mean their weak spot. And since Riley wouldn’t want anyone to know she sucks her thumb …’

  ‘I’ve found her weak spot!’ I nod, marvelling at this fact. ‘So now what?’

  ‘Get back at her, of course.’

  ‘You mean revenge?’

  ‘Exactly.’ His eyes shine from behind his dark fringe. He’s serious.

  I let myself imagine getting back at Riley for a second, but stop just in time – once those thoughts are off their leash, there’s no telling where they might run. ‘Isn’t it better to forgive people?’

  ‘After what she did?’ exclaims Sebastian.

  I shrug.

  ‘Look, forget about revenge. Think of it as getting even. She did something to you and that put things out of balance. You need to get things back in balance – you know – even. If you don’t, you’ll always be a pathetic victim who gets walked all over.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Nothing wrong with standing up for yourself.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I take the letter back and read it over once more.

  ‘Answer me this,’ says Sebastian. ‘Do you believe in putting people in jail for breaking the law?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s the court’s way of taking revenge on a person for what they’ve done. It’s justice. You don’t think justice is wrong, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I reply uncertainly.

  Sebastian regards me closely. ‘Tell you what. Since you don’t want to do anything to her, I might have an alternative, but you have to promise to keep it to yourself. Interested?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Our sense of revenge is … mathematical

  … until both terms of the equation are

  satisfied we can not get over the

  sense of something left undone.’

  – Nitobe Inazo,

  The Chrysanthemum

  and the Sword

  She sits on the floor cross-legged. I see what she means by hobbit feet – they’re bigger than mine! I reach for the book of myths and legends and join her on the carpet.

  ‘I have a postcard of that exact same painting on my wall,’ she says, tapping the front cover. ‘My aunty sent it to me from Adelaide.’ She traces the picture of the woman standing on the back of a fish, tipping green liquid into a pond. ‘I’ve always wondered what that green stuff was. I have this theory that it’s a love potion and she’s a sweet nymph in love with a prince.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ I say. ‘Look at her eyes. They’re really intense and evil-looking. Her real name’s Circe and she’s –’

  Romola covers her ears with her hands and starts chanting, ‘La la la – don’t say any more! La la la – you’ll spoil it! La la la –’

  ‘You seriously don’t want to know?’

  ‘La la la – I prefer the fantasy – la la la –’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, taking her hands away from her ears. ‘I won’t tell you the true story.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘Now, what’s your book got to do with Riley?’

  I’m already having second thoughts but I figure it’s too late to turn back so I flip to the back of the book. Just as I’m about to show her the list, I spot her name halfway down the page next to the ‘turning into a cane toad’ revenge I wrote the morning after she caught me at the bus stop. I hastily scribble over it then hold the book open for her to read.

  ‘Your secret notes,’ she breathes.

  ‘They’re revenges, right? This is the name of the person and this is my imaginary revenge on them.’

  She leans in close and scans the list, gasping at some entries, laughing her head off at others. She’s got a unique laugh – sort of like a seal – not like some girls who giggle behind their hands. I hate it when they do that. Romola’s laugh has … personality.

  ‘You’re very creative in the payback department, Seb,’ she says. ‘Turning people into giant dung beetles, changing their hair into snakes … Hey, what’s this? You want a mosquito to chase Marshall across the country, giving him millions of itchy bites! Poor Marshall. Where’d you get that idea?’

  I tap the encyclopedia. ‘Right here – from the story of Hera, Zeus and Io. Wanna try?’ I lay the book in her lap and hold out a pen. ‘Go on, pick a story and see what comes to you.’

  She takes the pen warily. ‘This isn’t like that horror movie, is it? Where whatever you write comes true?’

  I laugh. ‘Course not, it’s just your imagination. Better than a shrink too.’

  Romola flips through the book, but after a few minutes of aimless page-turning she passes it back to me untouched. ‘Thanks anyway. It’s a cool idea and everything. It’s just, even though what Riley did was pretty awful, if I make a fuss … I dunno, sometimes you just have to suck it up. If I want to keep my friends, I don’t really have a choice, do I?’

  ‘Romola, Riley’s not your friend.’

  ‘Yes, she is! I mean, sure, I know the bag thing was bad, but she can be really nice too! Look – she made me this.’ She holds out her arm and waggles the friendship band under my nose. ‘See?’

  ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t mean –’ I don’t get to finish because Marshall bounds up the stairs with the phone in his hand.

  ‘Sebastian! Your dad’s on the line.’

  Romola and Marshall go downstairs so I can have some privacy. ‘Dad!’ I say, shutting the door behind me. ‘It’s me! Seb!’

  ‘Hi, mate. Good to hear your voice.’

  ‘You too. It took ages to find you.’

  ‘So how ya going? That Marshall bloke said you’re in Canberra.’

  ‘Mum made me come with him. We’re supposed to be bonding. Don’t worry, we’re not.’

  ‘Marshall’s your mum’s fella, right?’

  ‘Unfortunately. Dad, you won’t believe it, they’re engaged. It’s a total disaster.’ Dad’s quiet for a moment, making me wonder if the line’s dropped out. ‘Dad?’

  ‘I had a feeling,’ he says at last. ‘Last time I spoke to your mum, she mentioned his name and, well, a bloke knows when there’s competition about.’

  ‘You knew? Then why didn’t you come back and stop her?’

  ‘I know, son, I know. It’s just … sometimes things don’t work out the way you want them to. Anyway, Marshall seems like a decent bloke.’

  ‘What?’ I sit down on my bed, my insides twisting up like spaghetti round a fork.

  ‘So what’s this you wanted to talk to me about, Seb? Sounded urgent.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ I take a second to switch my train of thought. For some reason, my mouth’s gone dry and my heart’s beating fast. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yeah, mate?’

  ‘Can I come and live with you? I could go to school in Roxby and we could hang out. It’d be great!’ There’s silence on the other end of the line again and my chest tightens. ‘Just think about it, Dad. We could spend heaps of time together. I wouldn’t get in your way or anything, like, I could help cook the tea and stuff. So can I come?’

  Dad exhales slowly. ‘Thing is, Seb, I work long hours – night shift, day shift, you name it. I’m not home much, and even when I am, my digs are pretty basic – one room at a camp. You’re much better off in Wollongong with your mum and sister.’

  Water pricks my eyes like little wet needles. It’s that excess moisture again.

  ‘But, Dad –’

  ‘Sorry, mate. It’s just not gonna work out.’

  ‘Well, what about a visit then? I could come tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m pretty busy this week.’

  ‘When then? Next week? The week after’s good too. I could catch the bus, easy.’

  ‘Problem is, I don’t know my shifts that far ahead. How about you visit me another time, eh? We’ll fix something up, I promise.’

  ‘No, wait! Please, Dad, I don’t care if you’re at work. I’ll be fine on my ow
n. And I can sleep on the floor, I don’t mind.’ I hear my voice break. I hope Dad didn’t notice.

  ‘Sorry, mate, some other time. Look, I’d better go. It’s been great talking to you. Promise I’ll be down your way in a few months.’

  ‘Wait, don’t go –’

  ‘Give my love to Idgie.’

  ‘Dad –’

  ‘Gotta go, son. Bye.’

  When he hangs up, the phone makes the same clicking sound a gun makes when the safety catch is released. Why doesn’t Dad want me to live with him? Does he think I’m a burden too? He knew about Mum and Marshall all that time so why didn’t he come back? None of this makes any sense. Doesn’t he want us to be a family? Doesn’t he want me? That can’t be right. Something must’ve happened to change his mind. Something. Or someone.

  I run downstairs and burst onto the deck, where Romola and Marshall are drinking tea. ‘You told him not to take me!’

  The two of them jump. ‘Oh, Seb,’ says Marshall, setting down his teacup. ‘Did your dad say you couldn’t stay with him? I’m so sorry.’ He frowns with concern – more like fake concern.

  ‘Sure you are!’ I say.

  ‘I am sorry. I mean, I’m glad you’ll be living with us, of course, but I’m not glad you won’t get to see your dad.’

  ‘You just want to keep Mum happy. That’s why you told Dad to fob me off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. I –’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ I want to smash something – the teapot, the table, anything. I’ve got to get out of here. I run back inside the house through the laundry and into the kitchen. All I can think about is hurting Marshall. Really hurting him. That’s when I see his laptop open on the table. There’s an icon on the desktop which says ‘Canberra interviews’. It must have all the audio files of his recent research. A surge of rage courses through me. I click on the icon and drag the folder into the trash, then I empty the trash before I can change my mind. There. I shut the computer and run out of the house.

  As I bolt down the street, it’s as if there’s petrol in my veins and someone’s lit a match. I could tow a Mack Truck up a hill or rip a tree right out of the ground. I did it. I took charge and Marshall got what he deserved. I am not a victim.