Chapter Six
Spite, Malice, and Revenge
Ben
Ben lounged in the back of archery while the teacher put on a Robin Hood-style demonstration where he shot the bull’s-eye a bunch of times and paraded around in front of the cute girls in the front.
George leaned in and whispered, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the problem with having counselors three years older than the campers.”
Another camper looked Ben up and down and asked, “Do you already know how to shoot a bow?”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “Uh, no.” People were idiots. Even though it was 2017, some people assumed he was, like, Super Indian with a bow and arrow slung over his back and war ponies stashed in the woods. Ben wished he were Super Indian. He probably didn’t know much more about his own culture than the idiot camper—the downfall of losing his dad early and growing up in North Carolina.
It wouldn’t be so bad—people making assumptions about him—if he knew who he was to begin with. For now, he was busy playing Stands and Throws a Football for Bellevue. That seemed to work well enough for everyone.
After shooting at hay bales for an hour, which was pretty fun, George proposed they scrounge for food. Everyone else ate at regular times, but George had connections in the mess hall. Every time Cook Betsy saw him, she shook her head and muttered, “I’m going to put some meat on your bones this summer, George!” Then, she’d give Ben an extra roll, too. “I remember how much my boys used to eat when they were teenagers.”
Cook Betsy was quickly becoming Ben’s favorite person.
With a plate of leftover tater tots and some apples, they wandered over to a jungle gym. Ben YouTubed some clips about getting your pectorals to grow even when it seemed like they’d plateaued. George didn’t really have pectorals yet, at least that you could see, so it was going to be easy to build his up.
“Girls love defined pecs,” Ben explained, just a helpful tip. George didn’t seem to care, though. While Ben did push-ups, he started to wonder if Blake was into pecs. He mentally kicked himself. He should jam a finger into yesterday’s stab wound to remind himself of the pain she could bring. He pushed himself harder so that he didn’t have enough spare brainpower to have dirty thoughts about Blake, an unpleasant new problem. Of all the girls he could fantasize about… He didn’t know why his mind kept coming back to her. He was clearly messed up. Maybe he was going to turn into one of those dudes who liked being whipped in the bedroom.
As he punished himself with more and more reps, an idea began to take shape, he remembered the book he’d found—Spite, Malice, and Revenge. All night he’d had an idea brewing. It was almost ready to come out of the cauldron. “You got any more tots, man?” Ben asked.
“I’m sleeping. I don’t know.” George was only pretending to sleep.
Ben took that as permission to eat the rest of George’s food, but he warned him, “You’re never gonna get real pecs unless you eat more.” Maybe not tots, but details. “And work out. No pain. No gain.”
No pain. No gain. That was going to be his philosophy. The opening section of the book contained six points of general advice. He paraphrased the most important points and wrote them down in a notebook. Besides seeming a touch crazy, it seemed like solid advice. Prepare a plan. Revenge is a dish best served cold means don’t strike while your ire is hot.
Wait. Plan. Think. Learn.
Gather intelligence. Prepare a file on your mark. Make a written list of all the important things you to know about the target.
Buy away from home. The idea is for people not to remember you.
Never tip your hand. Don’t get cocky, cute ’n’ clever, and start dropping hints about who’s doing what to whom.
Never admit anything. The only cool guy out of Watergate was G. Gordon Liddy; he kept his mouth shut.
Never apologize; it’s a sign of weakness.
His first job, then, was to gather intelligence. He needed to know everything about Blake so that he could hit her where it hurt the most. That meant internet research and general observation.
From what he knew, Blake didn’t have a code of honor. She only valued beauty, status, and precious earth metals in an order determined by current market value. After reporting these thoughts out loud, George rolled his eyes at Ben.
“So basically, you know that she’s into looking good and owning stuff. That assessment probably applies to everyone at this camp.”
“No, I’ve got more. For one, she is an honor roll student, but I never see her working. Like never.”
George sighed. “Freud said that revenge is ‘at best, a childish coping mechanism to keep darker forces at bay, and at worst, a manifestation of serious psychic illness.’”
“Whoa, dude. You know a lot of random shit. How does that play with the ladies?”
“It doesn’t play with the ladies, dude,” overemphasizing “dude” to make some kind of point regarding his superior maturity. George hammered home his point. “I’m merely pointing out that you could focus on dealing with your own dark secrets instead of torturing someone else this summer. That’s why you’re here, right? That’s why we’re all here.” George moaned a little. “Actually, I just wish I had dark secrets.”
“Once you spend enough time with Blake, you’ll want to torture her, too. She’s the reigning queen of everything, but she hasn’t earned any of it.”
“So she’s your foil. You have earned everything, yet reaped nothing.”
“What is this, AP English? Pass the tater tots, dude.”
When a pack of children, a.k.a. junior campers, ran by, Ben flagged them down and hollered, “Hey, I’ve got a job for you kids.”
None of them stopped, but a girl overheard the exchange and walked over. She had mousy brown hair and an eager-to-please look about her. Ben recognized her from Bellevue, but he couldn’t remember her name. It started with an N. Or maybe an M…
“What kind of job are you talking about?” she asked.
Without answering, Ben pulled out his high-wattage smile.
She giggled and twirled her hair.
George made a weird snorting noise—part of the reason the girl wasn’t twirling her hair in his direction obviously.
“My name’s Ben. And you are?”
She smiled. “We were in history together. I’m Nelly.”
“I’m trying to…surprise Blake with something.” He thought for a minute and ad-libbed. “I want to get her a nice gift, but I’m not sure what. I don’t know what kind of stuff she already has.”
Nelly’s look went from shy and flirty to pissed-off-lady-at-the-DMV in ten seconds flat. Nelly, it seemed, didn’t like Blake. “You want to surprise her. After what she did to you?”
With a shrug, Ben said, “Yeah. Would you mind just telling me what kind of stuff she brought, what she’s interested in, and, I don’t know, anything else you think looks relevant?”
Nelly, no one’s fool apparently, looked over her glasses at him. “It’s okay with me if you’re trying to get back at her. I don’t like her, either.”
He didn’t want to admit his revenge plot out loud, per the rules.
When Ben didn’t answer right away, she said, “I’ll let you know what I see.”
As Nelly walked off, George shook his head in despair. “I thought you were going to sit on it overnight and see how you felt about getting revenge tomorrow.”
“It’s camp, George. Revenge pranks are core curriculum along with canoeing and getting laid.” At least according to Hollywood and his brother. Come to think of it, did his brother get all of his ideas from movies?
George looked a little uncomfortable. “So…what are you thinking, cellophane on the toilet seats, Vaseline on the doorknobs…the classics?”
Ben nodded. “That’s a good start, but it’s going to be more personal than that, at least if I’m going to reach the level of hell she put me through last year.” He picked up the book and started reading. “Gotta do my research, but I have an
idea for my first strike. I might need Nelly’s help, but it’s going to be good.”
With his plan coming into being in his mind, Ben decided to just do it. He hated sitting on an idea. He was a trial-and-error kind of guy. He learned through getting his hands dirty, not by sitting around and thinking. He was going to hit Blake where it hurt… Something wardrobe related or maybe a makeup prank. Well, he didn’t have it all worked out yet, but he’d figure out something by nightfall.
George shook his head sadly. “Dude, I’ll be here for you when this is over and you’ve come to your senses.”
Maybe George was right, but Blake deserved some retribution, and the universe had dropped a book on revenge right in his lap.
Chapter Seven
BlakeOver
Mallory
When Mallory woke up, the dove gray light of early morning was just beginning to illuminate the bunkhouse. Despite some raucously loud songbirds outside the window, the campers were sleeping soundly. She should be more excited for today, her first full day as Blake, but…ugh. Thoughts of yesterday made her forehead wrinkle with all sorts of feelings she’d hoped to leave behind—guilt about lying, not to mention physically injuring Ben (though it had looked worse than it was), insecurity, and basically all of the feelings that made her want to retreat into a book in her normal life.
Instead of burying her face in the pillow she sat up and reached for her journal. Blake hadn’t journaled since fourth grade, when it was still cool to write in a locked diary with a puffy pen, but Mallory methodically started each day with pen and paper. Today, she would reflect on the Rules of Being Blake. Maybe if she could just figure out Blake’s magic, today would go better.
Never apologize.
I hereby declare that I will stop apologizing for everything. No more “I’m sorrys.” What am I even apologizing for? My existence, it seems sometimes. Not to mention, I say it so much, it’s meaningless. Apology to Ben Iron Cloud will be my last. No more “I’m sorrys.”
Be fearless. Try new things.
That was the part of her sister that Mallory really admired. Blake didn’t worry about what other people thought, at least that Mallory could tell. She didn’t care if she knew how to do something or if she’d end up looking silly. Blake would just jump in and try whatever it was that struck her fancy—snowboarding, surfing, acting—it didn’t matter. If she fell on her butt, she’d laugh at herself and get back up again. It was like a superpower.
Never wear brown (per Blake’s comment last week regarding new shirt: “Who are you supposed to be, the UPS man?”).
Mallory actually thought she’d looked okay, but America is a democracy, and it had voted Blake. Even though it stung a little, she was going to listen.
Use flat iron.
Blake’s hair was a lie, a beautiful lie. Mallory told the truth, one sloppy ponytail at a time, but it was time for that to end.
Find cute friends to hang with.
Blake always hung out with three girls (Monique, Angela, and Angelina). They were basically her bridesmaids. Blake wore the fanciest dress and ate the first slice of cake. Hanging out with people because of how they looked went against everything Mallory stood for. She might have to skip that one.
Use witty insults.
This would be a problem, as Mallory was the kind of person who normally only thought of proper insults two hours after the fact. Maybe there is a reference book? If there wasn’t, she could write one after this summer, assuming she figured it out: Being Cool for Dummies by Mallory Jones. Maybe it would be her big break.
Find a camp boyfriend… Options: Luke Culpepper, that cute lifeguard. Anyone but Ben.
Luke would be a solid choice. He was at Pembroke, the camp down the road, for the summer. The real Blake probably would have already snuck out in the middle of the night to go skinny-dipping with him. That was some advanced Blaking. After failing at something as simple as walking in wedge sandals, Mallory needed to start with intro level stuff.
Whatever she did, she needed to up her game. Super masculine and attractive guys always turned her into a blithering idiot. Back at Bellevue she’d almost talked to Ben once, when he asked directions somewhere (it had been his first week), and she’d just stared dumbly until Jill, who was standing next to her, answered. Since then, he never seemed to look twice at her. He probably didn’t even know Blake had a twin!
After locking her optimism down in semi-permanent gel pen, Mallory let her more skeptical self review what she’d written. Skeptical Mallory frowned. The list seemed daunting, almost undoable. Not only did it require her to become another person but required skills she didn’t have (making boys like her and using eyeliner). But if she ever wanted to experience life outside of books, she needed to go outside her comfort zone. No one would ever be interested in plain old Mallory.
In the shower, she used Blake’s fancy shampoo and conditioner. It smelled more chemical than she expected. She wouldn’t have picked out something that stinky, but who knew with Blake. As long as it cost a lot, her twin believed it worked. Their dad was always blustering about her sister racking up the AmEx bill. For all his complaining, he always paid.
In a pair of shower shoes and a towel, Mallory schlepped to the mirror to get all Blake’d up. She squinted in to the mirror. Something seemed off. It was probably just bad lighting, but she reached for her glasses to get a better look.
“Dammit,” she muttered when she realized she didn’t have them.
Because she couldn’t see a thing, she put in her contacts. Was it just the lights or did her hands look orange? After blinking the contacts into position, she looked directly at her reflection and stared in horror. The screams were trapped in her throat. She reached up and touched her hair. Holding the long strands in front of her face, she stared, horrified.
Her hair was orange. Her hands were orange. It didn’t make any sense. A bunch of girls ran in behind her. A few of them gasped. One girl said, “Wow, that’s…different.”
In a refusal to accept the facts before her, Mallory kept staring and touching her orange hair.
“I don’t know what happened? All I did was”—she touched her hair again—“wash my hair. I don’t get it.”
Calmly, Zoe walked over and inspected the evidence. She held up the bottle of fancy shampoo. “Is this the shampoo you used?”
When Mallory nodded, Zoe read the label and then unscrewed the cap. She wafted it under her nose, cringing a little, and then peered inside.
As Mallory feared, she pronounced her hair dead at the scene. “It’s hair dye. Someone dyed your hair orange.”
Mallory dropped her face to her hands. For a moment, she felt like she might die, right along with her beautiful golden hair. It would have to be a closed casket funeral because of the orange. The only thing she really liked about herself was her hair. And now it was gone!
“Who would do this?” Everyone was supposed to love Blake and she was Blake.
Zoe moved smoothly from her role as crime scene detective to victim advocate. “Don’t worry. We don’t have time to fix it this morning, but we’ll figure something out.”
“Really?” Mallory asked. “You can do that?”
“I’m the queen of hair dye. I dyed my hair pink last fall. When everyone else came to school with pink hair, I stripped it and dyed it turquoise.” She shook her head. “I gave up, though. It was too hard to find the perfect one, you know, that one hair color that represents everything I am.” She shrugged and pointed to her real hair. “I just dyed it back to normal for a while.”
Zoe had gorgeous hair, a multiracial mix that managed to capitalize on the best hair features of every one of her ancestors, leaving her with a boisterous head of almost black curls. Mallory would have killed for hair like Zoe’s.
“You actually look cute. I mean, orange isn’t the best color for you, but it could be worse. It’d be perfect for a Pippi Longstocking costume.”
Mallory snorted. That is not what a girl wanted to hear about he
r hair. She didn’t have any choice, though, so she ran with it. She put her hair in two braids while Zoe threw on a Camp Pine Ridge T-shirt she’d ripped the sleeves off of and a pair of cut-offs. It took Zoe about ten seconds to swipe some liquid eyeliner on and give her hair a casual scrunch. From all appearances, the urban edge look was far easier to maintain than the polished Taylor Swift thing Blake had going on.
On the way out the door, they took a selfie and hashtagged it #PineRidge #dayone #hairdrama #ginger.
Outside the mess hall, Mallory and Zoe had to walk through a forest of TP. Someone had flung a Costco-sized pack through the trees.
Looking around, Mallory commented, “Were we the only cabin that slept last night?”
Mallory scanned the room for Ben. It didn’t seem like his style, at least from the little she knew of him, but there wasn’t anyone else who had it out for her at Pine Ridge. She saw him look her way. He elbowed George who also turned to look. With a heavy heart, Mallory said, “There’s a distinct possibility that super cute guy you admired last night is the one who dyed my hair.”
Zoe sighed wistfully. “Well, if someone has to torture you, it might as well be him. Why would he prank you, though?”
“Maybe he thinks it’s his turn.” Mallory’s eyes bored into his back. If this had happened to the real Blake, she would have laughed, but not now. The injustice of the whole situation made her bubble with rage.
In the middle of breakfast, Fozzie stood up and called for everyone’s attention. It took a minute for the clinking of silverware against plates and the noisy conversations to die down.
“Good morning, campers! The sun is shining, and I hope you are all raring to go. I have a few announcements. First of all, I’m planning a hike up Mount Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi. Anyone who I don’t have to carry up the mountain on my back is free to join. I’ll put a sign-up sheet on my office door.” There wasn’t much of a reaction from the campers. “Looking ahead, we’re planning a few fun evening activities—at least one more bonfire and a dance on Friday.”
Breaking the Rules of Revenge Page 5