Post-breakup ice cream. I poke at my sympathy scoop with my spoon. I guess that’s what I’m eating now too.
I scroll through my phone, trying to decide who would be best to call to pick me up. Definitely not my parents. I groan just thinking about them. They loved Weston—they’d gotten really attached to this one. I’m sure my mother will never let me hear the end of it—she’s always getting onto me for “chasing off perfectly good men.”
The dance team girls take their ice cream to a little room near my table and curl up on an eggplant-colored fainting couch. I have a clear view of them because the doorway between the two rooms is so wide, and I’m compelled to listen in because, (A) it helps take my mind off my own breakup problems for a minute, and (B) I have to know everything about everyone. (No, for real. Perez Hilton is my spirit animal.)
The girl who got dumped, Liv—we had English together last year—is ranting about being called a slut while her friend makes sympathetic noises at all the right places.
“And just so you know, I’m nothing like those guys were saying. I’ve only ever been with Trevor,” says Liv, her shoulders slightly hunched like what happened today has made her ashamed of even that.
Her friend moves like she wants to touch her hand but turns it into a roundabout swoop for her ice-cream spoon. “It’s okay—you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Why do you think they went after you like that?”
She shakes her curly blonde head. “I don’t know. Aubrey Peterson has had sex with lots of guys, and no one ever calls her a slut.”
And at this point, I can’t stay out of their conversation any longer because I totally know why they call her a slut, and I could totally help her, so I rush over to their table and pull up a chair.
“It’s the Cyrus-Swift Phenomenon,” I say.
They look at me like I am a lunatic. “The what?”
“The Cyrus-Swift Phenomenon. Taylor Swift has had, like, eighteen boyfriends, but everyone still thinks she’s really classy because she’s just so poised and sweet and appropriate-looking. Meanwhile, Miley Cyrus was with the same guy for practically forever, and people are always calling her a slut. And I’m not saying we should be calling T. Swift a slut instead—even if you do date a lot of guys, you don’t deserve that. What I’m saying is, when it comes to popular opinion, it’s all about the persona. And sweetie, I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re the Miley in this scenario.”
Liv’s eyebrows crinkle in genuine confusion. “Why am I the Miley?”
I exchange an uncomfortable look with her friend. I think her name is Peyton, and I think she goes to my church, but I’ve never really talked to her before. Actually, I can’t remember hearing her speak before today, period. Guess this is on me.
“It might have something to do with . . . for example . . .” How to be diplomatic about this? “The amount of cleavage you show.”
Her mouth falls open in a little O shape. “Wait, I show a lot of cleavage?”
We blink at her, neither of us quite sure how to respond. She looks down at the workout top she’s wearing.
“But this isn’t cleavage, right? Okay, maybe it is, but it’s, like, church cleavage.”
I snort. “The fact that you think there is such a thing as ‘church cleavage’ proves my point.”
“That is ridiculous. Miley and I don’t deserve to be treated like this! So what if I like to wear sexy tops? Or make out with my boyfriend without feeling properly ashamed of it? I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not just to keep people from talking.”
“Oh, I’m not saying they’re right. I’m not saying you should change either. It’s a completely screwed-up way of thinking. All I’m saying is that it happens.” I bite at the inside of my cheek. “Is that really why your boyfriend broke up with you?”
She sighs. “Kind of. I mean, I got the feeling he didn’t really want to, but he just made Varsity and the guys, well, they kind of made him.”
She rehashes a story that makes me want to hunt down every Varsity football player, especially Chad. I can just picture him tearing down Liv with that smug smile of his. His grin is the reason why Germany invented the word backpfeifengesicht—a face that desperately needs to get punched.
“That is the biggest bunch of crap I’ve ever heard of!” I slam my hand down on the table. Liv and Peyton jump. “Sorry, I just, do you know I just got dumped by the football team too?” I explain what happened minutes before they walked in. “I’m so sick of it. Those guys think they own this town. They say and do whatever they want. They loogey the freshman boys. They haze the crap out of the new guys. They treat women like objects. They cheat in all their classes, if they even bother to do the work at all.”
“Yeah,” says Liv. “And they throw crazy parties with tons of alcohol and egg people’s houses and drag-race out at Crooked Oaks and have you ever seen any of them get arrested?”
“Preach. They never get in trouble for any of it because half the men in this town used to play football, and the teachers just look the other way.”
“Like with Charlotte Fisher,” says Peyton in a voice that is almost a whisper.
The three of us stare at our laps the way anyone with a conscience does whenever someone mentions Charlotte.
Charlotte Fisher was a sophomore last year when we were freshmen. All she ever did as far as I could tell is break up with her football player boyfriend and start dating a guy in the next town over. But since that guy played for a rival football team, this was a sin of an unpardonable degree. One Friday, Big Tom, her ex, cornered her after class and started to rip her a new one. I was coming out of French two doors down, and I had never in my life heard someone yell at another person like that. I don’t think Charlotte had either because she wet herself right there in the middle of the hallway. A crowd of people started gathering, and I know there were a couple of teachers because when Big Tom slammed her into that locker, one of them walked away. I don’t know what really happened that weekend—some people say the football team went on a campaign to flat out massacre her; some people say she tried to kill herself—but I do know that Charlotte Fisher doesn’t live in our county anymore. And that nothing ever happened to Big Tom.
“I’m over it,” I say. “I really am. I’m not going to put up with it anymore.”
Liv shakes her head. “What are you going to do? Move to another town?”
“No. I’m going to make them pay. I don’t know how yet, but I’ll figure it out.”
“We,” says Liv. “We are going to make them pay.”
“I’m in too,” says Peyton, and then as if she feels the need to explain herself, “I know I didn’t just get dumped, but it isn’t right how they treated y’all. How they treat everybody. So, yeah, I’m in.”
“Me too,” says a voice from the doorway, and we all turn to see Ana standing there, her mouth a hard line.
My jaw practically hits the floor. I didn’t realize she had been listening in. I try not to make a face at her, but I’m pretty sure I’m failing. “Why would you want to help us?”
Her shoulders tense and her eyes get this sad, faraway look. “Maybe I have my own reasons for not liking the football team.”
RANBURNE PANTHER SCAVENGER HUNT
In Ranburne:
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)
In Nashville:
7. 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)
8. Go to LP Field and reenact the “Music City Miracle.” (Everyone)
9. Go to Centennial Park and jump into the pond behind the Parthenon. (Everyone)
10. Go to The Jackrabbit Saloon. Walk to the very middle of the dance floor and attempt to do the worm. (One person)
11. 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)
12. 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)
13. Hug a biker. Bonus points if he has a mullet. (One person)
14. Get a girl to give you her thong. (One person)
DARES REMAINING: 13
6:45 P.M.
MELANIE JANE
The sun is beginning to drop behind the concrete stadium seating that flanks one side of the Dawsonville football field. It’s a reminder of exactly how much time we don’t have.
“Melanie Jane, you have to. The list says everyone. If you don’t do it, nothing else we do tonight will matter, and we’ll never get that football.”
Ana is not willing to let up. Not even a little bit.
My hands fly to my hips. “I. Am. A. Lady. Acting silly in Walmart is one thing, but urinating in public? I just can’t.”
The argument has been going on like this for minutes that feel like hours, our sentences chasing each other in the same circles.
“Look. We’ll all go stand way over there.” Ana points toward the twenty-yard line. “I’ll take the picture from really far away. It’ll be blurry. No one will ever know.”
Peyton puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. She and Liv have mostly been watching up until now. “Please, Mel-Jay? We can’t do this without you.”
I think of all the work we’ve put in. All the weeks of scheming. And Weston. It always helps to think of Weston.
“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “No one tells a soul.”
The girls hold up scout’s honor signs and back away before I change my mind. I drag my feet with each step. The rock is waiting, challenging me. It sits waist high, black as sin, with one side polished and etched with the words DAWSONVILLE KNIGHTS. It glistens in the fading light. Ugh. I can smell the urine. I’m the last one, and the boys were here before us—we could tell because it was already wet. I shudder. Poor Destiny. She is going to be looking at a lot of penis pics.
I turn my back to the rock. Pull down the new pair of panties I just got at the Victoria’s Secret outlet. This is so humiliating. At least my skirt covers everything important.
“I don’t even have to go!” I yell.
“Just try!” shouts Ana.
“Think about waterfalls!” yells Liv.
Peyton turns her head, too embarrassed for me to watch. They call that pena ajena in Mexico—humiliation by proxy.
I close my eyes. Try to relax. Do you know how impossible it is to relax when your legs are shaking and the slightest misstep could send you tumbling into a pee-covered rock? Finally, the tiniest trickle comes out. I wipe with a baby wipe, get my clothes in order, and stand up. Thank goodness it’s over.
You’d think I was a hero or something by the way the girls are jumping all over the place. I shake my head. This hero is never going to feel clean again. That stupid football better be worth it.
2
Friday, August 7
LIV
“So, how do we do it?” I ask.
“Do what?” says Melanie Jane.
Given that she was the one who came over here and started all this, I was kind of expecting her to know what to do next.
“Get revenge. Shake them up. Whatever the crap it is we’re doing.”
“It has to be something big,” says Ana. “Something that will really hurt.” The intensity in her eyes is a little scary.
“We have to think like football players.” Melanie Jane shudders at the thought. “What is it they really care about?”
“Sports.”
“Beer.”
“Getting laid.”
“That stupid football,” says Peyton, and then when she realizes we are all staring at her, “What?”
“That’s it. The football,” I say.
Melanie Jane practically cackles with glee. “The Football of ’76. They’d lose their minds!”
If football is a cult in Ranburne, Tennessee, the game ball of ’76 is their most holy of artifacts. Touching it before each game is a sacred rite. It’s what they’ve done every single season since that fateful game in 1976 when the Panthers took State for the very first time. Which means that with ninety players on a football team and thirty-eight years of championships, approximately 3,420 smelly teenage boys have touched that football over the years. And that doesn’t even count water boys and coaches and stuff. I’m pretty sure the football has herpes.
Peyton doesn’t seem as excited, even though it was her idea. “Don’t they keep it locked up? How are we going to get to it?”
“Well, they take it out for every game,” says Melanie Jane. “We’ll just have to do some recon first.”
A jolt of electricity shoots through me. “Recon! Do I get to wear all black? I can buy night vision goggles!”
She gives me a wry smile. “You are entirely too excited for someone who has just been dumped.”
I wince. I had managed to forget about the dumping for four whole minutes.
“Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” I say.
But it gets me thinking about the horrible things the guys said about me. And about what Melanie Jane said earlier. About the Cyrus-Swift Phenomenon. Really, how come I don’t get to be the Taylor Swift? We have practically identical hair!
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.”
Friday, August 7
MELANIE JANE
In 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.
The Revenge Playbook Page 3