1. Abby Clayton. I’m pleased to see we only have one whale to spear this year. Greg, we have a rule on this team—no one is allowed to date a girl fatter than Coby’s girlfriend. (He likes his girls thick, and she has an ass kind of like Beyoncé’s, so we let it slide.) Greg, your girlfriend does not have an ass like Beyoncé’s. She has an ass that is 50 percent cottage cheese and 50 percent bacon grease, and every time she wears shorts I throw up in my mouth a little bit. Seriously, whenever I see her eating (which is often), I lose my appetite. Greg, you are embarrassing us all, so I’m only gonna say this once. Spear. The. Whale.
Everyone knows fat girls don’t have feelings because their blubber insulates them, so just dump her and get it over with. If you give her a gallon of ice cream as a parting gift, she probably won’t even care.
2. Natalie von Oterendorp. Jacob, let me be honest here. Your girlfriend’s face looks like a Proactiv before-picture. Now if it were just that, I’d say buy a paper bag and be done with it, but it’s not just that, Jacob. It’s a lot of things. So many things I think you must be trying to piss me off on purpose. She’s in the band. Her teeth need their own zip code. She wears Winnie-the-Pooh sweatshirts. For God’s sake, the girl snorts when she laughs. You need to break up with her, stat, in case whatever she has is contagious. And speaking of contagious . . .
3. Liv Lambros. This slut has had sex with more guys in more places than Casey’s mom in the ’80s. (Sorry, Case, your mom told me about her groupie days the last time she was drunk.) I wouldn’t even get in a hot tub with her for fear of catching something the CDC has yet to identify. There’s slutty-hot and there’s slutty-gross, and this girl is GROSS. Trevor, you need to break up with this walking cesspool of venereal disease. Quickly. Like before your dick falls off.
4. Carrie Sullivan. There is nothing inherently wrong with Carrie. She’s a freshman cheerleader. She’s pretty. She wears those adorable little necklaces with the owls on them. She is also Big Tom’s little sister. And given the size of Big Tom’s neck, I have to ask, Mason, are you a fucking idiot? No, really, I’m going to need you to email me back with the number of hits you took to the head on JV last year because I think you might be brain-dead. Did you really think you could hit on Carrie at the field party last weekend without Big Tom finding out? Whenever a guy flirts with Carrie, she goes on and on about it at dinner, so if you do it again, Big Tom will know, and the only way you’ll be eating dinner for the rest of your life is through a tube.
That goes for all you assholes. Stay away from Carrie Sullivan because I can’t be held responsible for what Big Tom does to your face after.
Honorable Mentions
Danny—Your girlfriend is not a whale. Yet. But she’s only a few cheeseburgers away, so if you like her, I suggest you put that fatty-in-waiting on a diet. Get her to go running with you. Make her eat a few salads. Hell, I don’t care if she throws up her food in the bathroom as long as I don’t have to watch her stomach get any bigger. Do this for me, buddy. I don’t want to have to break out the spears.
Weston—You’re dating one of the hottest sophomores in school. Congrats. But you really need to get laid already. And until you do, you can give us weekly updates on the progress you’re making. Thursdays after practice will be “Weston’s Adventures in Losing His Virginity” time, during which Weston will stand on a bench in the locker room and regale us with how much closer he has gotten to melting the icicles on Melanie Jane’s snatch. Weston, I hope for your sake you have a blowtorch.
Hugs and kisses,
Your Team Captain
I don’t get angry, and I don’t cry. Not at first, anyway. Because what I’ve just read is so over-the-top that all I can do for the first few minutes is stare at my laptop with my mouth open. My tongue starts to dry out, so I close my mouth and stare some more. I start over at the beginning, the coating of shock beginning to crack and fall away in tiny pieces, and then I feel it. RAGE. And hurt. And a squishy feeling in my stomach because the whole thing is so disgusting.
I’m tempted to do about fifty things at once: forward the email to every girl in school, call Carrie and explain to her why she’s never had a boyfriend, find Chad MacAllistair and punch him in the balls. But even as my mind reels with possibilities, I realize there’s more. It’s a whole chain of emails. I steel myself for whatever horror is coming next, but when I scroll down, the next email is from Trevor.
Hey, guys,
I think there’s been some kind of mistake. My girlfriend’s not a slut. So, I’m just going to keep dating her because I’m kind of in love with her :)
Trevor
He did stick up for me! He even told them he was in love with me! I’m happy for a second, but I know how this story ends, so I swallow it down and read on.
Trevor,
That is so adorable that you actually think you get a say in this. You don’t. I’m really glad you sent that email, though, because it’s always good to make an example early in the season. You’re going to break up with that skank, and you’re going to do it soon. I don’t want this to get ugly.
Chad
There’s a reply email from Trevor time-stamped just a few minutes later.
Yeah, I’m not breaking up with her. It’s my choice. What can you really do? Not invite me to all your parties? Fine with me. I’ll just be at home hanging out with my hot-ass girlfriend.
Trevor
The email after that is just one line from Big Tom’s address:
You’ll find out at practice today.
And then the practice must have happened because there are all these one-line emails starting around 6:00.
How are your nuts feeling, Trev?
Did we break anything?
Your face sure does look prettier with a bruise on it.
There’s a lot more where that came from.
I remember a practice a few weeks ago when Trevor had hobbled to my mom’s car covered in bruises. He didn’t want to talk about it, and I just assumed he had had an off day and was embarrassed, but now that gash under his eye seems so much more sinister. The next email from Trevor is later that night:
Is this really what it’s going to be like?
And then the reply email from Big Tom:
It’s going to be a thousand times worse.
He goes on to outline how Trevor will never get passes during the games, and they’re not afraid to completely screw up his season unless he does what they want.
There’s one last email, from Chad this time, playing the good cop.
We really don’t want to do this to you, man. Just break up with her and you’ll see how great everything can be when we’ve got your back.
I wish Trevor had felt comfortable enough to tell me all this instead of suffering alone. Especially since everything that was happening to him was because of me. Because of them, I correct myself. Everything bad that happened to him and to me begins and ends with the football team.
And suddenly I know exactly what to do, and I’m not waiting around for anyone to help me or talk me out of it. I text Peyton before I go.
Getting that key from Chad. Tonight.
Friday, September 18
ANA
“What did the text say?” I ask for the fiftieth time.
I pull out of the driveway, Peyton in the backseat and Melanie Jane riding shotgun.
“It said she was going to get the key from Chad tonight.” I can see Peyton frowning in the rearview mirror. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
You don’t know the half of it. I get to the end of the street. “Where am I driving?”
“Big Tom’s,” says Melanie Jane. “They’re having a field party at the back of the property. It’s only fifteen minutes away.”
“I’ll have us there in ten.”
A field party could be a good thing. No bedrooms. Not that that’ll stop him. I shake my head. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m going to get to that party before anything bad happens. I have to. But why did she insist
on going over there alone? I didn’t have any time to warn her. I sent her a text that said, STAY AWAY FROM CHAD. I’LL EXPLAIN LATER. But she never replied. He’s probably giving her a shot right now, and she’s Liv, so she’s probably throwing it back with a laugh. I drive faster.
“Watch it, okay?” says Melanie Jane as I whip through a yellow light, kissing my fingers and pressing them to the roof of the car as the light turns red. She’s biting her lip and watching me with this weird, pinched look on her face.
I don’t have room to worry about her, though. Just Liv. That horrible day comes flooding back, and I see myself giggling with Melanie Jane and teasing her about being so completely over the moon about Chad MacAllistair. She was begging me to talk to him. So I did.
I left our circle of friends and walked around Casey’s house until I found him. He was mixing drinks at a makeshift bar by the pool table in Casey’s basement.
“Hi, I’m Ana,” I said.
He looked up from his collection of bottles and grinned. “I’m Chad. Can I get you a drink?”
“Nah. I’m okay for now.” I watched him pour juices and alcohols into a pitcher—the colors swirled together like someone stirring a sunset. “What are you making?”
“Sex on the beach.” He winked at me, but in the nice way, not the creepy way.
“Sex on the beach!” yelled Casey beside him, and girls materialized from nowhere to have their cups filled.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“Orange juice, cranberry juice, vodka. Little splash of peach schnapps. My own special Chad MacAllistair magic. You sure you don’t want one?” His eyes crinkled when he smiled, and they were the color of celery. “Hey, you’re on the freshman cheerleading squad, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You any good?” He tugged at my fingers playfully, and I pulled them away.
“Yes!” I said indignantly. “Are you any good at football?”
He laughed and slung an arm around my shoulders like we were conspirators in a plot I didn’t yet know about. “I’m the best, baby. You keep an eye out for number twenty-four when you’re cheering, okay?” His hand stayed on my shoulder, fingers running down the strap of my tank top.
Uh-oh. He thought I was here for me. I needed to fix that and fast. “My best friend is on it too. Melanie Jane Montgomery. Do you know her?”
He shook his head.
“You will. She’s probably the prettiest girl in school.” I wasn’t exaggerating. The girl is stunning.
“Well, in that case, you should go get her and bring her down here, right, Casey?” He elbowed Casey, who nodded a furious agreement. “But first, you need to take a shot with us.”
“Sure. Let me just go get my friend. We can all take one together.” I started to move away from the bar, but he grabbed my hand.
“Noooo. You can’t go yet. Just take one shot with us first, and then you can go get her. Please?” He put on a sad puppy face. “I’m about to make my specialty.”
I shifted my weight to my other foot, wavering, and Casey took the opportunity to start up a chant of “Shots! Shots! Shots!” A couple of other guys joined in.
“What do you say, freshman?” asked Chad with a grin that really was as charming as Melanie Jane said.
“Okay. One shot. Then I’m going to get Melanie Jane.”
“Success!” yelled Casey as Chad mixed the shots for us.
His hands flew from bottle to bottle. Other people approached the bar—Casey’s cries of “Shots!” had attracted a crowd. Chad pulled out extra shot glasses that were hidden away underneath, and I tried not to think about their cleanliness.
“Done!” he said, expertly pouring so you could almost follow the line of liquid across the row of glasses.
He snagged the one on the end and handed it to me with a little flourish before grabbing a glass of his own. Hands fought their way in from every direction to get the others. We clinked our glasses and toasted to winning State this year. Chad caught my eye, and we downed our shots together. I coughed, narrowly winning a battle with my gag reflex.
“Ew, that was horrible. What’s in this? Furniture polish?” I was so disgusted I forgot to be polite.
He just laughed, apparently unfazed by the shot. No one else coughed either, and I felt very much like the freshman at the bar even though I’d had alcohol before and thought it had tasted kind of okay.
“Here.” He handed me a glass of orange juice. I swished it around in my mouth and resisted the urge to gargle with it.
“Whew. I really better go get my friend now.”
But before I could move, a guy fell right at my feet. Not in the romantic way—he’d been decked. The biggest guy I’d ever seen jumped on top of him and kept punching. Casey started yelling, “Fight!” He’s big on the chanting, that one. I stood there in shock as they flailed around on the floor in front of me, backing into Chad when the violence moved a little too close.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not a party until Big Tom punches someone.”
After a few minutes, they wore each other out. A tiny girl with curly hair convinced Big Tom to come upstairs with her. Another couple of girls brought the other guy some ice. I felt like I was about to do something before the fight. But someone turned on music, and it was loud. And intoxicating.
“I’m going to dance,” I yelled to no one in particular.
I flew to the other side of the room where some girls had already started dancing and let the music carry me away. I was always a decent dancer, but never like this. This was like one of Nicki Minaj’s backup dancers had taken over my body. I worked my way over to a support beam and danced around it like a pole. Poles sure do make it easier to dance in these heels. Why don’t I dance on poles all the time?
Every boy in the room was staring.
“Slut,” I heard one girl mutter to a friend. Whatever, she’s just jealous.
Chad appeared from behind the jealous girl. “Chad!” I squealed, and grabbed his hand like we were old friends. “Don’t you love this song? I freaking love this song!” I pulled him toward me because he had to experience the wonder that was dancing to this song. Right now. This perfect, irresistible, adrenaline-filled moment. At some point, someone turned on a strobe light. The people around me blurred together in the flashes. I tripped and almost fell. Chad caught me, but only just.
“Whoa, Ana. Let’s go upstairs and get you some water, okay?”
“Water?” I screwed up my face like I’d been mortally insulted.
He grinned. “Well, at least let’s go sit down or something.”
I leaned against the support beam for a second, eyes shut. It helped with the dizziness. Sitting down did seem like an awfully good idea. I nodded.
“Cool.” He scooped an arm across my back and helped me up one flight of stairs and then another. I only fell down a few times. How am I so drunk right now? He squeezed me even tighter to him after the last stumble. “I got you.” His breath tickled my ear, and I giggled.
Somehow, he got me to the top floor, to a door at the end of the hallway and an empty bedroom. He let go of me to shut the door. Standing up by myself seemed incredibly difficult. He had to grab my arm to keep me from face-planting.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I don’t . . . feel right.”
“Here,” he whispered. “Come sit down. You’ll feel better.”
He eased me onto the bed, and I let myself fall back into the pillows. The comforter was soft and warm. I pressed myself against it, shivering. This was better. My eyelids felt like they were coated in lead paint instead of shimmery powder. Keeping them open was too much of an effort. My head bobbed to one side. It was so very cold.
His voice in my ear. “You’re gorgeous. You know that?”
His lips against mine, his tongue forcing my mouth open. Even through the haze, that didn’t seem like a good idea.
“Hey, Chad.” When did talking get so hard?
“Shh. I’ll take car
e of you.”
His mouth on mine again. Hands tearing under my shirt, pulling at my bra, pawing at me.
“Hey.” I tried again, but this time my voice sounded even weaker.
My arms were heavy and dead. Legs too. A tremendous weight pressing down on me. Like being buried in sand or snow. I tried to move something, anything, but it was like the nerves connecting my brain to my body had been cut. Except not all of them. The ones telling me he was taking off my panties worked fine. I tried to scream. Tried again, forcing air past straining vocal cords. I think it came out as a moan. And then I think my eyes rolled back in my head. Which was maybe the best thing that could have happened. Or the worst.
The next thing I remembered was Melanie Jane standing over me. Chad was gone.
“Mel-Jay?”
I didn’t understand. I tried to push myself up with my elbows, but I couldn’t support my own weight. The room was still spinning. My eyelids fluttered. Consciousness fading in and out. A flash of her carrying me downstairs. A glimmer of the inside of her car. She must have taken me home and put me in my bed because that’s where I woke up the next morning.
There was a trash can positioned on the floor next to my head and a half-empty water bottle tucked into the covers with me. I felt like I had been hit by a truck, and I couldn’t find my underwear. From somewhere, the smell of vomit. Had I thrown up? I didn’t remember throwing up, but my room smelled exactly the way my mouth tasted. How could this have happened? I only had one shot. And that’s when it got worse. The pieces of the night before started to knit themselves together inside my head. I remembered more than I wanted. And also not enough. With each wave of details, I screamed the pain into my pillow. But they weren’t telling me what I needed. I still didn’t know. Did we have sex? I was sore, but did that mean—? I couldn’t even think the words. It might make them true. I pulled my blanket over my head and tried to hide from my dangerous thoughts. I didn’t get out of bed for the rest of the weekend.
The Revenge Playbook Page 20