“You’re gonna walk onto the football field naked on Friday unless you find it, that’s what you’re going to do,” says Casey.
“It’s more than that.” Nate sits on his desk with the manner of a politician delivering a speech. “What if we never get it back?”
A girl comes up and touches his shoulder. “How did it happen?” She’s all soft words and big eyes, the way girls are when they ask a guy how he broke his arm as a way of flirting.
Nate nods at Weston. “Some other guys did the scavenger hunt list first.”
Casey narrows his eyes. “Stupid stripper couldn’t tell the difference.”
I badly want to say something, but before I get a chance, phones buzz around the room. Right on schedule. An email from an anonymous account has just been sent to every player on the Ranburne football team. We even created the account and the email at the Ranburne Public Library so it couldn’t be traced back to us (us = best spies ever).
“Did you just get one too?”
“Yeah, what does yours say?”
“Mine’s just a link.”
“Mine too.”
The whole class, even Coach Mayes, huddles around the guys as Nate clicks the link.
“It’s a video,” he says.
Even though I know what’s on it, I can’t help but crane my neck so I can see the screen of Nate’s phone. Everyone gasps as four figures dressed all in black with grim-reaper hoods appear.
“They’ve got the football!” yells Casey.
He doesn’t miss a thing, that one.
We made the video at Ana’s after we drove two hours to an out-of-the-way Party City to get the costumes. We put on extra clothes underneath to make us bigger and wore our dads’ work gloves. Sparkly nail polish is kind of a giveaway. Melanie Jane’s the one holding the football. Ana’s holding a set of white card stock signs beside her. The first one is blank. She flips it to the back.
We have the Football of ’76.
Flip.
You can stop peeing your pants. We’re going to give it back.
People snicker all around me.
Flip.
There are some things we need to tell you first.
Flip.
Check back tomorrow if you want to know more about your Ranburne Panthers. Same time. Same site.
The video goes black.
The classroom explodes. People are excited, shocked, impressed. A few of them are angry.
“I’m going to find out who those guys are. And I’m going to murder them,” says Casey.
“How do you know it’s guys?” It slips out before I can help myself.
He gives me a look that clearly says he doesn’t think a girl could have pulled it off.
Coach Mayes moves back to the front of the room. “All right. All right. We do have class today. I finished grading your quizzes.”
There’s a chorus of groans, but only for a second. The video is all anyone can talk about. Best of all, sympathy for the football team is nearly nonexistent. Now that people know they’re getting the football back, they just want to see what happens next. I can’t wait to see what school is like for the rest of the day. I am buzzing on the inside. Man, did we look cool.
Coach hands me my quiz, and the buzz dims a little. The B+ at the top of my paper is judging me. A lot of the guys deserve this. Rey doesn’t.
We finally get started on today’s topic: triangles. Casey sits behind me, and I sigh. One of the best features of my new desk was that it was no longer two seats in front of Casey’s.
“Hey. Hey, Peyton. I’m glad you came out this weekend. It was good seeing you at The Jackrabbit.”
“Um, thanks.” I turn back to the board and try to soak up everything I can about congruent and incongruent and equilateral and isosceles.
“Why were you talking to Rey, though? Do you know him?” Casey isn’t even being that quiet. Coach Mayes has to be able to hear him.
“Yeah, he helps me with geometry,” I whisper. Kind of like the opposite of what you do.
“Oh, okay, cool.”
Coach writes another proof on the board, and I groan. Proofs are the devil.
“Hey, Peyton, check this out. Me and some of the other guys made it.”
He shoves his phone in front of me. It’s a video of the dance team performing at halftime during the first football game. Pink Panther Hotties—that’s what the caption says. I can’t help but smile. We look amazing. I can’t believe how in sync we are. Then the video zooms in on each individual dancer, giving a score and some kind of gross assessment, like MARLEY SHELTON. 10 OF 10. CHECK OUT THAT ASS. Or CADENCE FIRTH. 4 OF 10. GIRL NEEDS A DIET. A few seconds later, the girl dancing in the video is me. PEYTON REED. 9 OF 10. WOULD BANG.
Casey nudges me. “What do you think?”
Normally, I would wait till the end of class or not say anything at all, but I am getting so dang tired of this, I wouldn’t care if the whole school was watching.
I raise my hand, only it feels like I’m raising a red flag. “Coach, can you ask Casey to put his phone away?”
Coach Mayes sighs through his nose in a way that makes me think of a bull. His eyes move from me to Casey, that familiar annoyance flashing on his face, but just for a moment. Then he just looks tired.
“Peyton, why don’t you move to that desk over there so you can concentrate.”
That sentence says it all. In his eyes, I am the one at fault. The alternative would mean acknowledging that Casey has done something wrong. But, no. I’m a whiner, a narc, a tattletale, a prissy little girl who can’t keep her mouth shut. It doesn’t matter that he was distracting me when I desperately need quiet in order to learn. It doesn’t matter that the things Casey said could be considered, no, are harassment. I will never be as important as Casey Martin.
I get up from my desk. Gather my things. And I walk right past the desk Coach Mayes pointed to. He doesn’t realize until I get all the way to the door.
“Where are you going?”
I’m tempted to make a U-turn and sit down. But I won’t let myself cower. I am brave. I am strong. I fearlessly sprinkle glitter on statues and perform the worm in front of hundreds of people. I can stand up to my teacher.
“I’m leaving,” I say firmly. Like that says it all.
Coach can’t seem to say anything back, even though his mouth is open. People are staring. Maybe they think I’m crazy. Maybe they think I’m right. I don’t wait to find out, and I definitely don’t wait to see what happens once Coach Mayes regains the use of his vocal cords. I step outside and shut the door behind me.
Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh, I can’t believe I did that. I force myself down the hallway, legs shaking like they might give out at any moment. I go straight past the principal’s office because that probably isn’t the safest place for me today. Instead, I head to the counselor for students P–Z and sit down in the chair across from him.
“Hi, Peyton, what can I do for you?”
I don’t know what kind of face I’m making, but I have a feeling it’s the face of someone who doesn’t get told no. “I need to be transferred to a new geometry class.”
Tuesday, September 29
LIV
We are unstoppable. Everyone is checking their phones, the computers in class, anything to get to the next installment in the most exciting thing that has ever happened at our boring little high school. At 9:30, we give the people what they want. The List goes live. The entire email exchange, starting with the list of girls and including every email between Trevor and the other guys after that, is up on the internet for everyone to see.
The first-period teachers must hate us. They can’t get anything done. The hallways are a frenzy after class. The truth can have that effect on people. Abby Clayton screams at her ex-boyfriend in a shrill language that may or may not be English. Natalie von Oterendorp cries while a circle of band girls hugs her and keeps Jacob from getting anywhere near her with his apologies. And Carrie Sullivan—holy spitfire. I always
thought Big Tom was the scary one, but now he’s cowering in front of this pink-tights-wearing slip of a girl. Watching her club him over the head with her history book has got to be the best thing I’ve seen all day.
I expect some backlash over being labeled a slut on The List, and I get it from a few guys. But most people are being so cool about it. It’s like making The List is a badge of honor not shame. It means you were important enough to get the football team’s notice. Girls keep coming up to me and saying, “It’s so horrible.” And, “I can’t believe they did that to you.” Guys too. I’ve gotten more hugs in one day than I have all year. And I do love a good hug.
It only gets better at lunch. I’m sitting with Marley and Peyton and some other girls from the dance team, like usual. All anyone wants to know about is how it feels being on The List, so I tell them between sips of Diet Coke. A few minutes in, Marley nudges me with this huge smile. Trevor is coming our way. Of all the guys on the team, Trevor is coming off the best right now. Especially with Ranburne’s female population. His emails after The List have all the girls buzzing.
Marley stands as he reaches our table, blocking him from seeing me. “Is it okay?” she asks me.
I give her—and Trevor—a half smile. “Yeah, he can pass.”
She sits back down as Trevor says, “Thanks.”
“I need to talk to you,” he tells me. And before I can process what’s happening, he climbs up onto the lunch table and says in a voice that reaches every corner of the cafeteria. “And I need everyone to hear this.”
When Jimmy Ferraro drops his fork six tables away, you can hear it. That’s how quiet the student body is right now. Every last neck is craned in Trevor’s direction. Some people have even whipped out their phones.
“My girlfriend is not a slut.” A couple of guys at the table next to me snicker, but I hardly notice because I am still stuck on the word girlfriend. “She didn’t do tons of stuff with tons of guys, but you know what, even if she did, who cares? It’s not like that would make her bad or stupid or any different from half the guys on the football team.” He’s been delivering his speech to the general public, but now he turns, and it’s like he’s talking only to me. “My girlfriend is wonderful. And strong and impulsive and hilarious and sexy as hell. She cares about me more than I deserve.” He hangs his head while the girls hang on his every word. “And I’ve been a dick to her.”
He faces the crowd again, and his voice is a roar. “I have been letting a handful of guys dictate my life and I am done with it.” He throws his hands in the air like he’s throwing off chains, and the whole cafeteria cheers. “I’m going to do anything I can to make it up to her.” His voice goes soft. “If she’ll let me.”
Everyone watches to see what I’ll say. Trevor holds out his hand, and I’m reminded of that scene in Aladdin where he wants Jasmine to get on the magic carpet and he says, “Do you trust me?” And I do trust him. I give him my hand and climb onto the table with him, a move that makes the masses incredibly happy.
“I love you, Liv Lambros,” he says, and I don’t doubt him for a second.
“I love you too.”
And then I grab his face and kiss him, and I don’t have to hold anything back because I’m scared of what I mean to him or worried he’s about to get snatched away. Cheers crowd the air around us, and hope floods my heart, and Trevor’s kisses fill the empty parts of my soul until I think I might burst. A few seconds later, one of the lunch ladies jerks us down by our elbows because mealtime disruption and the importance of nutrition and all that. I don’t mind. I’ve got Trevor back.
Wednesday, September 30
ANA
Today’s post? A montage of video clips from the football team’s initiation ceremony. I have it set to post automatically at 9:30 because the last thing we need is for someone to see one of us posting it during class and figure out who we are. I can’t wait to see how people react to this one. The past two days have been more than I ever could have hoped for. I drive to school with Grayson beside me in the passenger seat. The past two days have been good for him too. We sing at the top of our lungs to bad pop music and drink tiny cups of cafezinho—I’ve totally got him hooked on it. It’s strong and sweet and kind of the best thing ever. I’ve been making it for my parents since I was a kid: boil the coffee in water with a ton of sugar, leave a miniature cup on my dad’s nightstand so he emerges from his bedroom a caring father instead of a minotaur.
My phone beeps as I pull into my parking spot. There’s a text from Toby.
Maybe you should think about staying home from school today.
What is he talking about? This has been the best week of school I’ve had since, well, since before. There’s no way I’m missing a second of it.
When I walk through the double doors that face the parking lot, I don’t understand. Glaring and muttering and whispering behind cupped hands. People parting when I pass like I’m carrying a contagious disease. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my car was a time machine programmed to drop me off in last year. The drones stare at me like I’m an animal. I can’t read anything on their faces. Can’t figure out what’s happening to me right now.
And then he steps from the crowd to block my path. Chad MacAllistair. We are having a good-versus-evil battle, a final showdown in the hallway. Everyone waits to see who the winner will be so they’ll know which side to pick.
“Everyone knows it’s you.” His voice is the scary, angry brand of calm. “They’re gonna suspend you. Maybe even arrest you.” He steps up close, and I cringe away before he can touch me. “Oh. And everyone thinks what you did is really lame.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, and there’s an announcement over the intercom.
“Ana Cardoso to the principal’s office. Ana Cardoso, please come to the principal’s office.”
The masses watch me with hollow eyes as I head down the hallway to my doom. Clearly, I am the loser here.
When I get to Principal Corso’s office, Coach Fuller is already there, angry as hell and panting and jumping around like a bull. I guess we know who will be playing the role of bad cop today. I take the chair across from them. And wait. When Corso sees I’m not about to offer up anything willingly, he lets Fuller attack.
Where is the football?
Who else was helping me?
Do I know I’m a stupid little girl and they’re going to have my ass for this?
I give away nothing. I’m sure the other girls didn’t either, and I don’t want to be the weak link. Whenever I feel myself cracking, I focus on the abundance of chest hair protruding from the neck of Principal Corso’s button-down shirt. The man is a missed haircut away from becoming Chewbacca.
He finally throws up a hand to silence Coach Fuller.
“You’re suspended for the rest of the week,” he says, bushy eyebrows coming together in a way that inspires fear in the hearts of Ranburne students. I try to argue that they don’t have any proof, but they claim a “reliable source” turned me in, and it’s enough to warrant a suspension pending further investigation. “We’re calling your parents, and if that football isn’t back by Friday, we’re involving the police. You’ll need to leave the school grounds now.”
I manage not to cry until after I’m safely in my car. I’m shaking so much, I can barely drive home. Can they really do all the things they were threatening? It’s just a football. And we’re returning it. I didn’t think we’d get in this much trouble. I didn’t think we’d get caught either. How did they find out?
My dad’s car is in the driveway when I get home. Which means he came home from work. This is definitely a bad sign. When I open the front door, Falkor isn’t waiting to slobber attack me. Another bad sign. He’s hunched by the doorway to the living room, sniffing at the air as if anger is something that can be smelled, and giving me a look that clearly says, “You are screwed.”
My parents unleash a wave of fury on me the instant I enter the room. Holy crap, if my parents are this m
ad, I can’t imagine what Melanie Jane must be facing right now. My father rants at me in broken English laced with Portuguese and calls me by my full name, Juliana Fernanda Oliveira Cardoso, which means things are level-5 serious.
“Why?” He’s going to wear a hole in the carpet where he’s pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “Why would my good, smart daughter do something like this?”
I swallow. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.” They both say at once.
So, I tell them about last year. Or, rather, I tell the coffee table about last year. If I don’t look at them while I say it, maybe they’ll still love me. Telling Melanie Jane this weekend was good practice. It’s like it got my truth muscles working. When I’m done, I guess I expect hugs and tears and stuff. My dad walks out of the room without saying anything. And then there are tears (from me) and hugs (from my mom).
“He just needs some time,” she says.
I nod, but I don’t understand. I go up to my room and pull the curtains shut and wish I could block out my feelings along with the light. Falkor climbs into bed with me and curls against my side with a sad doggy sigh. I wrap my arm around my demon familiar and bury my face in his fur and try not to think about how sad it is that my dog is giving me more support than my father. At some point, I guess I fall asleep because I wake up later to someone rapping on my window. I open the curtains to see Toby standing outside, so I open the window too.
“Your parents said you’re grounded.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
He scratches his cheek. Turns his head from side to side like he’s worried someone will overhear. “I’m really sorry about everything that happened.”
Poor Tobes. You’d think he was the one who called me out in the middle of the hallway. “Aw, thanks. It’ll be okay.” Maybe. Hopefully. Someday. Or never. Never is also a possibility.
“No, I mean, I’m really sorry. I think Chad was the one who told Coach Fuller and the principal. Chad was talking about how he saw you at the bar, and why would you ever come there. And I remembered all the questions you had been asking me about the football and the scavenger hunt and stuff, and it all made sense. So, I told him.” His voice goes so quiet I almost don’t hear the last part, and it takes me a second to process.
The Revenge Playbook Page 23