The Revenge Playbook (20 page)

I realize his hand is resting on the console between us. Is that his way of inviting me to hold it? He seems so relaxed though. Maybe he's just one of those people who likes driving one-handed. And his hand is facedown. If he wanted me to hold it, he would have put it faceup. Right??? Why am I such a mess?! Normally, I'd alternately encourage and repel him, a carefully choreographed dance
where I am in control. Instead, I have all these
feelings
in my stomach. Bubbly ones, like at any minute I'll spew out champagne. Or vomit. I don't like them one bit. He smiles at me from the driver's seat. I hope they never stop.

A squirrel darts in front of the car. He has to slam on the breaks and grab the steering wheel with both hands, and I'm saved from having to make any life-altering decisions of the hand-holding variety.

When we arrive at the maze, the sun is hanging high overhead, a fat tangerine. The cornfield spans out in front of us like an ocean, stalks whispering secrets when the breeze makes them rub together. I try to inhale the scent of fall: the earthy smell of dead leaves, the sweet smell of corn, but it's too early for that. Summer is five months long in Tennessee. Michael buys two tickets from the guy behind the wooden stand, and we read over the “few simple rules,” an exhaustive list printed on a sign bigger than Michael's SUV.

“‘What to do if you become lost in the maze.'” Michael laughs. “These rules are neither few nor simple.”

“Well, at least now you know we aren't allowed to use profanity in the maze or drink alcohol and throw dried corncobs at each other.”

“Good to know. Because I was planning on throwing some corn at you.”

“I wuttin' recommend it,” speaks up a surly old woman guarding the entrance to the maze with her lazy eye. Old Lady Howard. I hadn't realized she was sitting there. “Them corncobs hurt.”

Michael blushes. “Oh, I wasn't really going to.”

I giggle. “Good. Because it says right here on the sign they have undercover ‘corn cops' on the lookout for rule breaking.”

I tap my fingers to the sign and head toward the maze, but the entrance makes me hesitate. I flash back to being nine years old and sneaking downstairs to watch
Children of the Corn
from behind the sofa. I half expect to see red-eyed demon children jump out at me from the thick rows of corn. We don't see any of those, but we do see David Bowie. Or, well, a statue of David Bowie in full
Labyrinth
glory with '80s hair and ruffled collar and pants so expertly rendered, they make stone look like spandex. Michael studies the statue with a mixture of amusement and fear.

“Um?” He snickers at the goblin king's substantial package, which, to be fair, the artist has taken creative liberty with in regard to size.

“Old Lady Howard's a huge Bowie fan. And by ‘fan,' I mean she's obsessed, and small children are afraid of her. She had them put
Labyrinth
characters all through the cornfield, and they carve the maze around them each year. There's another David Bowie just outside the exit near the house that people sneak in and paint all the time, like with sports team rivalries and stuff. The cheerleaders painted it as a bonding thing after we got back from summer camp this year.”

“Huh,” he says. “That's . . . well, okay, it's kind of weird.”

I laugh. “It is, right?”

For the first leg of the maze, we amble along on paths carved like bizarre alien crop circles into
the cornfield. We talk easily, and when he takes my hand (so he did want to hold it!), I let him, even though my cheeks turn red and my PDA meter quivers near overload, especially when he slides a finger across my pinkie. It isn't long before we reach a fork.

“Do you want to split up?” he asks. “We could see who makes it out of the maze fastest?”

My eyes spark at the idea of a challenge. “Loser buys snacks?”

“Done.”

I take off at a sprint, completely ignoring what that means in terms of my sweat glands. I vaguely remember my mother saying something about how you're supposed to let boys win because losing makes them feel inadequate as providers. I consider this idea for all of two seconds before rejecting it. Michael directly challenged me to a competitive event. Date etiquette be damned. I race through the maze like there's a legion of evil children chasing me.

Minutes later, I burst past the corn at the front of the maze. I bend over panting and pull pieces of husk from my hair. Then I scan the benches and the concession stand. No sign of Michael. I hurry over to the concession stand and buy two apple ciders and an enormous sheaf of cotton candy. Then I grab napkins by the handful and wipe any part of my body I can reach. I check my reflection in my compact. I don't look great exactly, but it could be a whole lot worse. When Michael emerges from the maze a minute later, I'm perched on a bench with the snacks looking (mostly) like I haven't spent the last several minutes battling through corn.

“Michael,” I call with a wave.

“Hey.” He's panting too. Good. A guy who would let me win would be almost as bad as a sore loser. “How long have you been here?”

“Just long enough to get some cider and cotton candy.” I smile and search his face for any sign of irritation at being beaten by a girl. “I love cotton candy to a ridiculous degree.”

He eyes the cotton-candy mountain. “I can see that. It was really sweet of you to get the snacks.”

He smiles down at me. A genuine one—not a trace of “I'm actually pissed about losing to a girl,” which means he passes my sore-loser test—and on the first date too. It's better he find out sooner rather than later that losing is a hazard of dating Melanie Jane Montgomery.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

S
omeday, it's going to stop hurting. Seeing Trevor in the hallway. Going over to my dad's house and having his sparkly new life thrown in my face. Someday, those things won't seem so overwhelming. But someday is not today.

I pull my duffel bag out of the trunk and try to mentally prepare myself for twenty-four hours in an alternate universe. It's just me this time. My brother and sister can't come over right now because
being in the third trimester makes my stepmom so tired. I'm sure if she could think of a reason not to have me here too, she would. Their life is perfect, organized shapes pressed into dough, and we are the sad, broken pieces you tear away from the cookie cutters to make the pretty stars and gingerbread men. A man next door waves vigorously while he mows his lawn. Dad's neighborhood creeps me out a little. The houses are all the same: clean gutters and freshly pruned hedges. The paint on the wraparound porch is so shiny it hurts. Sandra, my stepmom, is waiting to pounce when he opens the door for me.

“Hi, Liv!” She gives me this huge smile with way too many of her teeth showing.

“Hi.”

“Want to see the baby's room? We're finally finished!”

“Um, sure,” I say, even though I really don't.

I drop my duffel bag in the foyer and follow her upstairs. Sandra's life's work is decorating and redecorating this house. She doesn't have a job. Even before she was seven months pregnant, she didn't. I hate seeing her projects. Not because they're ugly or anything, but whenever I see their new silk rug (A bargain! Only $4,000!) or a rocking chair imported from Germany, all I can think of is Mom begging for extra shifts at the restaurant and our recliner that is held together by duct tape.

Mom and I are fighters. We're the kind of people who don't ever get anything the easy way. Who, after anything good happens, have to look around in fear wondering when the inevitable “tornado of suck” is going to hit. We have to work ten times harder to get things that seem to be handed to other people. But that's okay because I think it gives us a secret strength that the people who coast through life will never know. People like my dad. People like Sandra.

When you've earned something, I mean really earned it, no one can make you doubt that you deserve it. They can't say it isn't yours. There's something about getting a thing that you've bled and fought for that makes the getting that much sweeter.

Sometimes I wonder if I'd fight as hard if my dad were still here. If I wasn't trying so desperately to get him to notice me.

“Well, what do you think?”

Sandra sweeps her arm across the room like a game-show model. I try to manufacture a smile.

“It's . . . great.” I get the feeling I've stepped into a catalogue. I take in the crib that probably cost more than our mortgage, the wooden rocking horse, the fresh coat of paint with its stenciled animals. “It's really pretty.” I reach out to touch a turtle.

“Don't you love those?” she gushes. “Your dad painted every last one of them. It took days. Can you believe it?”

I can't. My dad was never the type to do crafty things. Or really any things at all.

I force another smile. This one almost breaks my face. “Not really.”

“I know, right?” She laughs like it's hysterical. “But he's been
so
involved. He's been researching the safest car seat and planning a college fund and making sure I take my prenatal vitamins every day. Pregnancy brain. I can't remember anything!”

I busy myself with inspecting the mobile—sun, moon, and stars revolving over the crib—because I know I won't be able to conjure a fake smile this time. It would be wrong of me to hate this kid. I've made a promise to myself that I'll never let that happen. But it's hard not to be jealous. He or she is going to get a life I never had—a life I wish for, for my brother and sister. Birthday candle wishes, all smoke and no substance.

Dad doesn't feel like my dad anymore. He feels like this other kid's dad. Which makes him my what? Uncle? “Uncle” feels about right. I really want my mom to find someone new so she can be happy again. Sometimes I even say prayers that she will. But after that, I say a horrible, dark prayer. I pray that my mom never has another kid with the new someone because I don't want to lose both my parents.

When Dad got remarried, the things I imagined having in a family crumbled. I had to face the reality that my grand plans to re-create
The Parent Trap
weren't going to work. I wanted things to be a certain way and knew they couldn't. But I had dreams that maybe someday I could have my own family, and maybe I could make it all the things my family wasn't. And I had been starting to imagine Trevor as part of those dreams. Sometimes. When I was feeling extra mushy or we'd had a really good date. I know it was dumb of me. We're sixteen. I can't expect to meet someone who rescues my ideas on love and heals all my broken pieces. But I kind of thought I had.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
revor is finally going to get what he wants. At least, he thinks he is. I've broken radio silence to let him know that, yes, I have actually gotten his emails and texts and stupid, wonderful notes complete with sweet (albeit terrible) poetry. And yes, I guess I could come over and hang out today and talk.

What he doesn't know is that there is an ulterior motive for this visit. It's secret mission time. The goal: sneakily get access to Trevor's email and find The List. I will use spy tactics unlike any the world has ever seen. I really should have bought a wig. Of course, then Trevor would probably wonder why I was wearing a wig.

Peyton and Melanie Jane watch me climb over the fence behind the movie theater, because that's how you get to Trevor's. We had our moms drop us off, which means we have two hours to get this done because they think we're seeing the latest chick flick. I told the girls I didn't need their help, but they refused to let me go alone. Which is actually good because Peyton and I have been working on a separate devious plan that has nothing to do with the football team and everything to do with pumping Melanie Jane for information about a certain someone who couldn't be here today because she's at Jake's.

Melanie Jane can't get over the fence herself, so Peyton has to hoist her up. Her foot wobbles in
Peyton's hands, and she clings to the top of the fence like a life preserver—she's surprisingly bad at this, considering standing on people and jumping around is 90 percent of what she does during football games. I help Mel-Jay down on the other side, and before she can regain stable footing, I hit her with the question.

“What happened with you and Ana?”

Peyton and I decided this was key—finding out what broke them before we try to glue them back together. We also decided asking Melanie Jane was by far the less terrifying option. Now, with Melanie Jane's startled eyes darting between us like laser beams, I wonder if we made the right choice.

“I used to have a crush on Chad MacAllistair,” she finally says.

“Ew,” I reply.

“Shut up.” She shoots me a faux glare, but she no longer looks hard. My silliness has cracked whatever front she had up.

We trace our way through the woods together, following a dirt path that I know will come out on Trevor's street.

Melanie Jane spills. “I walked in on Ana and Chad hooking up at a party. She was my best friend. I didn't want to believe she could do that to me. But there was this video, do y'all remember that?”

I nod. “It was all over school.”

“It was terrible,” says Peyton.

“In the video . . . I mean, she really was all over him. I was so mad, like, how could she do this to me? But I kept thinking about that night and how she seemed so out of it, like maybe she didn't even want to be there.

“So, a few weeks after, I tried to talk to her. Find out what happened. But she wouldn't let me. I called, I texted, I was beating my brains out trying to get her to talk to me. But she cut me out just like I cut her out.”