The Revenge Playbook (25 page)

The theater goes dark, and the future of our relationship right along with it. I am so screwed.

I have no idea what happens during the movie because my brain is chasing itself in circles. And it only gets worse when I realize I have half a dozen texts from the cheerleading squad asking who I'm on a date with.

Afterward, they jump me in the bathroom. Not the cut-a-bitch-take-your-Coach-bag kind of jumping. The cheerleader kind. It is much scarier.

“Hey, Mel-Jay, who's the new guy?” asks Chloe.

She and Beth appear in mirrors on either side of me like a planned ambush.

“He's just a guy. He's Michael.” The girl in the mirror's cheeks turn pink, and I curse her for giving so much away.

Beth smirks. “Now we know why we've hardly seen you lately.”

“Is he your
boyfriend
?” Chloe draws out the word like we're in seventh grade.

“No. Not yet, anyway. We've only been on, like, three dates.”

Aubrey joins us at the sinks. “How come you didn't tell us about him?” She says “us,” but she means “me.” Even if I didn't want to tell Chloe and Beth, why did I keep it from her?

“I'm sorry.” And I mean it. She's a good friend. “It's just Weston and I [just] broke up, and he's being kind of weird and jealous.”

“But he broke up with
you
,” says Beth.

“I know, right?” I shake my head like his craziness is sooo beneath me. “So anyway, I'm trying to be chill about stuff with Michael so he doesn't completely flip out or something.”

Deflecting the gossip mill onto Weston is definitely the best strategy. Especially since everything I'm saying is true.

Aubrey squeezes me to her by the shoulder. “Well, you're off the hook for the past couple weekends since you've got a new guy, but you have to hang out with us on the scavenger hunt. No squelching.”

“I promise,” I say. I'm sure I'll have plenty of time after we get the football. Plus, having an alibi can only be a good thing. I hug her back and hope she gets the message:
I really am sorry I didn't tell you. You're not like the others, I promise
. “I better go, though. He's probably wondering where I am.”

Michael waits by the water fountain, grinning when he sees me. “Did you fall in?”

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. “No. Some girls from the cheerleading squad wanted to talk to me.”

We walk to his SUV, the stars overhead twinkling like they're exchanging messages in Morse code. He stops at the bumper instead of moving to the door. He runs his fingers over the waves in his brown hair. Once. Twice. I wonder why he's so—kissing! He's finally going to kiss me. Three dates is an eternity when it comes to waiting to be kissed and, as a lady, I never kiss first. I've had so much time to obsess and imagine. Will he be gentle and hesitant or will the waiting unleash a torrent of passion? Would he mind if I ran my fingers through his hair because it looks so very soft and I have been dying to do that? Ana told me they call that
cafuné
in Brazil. I don't care what it's called as long as I get to
cafuné
the crap out of him while he kisses me. The cautious side of me whispers that the kiss will turn me into a lovesick zombie—a sort of reverse Sleeping Beauty effect. I ignore her and take a step closer. Tilt my chin up ever so slightly.
It's okay. You don't have to be nervous. I want this.

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Aw. He's about to ask permission. That is adorable.

“Melanie Jane?”

“Yes?” I say in a voice that is not unlike one of those breathless damsels.

“Is it a problem that I'm Jewish? You've been different since I told you.”

I think my mouth is hanging open. I shut it. Yep, it was definitely open. “No, it's not a problem at all.” I rush to get the words out because the waiting looks like it's killing him by degrees. “I mean, it's not a problem for me, but . . . I haven't actually told my parents about you yet.”

“Is that why you always tell me to wait at the bottom of the driveway?”

I nod. “My mom is such a control freak. My boyfriend from eighth grade wasn't good enough for her because his parents didn't own half of Nashville. I don't want to think about how she'll react to this. She's, like, the queen of the country club and volunteering at church and stuff.”

“Yeah, I'm nervous about my mom too. She's the stereotypical Jewish mom.” I look at him vacantly, and he smiles. “That means she's a control freak too. She wants me to marry a nice Jewish girl and have a billion grandchildren.”

A wave of relief radiates through my body. “You know, it makes me feel better to hear that. Like, at least I'm not the only one. I know she cares about me, but she forces me to do all this stuff, and sometimes I feel like she's trying to live vicariously through me.”

We swap stories about our crazy moms until I feel much better. I still have no idea how to tell my parents, but at least there are no longer ulcers forming in my stomach.

Michael shoots me a sly glance. “You looked so shocked when I asked you. I thought you were going to pass out or something.”

“I wasn't—I just. That wasn't what I was expecting to happen.” How do I always end up a stuttering mess around him?

“What were you expecting to happen?” The sly smile is back, and suddenly he's standing so very close, and my skin tingles from all the places he could be touching but isn't yet. “This?”

His lips touch mine, and his hand slides behind my back, and I forget to analyze how good a kisser he is. I forget that we're standing in the middle of a parking lot with half the student body of Ranburne High. Forget to worry about telling my parents about us. I forget everything but the press of my body against his and this moment and his tongue parting my lips and the feeling that if he let go of me right now, I'd float away like a helium balloon. My fingers find the back of his neck and then his hair and, oh my gosh, it is every bit as soft as I thought it would be. I am totally the girl making out in public against the back of a car. It is completely unlike me, and I don't care. Being a lovesick zombie feels good.

A horn blares right next to me, and my heart nearly stops. Michael and I jump apart. A Ford Bronco with Weston riding shotgun peels past us, him glaring as one of his friends burns rubber out of the parking lot.

“Who's that?” asks Michael.

“He's no one,” I say. “We used to date, but it's over now, so he's no one.” I wrap my arms around him and pull him into another kiss because this moment isn't over until I say it is.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

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)

1.
  
   
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)

2.
  
   Go to LP Field and reenact the “Music City Miracle.” (Everyone)

3.
  
   Go to Centennial Park and jump into the pond behind the Parthenon. (Everyone)

4.
  
   
Go to The Jackrabbit Saloon. Walk to the very middle of the dance floor and attempt to do the worm. (One person)

5.
  
   
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)

6.
  
   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)

7.
  
   
Hug a biker. Bonus points if he has a mullet. (One person)

8.
  
   
Get a girl to give you her thong. (One person)

DARES REMAINING:
3.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

1:05 A.M.

LIV

Peyton, Ana, and I are at the edge of the dance floor, at a table made out of a barrel, watching Melanie Jane's drama unfold. Apparently, girls sitting still is the universal signal for every loser in the bar to come over and harass us because that is what happens. I am irritated with all of boy-kind.

An unsuspecting football player stumbles over and asks if any of us are wearing a thong he could have—they seem to be having trouble with that one.

“I'm doing this scavenger hunt thing,” he explains.

He must not realize who I am. I don't have the patience for this.

“Sorry, sweetie. I don't wear underwear because I'm a huge whore, remember?” Not actually true. I have on undies, with a back and everything.

His eyes go huge as he backs away. Peyton and Ana raise their eyebrows at me. I don't usually lash out at people like that. I don't usually want to.

“Sorry,” I say. “I'm just frustrated with getting hit on by weirdos. And with the football team in general.”

I snag Ana's camera from across the table and start recording. Nothing in particular, at first. Some people dancing. A lady wearing cowgirl fringe and not in the ironic way. The table's centerpiece, which happens to be a jaunty raccoon eating Cracker Jacks. The camera somehow ends up zooming in on Trevor. All on its own, of course. I'm not so lame as to creepily film my ex-boyfriend. Just because he hasn't come over to talk to me, and I thought he would have by now, and who cares! Certainly not Trevor. And I don't want to talk to him anyway!

Some skeezy-looking guy has taken the empty barstool next to Ana and seems to be feeding her obscene pickup lines, so I sneakily angle the camera in that direction instead. She notices, and it's like I can see something click behind her eyes.

She turns toward the skeezy guy who is right in the middle of saying, “I'm hot. You're hot. It only makes sense that we should go dance together right now.”

“You
are
really hot,” Ana says like it's just dawned on her.

The guy freezes as if sudden movements will make her change her assessment, but then he gets this annoying, cocky grin. “You think I'm hot?”

Ana nods. “Superhot . . . for an asshole.”

“BOOM!” I close the camera as he wanders off, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like
bitch
. “That was the last bar one! And it was awesome! How did you think to do that?”

Ana flicks imaginary dirt off her shoulder. “Just naturally gifted.”

“We better get Melanie Jane and go. We still have two more, and we have to drive to both of them, and I don't want the boys to beat us!”

I don't have to do any convincing. They can taste victory too. We rush over to where Melanie Jane is helping Michael clean up his pants.

“We have to leave. Now,” says Ana.

It is clearly not a good time for Melanie Jane. “Right now?”

“Sorry, sweetie.” I put my arm around her. “But we finished everything we needed to do here.”

Her eyes spark. “Seriously?”

Peyton grins. “We're so close.”

“Okay.” Melanie Jane is back to business. She turns to Michael, an apology on her face. “I'm sorry, but I really have to go now. And I'm sorry about the thing with the thong.” She cringes. “And also about your pants.”

“It's okay,” he says, holding her hands. “It was the most interesting night I've had in a long time. And you're definitely worth it.”

Peyton, Ana, and I collectively sigh because damn. And then he pulls her into a kiss so fierce and hot I have to turn away for fear I will catch on fire. Someday, I'll get kissed like that again.

As if I've called him into my presence by thinking of passionate kisses, Trevor is suddenly standing beside me.

“You're not leaving, are you? I've been so busy with scavenger hunt stuff, but I really wanted to talk to you.”

“Um.” I estimate that I have at least two minutes until the lovebirds next to me are finished. “Can you make it fast?”

“Oh. I guess so.” He runs a nervous hand through his blond hair. Steers me away from the rest of the group. “It's just that the season doesn't have that many weeks left, and I miss you so much, and I was hoping, soon, maybe we could go on a date? Or I could just call you. Whatever you want.”

He does care! Maybe it's not the thong-wearing, drinks-down-your-pants level of caring, but maybe it is. Maybe I won't know unless I give him another chance. I think about the email. It was clear he didn't want to hurt me, that he did love me. But he wasn't strong enough to keep fighting for me. Is he strong enough now?

Before I can give him an answer, Chad saunters over and slaps him on the back so hard he starts coughing.