The Revenge Playbook (33 page)

We need to talk about your boyfriend.

We need to talk about your boyfriend.
Quite possibly the seven most chilling words in the English language. I turn them over and over in my head, like a pancake that just won't cook, as I climb the stairs of my house to find out my fate. My mother waits for me in the living room.

“Hey, Mama.” I pause for the storm I know will follow.

“Melanie Jane, hello there. I was wondering when you might show up,” she says sweetly. I am not fooled. I know what's underneath that sweetness.

“I saw your text.”

“Yes, Chloe called the house tonight to ask where you were, but she figured you might be at your boyfriend's.” Here we go. “Imagine my surprise. I didn't even know you had a boyfriend.”

I am in panic mode. I do the only thing I can. I lie.

“Mama, he's not my boyfriend.”

“So, you've spent the past five hours with a boy who isn't your boyfriend?”

Ooo. I walked right into that one.

“Okay, he is my boyfriend.”

“So you just lied to me. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You've obviously been lying to me for Lord knows how long.”

Uh-oh. We've been talking for less than a minute, and she's already bringing the Lord into the conversation. I decide to try a new tactic.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

Mama sighs. “Well, why didn't you just tell me you had a boyfriend?”

Because you're the most judgmental person I know. Because I knew the minute I told you I could expect calls from every living family member asking about my new boyfriend. Because you'd somehow find a way to ruin our relationship.

I hang my head. “I don't know.”

“If you and this boy are serious, we'd really like to meet him.”

I think about my mother meeting Michael. My stomach nearly turns itself inside out.

“No,” I say softly.

“Excuse me?”

“You can't meet him.”

“Why? What's wrong with him?”

Ugh. She is like a dog with a piece of meat. “That's exactly why you can't meet him,” I snap. “You have to pick everyone apart. Find every little flaw. No one could ever live up to your standards. I know I've never been able to.”

I shut my mouth fast, but it's too late. The words are already out there. There is silence, and my heart is doing backflips, and then:

“I just want what's best for you. I didn't realize that made me a terrible mother.”

“No, Mama, I don't think—”

She cuts me off. “You have
wounded
my spirit. I can't talk to you any more right now.” And then as if she feels it's inappropriate for a Southern woman to have such an emotional outburst, she adds, “I have a lot of work to do for the Junior League fashion show. I'll see you later,” before whipping out of the room.

I could hear the lump in her throat. I know she ran out to avoid crying in front of me. I stare at the now-empty doorway and burst into tears myself.

Daddy finds me about an hour later, still tucked into the same chair in the living room.

“Hey, Mel Belle.”

“Hey, Daddy. How bad is it?”

“Well. Remember that time you cut up your pageant dress to make a butterfly net?”

I gulp. “Yes. Mama's face turned four shades of purple.”

“Well, this time isn't like that time. Your Mama's not angry. She's hurt.” He clears his throat. “So am I.”

The fact that my actions might have affected my dad hits me all at once. I'd been so worried about Mama, it never occurred to me he might have feelings. When I try to speak again, my breath catches.

“You are?”

“We used to be so close, but we've hardly talked since school started.” He sighs, and it breaks my heart. “Why didn't you tell me? You always tell me everything, and I always help you work it out. That's what we do. And now I guess you have someone new to tell your problems to. I feel like you don't need me anymore.”

My tears spill over again. “I'm so sorry. You aren't replaced. The only reason I didn't tell you is because I didn't want Mama finding out.” I sniffle into a tissue. “I'm realizing that trying to keep him a secret was a huge mistake.”

He sits on the arm of the chair and rubs my back. “Aw, princess, I wasn't trying to make you cry. Hey, how 'bout you tell me about him now?”

I sniffle some more and wipe my cheeks.

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” he says. “I don't even know his name. What is it?”

“Michael.” Even though I'm crying, my voice takes on a dreamy quality.

“Sounds pretty serious.”

“It is.”

“Well, what's he like?”

“He's in all the hard classes just like me, so he's really smart. And he's funny and kind and soo cute, and I sound like a girl in a romantic comedy, don't I?”

Daddy laughs. “Nah. He sounds great. Why couldn't you tell your mama all that?”

“Well, because he's also Jewish, and a Yankee, and quite probably a Democrat.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Have fun telling that to your mother.”

“Daddy!”

“I'm kidding,” he says. “You should just tell her. All of it.”

“I will. I just have to figure out how.”

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I
sneak down to the kitchen the next morning. Mama is at the table eating an egg white omelet, but she doesn't seem angry. Daddy slides another omelet onto a plate, and jerks his head in her direction. Message received. I accept the plate and sit across from her. And then I eat half my omelet in silence because I'm a chicken. I finally work up the courage to speak.

“Hey, Mama. I'm sorry for saying those things to you.”

“No. I'm sorry.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I'm sorry they're true. I would never want you to feel like you're not good enough for me. You are a strong, phenomenal woman, and I'm proud of you every day. I've spent all this time pushing you because I wanted you to have more opportunities than me. I wanted life to be easier for you.”

“Um, you drive a BMW, and our house has three fireplaces.” It slips out before I can stop it.

She laughs, and there's a trace of bitterness in it. “My life isn't a Cinderella story.” She chews at the inside of her lip. “I didn't want to tell you this because I want you to love your dad's parents, but they never let me forget that I'm not rich and I'm not white. It got better with each one of you kids that I had, but you should have seen them when your father and I were engaged.”

Mama has turned my whole world upside down. My grandfather is a lovable, red-cheeked old man who belly laughs at my jokes and sneaks hip flasks of Scotch into my pageant competitions. And even though my grandmother is prissy and has a collection of wigs that smell like Chanel No. 5, she's always slipping me wads of cash when my parents aren't looking and telling me how dah-lin' I am.

“Grammy and Pop-Pop were mean to you?”

“They were.” The hurt in her eyes is so fresh. It must have been terrible. “I don't want you to be mad at them. I just want you to understand me.”

“That's all I want. I want you to understand me too.”

“Well, tell me about you,” she says.

“Huh?”

“I told you something you didn't know about me, so now tell me something about you.”

“Oh. Well, I really like learning other languages.”

She smiles. “I know that. I'm not completely oblivious.”

“Right.” I smile too, and our matching dimples line up across the table. “I like pageants. You kind of pushed me into those, but I really do love competing. I don't like all the pretending though—and I can't stand my pageant coach. I wish I could feel more like I'm being me at pageants. Even if it means I lose.”

“I think we could arrange a new coach,” she says.

“Cool. And I like Michael. And . . . you can meet him. I want you to meet him. But you have to be nice.”

She places a hand over her heart, but in the joking way. “When am I ever not nice? Don't answer that. I'll be nice.”

The clock on the stove says I need to leave for school now.

“Mama?”

“Yes?”

“I want us to have more talks like this.”

Her eyes go softer than I've ever seen them. “Me too.”

When I walk around the table and hug her before I leave, she hangs on for a second extra. At least things with Mama are good because when that vlog goes live today, my life as I know it will be over.

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I
am more alone than ever. Yesterday, I had no visitors. (To be fair, Grayson tried, but my parents sent him away.) Today, I languish under my covers with my stuffed animal dragon, Nostradamus, and attempt to eat my weight in
Romeu e Julieta
. Nostradamus doesn't judge. Neither does Falcor as long as I slip him hush money bites at regular intervals. I gulp down my last bite of sliced guava paste on white cheese and consider whether going to the kitchen to get more requires too much effort. The lack of human contact is making me spiral into despair—especially since all I've been doing is watching people trash me on social media. My phone buzzes. An update to tell me
another person hates my guts? Excellent. I check it, but instead it's a text from Melanie Jane.

Look for a vlog today at the usual time.

A new vlog? We didn't make another one. Crap. It's almost 9:30 right now. I hurry and open my laptop—it'll look so much better there than through the cracked screen of my phone, and I need to see this. I go to the website. Wait for what feels like hours but in reality is about two minutes. There it is! The new vlog! I click
PLAY
.

There are three grim reapers on my screen, one of them holding the football and another holding cards. The film quality is actually pretty good. I can't believe they were able to do this without me. I start to get excited, and then I remember I'm mad at them. Grim Reaper Number One flips the first card.

Ana Cardoso didn't act alone.

Flip.

It took four of us (FOUR GIRLS!) to beat the football team.

Flip.

And now we're going to tell you why we did it.

In smaller font, at the bottom of the card, are the words
Please forgive us, Ana
.

I lean forward, desperate to see what comes next, but instead of flipping another card, the reaper takes off her hood. Holy shit.

Curly blonde hair tumbles out. The girl underneath smiles.

“I'm Liv Lambros, alleged whore. I know a lot of you are pissed about what happened, but we had reasons for what we did. I had just gotten dumped by the love of my life, and it was because the football team made him do it. You guys have seen the emails. You know what happened to him when he tried to stand up to them. I don't want what happened to me and Trevor to happen to anyone else. And I don't want any other girls to feel how I felt when they called me a slut and a whore. You guys know you don't deserve that, right? No matter what you've done and who you've done it with.”

Grim Reaper Number Two removes her hood next. Peyton.

“Hi.” She clears her throat and raises her voice. “I'm Peyton Reed. I don't think it's right that the football team gets special treatment in class when some of us are working really hard. And I don't think they should get away with saying whatever they want to the girls at our school. No matter what we're wearing. So, yeah, that's why I helped. And I'm sorry because some of the guys on the team are really sweet and don't deserve this, and some of the guys who aren't on the team
totally suck
.” She pauses and looks straight at the camera, and I can tell she's imagining Rey's eyes. “I'm sorry if I hurt any of the good guys.”

Grim Reaper Number Three, aka Melanie Jane, rips off her mask like that's about all she can take. I picture people gasping all around school. A cheerleader! And Ana Cardoso's nemesis too!

“I'm sorry too,” she says in a voice that is anything but. “I'm sorry my loser ex-boyfriend felt the
need to dump me because of my belief system. I'm sorry he and his friends felt the need to harass my new boyfriend who is better than him in every way.
Especially
at kissing. And I am sooo sorry that we spied on your dorky little ceremony and sent your cut list to the entire school and beat you at your own scavenger hunt by doing all the dares better and faster than you, even though we only had four people. Whew. I am just so sorry. But things needed to change. And someone needed to do it.”

Best. Rant. Ever. I think she might be finished, and then:

“Oh. And the Football of '76 is in a box in Coach Fuller's office as we speak, so you can all just get ahold of yourselves.”

The video goes black. That was the best thing I've ever seen. Holy amazing. I can't wait to tell them how awesome they all are. Because, naturally, after a performance like that, I have to forgive them. There's something else I have to do too. But we'll take care of that this weekend.

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You don't have to do this, you know,” says Melanie Jane from behind the camera.

“I know,” I say. “I want to, though. I need to.”

I pull the black grim reaper hood over my head, and give her the thumbs-up sign. She starts rolling.

I take the hood back off.