The Revenge Game

A wickedly comic feminist mystery about the dark side of a hopeless romantic''s seemingly perfect love story--for readers of Jessica Goodman and Kara Thomas. Alyson is a romantic, and sometimes it gets her into trouble. Like last summer, she thought her co-worker was into her, when in reality he found her flirting pathetic. Then she meets Brenton Riggs Jr., and right away she knows that their connection isn’t just in her head. When he swoops in to save her one night from a less than savory party encounter, she falls head-over-heels. Finally, someone Alyson likes who likes her back! But when she finds out about the King’s Cup--a competition the guy’s at their boarding school started to see who has the most sexual prowress--she’s put on edge. Does Brenton really want to be with her, or is he just trying to win? Then Alyson and the other girls at the school start a competition of their own: The Queen’s Cup. It’s all about; reclaiming their power. But as the compeition heats up, Alyson’s relationship begins to fall apart--and it isn’t long before the cracks in her perfect love story start to show through.

Auteur

Jordyn Taylor

Échantillon de lecture
Chapter 1

September, Seven Months Earlier

I spend a lot of time wondering which of the boys in my immediate vicinity will be the one who finally falls in love with me. For all I know, it could be someone in this AP English Literature class: the guy with glasses in the second row who nodded along as I defined “juxtaposition” a few minutes ago, or maybe the bored-looking kid sitting sideways in the seat in front of me, the tip of his elbow grazing my desk. I steal a glance away from the projector screen to survey the rest of my dozen or so possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the sexy maroon blazers or my sorry excuse for a love life--it’s a hundred percent both--but I’m ready and willing to be swept off my feet by any one of them.

As my eyes dart from one potential suitor to the next, I accidentally tune out Mr. MacMillan as he scrolls through examples of short-story projects his students have done in the past, but that’s all right. The assignment seems easy enough: pick a theme; find three short stories that fit said theme; write a paper comparing and contrasting said stories. It’s the kind of thing I’d probably do for fun in my spare time, which is why I’m the lone junior in this college-level class.

Mr. MacMillan’s next words make me snap back to attention. “In the spirit of you all getting to know each other”--a few people visibly perk up in their chairs, myself included--“I’m going to randomly divide you into pairs. Over the next few class periods, I’ll give you time to choose your stories, analyze them, and write your essays together.”

Oh my God. Oh-my-freaking-God. My chair feels like a roller-coaster car that just left the station, and my blood pumps like I’m chugging up the first big hill. If the point of the group project is everyone “getting to know each other,” then that must mean . . .

I’m going to be matched with a guy.

Now that I’m almost seventeen, “possible conversation with boy” shouldn’t feel like such a momentous occasion, but this is a big deal for me, pathetic as that may sound. Our private school, Sullivan-Stewart Prep, has been coed for all of a week. Before, we were two separate schools: the all-boys Sullivan School in Lake Placid and the all-girls Stewart Academy in Saranac Lake, a cozier, less-tourist-packed town about fifteen minutes away. They bussed us back and forth for a dance here and there, a rare chance for those who liked guys to gain some semblance of sexual experience. We’d spend hours scurrying between dorm rooms to focus-group potential looks, all for a shot at a dance-floor make-out.

This getting-ready ritual always paid off for a handful of girls, and we’d analyze their exploits on the bus ride home. Sometimes they’d gush about a guy being good with his tongue; other times, they’d shudder about too much teeth or spit. Frankly, I would have taken either option. They were both more appealing than what I was getting, which was nothing. My most common achievement was embarrassing myself with my overeagerness, like when I tried to make conversation over the music with a guy who’d come up behind me and started grinding, and he yelled in my ear--as politely as possible--that I was supposed to stay facing away from him, like the other couples. If I hadn’t maintained a steady diet of romance novels all this time, I’d probably be as jaded as my mom, who buries herself in work to avoid having time for a love life.

Don’t get me wrong, Stewart was great from an academic standpoint: cool feminist teachers; lots of extra help if you needed it; a college advisor who encouraged me to take AP English Lit now so I can have it on my transcript when I apply to my über-hard-to-get-into college writing program next fall. But I wished it were coed, like the school on that sexy Spanish Netflix show Elite, where everyone’s hot and constantly falling head over heels for each other--except without all the murder. And then it actually happened (the coed thing--not the murder). Last fall, because of some financial something-or-other, Sullivan and Stewart announced they were merging into one unified school on Sullivan’s campus. To house us, they built two new dorms from stone and wood in the same Adirondack style as the rest of the buildings. You can tell the buildings are out of place with their fresh coats of blue paint, their soft skin that hasn’t seen a frigid mountain winter yet. They stick out just like we do, the Stewart transplants, the ones the teachers keep referring to as the “fresh faces on campus.”

The question dances on the tip of my tongue as Mr. MacMillan gives way too many details on how we should go about choosing our short stories as a team. I know I shouldn’t ask it--that it’ll make me sound desperate, which is exactly what I’m trying to avoid, especially after what happened this summer--but there are only two minutes left in the period. I compromise by not thrusting my hand in the air, as a desperate person might do, but rather raising it at ear height as though I don’t really care if he calls on me or not.

Mr. MacMillan keeps talking. Argh. It’s probably hard for him to see me since he dimmed the lights for the projector. Now there’s only a minute left; people are closing their books and unzipping their backpacks. Screw it. I go for the full-on hand thrust, fingers waggling in the air.

The teacher looks at me. Thank God. “Alyson?”

“Um . . .” I clear my throat. “I was wondering when we’ll find out our partners?” I hear murmurs of agreement from around the room. There--no need to be ashamed. I’ve done a public service.

Mr. MacMillan chuckles. A sixty-something guy with ruddy skin and long, white sideburns, he’s taught at the school formerly known as Sullivan for decades. “I know you’re all chomping at the bit. I didn’t get a chance to make the list before class, so I’ll send it out when we’re finished here.”

The bell rings, and I’ve never been so excited to see the end of an English period. Is that pathetic? Maybe. Probably.

Whatever.

When I get outside, I spot my best friend, Jess Quigley, dragging her feet up the wood-chip path. When she sees me--in other words, when she knows she has an audience--she slumps against a column next to the door and throws her forearm over her eyes. “I am weary,” she moans…