Do your research.
Be patient.
Find out EVERYTHING you can.
Learn weak spots and exploit them.
Observe.
Be RUTHLESS.
I looked up from my notebook and stretched out my fingers, which had started to cramp. It had been a month since Masha had inadvertently steered me on the path to revenge, and I had been busy. I’d started using a new notebook, a plain composition book I’d gotten at the drugstore. And in the month I’d been working on this, it was more than half filled up. My mother was still absorbed in her mystery writing project—she left every day, early in the morning, went to the library, and didn’t come back until they closed. Then she’d have dinner with us, trying her best to participate but, I could tell, only half-there. And then she’d shut herself in her room again and work until late at night, a strip of light and the faint sound of the keyboard clacking coming from behind her closed door. I was thrilled about this, not only because she was writing and not sleeping all day, but because it meant that she was paying absolutely no attention to me. Which, at the moment, was a very good thing.
I’d used my birthday money and bought my own copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. And after struggling to get through it the first time—in addition to dense language and endless paragraphs describing things, it was long—I’d read it again, this time taking notes, highlighting and scribbling in the margins. Then I’d transferred those lessons into my notebook. I’d been spending almost as much time at the library as my mother. I checked out any books I could about revenge, and spent hours in front of the computers, searching the Internet for famous revenge stories and studying them. What went right. What went wrong. Who succeeded—and if they didn’t, why not. It seemed like most of the time, when a revenge plot went awry, it was because someone had gotten cold feet, lost their nerve at the last minute, let sentiment get in the way. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen to me. Any time I felt myself wavering, I’d pull out Gemma’s notebook and read it, and that was all the push I would need.
I’d gotten a list of famous revenge movies and started setting the DVR to tape what I could find on TV, checking the rest out from the library. Most of them were old and black-and-white, and in most cases, revenge was used as a cautionary tale. But sometimes, the heroes got away with it. And it was these I would rewind and watch over and over again, my heart pounding in my throat, studying the actors’ faces at their moment of triumph, trying to imagine what mine would look like when I got my revenge on Gemma.
* * *
Don’t ask for anything.
Let them think it’s their idea.
Find out what someone loves most. Then take this from them. In front of them, if possible.
People will talk themselves out of things—give them another explanation.
Never start anything you can’t walk away from.
I looked down at my notebook and ran my fingers over these last letters. This lesson had come from a Korean revenge film I’d watched with subtitles, squeezing my eyes shut during the violent parts. It was almost the end of the summer, and my notebook was getting close to full. But whenever I would feel the fury at Gemma start to overtake me—the anger so intense it scared me—I would read through the notebook again. These lessons and maxims, all so cool and composed, would help me calm down. My heart rate would slow, and the anger would fade. Just looking at everything I’d written helped me see that even though Gemma had gotten away with this for the moment, there was a change coming. Not now, not any time soon, but, like a wave that builds and builds before it crests on the shore, there would be a reckoning before too long.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning and wandered out to the kitchen, yawning, I could tell immediately that something was different. My mother was there, for one thing, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee between her palms. She looked tired, but gave me a smile as I padded toward the refrigerator. “Morning,” she said.
“Hi,” I said around a yawn as I reached inside for the orange juice. “What are you doing here?” The clock on the microwave read 9:30, and usually by this time, my mother was long gone, already settling in to work at the library.
“I finished the book,” my mother said, sounding simultaneously nervous and proud.
“You did?” I asked, joining her at the table with my juice. “That’s great. Congrats.”
“Thanks,” she said, rolling her cup between her palms once again. “It’s … different from what I’ve written before. We’ll see where it goes.” I opened my mouth to ask why, and what the book was about, when my mother spoke again. “Masha got another job,” she said with a small sigh. “I knew she would only be here temporarily, but…”
I nodded, like I was also sad about this. But the fact was, I’d been ready for Masha to leave. I hadn’t liked that she’d seemed to pick up on the fact I’d started thinking about revenge, thanks to her turn of phrase. She’d never said anything about it again, but I’d always felt a little worried that she might say something to my mom about it.
“Well,” my mom said, pushing herself back from the table, sounding more like my mother than she had in a month, “I need to get things back in order. How about you, Hal? Have anything going on today?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Just a project I’m working on.”
“Well, if you can take a break later, maybe we can get some lunch,” she said as she stopped in the doorway and smiled at me. “I want to hear what you’ve been up to.”
“Sure,” I said easily, giving her a smile. “Sounds good.” As soon as she left, though, I felt my smile fall away.
If I was careful, my mother would never know what I was up to.
And neither would Gemma—up until the moment I wrecked her life.