Petty Revenge

        I've often been asked if I'm sorry about what I did. Well, you tell me.

        I have quite the tale of tales, full of mean girls, meaner girls, vengeance, and whatever else have you, but who gives a genuine crap about all of that? It's easiest to start with the end of the beginning: one night, before the art classes had their showcase, I snuck into school during a football game, went to the art room, and painted large black X's over the eyes of Amanda's photography subjects. It was perfect.

        I went to sleep feeling guiltless and giddy and somewhat drunk on an illusion of power. (This would be a good time to mention that if you have an issue with moral ambiguity, you've got the wrong person.)

        The next morning, I practically leapt out of bed. I knew Amanda; she was a drama queen from the depths of hell. This was going to be good.

        At least, that was what I thought.

        As I lurked just outside the art room, I could hear her too-shrill voice. " . . . yeah, like, totally. I think of it as a commentary on the kind of hypocrisy that we see in today's society when we put our idols up on pedestals, you know? I feel like this just really embodies that . . . "

        You have got to be joking. This couldn't be happening! She turned it into artsy-er art. I couldn't even take credit for that if I wanted to! And her stupid photos would be a part of that stupid showcase tonight, where stupid adults would absolutely drool over it.

        Okay, think, think. So, tonight would be the showcase, but tomorrow there would be an assembly. An assembly . . . with videos. Undoubtedly, videos of the showcase. I knew what I had to do.

        Wait, sorry, did you think that petty vandalism was the climax of my little story? Oh, honey, no.

        Starting at roughly five to ten minutes after lunchtime and going until about four or five a.m. the next day, it was a project of epic proportions. But it was nearly finished. All that remained was one final portion: I had to hack the school's computer system and replace their video file with my own. Easier than expected! (Maybe my school should get better security? Yikes.) Now all that was left was to sit back and watch all hell break loose.

        I didn't bother getting any sleep until I was at school. There were better things to be doing, like silently gloating. After napping through homeroom, it was time for an assembly. Blah blah, opening remarks, yes, we understand how hard everyone's worked on this, blah, finally, " . . . ladies and gentlemen, as I'm sure you've been waiting for, some highlights from the showcase!" (No one actually cared that much. They would in a minute, though.)

        In the deafening silence of half a second, I was almost afraid it wouldn't work. But then the half-broken projector flickered to life.

        "You all know Amanda, right? Of course you do." My voice was loud within the confines of the auditorium. The screen showed her school photo. She looked awful.

        "And I'm sure you all saw her wonderful photography last night! So creative, so innovative." The staff couldn't turn off the video, or even the projector. I had made sure of that.

        I played the surveillance tapes from the night I snuck in. I had cut them together so well. I'd also added music, for just the right touch of dramatic flair. Ah! It looked great. The audience was loving it, or possibly hating it. Either way, they were paying attention.

        "See?" I was shouting. "She lied! She took the credit, like she always does. It was me and none of you knew!" I was screaming. The screen showed my school photo, the colors oversaturated and flashing. 

        "So damn her and damn her art!" People were reacting. This didn't affect their opinion of Amanda, only their opinion of me. This fact meant nothing.

        Scene change. Cut to my outline in a dark room. "Damn her." My lips twitched with a smile. "Damn her."

        Suffice to say, I'm not sorry.