I spend the entire morning working. Cutting, soldering. I make a bunch of mistakes and get angry at myself for sloppiness, throwing pieces of pipe into the recycling and reveling in the solid noises they make on impact. Keep trying, Stevie. I have my earbuds in, and I’m listening to anything that moves me forward: anything fast and furious, pieces of metal and wood flying at my safety goggles in a blur. And soon, my plan starts coming together. I’ve done something right, it looks the way it should, and I hope to God it works. My instrument of change is ready. It lies on the worktable like some kind of homage to steampunk and Unabomber survivalism. Plumbers’ pipe, welded together with messy globs, but ready to light up with power. Now I need atmosphere. Now I need to call upon the patron saints of female revenge flicks. They are going to cheer me on, stand behind me and be my backdrop, my stage. They’ve always been there for me, and I’m going to ask for their support one more time. For the assignment, Pete: the final assignment.

I move to the editing computers and call them up, those mavens of movies, and spend the next few hours casting spells to bring them all to the same place. Their faces wretched, bloody, and dead set on revenge. Carrie, Veronica, Ms .45, Lady Snowblood, The Bride. The queens of vengeance. The time skates by me, and before I know it, it is late in the day. I am ready.

Saturday near the end of the school year. It is dark and cool, and there is evidence of a mass cleaning effort from the janitorial staff. Bulletin boards are cleared off; election posters that have been hanging all year are gone. It looks like the LOVE, HEATHER incidents, the acts of red revenge, never took place. It’s like the party never happened, couldn’t happen, in a town with a school as clean as this. I put my hand to my midsection, and my throat feels tight.

I walk through the halls, my footsteps loud in the silence. I feel Dee, steering me toward the girls’ change room and the entrance to the pool. I push the heavy door and go in, the smell of the chlorine almost overwhelming. The change room is spotless, although the lost and found—a large garbage can with no lid—is overflowing with water bottles and T-shirts and the occasional pair of shoes. The wooden benches are wiped clean, and the lockers are empty and open. I bang the doors with my hands as I walk into the pool area. It’s dark, and I flick the light switches and the room wakes up, fluorescent lights one by one bathing the still water in its stark brightness.