EXCLUSIVE: First-Chapter Excerpt from "Ada & Cece's High School Revenge"! 🪩💜

REVEL in the FULL first chapter of the hottest upcoming book of the (Southern Hemisphere) Summer, 'Ada and Cece's High School Revenge'by Eve Dangerfield and Courtney Clark Michaels

1.

“You should take me for a man who doesn’t care what befalls those who wish me and mine dead. I wish them all suffering and loss.”

The Honourable Judge Robert Evans

“Let us not go to Camelot. ’Tis a silly place.”

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Ada

Stabbies is full, even for a Friday night. Students and tradesmen drain beers next to lawyers, sleazeballs, naysayers, the chronically unemployed, fuckwits, the straightforwardly tedious and anyone else who fancies a nine-dollar pint. 

Which, in this town, is everyone.

The bar’s actually called ‘Afterglow,’ but that’s never caught on with the punters—even after several hundred dollars’ worth of new signage and ‘Afterglow’ branded aprons. The reason is easily explained, if offensive to a wide swath of people. Cece—my best friend—had a godfather who bought the Corner Hotel Pub in 1987. In a fit of what I can only assume was peyote-induced lunacy, he redubbed it ‘Bar Navajo.’ Then, after multiple homicides were committed in the bathrooms, car park and walk-in freezer, the place became lovingly referred to as ‘Bar Stab-a-Hoe.’ Which in the New Zealand way of things, was eventually shortened to ‘Stabbies.’ 

It might shock you to learn that Cece’s godfather wasn’t Native American. Nor is anyone who drinks in Bar Stab-a-Hoe, but pointing that out will only result in you being told to watch your skank back because this is, in fact, still Bar Stab-a-Hoe. 

Take it from me. 

I hate every brick and panel that makes up Afterglow, nee Stabbies. Aside from the cheap tequila (which I could get cheaper at the liquor store, but who’s trying to get a rep as ‘that vaguely ethnic gal who bulk-purchases Cuervo’?), this used to be a bar in which you would only ever find me dead. 

Unfortunately, Cece now owns this bar. She also lives above this bar. And since I’ve been living with her for the past five months, in this bar, I remain. Albeit in the dishwashing area, where, in the words of Cece, “You can’t do any more damage.”

I swear, you cat-hiss at one guy, and suddenly, you’re ‘making it weird’ for the customers.

Not that I blame Cece for benching me. In the two days I pulled pints, I was the worst bartender Stabbies had that didn’t commit first-degree manslaughter in the smokers’ area.

Bloody history aside, Afterglow isn’t much to write home about. It’s your classic Kiwi dive layered over with a smattering of 2000s trashiness. The floors feel like Velcro, and the walls still reek of cigs even though New Zealand banned smoking inside in 2004. And there’s a fucking stripper pole. To be fair, the thing gets a workout nearly every night. To be unfair, not from anyone who understands their own upper body strength.

I swirl the last of my Julio around my glass and finish it. It’s the weekend after all, and I have as much right to get wasted as anyone else in Auckland.

“Ada?”

I turn to see Davis, the resident bouncer, glaring at me. He’s your standard tall, dark and handsome, but I’m not into authority figures. Especially not fake authority figures, like fucking bar bouncers. Also, he’s twenty-four. I might spend a fortune trying to look his age, but I’m hardly going to be intimidated by someone who can’t rent a car.

“What’s the problem, Davey? Is someone trying to pressure you into selling steroids? Again?”

Davis ignores me, which is fair enough. “Are you fucking with the music?”

Stabbies has a jukebox, but it’s easily overridden by the AUX cord in the kitchen. I’ve been skipping over The Eagles and Wagon Wheel and anything else that makes me want to pull my own ears off.

“And if I have been fucking with the music? I’m a professional musician. Does that not give me the right to fuck with the music?”

“No.”

“Then why am I doing it?”

Davis grits his teeth. 

“Oh, go on, Mall Pig. Lay it on me. I can take it.”

His jaw works, and I have the pleasure of seeing the exact moment Davis gives into the sibling dynamic we’ve been cultivating since we met.

“You’re a pain in the ass. Just because you’ve got nothing better to do doesn’t mean you can fuck with Cece’s bar.”

I clutch both hands to my cheeks. “Aww. I’m sure your desire to preserve the integrity of the jukebox is purely professional, right? It has nothing to do with wanting to brush the hair out of Cece’s eyes and tell her she’s the prettiest girl in the whole world, yeah?”

The untattooed parts of Davis’s neck go red. That’s the problem with Davis. He thinks he can take me. Everyone does. And everyone is wrong. It’s a lonely life, being a knob to Kiwis for no reason, but someone has to do it, apparently. 

“Just tell Cece you like her.” I stand to collect my half-empty bottle of Julio. “You never know; she might be into it. The cougar movement continues to gain mainstream acceptance.”

His neck somehow goes even redder. “Quit fucking with the music, freeloader.”

He bails out of the kitchen before I can jab him back. I have to admit that one kinda stung. I pay rent, but not as much as I should. Cece simply won’t accept my money. And God knows I can’t do anything around here to justify crashing in her spare room this long.

Oh Cece. Beautiful Cece, with your mile-long legs and freckles and big brown eyes. What were you thinking? You went from being the hottest nurse at Auckland Children’s Hospital to running a piece of shit bar in the second most piece of shit place in New Zealand; the first most piece of shit place being Pukekohe, the tiny town Cece grew up in. 

I’d call her crazy, but as a jobless flute player, I’m in no position to judge. Still, I have no idea how Cecelia Anne Taylor wound up here, mixing drinks for the most boring alcoholics on earth. And also me. 

Last year, the woman was saving the lives of sick kids, arguably the most noble profession there is. If I had to get up at five in the morning and deal with terrified parents, I’d run headfirst into traffic. But not Cece. She was always getting nursing awards and promotions and ‘thank you’ bouquets…

Even as I think it, I hear Cece dismissing me. “Ada, you’re famous! You went to the Met Gala! You were in magazines!”

Putting aside that I went to the Met Gala to play the flute—basically a music waitress—and I was only ever in Kiwi women’s mags—literally no one who doesn’t own a harpsichord gave a shit—I’ve never helped a sick kid who wasn’t my brother with a cold. I blew into a steel stick and made mouth noises for a living. That’s the total sum of my achievements. That, and having massive cans. Although that’s always been a mixed bag. I certainly didn’t feel sexy and desirable when the Mill Park public lifeguard grabbed my left tit when I was twelve. Or when the second conductor at the Luxembourg Philharmonic accused me of ‘altering my uniform’ to draw more attention to the woodwind section. I probably should have ignored him. Instead, I told him some people just have big naturals, and if he couldn’t stop staring at them while he waved his little stick around and pretended to do anything of importance, then maybe he should get a different job. 

I didn’t do so hot at the Luxembourg Philharmonic after that. 

“Miserable old bitch,” I mutter, sipping my tequila.

I study the kitchen door, wondering if Davis is going to come back all butthurt about being called out for crushing on Cece. He denies having feelings whenever I give him shit, but he doesn’t need to work here. He has some actual job involving business and finance or some shit. He’s only bouncing in this dickhole bar because he worked as a security guard at university, and he wants in Cece’s pants something fierce. 

It would be cute if Cece could ever catch feelings for someone who’s nice to her. The girl has so many hang-ups you’d think she was the neurodivergent Italian-Australian flautist. But she’s not. Cece’s a born and bred Kiwi; all long legs and bright smiles. She’s girl-next-door hot. Dudes constantly tell her she looks like a princess. Dudes constantly tell me to smile more. And I say I have lockjaw. And Cece tells me not to joke about lockjaw, because it’s a serious issue. And that’s why we’re friends, because she’s nice, and alone among humans, actually cares about things. I love her. 

I just really hate this bar. The whole city, actually. 

It’s not Auckland’s fault. The beaches and forests are as beautiful here as the rest of New Zealand. But like everywhere that sucks, it’s the people who make Auckland suck. The watery, blue-eyed conservatives who make up the bulk of the population. 

See, the Italians didn’t migrate to the Land of the Long White Cloud. Neither did the Greeks, the Maltese, Croatians, Slovenians, nor the Sardinians. Too expensive. Shit climate for tomatoes. Thus, New Zealand is the only place on earth where I have the dubious honour of being a white lady who constantly gets race-checked for having dark hair, olive skin and thick eyebrows. 

“Where are you from?” strangers ask like that’s a normal question. 

I say ‘Melbourne,’ and they roll their eyes and demand my last name. You try being called ‘Adalasia Renaldo’ in New Zealand, and I’ll show you a picture of me and yell for forty-five minutes about how shit it is. To be clear, I don’t think you can be racist toward Italians. Only xenophobic. Then again, seeing as most Kiwis clock me as Middle Eastern, it might count as racism…

Whatever. Everything sucks.

A loud rattle makes me half-jump out of my chair. Aggie, the bar cook, has banged a huge pot onto the industrial stovetop. 

“Hi, love,” she yells. “How ya going?” 

I smile and wave. Aggie’s been the head cook at Stabbies for decades, and all the customers love her. She’s middle-aged, butternut orange, wears miniskirts, fishnet stockings and more leopard print than leopards. I’ve grown to adore her, too, but she specialises in the kind of mince-heavy pub fare that makes my guts knot. I know if I don’t get up in the next two minutes, she’ll plunk a huge plate of shepherd's pie in front of me. 

“You’re getting too skinny,” she’ll accuse. “Don’t wanna lose that fantastic arse. Men love a girl with a nice round arse.” 

Men aside (who cares what they love? As far as I can tell, it’s just sports betting and lies), I don’t have much of an appetite these days. Being constantly hungover and vaping does that to a gal. 

As Aggie’s kitchen banging intensifies, I get to my feet with a groan. I look okay for a human shell, but I feel like a busted mannequin. My days of being a Pilates junkie are so far away it’s laughable. I wander into the main bar, tequila bottle in hand and find Cece pouring a Guinness. And Davis, by the door, arms folded, watching Cece pour a Guinness. Davis gives me a dirty look and points to a tiny corner booth—Ada’s playpen, as Cece dubbed it—and his message couldn’t be clearer: Sit down, shut up, and I won’t chuck you out for DIY bottle service. 

I give him a salute and tuck myself away. I’d never tell Davis, but I’m glad he works here. With him around, I can drink and daydream the night away, knowing none of the punters will creep on me, lest he throw them through a window. 

The crowd’s gotten younger since I was in the kitchen. Not underage, but young enough to make me tired. I don’t remember what it was like to have the energy to dance around a jukebox or give the stripper pole a few tentative spins. I don’t remember what it was like to be excited to go out with your girlfriends on a Friday, no matter the place. I guess that urge dissolved sometime in the past five years, just like my passion for exercise, orchestra and everything else. 

I lean out of my seat and check on Cece. She’s still behind the bar in her blue peasant blouse, and her smile looks real enough—if you don’t know her. If you do know her, you’ll see the pinch between her brows. I can guess what she’s thinking about: Money. Paying wages. Bar upkeep. Liquor prices increasing while she’s forced to keep drink prices the same, lest everyone sulk off to the other fifty dive bars spanning the city. Even though said bars water down their liquor more than I water down my personality in public. 

Stabbies’ door swings wide, bringing in a rush of cool air and raucous male laughter. Suddenly, it’s lads galore. Big, tall ones in matching unicorn headbands. My stomach clenches. It’s either a rugby night out or a bachelor party. Or both. I reach for my vape like it’s an emergency latch and drag, blowing a quick gust into the floor. Youths are one thing. Rugby dudes and ‘bachelors’ are a whole other kettle of fuck. Even Davis doesn’t have the arm-power to keep them off their bullshit.

I watch as a huge redhead strides toward the bar, his drunk-ass face the same colour as his hair. “Oi, Big Dog, wadda’we gettin’?” 

My blood goes cold. I know that guy. I know his voice. I know his hair. A memory slams into my brain like a locker door closing. Jeremy Applethorpe, one big hand between me and the metal protecting my books and binders. “Hey, new girl, you ever stick that flute up your pussy and play it after?”

Jeremy Applethorpe is here. In Cece’s bar. And he’s not the only one. Behind him is Henry Bellinger, who once twanged my bra strap. Beside him is Xavier MacMahon, who was perpetually interested in asking whether I fingered myself at night. Following him are Hayden Tawera, and Fletcher Dean, and Bradley Wilson and—

“D’you like the taste of fish, Renaldo?”

“Oi, Jugsy? You got a licence to carry those things?” 

“I bet her dad’s Al Qaeda. Ask her if he did 9/11.”

“I heard the psycho new girl was crying in the toilets so long Mrs. White had to go in and make sure she wasn’t slitting her wrists.”

I collapse, the cushioned booth the only thing keeping me from the floor as things I’d long squashed away surge up and over me like the waves beating the coast a mile away. These boys, these ‘bachelors,’ are from Pukekohe and for two miserable years, so was I. 

Auckland isn’t just some place I’m visiting. New Zealand isn’t just where my best friend is from. I was fifteen when my dad got a professorship at the Manukau Institute of Technology, and it was ‘arrivederci’ to a lifetime of friends and family in Melbourne and ‘bonjourno’ to being the only wog teen on the entire North Island. 

I was promptly enrolled at Pukekohe High, where I was inevitably bullied for my accent, flute-playing, giant cans, general aesthetic, and what would later be diagnosed as lady-Autism. 

I had one shining light in the dark: A casual gig at the newsagency, where I could escape the endless cycle of bullying, babysitting, and flute practice. It’s where I met Cece. But home was hell, and school was worse. I counted the days until I could leave for university. Sometimes, when I couldn’t escape the boiling spotlight of humiliation to save myself, I counted hours. But I did escape. 

I became a musician. I made a ridiculous amount of money being a musician. I had a flat in Paris, a crew of music-nerd friends, a hot British boyfriend, and a best friend back home I could call when I needed her. It should have been a happy ending.

But that’s the thing about happy endings. Unless you’re dead, they don’t exist. It’s always the start of a new story. In mine, the hot British boyfriend turns out to be a psychopath, and ruins the dip-shit flute-player’s career, and life, and the flute-player calls her best friend sobbing and pleading for a way out.

The best friend says, Come live with me in New Zealand.

The flute-player says, Besides you, everyone I hate lives in New Zealand.

Best friend swears, No, everyone you hate is still rotting away in Pukekohe, or some other backwater that might as well be Mars.

But here they are. My former classmates. In Auckland. Alive and well and drinking beer fifteen feet away.

My palms sting. I glance down and realise I’m digging my lavender SNS-coated nails into my skin.

Across the bar, Cece’s shouts of surprise bring me to my feet. 

I don’t want to run. Nothing about these men scares me now. No, the emotion electrifying every atom of my body, energising me so completely I’m surprised the booth hasn’t burst into flames, is rage.

Eager? Excited? YOU SHOULD BE!

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