Elizabeth Queene

Everyone adores Elizabeth Queene. Everyone adores perfect, pretty, angelic Elizabeth Queene. Spectators marvel at how her gorgeous beach wavy hair never gets out of place after she wins the 100-meter dash. Neighbors question if the color of her blonde tips were bleached or are they natural. Her classmates wonder if she spends her vacations somewhere tropic that causes her golden tan always on her smooth (never infested with acne) skin. Dentists praise her for having the pearliest and straightest teeth they ever saw. Professional photographers are stunned by how her sharp, ocean blue eyes and cute dimples brighten the darkest room. Girls ask how she succeeds in always staying under 115 lbs. Boys offer to hold her books or walk her to class. The fake blondes, with enough makeup to puncture a hole in the earth's atmosphere, beg her to be the captain of their team. Teachers admire how she gets straight A's and has the time to ask for extra credit. The principal doesn't notice when she breaks several of the dress codes. (As long as he gets some extra cash from the parents.) Everyone adores Elizabeth Queene. Everyone except me.

I'm the nobody who sits in the back of the class. The one who nobody notices. Maybe that's why I'm her prey. People say she sings better than a choir of angels, but she spits venom when she talks to me. Teachers say she gets perfect grades, but in reality, I'm writing two separate copies of the same assignment, one for me, and one for her. She could buy the entire school if she wanted to, but she still squeezes every cent out of my earnings for her lunch, and the lunch of her freshmen Barbie puppets. When she walks into a crowded cafeteria every pair of eyes are watching her as the paparazzi would do to one of royal England's families, but no glances when she trips me in the hallway. Her fancy penmanship, with the hearts on top of i's, can cut so deep into your soul, making you wish you weren't born. The smell of her perfume may smell like berries, but to me, when I'm crouching on the floor with my hand grasping my stinging cheek, it smells like acid, forcefully trying to enter my lungs and make me wither inside. The smile that lights up any room can turn into a sneer so menacing, that Cruella DeVil would get weak in the knees. Her delicate hands used to play the solo in the school recital can also be used for striking when she gets mad.

At first, I thought she was a dumb blonde. Oh, how I laugh at my immature stupidity. She might not know what the capital of Australia is but she sure knows how to ruin lives. I wonder if she takes classes with famous people. I doubt it. She probably taught Ghangas Khan and Al Capone on her methods of torturing a high schooler. She probably gave them makeup tips and how to fill a locker with gum or to rip pages of a science report that was 60% of a passing grade.

People saw Elizabeth Queene as an angel sent down from heaven, wearing a pink crop top, designer jeans, and checkered vans. But last Friday, someone finally saw the Devil wearing a wig that made my life hell.