Queen B

Know Your Enemy: Part 1

CONTENT WARNING
- This book contains adult themes and romancing a professor. Read at your own discretion -

(Author's note: Y/N will be referred to as Bea Hughes. They are female, but you can adapt it if you prefer.)

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On the day before classes, you walk onto the luxurious campus of Belvoire University, New York City's most exclusive college, feeling like you've stepped into another world.

"This is my chance for a new start," you say to yourself. "A small-town girl taking on the big city. I can't wait to make my mark."

The crazy thing is, in this world, people already know who you are. You catch them whispering, and what you hear isn't nice.

"Oh. My. God," someone says. "I thought The T was lying, but look, New Girl's sneakers are... off-brand!"

"Tragic," another says. "Or is that what they're calling 'ranch couture' these days?"

Why is everyone staring at me? you think to yourself. This is how people dressed back at home....

"I. AM. GOING. TO. LOSE. IT!" An ear-splitting shriek cuts through campus. You whip around, half expecting to see a banshee, but instead, by the picnic tables, is a girl with platinum-blonde hair, screaming at a larger brunette. "You were supposed to get me a coffee too, you hairy-brained idiot!"

"B-but Poppy didn't say to!" The terrified girl stutters. "I don't have to do what you tell me—"

"I'm Poppy's second-in-command, and you're ranked in the triple digits," the banshee imitator interrupts her. "That means I'm like, your boss."

You stop and stare, open-mouthed. Is that what people are like here? you think.

The banshee imitator notices you staring and swivels toward you, curling her lip like you're some slug in the cobblestone. "What the hell is a basic, henley-wearing nobody like you looking at?" she says.

"Oh, hell no. You wanna talk basic? 'Cause I'm looking at it," you say. "Nobody disses how I look when they're walking around like Malibu Barbie's knockoff cousin."

"Excuse me? I'm wearing designer."

"Oh really? Guess I couldn't tell past your venomous personality and pre-teen makeup skills."

"Damn, New Girl! Way to show her who's boss!" somebody calls out from the sidelines.

"We're taught not to be scared of people like you back in Farmsville," you continue. "Who do you think you are, anyway?"

"I'm—"

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't have to worry about who she is. But you should worry about who I am." The crowd goes dead silent as another girl approaches with a smirk. Cool, cool, this is totally fine. "And I'm about to become your first and last memory of Belvoire," she continues.

"Poppy, ask her what English sounds like in Farmsville!" A guy with light brown hair and a small mustache calls out to the darker-blonde girl.

"Don't be an idiot, Michael. I don't play The T's games. The T plays for me," Poppy glares at him before turning back to you. "I'd rather ask about her shoes. They're kind of cute, for something pulled from the dumpster."

"My shoes?" you say. "I don't need heels to walk all over you. You see, I make it a habit to squash my inferiors beneath my heel. I figure it rubs salt in the wound to do it in old sneakers."

You make a show of glancing down at her shoes, which are encrusted in pink diamonds and have heels as thin as knife blades.

"I expect you don't get much traction in those stilettos," you continue. "Must make it hard to outrun the haters. Don't worry, I'll give you a head start."

"Rude!" the banshee imitator says.

"Oh snap. New Girl's not backing down!" the supporter from earlier says.

Poppy claps slowly, not even fazed. "It's so cute how you think I can decipher the pig squeals coming out of your mouth, Farmsville." Her smirk quickly changes to a scowl. "Let me give you some advice, and I'm going to make myself very clear. You don't belong here."

"I don't think you get to decide—" you are about to say, but get interrupted by Poppy.

"Hush, little lamb. I'm talking. You see, we've had middle-class hopefuls before, but they didn't fit in. This is my turf. See?"

She shoves her phone in your face. You see a list of every single student at Belvoire, ranked by popularity... and you're dead last, with a snooty nickname to top it off! "'Newbee Hughes,' marked #263rd."

"What the hell is this?" you ask, offended.

"This proves that you don't embody what it means to be a Thoroughbred, Newbee," Poppy explains. "A nobody like you won't last five minutes at Belvoire."

"You know what, Poppy?" you ask her. "Take a seat and watch me. Something tells me nobody likes you half as much as you like yourself. Michael," you turn to him, "how often does Poppy call you an idiot?"

"Every day," he responds, with a sigh. "My therapist says it isn't good to surround myself with people who bring me down, but my parents are friends with Poppy's and—"

"Oh my god, nobody asked to be invited to your pity party Michael!" Poppy exclaims.

"You know what nobody asked to be invited to?" you ask Poppy. "Poppy's Daily Bitch-Fest. Death by migraine would be more pleasant."

"Oh, you haven't even seen Poppy's Daily Bitch-Fest. But if you'd like a demonstration, by all means, be my guest of—"

"Hey Bea! Look at the time, we gotta go!" A girl with dark curly hair shoves through the crowd, grabs your wrist, and pulls you out of the mob! The next thing you know, you're running for your life.