Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 2

I'd never set out to become the Queen Bitch of Eastline High. After enduring years of being teased and made the butt of practical jokes in middle school, I'd simply decided to start high school three years ago with a new mindset.

I no longer prayed for acceptance or kept my mouth closed.

I was hard.

I was cruel.

I didn't let people get to me.

I was the Queen B.

My fellow students parted like the Red Sea to let me pass when I walked down the hallway. As a senior, I'd either earned most students' respect or their fear. My blog, The Eastline Spy, had exposed everything from cheating (both in and out of the classroom) to the subpar food served in the cafeteria. No one wanted to be the subject of my next exposé. The result was a wave of lowered eyes and hushed whispers as I made my way to class.

On a positive note, it made getting to fourth period easier.

It was only the second week of school, but the harassment of Freshman Initiation was already in full swing. This Monday morning, it was a couple members of the offensive line who'd cornered some unsuspecting kid against the lockers and were in the process of giving him a wedgie that would require a proctologist to remove. The fear in his eyes matched his sheet-white face as guys who weighed twice as much as him hauled his underwear out of his jeans.

I snapped a picture of the scene with my phone. Then I moved behind the hulking mass of muscle and fat and tapped one of them on the shoulder. "Hey, I know steroids can cause your penis to shrink, but is that really a reason to take it out on a stranger?"

The one I tapped spun around, his hand clenching and unclenching in a fist as though he were about to dole out the same underwear-tugging punishment to me. He froze statue-still when he realized he was messing with the Queen B.

"I'm thinking about writing an article on steroid-induced aggression," I continued in a casual manner snapping another picture that included his face. "What do you think? Would you like to do an interview?"

His lax-jawed expression mirrored the dull lack of intelligence in his eyes. He nudged his buddy and uttered a few caveman grunts. His friend turned around, and for a split second, the fear in his face matched that of their victim. They dumped the freshman and took a step toward me.

I stood my ground, emailing the pictures to myself in case things got out of hand.

I'd barely managed to hit send before Caveman #1 snatched my phone away from me. "I'm not ending up on your blog."

"Break my phone if you want. I've already loaded the pictures to my cloud." I crossed my arms and tried to look cool, even though my pulse was running a bit higher than usual. One thing I'd learned over the years during my rise to Queen B status was never to let them know how much control they had. "Besides, I can add destruction of property to my roid-rage article."

His beefy hand curled around my phone, and I imagined him wanting to shatter the glad screen. But before he got to that point, his friend nudged him. "Don't piss her off, dude. Remember what she did to Jamal."

Caveman #1 replied with a pig-like snort, but he returned my phone. "We weren't doing anything wrong. Just teaching the Fresh Meat here about Eastline traditions."

He took another step toward me, his foot stomping against the tile floor.

The freshman jumped, and I answered only with an arched brow. I knew I had the upper hand, especially with pictures to prove it.

A staring match followed for another ten seconds before he turned and disappeared down the hall.