Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 3

"Thank you so much," the freshman said in a quivering voice. He bent down to pick up his scattered books, looking up at me like I was some kind of superhero.

It required me to turn my Queen B glare on him too. Sorry, but very few people got on my good list, and this kid wasn't going to be one of them. "Numbskulls like them feed off fear, and until you grow a set of balls or find wedgie-proof underwear, I'd suggest you find a group of fellow freshmen and travel in packs."

Some small part of me felt pity for the kid, but he needed to learn the hard truth if he wanted to survive Eastline High. Besides, I had a one good deed a day limit. Otherwise, I'd get a reputation for being nice.

I made my way to my last class of the morning, one of those stupid required-for-graduation courses I'd postponed as long as possible. Optimizing the Human Experience. As if making me sit through this puffed-up health class would affect my future.

It was considered a joke class up until this year. I'd even written a piece on my blog about how easy it was to breeze through. If you had a pulse and showed up to class, you got an A. Unfortunately, over the summer the school board had outfitted the classroom with technology more suitable for the offspring of Microsoft millionaires and revamped the class to make it more challenging. The teacher actually gave homework now, and based on this weekend's assignment, I dreaded what some of the juvenile reactions to today's topic might be.

Of course, it would helpful if I could actually get into the classroom.

My nemesis, Summer Hoyt-head cheerleader and this year's Queen Bee-was stationed with her court at the door. The overindulged daughter of a coffee-chain magnate and a Hong Kong real estate heiress, she paraded around campus like a Homecoming Queen Barbie, plastic parts included (because there was no way she went from an A-cup to a C naturally over winter break last year).

Perfect highlights in her dark brown hair? Check. Immaculately groomed brows and manicured nails? Check. Hours spent at the tanning salon so she could have a sprayed-on golden glow that made people wonder if she lived in LA rather than Seattle? Check. Attitude that could rival a supermodel? But of course.

Summer was the only person in the school who thought she could still get to me. Failing miserably every time, I might add, but she kept trying. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that once upon a time, we'd been best friends.

At the moment, she was practically draped over Brett Pederson, the star quarterback, and was talking to him in this low, breathy voice. "Why don't we have a little fun under the bleachers at lunch?"

I thought I might hurl if I was forced to watch or listen to this for long.

"Excuse me, but can you two get a room?" I pushed my way between them. "I'd like to get to my seat on time."

Summer narrowed her eyes and gave me a tight smile. Part of me briefly remembered when we'd practically been inseparable. She'd been the one person I'd trust all my secrets to. But that was before we graduated to junior high. Before she became a cheerleader and learned that in order to hold her place at the top of the pyramid, she needed to trample those under her.

Before she betrayed me by stealing the diary from my bedroom and reading all my hopes and fears aloud to everyone in the cafeteria on the first day of sixth grade.

Summer placed her hand on her jutted-out hip. "Jealous, Alexis?"

"Please, I just threw up a little in my mouth. I thought this was high school, not a strip club giving out free lap dances. Are you trying to attract customers with your new boobs? I bet Daddy used them as a tax write-off."

Brett, to his credit, coughed and turned away, but not before I caught the grin he tried to hide. He almost looked relieved to be free of the Summer-puppet dangling around his neck.

Summer opened her mouth, but Brett took her arm and murmured, "Leave her alone unless you want to end up on her blog," soothing her as well as any snake charmer.