Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 32

Saturday night, I tossed and turned, sleeping less than when I had the stupid doll crying every few hours. My guilty conscience kept nagging me. Brett had tried to be nice to me, and I threw it back in his face. I'd even threatened to destroy his reputation to get back at him. As much as I tried to justify my actions, I couldn't. I was the Queen B, and boy, did I ever show my royal bitchiness.

I stumbled downstairs to the unfamiliar roar of the blender.

My mom was using it.

I treaded carefully toward her. "Mom, are you okay?"

She looked up me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Yeah, why?"

"Because you're making something other than coffee in the kitchen." I sniffed it. Whatever it was smelled so awful, I couldn't begin to describe it. Let's just say the mustard-green-gray color was enough to make me want to stay away. "Please tell me you aren't going to drink that."

"Of course not, honey. It's a mask for my face." She took the blender to the sink and strained the goop into a bowl.

It was a complete one-eighty from the way Brett's mom used the sink to rinse off fruit. Even with the tense discussion about Brett's college choices, it was still a nice experience to sit down with a family over a meal.

"Mom, have you ever thought about making pancakes one morning?"

She stiffened as though she'd stuck her finger into an outlet. "You mean you want me cook breakfast?"

"Well, it would be interesting to try once."

Panic lined her pale face when she turned around. "Are you talking about microwave pancakes? Or from scratch?"

"Scratch."

Her face went another shade paler.

"Just kidding, Mom. Sorry I mentioned it." I went to the fridge and grabbed a cup of yogurt. "I'll be fine with this."

"Are you sure? I mean, I think I have a frying pan somewhere down here." She bent over to peer inside the cabinet where she kept a set of high-end cookware in a box under the counter. I think she'd maybe used it twice since she bought it five years ago.

"It's okay." I shook the yogurt container. "Like I said, I'm fine."

I retreated to my room before my mom offered to let me try out her new mask.

I decided I needed to talk to people who had some clue of what life was like at Eastline, but I knew Morgan would only greet me with a string of cuss words if I dared to call her before noon. Thankfully, I had my copy of Pride and Prejudice to distract me while I was waiting. I lost myself in the world of manners and miscommunication, of country dances and grand Regency balls. But this time, the familiar pages didn't comfort me like they usually did. Instead, I kept hearing Richard telling me I was too proud to admit I liked Brett and my dad telling me my walls of pride were keeping me from enjoying life.

And then it hit me.

I was Mr. Fucking Darcy.

I'd been so busy setting myself above the rest of my classmates because I thought I was better than them that I refused to see any good in them. And there was Brett, whom I'd judged based on his association with his bonehead peers (like Sanchez), reaching out to me and trying to show me that he was different from the rest, but I'd been the asshole who rebuked him.

I closed the book and threw it on my bed. Damn it! When did my life get so frigging complicated?

Oh, yeah, the day Brett decided to switch places with someone else so he could help me "get over" myself.

I grabbed my phone and called Richard. "I'm ready for my intervention, Dr. Phil."

"Not at ten in the morning, sweetie," he replied, his voice slurred with sleep. "This diva still needs at least two more hours of beauty rest."

"Fine, but can you and Morgan meet me at the fro-yo place at two?"

"Me and Morgan?" His voice perked up. "Damn, you must need some serious help."

"Serious doesn't begin to describe it."