Confessions of a Queen B*

Untitled Part 46

The house was dark and quiet when I opened my eyes. The red lights from my alarm clock read 11:56 p.m. I had no idea when I'd fallen asleep, but I'd wasted the rest of the afternoon moping in bed. Now, the rumbling in my stomach from missing both lunch and dinner surpassed the turmoil in my head and heart.

I changed into my PJs before heading downstairs to grab something from the fridge so I could focus on getting my homework done. I did a double take when I stumbled upon my mom sitting at the island. "Didn't expect to find you here," I mumbled as I passed her.

"Just unwinding from a long day," she replied before taking a substantial sip from her wineglass and going back to something on her iPad. "What are you doing up?"

This was where I could've lied and claimed to be ill and not gone to school for, say, the rest of the year. That was the safest way to avoid any more contact with Brett. Instead, I grabbed an apple and leaned on the island's counter across from her. "Boy trouble."

That got her attention. Possibly from the fact she'd probably never dreamed I'd ever have boy trouble since I'd never had a serious boyfriend. She actually turned her iPad off and put it aside. "Care to talk about it?"

As awkward a conversation as this could be, it was better than the alternatives. I could never admit what I'd done to Richard and Morgan—they'd rip me to shreds. And my dad...well, I already had a good idea what he'd say.

I pulled a stool over, thankful to have the slab of cold granite between us while I figured out where to start. "There's a guy at school I shouldn't like, that I shouldn't be attracted to, but I kind of am."

Mom nodded, pouring a new glass of wine and sliding it toward me. "Why?"

Way to wrench a drunken confession from me, Mom.

"Why what?" I sniffed the wine. It smelled faintly of peaches. Tasted like it, too.

"Why do you think you shouldn't like him? Is he a criminal? Does he do drugs?"

The image of clean-cut Brett lighting up a joint flickered across my mind, and I choked on the wine. I coughed a few times between giggles before catching my breath again. "No."

"Then what do you find objectionable about him?"

"He's..." Somehow, I didn't think my mom would remember the high school social hierarchy, and even if she did, it would be from her perspective as a former beauty queen. "He's more Taylor's type, I guess you'd say."

Mom merely nodded, drinking her wine and waiting for me to continue.

"Or at least I thought he was," I added, remembering how he turned all geek when he saw the elaborate setup around the camera. "He might actually be kind of smart—you know, more than just a dumb jock."

"That doesn't sound like something that should bother you. You tend to like intelligent people."

"And if we were just talking or whatever, that wouldn't be a problem. But this afternoon, I—we—crossed a line, and I'm more confused than ever."

"And by 'crossed a line,' " Mom repeated, using air quotes for added emphasis, "do you mean you two got physical?"

And then things officially turned awkward. I finished off the glass of wine, hoping it would ease my embarrassment. "Just a little."

Mom set her glass aside and studied me, not paying attention to how much I squirmed on my barstool as she did.

"I would usually go to Dad with something like this," I began, but stopped when I saw the hurt in her eyes. "Not that I wouldn't want to come to you, but you've been so busy lately, and—"

She swallowed, the regret still lingering in the corners of her eyes.

"Besides, I know what Dad would say if brought this to him. He'd say—"

"Fuck him," Mom finished for me, although I had no idea if it was directed toward Dad or was meant to indicate what Dad would say in this situation. "There's a reason why your father is a professor on the philosophy of sex—he's constantly thinking with his dick."

And we just added another layer of awkward. At this rate, I wouldn't have anyone I'd feel safe talking to. Time to set up that anonymous Twitter account to vent my soul in a hundred and forty characters or less. My first tweet: "Hormones suck, but damn, they feel good at times."

"Did you have sex with him?" Mom asked in her doctor voice.

"No."

"But you got physically involved with him?" She did a visual inspection of me as though she were looking for my scarlet letter. "Did he hit you?"

"No," I said again, this time with more frustration in my voice as I set my empty wineglass on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. "We just started making out like the two horny teenagers we are. And when I finally came to my senses, I realized it had been a mistake, so I came home. End of story."

"But it's not the end of the story if it's still bothering you." She refilled my glass and hers with the rest of the bottle. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd had alcohol with my mom, and I would still have fingers to spare after tonight. "Let's go back to the beginning of our conversation. You said you shouldn't like him, but you do, right?"

I ran my finger along the rim of the wineglass, not knowing how to answer the question. "Maybe."

"You found him intelligent." My mom held up one finger. "He's not into drugs." Another finger. "He doesn't hit you." Another finger. "And it sounds like he's a good kisser." A fourth finger. "Am I missing anything else?"

"You forgot that he's the starting quarterback of the football team, extremely hot, and way out of my league." I held up three fingers, all representing the three strikes against him.

"Those points make him sound even better. Anything else about Mr. Wonderful?"

I chewed my bottom lip. "He wants to help me solve my problems, and he makes great blueberry pancakes."

Mom placed her hand on my forehead. "Are you sure you're well? Because if you're having doubts about a guy like that, then you're either crazy or there's something you're not telling me."

I pushed her hand away. "The only crazy going on here is why he'd be into me. This is the type of guy who goes for head cheerleaders, not the meanest girl in school."

"And he sounds like he's into you if he's cooking you breakfast." She started to take another sip of wine, but paused with the glass millimeters from her lip and eyed me over the rim. "You're on the pill, right?"

"Mom!" My cheeks were burning now, and not from the wine. "Making out does not equate sex."

"Yeah, but if you let things get out of control again..."

"Then that solves it." I stood up, pushing my wineglass back. "I won't let things get out of control again. As long as I don't allow myself to be in a situation where I'm alone with Brett, then we'll be forced to keep our hands to ourselves." And our lips.

Damn it.

"Sounds like a solid plan." Mom went back to finishing her wine as I walked away, content that this conversation was over. "By the way, Alexis, you might want to wear something that covers up that hickey on your shoulder for the next few days."

My stomach dropped, and I raced to the downstairs bathroom. Under the glaring lights above the mirror, I saw the telltale purple bruise where my shoulder met my neck.

The same place where Brett had done wonderfully naughty things with his teeth, tongue, and lips.

Now on display for everyone to see.

I was so screwed.