Quirks Of Being A Queen Bee ✔ COMPLETED ✔

Chapter Six

       Once upon a time, I was in kindergarten. I wasn't a very pretty baby but I wasn't exactly ugly either. I had lots and lots of baby fat and my hair was really short, and for some reason I chose to wear these very embarrassing dresses that were frilly and pink and just awful.

My mother shouldn't have let me out of the house wearing them, but she was too soft. I was also picked on. Actually, I was picked on quite a lot. The only friend I had was shorter than me, and wore these round, thick glasses and got A's in practically everything.

       His name was Trevor Quinton. Somewhere along the line, we stopped talking, but if I needed help, he'd be the one that would come over. From that age to about seventh grade, I was not pretty. Not one single bit. And instead of picking up that I was the problem, I suppose I guessed he was the problem. Sure, I had flaws, but he was probably only bringing me down more. So I ditched him, and in the summer of seventh to eighth grade I had a major transformation.

     I became the Queen Bee - glossy, shiny dark hair, little makeup needed because somehow all the flaws had gone away, boys were lining up to see me and I was the human form of perfection. I wasn't crap anymore. They didn't dare call me names. I got tons of apologies. But I didn't accept. That was the point of being a ruler - you were viscous. You were unforgiving.

And the boy at the store.

     There was a resemblance. Sure, he's gotten taller and a tiny bit of acne and his voice is like three octaves lower, but he's skinny and pale and has the glasses. Was it...

     "Trevor." I say under my breath. God, I'm stupid! Betrayal suddenly courses through my veins like acid. My ex-best friend just sold me out to the cops. I grit my teeth, "Mother fucker!" I hiss. What an asshole! I remember the kid with crooked teeth and a lisp and big brown eyes...but all I can conjure up is his face when I dropped him. I wince. What a bitch I was.

     I shake my head. Why am I sitting here, stressing out over Trevor Quentin? He's only going to make me remember me. The old one. Mud brown hair, chubby arms and a spot on my chin. My fingers grazed where the spot used to be and sigh. I'm not dwelling on this. I turn on my heels, sick of looking at the mall. I walk home, head high. I am not in fifth grade anymore. 

And Trevor can't hurt me now.