Confessions of a Queen B*

by Crista McHugh

  “Yes.”

  “And you probably thought he was going kiss you, right?”

  “How—never mind.” I closed my eyes and banged my head on my seat. “Yes, I thought he was. But he didn’t.”

  He waited a beat, his eyes showing that he understood my frustration better than I thought he would. Then he cracked a smile that didn’t reach the pain lingering in his eyes. “You really need to do something about that sexual frustration of yours. Maybe we can get Morgan to recommend a good vibrator, and you can nickname it ‘Brett.’ ”

  My face burned. I’d opened up to him and confessed, and now he was taking the piss out of me for it. “Shut the fuck up.”

  Richard backed away, laughing. “And while you’re considering getting on your knees to grovel and apologize, you might consider throwing in a blow job to sweeten the deal.”

  I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel to keep from wrapping them around his throat. “Get the hell out of my car now.”

  “I was just trying to lighten up the mood.”

  “Well, you only made it worse, so get out.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. But let me ask you this—have you ever considered just being friends with him? I mean, yes, there would always be that underlying sexual tension, but at least you could still have breakfast with him on the weekends without the entire school knowing about it and maybe see if he’s worth the risk.”

  “The risk of what?”

  “Of breaking the mold.” Richard finally opened the door and got out of the car, never breaking eye contact with me. “Just between you and me, I think you two would be an awesome power couple.”

  He slammed the door shut. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I drove home, wondering if Brett would be worth the risk—not only breaking the mold, but for showing him myself.

  Chapter 12

  “Contrary to the popular belief that all white people think all Asians look the same, we can tell you apart, Katie Chen. And that was your older sister taking the SATs under your name last weekend, not you. Maybe if you spent more time studying and less time at the mall, you would’ve felt more comfortable taking them for yourself.”

  The Eastline Spy

  April, Junior Year

  I woke up Monday morning still debating if I should apologize to Brett.

  By the time I got to school, I had my answer.

  Brett stood by my locker, chatting with a couple of his friends. As soon as he saw me, he gave me the doll, his face cold and unreadable, and left without saying a word.

  Yeah, I’d really screwed up.

  A steel rod of indignation kept my head held high, though. If that was the way he wanted it to be, then so be it. I didn’t need him. And once we were done with this project, I wouldn’t have to interact with him for the rest of the school year.

  Just the way I liked it.

  Except, when I sat down at my table during health class, I was alone.

  Brett had chosen to go back to his original seat in the front of the class with Sanchez.

  My stomach sank as the bell rang and Mr. DePaul started talking about the effect of stress on the body. I unstrapped the doll carrier and laid it to the side so I could take notes, but my head really wasn’t into the lecture. For someone who hadn’t had to share a table with anyone since her sophomore year, I actually missed Brett’s constant interruptions. They made this ridiculous class more bearable.

  How far was I willing to go to get him back to my table? Obviously, I had to offer him something. It wasn’t prime real estate as far as getting noticed by the teacher went, which could actually be a perk. I’d even be willing to smile once in a while if it meant he kept me from drooling on my laptop as I was nodding off to sleep.

  But apologize? Maybe, if I absolutely had to.

  I zoned out as I tried to find a way to entice Brett back without jeopardizing my “niche.” I could text him. Slip him a note. Offer him a can of Red Bull with the next baby exchange. Offer to take the doll on Thursday night so he could rest up for the game (that was pushing it, though, because that meant I’d be on board with the whole “Go, Team!” agenda).

  When I came out of my head, Mr. DePaul was pointing to things on a table. I read the title. Stress Scale for Teens. Then I scanned the list. No wonder I wanted to stay home sick most days.

  Or why I felt sick to my stomach as I struggled over this whole Brett issue.

  “And since you can see that an unplanned pregnancy and fathering a child are significantly stressful events that can affect your health, I decided to keep you paired up with your baby partners for this week’s assignment.”

  While the rest of the class groaned, my heart quickened. That meant I’d have to work with Brett again. I wouldn’t have to come up with some lame excuse to get back in his company.

  I waited for him to look back at me, to acknowledge that we’d be paired up a bit longer, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes fixed on the PowerPoint screen.

  Mr. DePaul went to his computer and clicked a button. Two seconds later, I got an email with this week’s assignment. Stress inventory and strategies for coping.

  The bell rang. My heart thudded at a surprisingly slow and steady beat that was in stark contrast to my shaking hands. I forced myself to stay seated and take my time putting away my laptop while Brett whispered something to Sanchez.

  A full minute passed before he came my way. He pulled out one of the chairs from the row in front of me and sat down, his elbows resting on the table. “So, when would be a good time to get together for this?”

  “You mean you want to work together?”

  “It’s not like DePaul left us any choice on the matter.” He leveled his gaze with me, carrying a new hard edge to his words that he didn’t have before.

  Not that I blamed him. Once bitten and all that.

  I checked the email. “The stress evaluation is due Wednesday morning.”

  “Can we meet up tomorrow after class?”

  I shook my head, thankful I’d agreed to meet Morgan at the Purple Dog tomorrow. “I have plans.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair as though I was the most exasperating person he knew.

  Perhaps I was. I know he was for me.

  “I’m done for the rest of the day,” I offered. “We can work on it now, if you’d like.”

  I was trying to be nice for once. This wasn’t so bad. Baby steps.

  “Sure, I’m done, too. Want to meet up in the library?”

  And then my gut clamped down and my mouth dried up. “Um, can we meet somewhere a little less public?”

  Suspicion filled his dark eyes. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  He relaxed, the tension leaving his mouth free to form a semblance of a smile. “Then where do you want to meet up? My place is a zoo since the twins are still at home with my mom.”

  “My place will be empty. Does that sound okay with you?”

  Something else flickered in his eyes, but not suspicion this time. It was hot and primal and completely melted my insides. As quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone.

  He rose from his chair. “Can I meet you there in an hour? I promised Summer I’d meet her for lunch.”

  I nodded. “I’ll text you my address.”

  “Thanks.” I expected him to leave, but he lingered there in front of me for a whole minute, staring at me as though he wasn’t quite sure he could trust me.

  I didn’t dare look away. If he was testing me, I refused to buckle. I crossed my arms (a great way to hide a pair of shaking hands while still appearing tough) and added a jolt of intimidation to my gaze.

  At last, he turned around. “See you in a bit.”

  As soon as he was out of sight and the room was empty, I fell apart. I leaned over the table, sucking in deep breaths like an asthmatic trying to open up her airways. My heart pounded so hard, its vibrations shook my entire body.

  I’d been given a second chance.

  I just hoped it wouldn’t
come back to bite me in the ass.

  ***

  The jock would drive a gas-guzzling black 4Runner.

  I watched through the blinds as Brett drove up, got out of the car, and checked something on his phone multiple times. His eyes flickered between it and my front door as he strolled up the walkway, oblivious of how he was putting my reputation in jeopardy.

  I opened the door before he had a chance to knock. “Come in before someone sees you.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you lived just around the corner from me?”

  I shut the door and peeked through the blinds again to make sure no one else was around. “I thought you might have picked up on it when I left on foot Saturday.”

  “Hey, for all I knew, you had parked down the street because you were scared to be seen with me.”

  My spine bristled. “I’m not scared to be seen with you.”

  “Then why are you acting all paranoid—like now?” He caught my hand as I was in the process of closing all the blinds.

  A zing of something—anger, attraction, I couldn’t tell—raced up my arm. I yanked my hand back. “I just think we shouldn’t be seen together outside of school.”

  “Why?” He closed in on me as he waited for my response.

  “Because,” was all I managed to say. Anything more would reveal the way my voice trembled from the increased skipping of my heart.

  He invaded my personal space even more, a grin playing on those perfect lips. “Because you’re scared of something, right?”

  “Only of people getting the wrong idea.”

  “About what?”

  “Us.” I turned around and added some distance between us. My pulse slowed with each blessed step I took. “The kitchen’s this way.”

  He dawdled, taking his time to look around my house. I could only imagine how he viewed it. Everything was neat, spotless, organized. It looked like one of those photo spreads for a home magazine. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, not knowing how to interpret his compliment.

  “Did you just move in?”

  “No.”

  “Then why aren’t there any family pictures or, you know, evidence that this is your house?”

  “My mom isn’t big on hanging pictures.” Unless they were of her. Unfortunately, the shortest path to the kitchen crossed in front of the shrine to my mom’s beauty pageant days.

  And, of course, Brett would stop there. He stared at the glass cabinet full of tiaras, sashes, and photos. “Is that your mom?” he asked, pointing to the glossy eight by ten of her in the Miss America pageant.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes widened. “Wow.”

  “Don’t you dare call her hot or sexy or a MILF.”

  “Well, you have to admit, she was pretty good looking.” He peered closer at the photo. “Miss Vermont, huh?”

  “Yes.” I kept my voice flat and bored, even though I wanted to drag him away from the cabinet. I was just grateful my mom wasn’t here to pull out her tiaras and parade around the room for him like she’d done for my friends in the past.

  At last, he stepped back. “Well, that explains Taylor.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know—the eyeliner emergencies, the fear of having a loose strand of hair from her ponytail.” He rolled his eyes. “You have no idea how many of those conversations I’ve had to listen to between her and Summer.”

  “I can only imagine.” And thank my lucky stars she’d never come to me for those issues. I jerked my head toward the kitchen. “And now that you’ve stopped gawking at my mom, let’s get working on the assignment.”

  He looked at me like he was trying to figure out where I fit in my dysfunctional family. “It also kind of explains you, too.”

  I counted to ten as I exhaled. Would it be worth touching him to drag him away from the glittering Bimbo Award Center? I settled for snapping my fingers in front of his face. “Brett, please, I didn’t invite you here to psychoanalyze me or my family. Assignment, remember?”

  He finally followed me into the kitchen and set his bag on the glossy cherry wood table, pulling out his laptop. It was probably the first time the table had been used in months. We normally ate at the island on the barstools, if we sat down to eat at all. The twice-weekly maids had polished the nearly new table to a mirror shine this morning.

  I went to the fridge. “Do you want something to drink?” I scanned the almost-bare shelves. “We’ve got soy milk, pomegranate juice, and chardonnay.” I pulled out the half-empty bottle of wine and gave it a playful little shake for him.

  “Trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?”

  “You wish.” Although the thought was more tempting than I cared to admit.

  He laughed, and some of the knots in my stomach unraveled. I may not have been making blueberry pancakes, but I was on my way to recapturing that easy feeling I experienced with him Saturday morning before I learned I was his pity project.

  “Water will be fine,” he replied.

  I poured two glasses and brought them to the table.

  Brett had already moved his laptop next to mine and pulled up the assignment. “So, we need to do a stress assessment that’s due Wednesday morning and a stress modification work plan that’s due Friday. Piece of cake.”

  “Except we’re also juggling Junior, too.” I nodded to the doll that lay on the other end of the table.

  “Ah, come on, Lexi. It’s not that hard.”

  Junior chose that moment to prove him wrong by screaming at the top of his electronic lungs.

  Like a pro, Brett jumped up from his chair, scooped the doll up in his arms, and whipped out the bottle. A few seconds later, the doll was quiet.

  I have no idea how long my mouth was hanging open before I caught myself, but judging by the amusement in Brett’s eyes, he’d seen it. “How did you know what to do?” I asked.

  “That was the ‘I’m hungry’ cry. The ‘I’m dirty’ cry is lower pitched.”

  Once again, I had to convince myself that Brett wasn’t perfect. “And you figured this out how?”

  “By listening.” The doll stopped making the sucking sounds, which prompted Brett to place the doll against his chest and gently pat its back. A few seconds later, a contented burp signaled that Junior would be silent for the next couple of hours. “Okay, back to the project.”

  He slid back into the chair next to me, and a new sense of awareness smacked me. Yes, Brett was hot. Yes, he smelled good and had a great body and made my hormones do insane things. Yes, he drove me crazy by not cowering before me like most of the people in the school. But now I was beginning to realize he might be smarter than I gave him credit for.

  And if I was beginning to think of him as something other than a dumb jock, I was in danger of getting in way over my head.

  High school boys were supposed to be immature idiots, right?

  Brett started going down the list of teen stressors, starting with the items with the highest scores. “Well, neither one of us has lost a parent recently. We haven’t had an unplanned pregnancy.”

  “Unless you count Junior there.”

  He cracked a grin. “Fair enough.”

  We went down the list until he came to the item worth sixty-seven points. “Change in acceptance by peers,” he murmured. “Is that why you’re so anal about not being seen with me?”

  “Bingo, Einstein.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “I mean most girls in the school would like to be seen with me.” He could have said that in an arrogant, preening way, but instead, his words were matter-of-fact.

  “If by most girls, you mean Summer, then yes, I suppose you’re right. But I’m not like most girls.”

  “No shit.”

  I rolled my eyes toward him. “Is there a reason why you’re sidetracking me from the assignment?”

  He rested his chin in his palm, his eyes never wavering from me. “I think
you’re scared that if people saw us hanging out together, they’d realize that maybe you aren’t quite the bitch they think you are.”

  He was absolutely correct on one count, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. Or the fact that, you know, I might actually like him in that hot and horny teenage way. Or maybe even in the “I might actually consider going out with you someday” way. “More like they’d wonder if you’d been hit in the head one too many times during football practice.”

  “So you’re more worried about my reputation?” He covered his heart with his hand, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I’m so touched.”

  “Do you want me to kick you out of my house?”

  He shook his head, grinning the whole time in a way that left little prickles of sweat along the back of my neck. “Don’t worry, Lexi—your secret is safe with me.”

  “And what secret is that?” I pretended to stare at my screen, even though I was watching him out of the corner of my eye.

  He leaned over, giving my rebellious hormones an unwelcome surge when the heat of his skin radiated onto mine. “That you’re actually capable of being nice and braiding ribbons into little girls’ hair instead of being the ball-busting bitch you want everyone to see you as.”

  I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from shaking and remembered I still had the picture of him playing horsey with his sisters. “Are you asking for a demonstration of the latter?”

  He shook his head, settling into his seat again. “Nope. I’ve already seen enough through your blog.”

  “I suppose you’re getting a rise out of tormenting me, aren’t you?”

  His grin only confirmed it, even though he said nothing.

  I scanned the list, looking for distraction in any place I could find it. “Here’s one for you—breaking up with a girlfriend.”

  “Not an issue.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot, Summer’s not your girlfriend, even though she tells everyone in the school she is.”

  That wiped the grin off his face. “She does?”

  “How clueless are you? She even sent me threats through my sister to keep my hands off of you.”

  His brows bunched together, accentuating the downward turn of his mouth. “Perhaps I need to have a little talk with her.”