Confessions of a Queen B*

by Crista McHugh

  The Eastline Spy

  November, Sophomore Year

  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.

  Chapter 17

  “OK, I get it. You’re taking school violence very seriously based on the way you closed down the school for three days after someone anonymously threatened to pick off certain students with a sniper rifle. But maybe if you’d done something about the bullying and hazing that happens every day in the hallways, that anonymous student wouldn’t have felt the need to resort to his
threat.”

  The Eastline Spy

  January, Junior Year

  Brett wasn’t at my locker when I arrived at school the next morning.

  I told myself that I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, I was the one who ran off and left him in the girls’ locker room yesterday afternoon. Rejection like that would wound any guy’s pride.

  Then my throat tightened. What if he’d been caught and suspended? What if he’d gotten in trouble because of me?

  The guilt I’d been expecting since yesterday finally rammed into me, but not because of those few intense moments in the janitor’s closet.

  I was actually beginning to care about Brett.

  Yeah, I was in serious shit. I pulled out my phone and started texting him, asking him where he was.

  A minute later, my phone vibrated with the reply.

  Overslept. See you in 4th period.

  My worry whooshed out in a sigh of relief. Of course, that still meant I had to deal with him then. But it gave me more time to practice the “yesterday was a one-time fluke” speech. By the time fourth period came around, I had it memorized. I was going to politely tell him that he’d taken advantage of our situation, and I’d responded with poor judgment, but now after I’d had time to digest my actions, I wanted to let him know it would never happen again.

  The words vanished from my mind the second he sat down next to me. In their place came a whiny little bitch of a voice clamoring for more one-on-one time with Brett. Please, please, please, please!

  I moved to the chair at the opposite end of the table before I gave into it.

  He looked at the empty chair between us and then at me before placing the doll in the spot. Dark circles lined his eyes, making his lashes seem thicker than normal. Fatigue sagged around the corners of his mouth. “You forgot to pick up the doll yesterday,” he said.

  “Shit!” I’d been so completely absorbed in my own little crisis that I’d forgotten about our assignment. “It didn’t keep you up all night, did it?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll take the doll for the rest of the project,” I offered, hoping to make it up to him.

  “Fine.” He turned to the front of the class as the bell rang, ending our conversation.

  Or so I thought.

  About three minutes into class, a message popped up on my laptop screen.

  We need to talk about yesterday.

  My breath hitched, but that did nothing to slow my frantic heart. I searched the room, looking for the sender before meeting Brett’s eyes. They flickered once to my screen and then back to Mr. DePaul.

  I watched Brett the entire time as I typed, No, we don’t.

  The message popped up on his screen. His frown deepened. Why?

  How are you sending me messages on my laptop?

  You didn’t answer my question.

  Did you hack my computer? Put some virus on it?

  The corner of his mouth reversed its downward trend and curled up into a half-smile. I’m just using your school email address to message you, Lexi. Calm down. Anyone in the school network can do it.

  Don’t call me Lexi! I paused, remembering some hoopla last year about the school cracking down on messaging programs during class after I’d posted screenshots on my blog of the inappropriate conversations that were occurring. I thought the school banned this, BTW.

  His grin widened to capture a hint of recklessness, and I caught a glimpse of yet another facet of Brett Pederson—the one who didn’t mind breaking a few rules here and there. It fit the same guy who didn’t mind making out with random girls in janitors’ closets.

  Can we meet back at your place after class? he asked.

  Rule number one—thou shall not be alone with Brett Pederson. My damp fingertips left marks on my keyboard as I typed, Sorry—have plans.

  We have a project to finish.

  Shit! I’ll take care of your half for you, I replied. Anything to keep me from having to be alone with him again.

  He shook his head. No, I want my A, too.

  He clicked a few things on his laptop, and an email appeared in my inbox. I opened it and read what he’d done already for his part of the project.

  So we really don’t need to work together anymore? An ache formed in my chest as I typed that. Once again, my hormones were at war with my common sense.

  Minutes ticked by before Brett started his reply. Only if you don’t want to.

  I swallowed—hard—and struggled with the emotions swirling inside me. It has to be this way.

  Why?

  I curled my fingers into my palms, not trusting them to convey my thoughts accurately. I needed the power of my voice and my body to express them, not a blinking cursor on my screen.

  Off in the distance, Mr. DePaul droned on and on about something, but my attention remained on the three letters on my screen. I was going to fail health class because Brett Pederson kept distracting me from the material that would be on the final—I knew it.

  Time to end this. I took a deep breath and typed, It’s complicated.

  No shit.

  Glad to know I wasn’t the only one whose stomach was tied in knots after yesterday. Please, can we pretend yesterday never happened?

  The hickey on my shoulder proved otherwise, but I could always turn to wishful thinking instead of actually dealing with fallout in a mature manner.

  Another stretch of silence passed, and I wondered if Brett had decided it was better to listen to Mr. DePaul’s lecture than me. Then, in the waning seconds of class, he wrote, If that’s what you want.

  The bell rang, and he snapped his laptop shut, bolting for the door faster than Sanchez did.

  I stared at his words while everyone else filed out of class. Was that really what I wanted?

  And even if it was, what could I do about it?

  ***

  I went home and moped. Not even the pint of mocha frozen yogurt I picked up on the way home could cheer me up. Hours later, the half-eaten remains sat in the cup on my desk like muddy soup.

  Mom was working late (again), and Taylor was in her room on the phone with one of her friends discussing how to do her hair for the game tomorrow. I was staring at the screen and the almost-finished blog post that I’d started earlier this week. It was due to go live at midnight. I’d laid out my arguments. I’d stated why it was wrong to treat women that way. I’d even used the videos as an example.

  And yet, it felt incomplete.

  I wanted to nail the son of a bitch behind the videos, but I didn’t have a name. I didn’t even know if the videos had been removed yet. But I wanted justice.

  Forget justice. I wanted to publicly humiliate the person behind them after what he’d done to Taylor. After all, what good was being the biggest bitch in school if I couldn’t keep people in line?

  My phone rang while I was reviewing my editorial one more time, and I picked it up without checking the number.

  “Lexi, can you come over for a few minutes?” Brett’s voice asked from the other side.

  My blood turned to ice, followed by a quick thaw from the rush of heat that followed. “Why?”

  “Because I need to show you something.”

  I licked my lips. Could I trust myself around him, or would I lose control all over again? “Can’t you tell me over the phone?”

  “No, I need to show you now.” He paused and added in a softer tone, “Please.”

  I thought about it for several beats. He was inviting me to come over to his house, which was crawling with people. It would be safe. More than likely, I would end up braiding Bitsy’s hair again. I could handle this. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes, but I’ll have to bring Junior.”

  “That’s fine. See you in a few.” He hung up.

  I strapped the carrier to my chest, noting with some pleasure that I wouldn’t need it after tomorrow. This was offset by the fact I probably wouldn’t be seeing Brett at my locker every morning for the handoff, either. I told myself that should ma
ke me happy, too, but it left me empty instead.

  It took me less than ten minutes to walk to his house. Once again, Sarah answered the door. “Brett’s upstairs in his room,” she said, pointing up the staircase. “Last door on the right.”

  My spit dried up. It was one thing to come to his house with his sisters and parents all around.

  But stepping into the secret sanctuary of his room? That simmered with danger.

  And intrigue, because as far as I knew, no girl in Eastline High School had been invited up there.

  It was curiosity (and knowing I’d have something else over Summer Hoyt) that propelled my feet up the stairs and to the last door on the right. I knocked and waited.

  Brett opened the door, grabbed me by the wrist, and yanked me inside. The door slammed behind us.

  Can I say I was a little disappointed when he didn’t drag me to bed?

  The disappointment quickly wore off as I looked around. Posters lined the walls, but instead of NFL heroes, they were of Star Wars, Star Trek, and Doctor Who. A bookshelf in the corner contained the expected athletic trophies, but it also housed a Lego version of the Millennium Falcon under a glass cube. And scattered across the room with recent issues of Sports Illustrated were back issues of Circuit Cellular and other computer magazines, as well as thick fantasy tomes that qualified as weapons in some countries. And in the center of one wall was a computer workstation that would make most Microsofties drool.

  My jaw dropped.

  Underneath the veneer of Mr. Quarterback, Brett Pederson was a closet geek.

  “Sorry, but I didn’t want one of the twins trying to sneak in behind you.” He cleared a place on his bed for me. “Have a seat.”

  I raised a brow, remaining remarkably cool considering the circumstances. “I’m not here to finish what we started yesterday.”

  That wicked gleam flashed in his eyes, followed by a dull seriousness. “Just give me a minute, please.” He backed me onto the mattress and retreated to the desk.

  So much for making out again.

  At least I wouldn’t have any fresh hickeys to cover up.