Confessions of a Queen B*

by Crista McHugh

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Confessions of a Queen B*

  by

  Crista McHugh

  Alexis Wyndham is the other type of Queen B—the Queen Bitch.

  After years of being the subject of ridicule, she revels in her ability to make the in-crowd cower via the exposés on her blog, The Eastline Spy. Now that she’s carved out her place in the high school hierarchy, she uses her position to help the unpopular kids walking the hallways.

  Saving a freshman from bullies? Check.

  Swapping insults with the head cheerleader? Check.

  Falling for the star quarterback? So not a part of her plan.

  But when Brett offers to help her solve the mystery of who’s posting X-rated videos from the girls’ locker room, she’ll have to swallow her pride and learn to see past the high school stereotypes she’s never questioned—until now.

  Prologue

  In every high school, there are two types of Queen Bs. The first type is the most obvious. With a collection of tiaras and an entourage of drones that follow her wherever she flitters, this Queen Bee practically rules the school (or so she thinks). Get in her good graces, and you’re suddenly part of the in-crowd. Wear the wrong brand of skinny jeans, and you’ll feel the sting of ostracism.

  Me? I’m Alexis Wyndham, and I’m the other type of Queen B.

  The Queen Bitch.

  Chapter 1

  “Despite the school administration’s insistence that they have put an end to the hazing ritual known as Freshman Initiation, these photos demonstrate that it’s still alive and well in our hallways. Please note the faculty member in the background watching, but making no move to stop the harassment.”

  The Eastline Spy

  September, Senior Year

  I’d never set out to become the Queen Bitch of Eastline High. After enduring years of being teased and made the butt of practical jokes in middle school, I’d simply decided to start high school three years ago with a new mindset.

  I no longer prayed for acceptance or kept my mouth closed.

  I was hard.

  I was cruel.

  I didn’t let people get to me.

  I was the Queen B.

  My fellow students parted like the Red Sea to let me pass when I walked down the hallway. As a senior, I’d either earned most students’ respect or their fear. My blog, The Eastline Spy, had exposed everything from cheating (both in and out of the classroom) to the subpar food served in the cafeteria. No one wanted to be the subject of my next exposé. The result was a wave of lowered eyes and hushed whispers as I made my way to class.

  On a positive note, it made getting to fourth period easier.

  It was only the second week of school, but the harassment of Freshman Initiation was already in full swing. This Monday morning, it was a couple members of the offensive line who’d cornered some unsuspecting kid against the lockers and were in the process of giving him a wedgie that would require a proctologist to remove. The fear in his eyes matched his sheet-white face as guys who weighed twice as much as him hauled his underwear out of his jeans.

  I snapped a picture of the scene with my phone. Then I moved behind the hulking mass of muscle and fat and tapped one of them on the shoulder. “Hey, I know steroids can cause your penis to shrink, but is that really a reason to take it out on a stranger?”

  The one I tapped spun around, his hand clenching and unclenching in a fist as though he were about to dole out the same underwear-tugging punishment to me. He froze statue-still when he realized he was messing with the Queen B.

  “I’m thinking about writing an article on steroid-induced aggression,” I continued in a casual manner snapping another picture that included his face. “What do you think? Would you like to do an interview?”

  His lax-jawed expression mirrored the dull lack of intelligence in his eyes. He nudged his buddy and uttered a few caveman grunts. His friend turned around, and for a split second, the fear in his face matched that of their victim. They dumped the freshman and took a step toward me.

  I stood my ground, emailing the pictures to myself in case things got out of hand.

  I’d barely managed to hit send before Caveman #1 snatched my phone away from me. “I’m not ending up on your blog.”

  “Break my phone if you want. I’ve already loaded the pictures to my cloud.” I crossed my arms and tried to look cool, even though my pulse was running a bit higher than usual. One thing I’d learned over the years during my rise to Queen B status was never to let them know how much control they had. “Besides, I can add destruction of property to my roid-rage article.”

  His beefy hand curled around my phone, and I imagined him wanting to shatter the glad screen. But before he got to that point, his friend nudged him. “Don’t piss her off, dude. Remember what she did to Jamal.”

  Caveman #1 replied with a pig-like snort, but he returned my phone. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. Just teaching the Fresh Meat here about Eastline traditions.”

  He took another step toward me, his foot stomping against the tile floor.

  The freshman jumped, and I answered only with an arched brow. I knew I had the upper hand, especially with pictures to prove it.

  A staring match followed for another ten seconds before he turned and disappeared down the hall.

  “Thank you so much,” the freshman said in a quivering voice. He bent down to pick up his scattered books, looking up at me like I was some kind of superhero.

  It required me to turn my Queen B glare on him too. Sorry, but very few people got on my good list, and this kid wasn’t going to be one of them. “Numbskulls like them feed off fear, and until you grow a set of balls or find wedgie-proof underwear, I’d suggest you find a group of fellow freshmen and travel in packs.”

  Some small part of me felt pity for the kid, but he needed to learn the hard truth if he wanted to survive Eastline High. Besides, I had a one good deed a day limit. Otherwise, I’d get a reputation for being nice.

  I made my way to my last class of the morning, one of those stupid required-for-graduation courses I’d postponed as long as possible. Optimizing the Human Experience. As if making me sit through this puffed-up health class would affect my future.

  It was considered a joke class up until this year. I’d even written a piece on my blog about how easy it was to breeze through. If you had a pulse and showed up to class, you got an A. Unfortunately, over the summer the school board had outfitted the classroom with technology more suitable for the offspring of Microsoft millionaires and revamped the class to make it more challenging. The teacher actually gave homework now, and based on this weekend’s assignment, I dreaded what some of the juvenile reactions to today’s topic might be.

  Of course, it would helpful if I could actually get into the classroom.

  My nemesis, Summer Hoyt—head cheerleader and this year’s Queen Bee—was stationed with her court at the door. The overindulged daughter of a coffee-chain magnate and a Hong Kong real estate heiress, she paraded around campus like a Homecoming Queen Barbie, plastic parts included (because there was no way she went from an A-cup to a C naturally over winter break last year).


  Perfect highlights in her dark brown hair? Check. Immaculately groomed brows and manicured nails? Check. Hours spent at the tanning salon so she could have a sprayed-on golden glow that made people wonder if she lived in LA rather than Seattle? Check. Attitude that could rival a supermodel? But of course.

  Summer was the only person in the school who thought she could still get to me. Failing miserably every time, I might add, but she kept trying. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that once upon a time, we’d been best friends.

  At the moment, she was practically draped over Brett Pederson, the star quarterback, and was talking to him in this low, breathy voice. “Why don’t we have a little fun under the bleachers at lunch?”

  I thought I might hurl if I was forced to watch or listen to this for long.

  “Excuse me, but can you two get a room?” I pushed my way between them. “I’d like to get to my seat on time.”

  Summer narrowed her eyes and gave me a tight smile. Part of me briefly remembered when we’d practically been inseparable. She’d been the one person I’d trust all my secrets to. But that was before we graduated to junior high. Before she became a cheerleader and learned that in order to hold her place at the top of the pyramid, she needed to trample those under her.

  Before she betrayed me by stealing the diary from my bedroom and reading all my hopes and fears aloud to everyone in the cafeteria on the first day of sixth grade.

  Summer placed her hand on her jutted-out hip. “Jealous, Alexis?”

  “Please, I just threw up a little in my mouth. I thought this was high school, not a strip club giving out free lap dances. Are you trying to attract customers with your new boobs? I bet Daddy used them as a tax write-off.”

  Brett, to his credit, coughed and turned away, but not before I caught the grin he tried to hide. He almost looked relieved to be free of the Summer-puppet dangling around his neck.

  Summer opened her mouth, but Brett took her arm and murmured, “Leave her alone unless you want to end up on her blog,” soothing her as well as any snake charmer.

  I rolled my eyes and moved to my seat in the back of the room. Because Eastline was in the Tesla-filled suburbs of Seattle, the school had decided to do away with individual desks and installed three-person tables with charging stations for laptops and tablets. An unwise sophomore sat at my preferred spot, typing away on his laptop. I banged my books down next to him and gave him what my best friend, Morgan, called my “eat shit and die” look.

  The sophomore’s face paled. He scooped up his belongings and backed away from me so quickly, he tripped on his shoelaces and crashed into an empty chair.

  I haven’t needed to share my space since I’d publicly called out the junior sitting next to me for peeking at my answers during finals my sophomore year.

  The bell rang, and the students who’d been loitering outside the classroom tumbled in to take their seats. I steepled my fingers under my chin, daring any of them to sit beside me.

  None did.

  Another perk of being the Queen B.

  Mr. DePaul stepped out from behind his desk. “Settle down, everyone. As you probably guessed from the weekend’s homework, we’re going to start the unit on reproduction. Normally, we would begin with the birds and the bees and how not to get knocked up.”

  One of the football players snickered.

  “But the school board is suddenly debating whether teaching you about condom use is acceptable.” Mr. DePaul dragged a pair of large plastic bins from the closet. “So I’ve decided to start with the consequences of unprotected sex.”

  It was probably a little too late for that. I suspected half the football team already had herpes. Perhaps that would be the subject of my next blog post.

  He opened the bin and pulled out a doll. “Students, meet your babies.”

  Ah. Children, the STD that keeps on living even after you’re dead. The entire class groaned.

  “Since it takes two of you to make one of these little bundles of joy, I’m going to be pairing you off. Today we’re going to do a little exercise in genetics, and tomorrow, you’ll receive your babies. For the next two weeks, you’re going to be parents.”

  The muscles in my shoulders tensed into knots as he tucked the doll back into the bin. Marvelous. I hated group assignments, especially when I couldn’t choose my partner. I always ended up doing all the work. I refused to let my class rank suffer because of someone else’s laziness. As the person holding the highest class ranking at the end of last year, I was on track to being valedictorian, and no one was going to take that title away from me. I had nine months left in this level of hell that Dante missed, and then I would be free to move on to whatever Ivy League school I wanted to attend.

  “We have an equal number of guys and girls in the class, so it should be easy to pair everyone up,” Mr. DePaul continued.

  “But what if I want to be gay with my teammates and be part of a same-sex couple?” Sanchez, ever the smartass, asked. He laughed and exchanged high-fives with another football player.

  “If the school board won’t let me teach you about condoms, you know they won’t allow gay marriage in the classroom, even though it’s legal here. If you want a class in that kind of lifestyle, move to Capitol Hill.” Mr. DePaul snatched the baseball cap off of Sanchez’s head and held it out. “Ladies, if you’ll be so kind as to enter your names into the drawing.”

  I scribbled my name on a piece of paper, each stroke of my pen adding to my annoyance. I glanced at the potential fathers and deemed them all unfit. My gaze lingered on Brett a second longer than the others. Well, maybe not all of them, but none of them met my standards. All high school boys seemed to care about was scoring, both on and off the field. Way too immature for me. The last few dates I’d been on over the summer had been with college guys, and even they got on my nerves.

  As I sauntered to the front of the class and dropped my name in the hat, I couldn’t resist the temptation to exert my power as a Queen B. I grinned and squeezed my thumb and index fingers close together until they were about an inch apart, all while mouthing the word tiny at Sanchez. Much to my delight, he lowered his eyes, and the tips of his ear turned red. I laughed quietly all the way back to my seat.

  After all the girls had put their names in, Mr. DePaul walked around the room with the hat to let the guys draw their partners. When he came to Sanchez, the star wide receiver glanced at me and made the sign of the cross before pulling out a piece of paper. His body sagged in relief when he read the name on it.

  I sighed in relief, too. The last thing I wanted was to be paired up with that bonehead.

  “Now that everyone has been paired off, let’s get to work on the genetics.” He gave the hat back to Sanchez and started placing a handful of Popsicle sticks in front of each girl.

  The guys milled around, each one finding his “mate.” As I waited to see who I was stuck with, I drummed my fingers on my table. I reminded myself it was just a school project and would be over in a couple of weeks. It wasn’t like I’d be stuck with this person for the rest of the semester.

  As luck would have it, I ended up with Brett Pederson standing in front of me.

  “You’re not going to rip me a new one if I venture into your territory?” he asked, not waiting for me to answer before plopping down in the empty chair to my right.

  My normal response would’ve been to tell him to piss off, but for some strange reason, my throat constricted. He smelled good. I mean really good, like he’d soaked in some sort of pheromone bath. My stomach started fluttering. I felt like one of those brainless twits in a cologne commercial who was drawn to the guy simply because of his scent.

  Stupid teenage hormones.

  I coughed to clear both my mind and my throat. “Why bother asking if you’re going to do what you want?”

  He shrugged and took the Popsicle sticks from Mr. DePaul. “I can’t work with you from across the room.”

  “Ah, so you’re the fortunate jock who drew my na
me from the hat?” Great. That meant I was going to end up doing everything, just as I’d suspected.

  “You don’t have to be so sarcastic.” He divided the sticks up between us. “I want an A as much as you do. I’m willing to pull my weight.”

  How refreshing. Complete bullshit, but refreshing.

  Mr. DePaul was back at the front of the class before I could comment on Brett’s desire for fair and equal work. “If you pull up your assignments from this weekend, I asked you to answer some questions about you and your family.”

  Two dozen laptops and tablets flared to life, including mine. I stared at the information I’d put in. Blue eyes. Light brown hair, curly. No mid-digital hair on my fingers. No mental disorders, unless you counted the fact that my younger sister, Taylor, was a cheerleader. No bleeding disorders. No cystic fibrosis. No cancers. All and all, pretty boring stuff.

  “Now, if you click the ‘Give Me My Genes’ button, it will give you the alleles for your genetic information,” Mr. DePaul continued. “Please put this information on the sticks I’ve given you, one allele on each side. Once that’s done, you and your partner will drop your genes and create a baby using whatever alleles land face up on the floor. Yes, I know it’s low tech, but I have to make sure you’re working the entire period.”

  I didn’t miss the accusing glance Mr. DePaul sent my way with the last sentence.

  “I’d much rather drop my other jeans and make a baby that way,” Sanchez muttered from the table next to us, earning a smack across the back of his head from Brett.

  I tried to squelch the little surge of admiration for Brett that suddenly rose inside me. Instead, I bent over my sticks, focusing on my assignment. I finished before my partner did and risked leaning in a little closer just to get a second sniff of him.

  Yeah, he still smelled good.

  He caught me out of the corner of his eye. “Something wrong, Lexi?”

  I instantly prickled. “No one calls me that.”

  “Taylor does.”