Confessions of a Queen B* (11 page)

“He broke the state’s passing record for a single game,” his father boasted, his chest puffed as though he’d been the one who broke the record and not his son.

“Erik, please,” Brett’s mom intervened, “this is not an appropriate conversation to have in front of our guest.”

“You act like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

Brett’s grip tightened on his fork, his knuckles blanching, but he said nothing. Suddenly, his life didn’t seem so perfect. He was real, not some golden boy football god everyone revered. He had some serious issues going on beneath his perfect façade, and some hidden part of me finally felt a connection to him.

Which of course scared the shit out of me. I didn’t want to care about Brett Pederson.

“No, I’m very proud of our son,” his mother countered, her voice calm and smooth, “but football will not be his life. He is going to college for an education that will serve him for years to come, not to have a dozen men knock him to the ground every weekend.”

For a second, I thought I saw Brett relax, but as soon as his dad spoke, the tension returned.

“And all I’m saying is that he has a talent that will get him into some of the best schools in the country for free, or did you not catch that phone call from the head coach of your alma mater this morning?”

If Brett was a pressure cooker, I sensed he was reaching the explosion point about now. I’d seen it too many times between my mom and my sis, and I reflexively reached over to calm him just as he shouted, “Dad!”

Brett stiffened, sucking in a breath as he looked down to where my hand rested on his arm.

Shit! I’d just crossed the line. And whether it was good or bad, it didn’t matter. I’d intervened and given him proof that I wanted to help, that I actually cared.

I yanked my hand back, wondering if I’d come to regret my action later.

Brett blew out the breath he’d been holding, his voice as calm and steady as his mom’s. “Please, Dad, let’s talk about this later. I’m very thankful to have colleges interested in recruiting me for football, but I need to have a good education to fall back on when my career ends, just like you had when your football career ended. So if I don’t get an offer from a school I think will give me a good education, I’ll still be applying to schools without football programs.”

His dad pressed his lips together in a thin line, but nodded. “Just keep an open mind, Brett.”

“I am.” He dug back into his breakfast, eating a bit faster than before.

Brett’s twin sisters filled the silence left in the wake with their innocent, inane prattle that I found slightly amusing. It was just one notch below the annoying conversations I overheard Taylor having with her friends, but in their sweet voices, it was almost cute.

I must have been suffering from sweetness overload because with the exception of the college discussion, I was actually enjoying being part of the family. Then I reminded myself it wouldn’t last, especially after I finished off the last bite of my blueberry pancakes.

When I’d arrived here this morning, I couldn’t wait to leave. Now, oddly enough, I wished I could stay, and part of the reason was the guy sitting next to me. I’d found some chinks in his armor, but instead of doing a little happy dance, I felt the urge to protect him. It was like he’d trusted me with a secret, and even though I was the Queen Bitch of Eastline, I wasn’t that cruel.

Especially when he’d never given me any reason to want to hurt him.

Other than dating Summer, that is.

Which, if I were to believe anything he said last night, wasn’t the case.

I left the table with a full stomach and a burning in my chest that I wished I could blame on the food and thanked them for having me over.

Brett walked me to the door, following me outside. “Sorry about all that.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah, but I’d really hoped my dad would take a hint and shut up.” He leaned against the closed door, exhaustion lining his face. “Thanks for stopping me before I lost my cool.”

I stepped closer to him, drawn to him like a moth to a bug zapper, knowing if I continued, it would only spell my doom.

But that didn’t stop me.

“So, you really are human,” I said in a voice so soft, I barely recognized it as my own.

He gave me a wry grin. “And you’re actually capable of smiling.”

He reached forward and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My heart thumped against my ribs, and I forgot how to breathe as his fingers trailed down my cheek.

“You should smile more often,” he said.

“I usually don’t have many reasons to smile.”

“Maybe you’re just not looking in the right places.”

My mind grew fuzzier than the time I’d indulged in a little too much of my mom’s flavored vodkas over the summer. I was slipping further under the Brett spell, and it was time to leave now before it was too late. “I’d better go, you know, before someone drives by and sees us.”

“Let them.” He delivered the two words in an almost challenging way.

“And what if people started talking about us?”

He shrugged. Of course it didn’t matter to him. He could get away with anything he wanted at Eastline.

I was in an entirely different position. I had to work hard to maintain my position as Queen B, and the last time I’d let someone from the in-crowd get close to me, I was betrayed and humiliated. “What kind of game are you playing with me?”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, his eyes dragged up and down my body, finally coming back to my face and lingering there with an unreadable expression that made my stomach tighten. “Everyone thinks you’re an evil bitch, but I’ve seen otherwise.”

Unease wormed through my gut, up my spine and into my muscles. I just hoped he didn’t see that, too. “So?”

“Why do you act that way?”

“What are you getting at?” I took a step back, raising my defenses by lining my voice with a healthy dose of acid. “Are you setting me up for some kind of intervention? Because I don’t need one.”

He didn’t fall for it. He continued to lean against the door, calm and collected and absolutely pissing me off even more in the process. “All I’m saying is that maybe you wouldn’t have to be so mean if you actually got to know people instead of writing them off as beneath you.”

“I don’t need this from the head of the popular crowd. You have no idea what it’s like for the rest of us.”

“I’m trying to lead by example, though, to keep my guys from being complete assholes, but let’s face it, I’m not their mother.” He pushed off the door and encroached on my space. “But if you’re so determined to write me off as one of them—”

“I’m not!” My throat tightened as soon as I said the words. Damn it! “I meant, I’m not sure if you are one of them or not. For all I know, you switching places with the real person who drew my name is all part of an elaborate prank.”

His eyes widened. “How—”

“I found the slip of paper with Emily’s name on it the day we drew partners.”

He stared at the ground, revealing nothing.

“And I don’t care why you chose to help out some dipshit who didn’t have the balls to work with me—”

“I did it because none of the other guys wanted to be paired up with you,” he interrupted, his voice tight and quiet.

My eyes stung, and a lump formed in my throat the size of Mt. Rainier. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d held on to the foolish idea that he’d switched places with someone else because he wanted to work with me, because for some insane reason, he actually liked me.

I stumbled back a few more steps. “I don’t need your pity.”

He grabbed my arm to keep me from escaping. “It wasn’t pity. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I could help you get over yourself, then life would be better for all of us.”

“The only person who needs to get over himself is the conceited prick standing in front of me.” I aimed for the weakest point I could find on him—the large bruise on his arm—and rammed my fist into it. He let go immediately, and I found my voice again. “And I know the perfect way to help you get off that gilded throne you’re sitting on.”

I held up the picture I’d taken of him earlier as I backed away, searching for some spark of fear in him. Then I turned and ran back home.

Chapter 10

“While I appreciate the administration’s efforts to prevent any harm coming to students with the installation of metal detectors at all entrances, I’d hardly call the fountain pen that was confiscated from me this morning a weapon. Unless, of course, you truly believe the pen is mightier than the sword.”

The Eastline Spy

February, Junior Year

By the time I got home, my pain had morphed into anger that burned in my belly and raced through my mind. It throbbed through my veins and ate away at those warm, happy feelings I’d been silly enough to feel earlier.

Pity, huh? I’d show him the meaning of pity.

I went straight to my room and paced in front of my desk, plotting my revenge. I could post the pic I got of him all over the web, on the front page of my blog, but knowing Brett, it would only backfire on me. Sure, he might get some ribbing from the guys, but all the girls would have the same reaction I did—“Aw!”

Damn, damn, damn, damn! No matter what I came up with, it couldn’t hurt him. Spread a rumor that he was using performance-enhancing drugs? All he’d have to do was pee in a cup to clear his name. Photoshop him kissing Richard? No one would believe it, and I’d have Richard on my case as well.

I sank into my desk chair and massaged my temples. The truth of the matter was that I was too chicken to do something horrible to him because he really didn’t deserve it. He truly was a nice guy, and that threw a kink into all my plans.

I went to my blog in the hope it would reinforce the Queen B image I was so desperately trying to maintain and remind me of how good it felt to nail someone when they’d done something wrong.

There was a comment on my most recent post that was waiting to be approved.

Dear Alexis,

You disappointment me. Out of all the people in the school, I thought you’d be applauding the person who revealed the cheerleading squad for the people they really are. You’ve always been a champion of making sure the popular kids got what they deserved.

And they did deserve it.

They all deserve it.

And one day, they’ll get what’s coming to them.

A chill rippled down my spine as I read it. The poster had entered “Always Watching” in the name field. I checked to see if the poster had included an email address, but that field was left blank, which was why it ended up in the moderation queue instead of going directly on the blog. I had no way of finding out who the person was, but he or she obviously had a serious grudge against the cheerleading squad.

One that seemed bigger than my own.

And based on their specific comments, he or she knew about the content of the videos. Perhaps even enough to have been the person behind them.

It was the only reason I didn’t immediately delete the post.

But it still didn’t help me with my Brett problem.

I googled his name to see if I could dig up any dirt on him, but all I found were articles praising his prowess on the football field and how he was a top recruit in the nation.

Frigging Golden Boy.

My laptop beeped, and a window popped up saying that my dad was trying to Skype me. I opened the call request, and my dad’s face filled the screen.

I’d always joked that my dad was a thinner version of Jerry Garcia with his long, frizzy gray hair and full beard. Of course, his love of the “deep insight” weed only helped with the persona. Thankfully, he wasn’t high right now. “Hey, princess.”

My dad was the only person who could call me princess and not lose a testicle.

“Hey, Dad.”

He took one look at me and read me like an open book. “Who’s pissed you off now?”

“Just a guy in my class that I’m paired up with for a project.”

“Well, then, fuck him.”

Tempting, but no. And with my dad, I never quite knew if he meant literally or figuratively. “It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

I wondered if it would be worth the awkward conversation with my dad, but I figured since he had a penis, he might have some insight into a straight guy’s mind. “My head keeps telling me he’s nothing but trouble, that he’s just a dumb jock who’s playing around with me, but there are times when I feel this overwhelming attraction to him, despite my better judgment.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Dad!”

“What?”

“Ew! Even if I did—which I haven’t—I wouldn’t talk about sex with you.”

He shrugged it off so nonchalantly I wondered if he had lit up this morning. “Sex is a perfectly natural thing, especially when there’s that ‘overwhelming attraction’ happening.”

“Says the man who screws a different graduate assistant every semester.”