Confessions of a Queen B* (12 page)

He gave me the “yeah, and I’m lovin’ it” grin.

“But seriously, Dad, I just can’t figure him out. I mean, I know I should hate him. I know I should stay far, far away from people like him. And yet, he does these nice little things like bringing me coffee—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa—time out!” My dad made a T with his hands and held it in front of the screen until I stopped talking. “He brought you coffee?”

“Yeah, he said he thought I needed it after I’d told him I didn’t sleep well the night before because of our project.”

“He’s totally into you, then.”

“Dad, please, he’s supposedly dating the head cheerleader.”

“‘Supposedly’?”

This was when it sucked having a professor of philosophy for a dad. He loved dissecting everything I said and throwing it back at me. “Well, he told me she wasn’t his girlfriend, but Summer’s draped all over him all the time like she owns him.”

“And?”

“And what? Why should he be interested in me when he can have her?”

Dad crossed his arms and nodded. “And there’s the root of your problem. You think you don’t deserve him.”

I went back to massaging my temples.

“Let me put it this way, princess—no teenage guy goes out of his way to do something nice for a girl unless he likes her.”

“So?”

“So, has he done anything else you’d consider nice?”

I could still taste the blueberry pancakes from this morning. “He made me breakfast.”

“Yeah, he’s totally hot for you. Men won’t cook for a girl unless there’s sex involved. Just use a condom, okay, please? I’m not ready to become a granddad yet.”

And we were back to the “ew, not going there” part of the conversation. “You have nothing to worry about in that department, Dad, because that’s the extent of the moves he’s made on me.”

“He hasn’t tried to kiss you?”

“Nope.” There’d been several times when I thought he would, but I was obviously delusional.

“Touched you?”

“Not unless you count the quick feel he got when he was helping me put on a baby carrier earlier this week.”

“Are you sure he’s straight?”

I had to laugh at that. “Yeah, pretty sure.”

Dad nodded and stroked his beard. “Then this brings up two scenarios. One—he just wants to be friends.”

“Which would be a cold day in hell.” Even though part of me protested when I said that. I could be friends with him—in secret, like today. But as far as school interactions went, it wasn’t going to happen.

“Or he could really, really like you—like more than the ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am’ kind of way.”

Sweat prickled along the back of my neck. “I can’t believe I’m talking about sex and boy issues with my dad.”

He snorted. “Do you think your mom would offer better advice?”

“She’d probably tell me to start wearing makeup and dress nicer so I can fit in better with the other kids.”

“Bingo. And I’m telling you to be yourself and not give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks. You’ll see when you get to college—all this high school clique bullshit will be gone.”

“In the meantime, I’m trying to get through one more year of it without going insane.” I twirled my finger in my hair, thinking about the way Brett had tucked it behind my ear earlier. “So, what should I do in the meantime?”

“Well, you could always capitalize on your attraction and jump his bones.”

My head hit the desk. “Not everything can be solved with sex, Dad.”

“Sure it can. Love makes the world go round, after all.”

“This is not the sixties, Dad, and there are consequences to free love—like AIDS and herpes and teen pregnancy.”

“Fine, but then let me ask you this—has he exposed a vulnerable part of himself to you? A secret? A weakness?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s yes or no, Alexis. Would he catch flack from everyone at school if they knew about it?”

I pulled up the picture of Brett with his sisters on my phone and held it up to the screen for my dad. “How about that?”

Dad nearly spewed his coffee. “You said he was a jock?”

“Star quarterback of the team.”

“Does he know about the photo?”

“Yep.”

“And he didn’t ask you to delete it?”

“Nope.”

Dad went back to stroking his beard. “Then his actions demonstrate a willingness to be intimate with you.”

“We’re not going back to sex again, are we?”

He shook his head. “Intimacy has to do with more than just sex, princess. It’s about sharing a secret part of yourself with another person with the hope of strengthening a bond. There’s a ton of literature in the philosophic community about friendship, love, and relationships, but it all touches on the importance of intimacy, even if Aristotle pooh-poohed it.”

This was growing heavier with each passing second, and I wasn’t ready to go there yet. “You’re losing me, Professor.”

“Don’t play dumb with me—you know what I’m talking about. Think about you and your best friend, Morgan. You know things about her that no one else does, right?”

Sometimes far more than I wanted to. “Yeah.”

“And she knows things about you that no one else does, too?”

I nodded.

“Then you two have been intimate with each other, and look how strong your friendship is. You two trust each other with your secrets, and you have a tight bond because of it.” He pointed to my phone. “The fact that he allowed you to get a picture of him like that means he’s trusting you in the hopes you’ll return his trust and share part of yourself with him.”

“Or he’s trying to break down my defenses and make me vulnerable.”

“Same idea, but sometimes, the road to strength goes through vulnerability and trust.”

I sat for a moment, thinking about all the conversations I’d had with Brett in the last week. He was good at pushing my buttons, but maybe that was part of his agenda. The only problem was I wasn’t sure what his agenda was. My conversation with my dad only left me more confused.

“Dad, why can’t we have normal father–daughter conversations that don’t involve philosophy?”

“You mean like what I have with your sister? The whole ‘stay away from boys or I’ll get a shotgun’ type?”

“How about the ‘don’t you dare go out in public dressed like that’ type?”

That got a laugh out of my dad, especially after hearing him bitch about my sister’s cheerleading uniform a few weeks ago. “So, back to the boy trouble, let me ask you this—did the things he shared with you change your opinion of him?”

“Boy, did they ever.” Brett was real, with problems just like the rest of us. And yet, no matter how mad I tried to get at him, it never lingered, never developed into the long-lasting disdain I harbored for people like Summer.

“For better or worse?”

“Better, I suppose.” He was smart. He had a wicked sense of humor. He had a great relationship with his sisters. He owned the football field like it was nobody’s business, and yet he mentioned that he was trying to lead by example and keep the rest of the guys from being complete assholes.

“And let me guess—he scares you into doing everything you can to push him away.”

I opened my mouth to tell him no, but stopped when I remember the way I’d done that very thing this morning. “How’d you guess that?”

“Because your mother does the same thing,” he replied with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Listen, princess, I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, but if you let your pride build walls around you and not let anyone in, then you’ll find you’re going to miss out on a lot of good things in life like love and friendship. Don’t be afraid to let people in.”

“And what if I end up getting hurt again?”

“Well, that’s part of the gamble, isn’t it?” A doorbell rang off in the distance, and my dad pushed away from his desk. “I got to go—my graduate assistant is here to help me organize my notes.”

I rolled my eyes. What he meant to say was that he was going to get laid. “And who is this semester’s model?”

“Jackson.”

That raised my brows. “Experimenting with boys?”

He snickered. “No way in hell. But I’m on sabbatical while I get my next paper written, and I figured I needed an assistant this semester who’ll actually assist me.”

Instead of helping him find his zipper. “Gotcha. Have fun, Dad.” I was about to close the connection, but I added, “And thanks.”

“Any time, princess.”

The call ended, but a couple of minutes later, I got an email from my dad with the lyrics of “I Am a Rock” by Simon and Garfunkel. My dad was always sending me random song lyrics he felt were appropriate. I read through today’s selection and realized how much they reminded me of the Queen B I’d become.

If you want to be happy, practice compassion
. Brett’s Dalai Lama quote echoed through my head. Would I be happier if I was just a bit nicer? Would it be worth the risk?

Then my gaze fell on the last two lines of “I Am a Rock” about a rock feeling no pain, and an island never crying.

Safe, but lonely, much like my place at Eastline.

Chapter 11

“Dear Summer Hoyt, it must be nice having Mommy and Daddy replace every car you’ve wrecked since getting your driver’s license. First, the new Camaro. Then, the new Mercedes. Now you’ve been downgraded to a pre-owned BMW. Oh, the horror! Maybe it’s time to stop texting while driving, or you’ll end up in a Honda Accord next.”

The Eastline Spy

March, Junior Year

Saturday night, I tossed and turned, sleeping less than when I had the stupid doll crying every few hours. My guilty conscience kept nagging me. Brett had tried to be nice to me, and I threw it back in his face. I’d even threatened to destroy his reputation to get back at him. As much as I tried to justify my actions, I couldn’t. I was the Queen B, and boy, did I ever show my royal bitchiness.

I stumbled downstairs to the unfamiliar roar of the blender.

My mom was using it.

I treaded carefully toward her. “Mom, are you okay?”

She looked up me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. “Yeah, why?”

“Because you’re making something other than coffee in the kitchen.” I sniffed it. Whatever it was smelled so awful, I couldn’t begin to describe it. Let’s just say the mustard-green-gray color was enough to make me want to stay away. “Please tell me you aren’t going to drink that.”

“Of course not, honey. It’s a mask for my face.” She took the blender to the sink and strained the goop into a bowl.

It was a complete one-eighty from the way Brett’s mom used the sink to rinse off fruit. Even with the tense discussion about Brett’s college choices, it was still a nice experience to sit down with a family over a meal.

“Mom, have you ever thought about making pancakes one morning?”

She stiffened as though she’d stuck her finger into an outlet. “You mean you want me cook breakfast?”

“Well, it would be interesting to try once.”

Panic lined her pale face when she turned around. “Are you talking about microwave pancakes? Or from scratch?”

“Scratch.”

Her face went another shade paler.

“Just kidding, Mom. Sorry I mentioned it.” I went to the fridge and grabbed a cup of yogurt. “I’ll be fine with this.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I think I have a frying pan somewhere down here.” She bent over to peer inside the cabinet where she kept a set of high-end cookware in a box under the counter. I think she’d maybe used it twice since she bought it five years ago.

“It’s okay.” I shook the yogurt container. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

I retreated to my room before my mom offered to let me try out her new mask.

I decided I needed to talk to people who had some clue of what life was like at Eastline, but I knew Morgan would only greet me with a string of cuss words if I dared to call her before noon. Thankfully, I had my copy of
Pride and Prejudice
to distract me while I was waiting. I lost myself in the world of manners and miscommunication, of country dances and grand Regency balls. But this time, the familiar pages didn’t comfort me like they usually did. Instead, I kept hearing Richard telling me I was too proud to admit I liked Brett and my dad telling me my walls of pride were keeping me from enjoying life.

And then it hit me.

I was Mr. Fucking Darcy.

I’d been so busy setting myself above the rest of my classmates because I thought I was better than them that I refused to see any good in them. And there was Brett, whom I’d judged based on his association with his bonehead peers (like Sanchez), reaching out to me and trying to show me that he was different from the rest, but I’d been the asshole who rebuked him.

I closed the book and threw it on my bed. Damn it! When did my life get so frigging complicated?