Confessions of a Queen B* (8 page)

“Glad to know the secrets of your cleavage are safe—at least, until some guy tries to get to second base.”

She smacked me with the iPad. “You are so crude sometimes.”

“You’re the one insisting on wearing the inserts.”

She gave me an exaggerated huff. “And here I was, trying to thank you for getting them taken down.”

“Wait, what was that?” I held my hand up to my ear. “You’re thanking me?”

“Whatever. But for once, I’m glad the biggest bitch in Eastline is my sister.” A hint of sincerity laced her voice, and she gave me a hug.

My throat started to swell, blocking off any words that could ruin this rare display of affection from Taylor.

She rolled off the barstool. “I’m going to change and get started on my homework. Let me know when the food gets here.”

And just like that, I was back to being alone in our barely used kitchen.

Chapter 7

“One step forward, then two steps back. The school administration announced today that there would be zero tolerance for sexual harassment of any kind. Then they unveiled next year’s cheerleading uniform, which is an inch shorter than this year’s. Way to go, Eastline!”

The Eastline Spy

June, Sophomore Year

Friday morning was looking halfway decent. I actually managed to get some sleep between crying fits. Maybe because I followed Brett’s advice about the diaper-bottle-burp drill. My hair was tamed, my teeth were brushed, and my Hello Kitty tee was giving the world a middle finger.

Even better was the fact Brett stood waiting at my locker with another steaming cup of coffee. He eyed my shirt. “Well, that’s saying something.”

I grinned. “Ready for Junior?”

We swapped the doll and the coffee, but as he was putting on the carrier, he cleared his throat and said, “Um, can I ask a favor of you, Alexis?”

“What?” It was bad enough that it was a Friday during football season. On game days, the football players paraded around campus in their jerseys like they were kings, and the cheerleaders pranced around in short skirts that left little to the imagination. Hence why I chose the “Up Yours” T-shirt this morning.

“I need you to watch Junior tonight.”

“You’ve got to be frigging kidding me.”

I started to turn away, but he caught my shoulder and guided me back with a gentleness I wouldn’t have expected from a testosterone-laced jock. “Just for the game tonight. I couldn’t get Sarah to babysit, and I don’t want to leave the doll in the locker room.”

“It’s my night off from the kid.”

“Please,” he said, turning those warm chocolate-colored eyes on me as though they might melt my resistance.

“I have plans,” I lied.

“No, you don’t. I already asked Taylor.”

Remind me to pay her back for that later.

“Since when is she the expert on my social calendar?”

“Ah, come on, Lexi, it’s just for a few hours. Pick up the doll before kickoff, let me play the game, and I’ll take him back as soon as it’s over. It’s better than the alternative.” He nodded down the hallway, where Sanchez and another football player were pretending to drop an alley-oop using some freshman’s homework.

Sanchez then crashed into the lockers and laughed it off like he meant to do it.

Idiot.

Brett gave me the look that probably made every girl in Eastline sigh, but when it didn’t work on me, he added, “Please.”

I closed my eyes, knowing I was going to regret the next few words that came from my mouth. “Fine, I’ll take him off your hands for a few hours.”

“Thank you, Lexi. Gotta run and make sure my star wide receiver doesn’t land on the DL before the game starts.” Brett took off down the hall and pulled Sanchez aside, hopefully telling him what dumbass he was being.

Less than thirty seconds later, I was stopped by a teacher and informed my shirt was in violation of the dress code.

I returned to my locker for my hoodie and zipped it just high enough to cover the offensive paw and appease the dress code enforcer. Then, as soon as she was out of sight, I lowered the zipper.

I hate high school.

***

It wasn’t until fourth period that I realized what I’d agreed to do. It started when Brett sat down next to me and said, “The game starts at seven, but if you could come by at six to take Junior, that’d be perfect.”

“You mean I have to come back here to get him? During a football game?” My pulse cranked up a notch. I’d managed to make it through three years of high school without attending a single football game, and he was trying to break my perfect record.

“Didn’t you hear what I said this morning?”

“No, I was too busy being pissed off that you were dumping the doll on me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

I leaned closer to him, adding a threatening edge to my voice. “Are you suggesting I should try being nice?”

“Would it kill you?”

“It is much safer to be feared than loved,” I replied.

“This is not Renaissance Florence, and you are not Lorenzo de’ Medici,” he replied, totally catching my reference from Machiavelli’s
The Prince
.

I took in a deep breath, preparing to launch on a tirade that would finally shut him up, but paused when he didn’t back away. Instead, he came closer, and the air around us crackled with something. Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was sexual attraction. I don’t know, and I didn’t care at that moment. I’d discovered my Achilles heel.

It was hard to think straight when I was around him.

“If you want to be happy, practice compassion.”

The quote rendered me speechless. Where the hell did that come from? It was the exact opposite of what I’d thrown at him, so simple and yet so deep coming from a dumb jock.

“That’s from the Dalai Lama, by the way,” he said with a wink. “Good advice, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, maybe you’d be less bitchy if you followed it once in a while.”

“And what if I like being bitchy?”

He looked at me as though I were the one who’d sustained one too many hits to the head. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

Mr. DePaul ended the conversation before I could give my rebuttal. I stewed over my conversation with Brett instead of paying attention to what our teacher was talking about. Something about family planning. I didn’t give a damn. I was more focused on trying to prove to Brett that I was perfectly happy with being the Queen B of Eastline.

Except, if I was really being honest with myself, I sometimes felt a stab of envy when I looked at the way people fawned over the popular kids. As stuck-up and superficial as Summer Hoyt was, she still had people who wanted to be like her. People like my airhead sister. Brett was Mr. Superstar Starting Quarterback and Student Body President, a leader both on and off the field everyone admired.

I didn’t have anyone wanting to be my protégé. The only people in the school who didn’t flee from me when I was in one of my Queen B moods were Morgan and Richard.

And now Brett.

Shit, I was getting soft in my old age.

I made a mental note to dig up some dirt on a few popular kids for my blog before I left campus today, if only to make up for the ground I was losing with Brett.

The bell rang before I knew it, and Brett whispered in my ear, “So I’ll see you outside the locker room at six?”

I fought hard to maintain my angry glare. “Maybe.”

“Aw, come on, Lexi, it’s just for a few hours.”

“Stop calling me that. Do you have some sort of death wish?”

His eyes flickered up and down, from my face to my shirt and back again. A slow easy smile appeared on his face. “Maybe.”

He slipped out of the classroom before I could think of a good comeback.

Damn him.

The only upside to the day was that was time for my weekly blog post to go live. Since the offensive videos had come down, I felt it was now safe to go public with what was obviously a violation of privacy but still keep it vague enough to protect my sister. I took a moment to re-read what I’d written last night.

It appears nothing is sacred here on campus. Yes, I’ve been known to use a camera here and there to expose wrong-doings, but I’ve never stooped to the audacity someone in this school recently has.

Earlier this week, it came to my attention that someone had planted a camera on campus and was recording certain members of the student body and streaming them on YouTube. Due to the sensitive nature of these videos, I took it upon myself to remove the camera and dispose of it. Thankfully, my message to the voyeur got through because the videos have since been taken down by the user.

But it brings up a set of bigger issues.

1. That this happened in our school without the administration being aware of it.
   

2. That someone felt it was perfectly acceptable to violate the privacy of our female students in such a way.
   

3. That the identity of that pervert was never discovered.
   

So take this as a warning, whoever was behind the hidden camera. If you dare try something like this again, I will personally make it my mission to hunt you down and expose you to everyone in the school.

I hit
Post
and packed away my laptop, relieved I was able to let that asshole know I wouldn’t show any mercy next time.

Now, I needed to figure out if I was willing to show the same hard-nosed stance with Brett.

Chapter 8

“Hooray to our football team for winning the state championship! And an even bigger congrats goes to the senior star running back, Jamal Washington, for getting a 4.0 this semester, even in the first period class that he only attended once since school started.”

The Eastline Spy

December, Freshman Year

I caved.

At six o’clock, I met Brett at the locker room door.

My breath hitched when I saw him. He was shirtless and looked so good it bordered on criminal. His brown skin stretched over well-defined muscles that would have a sculptor in ecstasy. I was counting my way down his six-pack when I came to the waist of his low-slung, tight-fitting pants. What I wouldn’t give to let my gaze keep traveling south.

Instead, I got a view of the black infant carrier hanging from his outstretched hand and the mechanical doll that was becoming the bane of my existence.

“Thank you again, Lexi.”

I didn’t dare open my mouth to correct him. I might start drooling like an idiot.

“I’ll meet you back here after the game.” He ducked back into the room filled with other half-naked boys, some of whom I wished had kept their shirts on.

I wandered around campus for the next half hour before ending up back at my car, trying to decide if it was worth hanging around to watch the game versus going out to a coffee shop with Junior. I hated to admit that Taylor was right—I didn’t have any plans for tonight. Morgan had invited me to hang out at The Purple Dog, but when she heard I had baby-duty, she told me to stay home. I had no idea what Richard did on Friday nights. I felt alone—really, really alone—and for a moment, I wished I had more friends.

The sounds of conversations punctuated by laughter drifted over from the football field, mingling with the steady
rat-a-tat-tat
of the drum line. People walked past me with smiles on their faces in anticipation of the first home game of the season. My curiosity got the better of me, so I crept toward the stands, paid my admission, and stuck to the shadows in the hopes no one would recognize me.

“Oh my God, is that you, Alexis?” Richard asked from behind me.

I yelped and spun around. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry, but I needed to make sure hell hadn’t frozen over.” He gave me a fake shiver. “I thought you said you wouldn’t be caught dead at a football game.”

“Yeah, but unfortunately, I ended up with Brett Pederson’s baby,” I replied, gesturing to the doll strapped to my chest.

“You have no idea how many girls would love to be in your position. Hell, I’d love to have his baby except for, you know, the actual childcare part.” He hooked his arm around mine. “Let’s go find a seat, shall we?”

“You’re here for the game?” Somehow, football didn’t seem like an event that would attract Richard.

“I never miss them.”

I stared at him like he’d grown another head. “But it’s like the most caveman-macho thing out there.”

“No, it’s not.” He pointed to the players who were warming up on the field. “Think about it. A bunch of guys wearing tight pants, slapping each other on the ass, tackling each other to the ground. The only thing that’s more gay is wrestling.”