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“Tell me why!”
“No,” he says, furious. I’m happy to see he’s finally pissed off as well.
“You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you a goddamned thing.” He thrusts my arms away as if he can’t stand to touch me, while I chase after him, popping back and forth behind him like a jack-in-the-box.
“What’s the matter? Are you scared?” I taunt.
“Get away.”
“You owe me an explanation.”
“You really want to know?” He stops, turns, and gets in my face.
“Yes.”
“She’s nicer,” he says simply.
Nicer?
What the hell does that mean?
“I’m nice.” I pound my chest with my hands. My nose prickles a warning that tears are not far behind.
“Leave it alone, will you?” he asks, running his hands through his hair.
“I can’t. I won’t. It’s not fair—”
“She’s just nicer, okay?”
“What does that mean?” I wail.
“She’s not—you know—competitive.”
Lali? Not competitive? “She’s the most competitive girl I know.”
He shakes his head. “She’s nice.”
Nice—nice? Why does he keep using that word? What does it mean? And then it dawns on me. Nice equals sex. She has sex with him. She goes all the way. And I wouldn’t.
“I hope you’re very happy together.” I take a step back. “I hope you’re so happy you get married and have kids. And I hope you stay in this stupid town forever and rot—like a couple of wormy apples.”
“Thanks,” he says sarcastically, heading toward the gym. This time I don’t stop him. Instead, I shout dumb words at his back. Words like “maggots” and “mold” and “nacreous.”
I’m stupid, I know. But I don’t care anymore.
I pick up a blank piece of paper and roll it through my mother’s old Royale typewriter. After a few minutes, I write: The trick to being a queen bee isn’t necessarily beauty but industriousness. Beauty helps, but without the drive to get to the top and stay on top, beauty will only make you a bee-in-waiting.
Three hours later, I read through my handiwork. Not bad. Now all I need is a pen name. Something that will show people I mean business, that I’m not one to be messed with. On the other hand, it should also convey a sense of humor—even absurdity. I absentmindedly straighten the pages while I consider.
I reread my title, “The Castlebury Compendium: A guide to the fauna and flora of high school,” followed by, “Chapter One: The Queen Bee.” I pick up a pen, pressing the clicker in and out, in and out, until finally the name comes to me. By Pinky Weatherton, I write, in neat block letters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Pinky Takes Castlebury
“Maggie is making me go to this prom committee meeting with her,” Peter says under his breath. “Do you mind putting the paper to bed?”
