1. Queenie
CHAPTER ONE
QUEENIE
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘WHAT WAS I MADE FOR’ BY BILLIE EILISH
“…Kutte. Ulloo ke patthe. You bastard . Saale. Suar ki aulaad.” I take a deep breath and imagine the guttural Hindi swearing in picture animation.
Kutte - Dog.
Ulloo ke patthe - Daft fool.
Saale - Slimeball.
Suar ki aulaad – Son of a cowardly pig.
The heroine, a bubbly Kareena Kapoor, continues cussing in one of the most iconic scenes in Bollywood cinema. She’s on blast through the tinny speakers of Lizzie Bonnet – my Karman Ghia - who runs better than she looks. For context, Kareena is talking to her cowardly ex who ditches her after she runs away from home to marry him.
I also have to curse my nemesis out, after her bullying and rumor-mongering forced me to drop out of Thorndon University, Ivy League’s best-kept secret. I’m actually attending the biggest party of the summer - the Barrons Bay May 31 Jam – for this reason.
A sexy Jeep with blinding lights cuts in front of me with a bumper sticker – I score. You clap! - and I swerve a little to avoid hitting it. The upsetting jerk opens up my glove compartment and out fall a sheaf of papers all with the dreaded FINAL NOTICE, LAST WARNING printed on them.
Shoving them back inside without ceremony, a little sliver of dread slithers down my spine. One of those final notices is from the college dorms informing me I am no longer eligible for campus housing since I have been an inactive student for two consecutive semesters.
It was served three days ago.
I am now homeless as well as futureless. And the worst part? My over-achiever parents currently serving on a tour of Doctors Without Borders, aren’t here to witness my humiliation at the best university in the whole world. Nor do I have the nerve to tell them why their elder daughter – who got a four-year scholarship for a pre-med degree – is currently working as a diner waitress for seven dollars an hour.
Undignified tears prick my eyes, and I angrily blink them off. Take a quick peek at the rearview mirror to see if my winged eyeliner is intact. It is.
I’m not eager to get to the Barron’s Bay Jam but I press on and take the turn to Lake Quigley, parking amid a sea of Hummers, Jeeps, and Lexuses.
I check myself in the nearest mirror.
Ripped jeans with no camel toe which fit my butt and thighs perfectly with comfy, platform heels. Check.
A tee shirt proclaiming ‘You’re excused’ in Amy Winehouse (RIP) black. Check.
Boobs outlined clearly under the tee shirt. Double D check.
I swipe on the juiciest lip gloss I have – candy pink flavor – and it adds to the shine of my nude brown lipstick that somehow really works with my suntanned desi skin. Summers in a beach town are brutal when you’re in the service industry. But it doesn’t mean I need to look the part.
Just then, my phone vibrates against my hip pocket. I extract it and the screen lights up.
My heart aches at the text from my parents –
Kunju, how are you? Please call me when you see this. An email once a week is not enough. Appa’s threatening to call off the tour for you.
I unscrew the flask I carried with me to avoid being drugged by a stranger at this party and take a hefty swallow. The whiskey burns my throat.
Because I want to answer them so badly, I switch my phone off as I enter the party. I also make a silent promise to myself to sort everything out with my parents once I take this final step and confront my mean girl bully.
I get a few glances when people see me – and I can see things in their eyes. Recognition. Pity. Derision. Curiosity.
I can guess their pathetic line of thought too - Did she do it? Did it happen? Is she making it up to get attention? How sad if she is lying about it. She needs help.
A toned, tanned, blond princess jostles me and I almost stumble.
Her doll-blue eyes fill with scorn when she recognizes me. “Watch where you’re going, Rumor Girl.”
“ You watch yourself,” I defend myself.
“Come on, Kylie,” her beefy boyfriend, in a Hawaiian print shirt and tight shorts, soothes her. “Let’s not…” He gives me a look full of speculation and horribly lusty desire. “Tangle with the help.”
Before I can say something back, they melt into the crowd. Their behavior is not new.
I am a waitress at the local diner aka the help. And I have been called far worse names than Rumor Girl since January by these girls. The boyfriends of the perfect blond princesses often look at me like I am something they want to devour and discard. Like I’m used goods.
And, usually, it never affects me. I have truth and righteousness on my side. But today…
I glance down at my Amy Winehouse defiance outfit. I stick out like a sore thumb amidst all the pretty, bright colors. My confidence plummets to a zero.
When I look up, I’m surrounded by a crush of bodies. Couples are making out. Hard. Like, with tongue and boob-squeezing and everything. I can even see some action down there.
I should have guessed the party would basically be hookup central.
A horrible thought strikes me, and I pause mid-stride hearing Rihanna croons through the speakers, between a grinding couple and a crip-walking dancer. If this is a hookup party, then she might be with a date too…
As if by magic, my roving eyes spot my crush, Edward Durham IV. He always tips twenty five percent and gives me a wide smile every time he sits at my station. English Edward is nice . And I have wanted to ask him out for weeks…
And there she is - Veronica Washington. Codename Moronica, aka my bully, and the woman I am here to have a showdown with. And the horror? Edward is tonguing her, hard. Her hands are in the back pockets of his shorts. Her flirty, sunny yellow, summer dress floats around them at the knees.
They are a beer commercial come to life – tall, pretty, perfect.
My heart takes a beating, seeing them together. It’s further proof the universe hates me. Because Veronica is his date. She gets everything I don’t.
I down more of my flask, its contents slosh on my hand because the crip walker bumps against me. This shit is pretty potent. It burns a line down my middle and makes my head swim a little.
I weave, taking one careful step at a time.
I’m finally in Moro…Veronica’s line of sight. I catch sight of her squad of Barbie-perfect minions grinding with shiny, preppy dude-bro types. Although one of them is a throuple, so that’s progress.
Oblivious Veronica is still tonguing her preppy, blonde boyfriend. Any second now, she’s going to see me. In my ‘Back in Black’ outfit. Which outlines every curve I possess. Vividly.
Sweat streaks down my back and heads for the dip in my hips.
Why did I have to wear black for a summer beach blowout?! What was I thinking?
“Veronica…” I announce myself. Loudly.
Edward shakes a bit, as his dreamy blue eyes find me. To his credit, he looks the tiniest bit ashamed. But Veronica just turns around in the arms of her man. She runs her cat green eyes over me…my outfit. Tracking the curls sticking to my neck (thank you, humidity.)
“Queeeeenie,” she breathes. “Did you say my name?”
I glance over at Edward, who’s silent. “Yes, I?—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know I’d given you permission to use it. Did I?” Veronica says smoothly. She runs her talons over Edward’s arm hair.
My stomach drops along with my heart, straight to the ground.
“I just?—”
“Came alone to the party, I see.” She cocks her head. “Or are you just waiting to run back to your boyfriend once you’ve put in an appearance tonight? Is that your plan?” She emphasizes on boyfriend like it’s the dirtiest word on the planet.
Everyone is silent now, watching Veronica and me.
Say it. Curse her out like Geet did. Show her what it feels like to be completely humiliated, Queenie. Do it. Tell her how you were gaslit by the Thorndon faculty because they could not believe you when you told them what one of the professors had done.
I straighten my spine and pull myself taller. I swear I open my mouth to begin my monologue, but then Veronica laughs. The tinkly sound belongs in an autotune viral video.
“I forgot,” she continues nastily, “No one’s going to want to date the girl who’s ruined her life with rumors.”
I suck in a hurt breath. She did not just say that.
“Cat got your tongue, Queenie?” she asks sweetly. Her ivy-green eyes are slits of venom and rage. “Or is that alley cat, ladies?”
Her mean girl squad laughs at her feeble attempt at a joke. And pretty soon everyone within vicinity hears her.
“Better to be a cat than a vile dog of the female persuasion, V.” I swallow past the lump in my throat and throw out this comeback.
“No one wants you here, Bitch Queen,” she hisses out.
Edward gives me an apologetic look, as if he wants to be anywhere but here. But he doesn’t step up and defend me. My crush disappears a little as he allows his date to talk complete shit to me.
Even though, from her perspective, I absolutely deserve it. And nothing I can say will change how she feels about me.
My shoulders slump in defeat.
I can’t do this. I cannot be the object of derision and taunts yet again. I can’t be homeless, futureless, and the laughingstock of this party. I just cannot. Shame and regret create a volatile combination in my stomach, making me want to hurl and cry at the same time.
“That’s what I thought, Rumor Girl. Get going, will you?” Smugness fairly drips off her honeyed words.
And they make me do something reckless. Say something reckless. Be someone reckless.
“Actually, I just wanted to know if you’d seen my date.” I tilt my chin up and dare her with my quiet, insane words.
I don’t have a date. I don’t have the D of a date. Not tonight or any night. I haven’t since high school prom when John Fong came out as gay to me during the final dance.
What am I doing ? Why am I lying through my teeth to the girl who will use it as more weapons in her arsenal to humiliate me?
Abort. Abort , Queenie!
But I don’t abort. I stand there and dare her to call me on my blatant lie. I look around casually, hoping to see a total stranger.
“Oh yeah?” Veronica scoffs. “Who’s the mystery date, then? I’d love to meet the guy who –”
“Oh…there he is! So sorry for the trouble.” I smile brightly and chirp like a demented beauty queen.
I turn to the other side and brush against someone’s shoulder. I almost stumble. I put my hand out on instinct and grab hold.
It turns out to be a person. A strange male person. No one from campus.
It’s all I need. I drag the male person to my side and almost shout, “There you are. I thought I lost you.” I smile at his shoulder, holding onto his jacket with a death grip.
Then I wave like a goddamn queen at Moronica and her mean girls. Have the last word in this game we play. “Cat’s out, ladies. See you never.”
I turn to face the male person, go up on my toes. And say, “Please, just go with this. I’m so sorry, but, please, just go with it.”
His eyes widen. “Go with…”
I don’t give him a reason to talk further and just mash my lips against his.
For the world’s worst first kiss.