"Die You Freaking Drama Queen" is Not a Valid Essay Prompt

Blake is queen bee of the school and my brother's best friend's girlfriend. I wrote an essay on her evilness as a joke. That is, until MY former best friend decided to turn it in to our teacher for me. The ass. At least I'm getting kissed… wait, what?

--

Findlay. Findlay James Ryan. I mean, who names their daughter that? Seriously. But that's the name that my parents decided to saddle me with. Is it any wonder that I'm socially retarded?

Well, at least I'm not Maxwell Paddy Ryan. That honor belongs to my brother. Ha! "Maxi Pad". That's the nickname I reserve for him when I feel like really ticking him off. Which is all the time.

I even tried calling him that in front of his football buddies a couple times but the name failed to catch on. Bummer.

Not that anyone would ever dream of making fun of my brother anyway. Oh, no, he's captain of the football team and a total hottie so his name is sacrosanct. Pfft. Life is so unfair.

And did I mention that my brother is ridiculously popular? Thanks to him my perfect, quiet refuge of "home" (read: not school and therefore the theoretical escape from public humiliation) is in a near constant state of turmoil and absolutely crawling with jocks and snobby social elites who come to use the pool.

Though my best friend, Ivy, doesn't seem to mind the guys being around. Today she has parked herself in front of my window looking out over the backyard with a pair of binoculars, watching my brother and his admittedly well built friends swim. I seriously question her motives sometimes when she comes over.

"Ivy, do you mind? We have an essay to write."

"Nope. Not at all. Why should I mind?" her blonde ponytail bobbed as she shook her head.

"Har, har. Not funny. Get over here or I'm sending you home." Ivy put down the binoculars long enough to pout at me. Cute. Like a chastised puppy. Darn it! "Okay, fine. Five more minutes, then you have to help me with this." Ivy wiggled in happy triumph before turning back to the window.

"Did you know that Taylor's out there?" My ears burned at the mention.

"Am I supposed to care?" I asked with as much disdain as I could muster. Taylor is my brother's best friend and one of the most annoying guys I know. He's always finding some way to make fun of me. He's also completely gorgeous and captain of the soccer team. There's a theme here on the guys typically found in my house.

"He's shirtless and wet," Ivy noted. Not going to think about it. Not going to think about it!

"I'm going to go get a cold soda, you want something?" I asked, trying to get my mind off the mental image of Taylor in swim trunks, shirtless with his hair plastered to his head.

"Um, no, bad idea," Ivy informed, frantically waving her pale small hand at me, "Blake just arrived."

"Shit!"

"Language," Ivy warned. Ivy and I have been going to the same church since we were ten, it's part of how we became friends, but she's a bit more serious about the religion stuff than I am.

"Sorry." It's just that Blake Summerfield is the school Queen Bee, head cheerleader, stunning, and my arch nemesis. Well, aside from Taylor, her boyfriend. Blake is tall where I'm short, thin and curvy where I'm just… blah… Not to mention blonde, blue-eyed and fashionable, while I'm a brown-eyed limp-haired brunette. And she never fails to point it out to me and anyone else in hearing distance.

I joined Ivy at the window now and ripped the binoculars from her. Unfortunately my snooping was short-lived as the moment I focused on Blake and Taylor, the Queen Bee herself looked up and saw me, pointing Ivy and I out to Taylor with a look of combined disgust and pity.

"Gah!" we both screamed, diving for the floor.

"We are so dead," Ivy whimpered. "Remember what she did the time she caught us taking photos for our photo-blog on the secret world stuffed animals and bulimia?"

"She has no sense of comic genius," I muttered, still sprawled on the floor, "the heinous witch."

"She's like Abigail in The Crucible by Arthur Miller."

"The Crucible?" Ivy looked at me like I was crazy.

"You know," she reminded me, "the play we're supposed to be writing an essay on?" It was like a light went on in my brain.

"Oh my word, you're right! She's manipulative and skanky and totally the first to lead a witch hunt against innocent persons like ourselves when she the real one who's a witch!" I hissed, determinedly. "Ivy, I think I know what to write on."

--

"Malachi Johnson."

"Here!" Mal answered lazily as he dropped into the seat in front of me. I raised an eyebrow at his response; the bell hadn't even rung yet and Mrs. Rottelmeijer wasn't taking attendance, a fact that seemed to be lost on Mal.

"I'm well aware of your presence, Mr. Johnson, what I'm not so sure about are the piercings you seem to be sporting today," our English teacher, Mrs. Rottelmeijer blinked meaningfully, her glasses slipping down her nose a fraction.

"Really?" Mal asked, routinely checking his ears and eyebrows for all rings and studs, "They seem pretty real to me." He smiled rather stunningly—he's kinda got a Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow thing going for him, dirty, disgusting but totally charming. The Rott, as we like to call her, rolled her eyes but let it slide.

"Take them out before class next time," she warned, "or I give you detention." Mal grinned before twisting in his seat to face me and Ivy. Malachi's like me, he goes to the same church Ivy and I do because his parents make him. Which means half the time he doesn't go. But he's been going there since before even Ivy, which means Mal has been one of my best friends since we were three years old. We've gone to the same church, same schools; our families even celebrate holidays and birthdays together.

He's cool even if he is totally emo and goth and hangs out with the smokers and potheads during lunch. Most people don't realize the three of us are friends because we don't hang out much at school, but truth to tell, Mal would beat the crap out of anyone who crossed me or Ivy.

"Hey there, Lovelies. How goes this fine morning?" Ivy blushed (she can't help it, she's super pale). Not that I blame her, Malachi's hot with his dark hair, green eyes, long limbs and sharp features. Plus she never took baths with him when they were three or watched him pee in the pool as a little kid like I did. Puts a whole new perspective on things. It's hard for me to look at him and think ooh, he's hot.

"Quite well, Mister Malachi, and yourself?" I answered in the same pompous tone.

"Aside from disappearing piercings, I'm great. Is that your essay, there?" as he spoke he gestured to the paper that Ivy and I had been pouring over when he first made his entrance. Ivy immediately whipped the paper behind her back.

"No." Simultaneous pleas of innocence. Ah, me and Ivy are good. Malachi gave us both a dirty look.

"My essay's on my desk," I explained. Which was the truth in a way. My real essay that I planned on turning in to The Rott was on my desk. What Ivy was holding was the essay I'd written last night for fun detailing the many evils of Blake Summerfield. It'd turned out rather brilliantly if I do say so myself. I had a solid case against her with an opening argument, tons of evidence in the form of mine and Ivy's personal experiences not to mention common gossip, and a slamdinger of a conclusion. Said conclusion being that Blake is evil incarnate.

Malachi eyed me suspiciously, a slow grin beginning to curl the corners of his mouth, which really should have tipped me off for what happened next: with a sudden dive he poked Ivy in the side, making her jump and allowing him to snatch the essay away from her. At the same moment the bell rang. I dove after the paper anyway, but Mal's long arms kept me at bay.

"In your seats!" Rottelmeijer promptly ordered. I plopped into my chair automatically. The Rott took attendance and I used my pencil to stab Mal in the back. He jumped but admirably managed not to shriek; still, the movement rattled his wallet chain against the desk and Rottelmeijer glared at us. When she looked away again he dared to look over his shoulder at me.

Give. Me. The paper. I mouthed at him. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue then focused in on my essay and started reading it. The Rott glared at us a couple more times as Mal snickered over some of the better points in the paper. I stabbed him in the shoulder a couple more times to no avail.

"Alright, pass your essays forward," Mrs. Rottelmeijer ordered at the end of attendance. Before I could stop him, Malachi was passing my Blake essay forward. Ivy gave me a panicked look, but there wasn't much I could do without making a scene except pass forward our real essays. I tried to breathe calmly. This was all going to be okay. My name wasn't on that paper. Ivy's name wasn't on that paper. We were safe. The Rott would read it and forever wonder what moron decided on this practical joke.

Of course, just to be an extra pain, Mal turned around and gave me the thumbs up. I think I ended up breaking the lead off my pencil into him.

--

"We're gonna get automatic Fs!" It was Ivy and she was sobbing into her lunch like a royal fountain.

"It's okay, it's okay," I tried to soothe her, "Ours names weren't on it, there's no way we'll be found out. Besides, I'm the one who wrote it. Not you." Ivy's blue eyes regarded me for a solemn moment before filling up with water again. "And, anyway, we turned in our real essays so how could she give us an F? Why would she even suspect us?"

It would be, of course at that moment, that Malachi decided to grace us with his presence.

"Ah, the journalistic geniuses!"

"You are dead to me," I retorted. Mal laughed that crazy quirked grin of his making me want to hit him.

"You don't usually sit with us at lunch," Ivy noted through sobs. Actually, nobody usually sat with us on the grass away from the front steps, just me and Ivy with the occasional passerby to say hi. At the sound of Ivy's warbly voice, Malachi squatted in front of her to try to get a look at her face.

"Holy shit, Ivy! Are you crying?"

"Language," she sniffled the reminder half-heartedly.

"See what you've done?"

"Oh, come on," Mal protested, though his green eyes looked a bit more worried than usual, "That essay was comedic gold. And the truth too. It'll be good for one of the teachers to realize that their little popularity princess isn't so perfect."

"Yeah, but did it have to be with my essay?"

Mal gave me a half-guilty, half-annoyed expression.

"Grow a little backbone, will ya?" Mal snorted. Ivy started a new round of sobs and before I knew what I was doing, I'd shoved Mal hard enough that he toppled over and stared up at me in confusion.

"How's that for some backbone?" I snarled. "If you want to get yourself in trouble that's fine, but Ivy and I have enough to deal with Blake and the rest of her posse without getting on the faculty's blacklist too. We don't need to be social outcasts like you. We don't want to be like you." I almost regretted it when I saw the way Mal looked up at me with so much uncertainty and hurt. But the thing is that I was too pissed. He'd totally overstepped the line by handing in that essay.

"Fin…"

I didn't listen; I just grabbed my stuff and Ivy's hand, dragging her with me. I didn't know where we were going, just somewhere away from Mal.

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