I am once again left wondering how I got here. Here being Crestllan High, my fourth high school in just as many years. Well, I know how I got here in literal terms seeing as I'm in the middle of a parking lot. I'm talking about how I got here in the figurative sense. Just what possesses me to go through this once again?

I apologize dear reader, that made no sense. The best way to start this off would be by pointing me out. See that plain compact car needing a new paint job next to the Ferrari?

Yeah, I'm the Ferrari.

While I hate expositions, perhaps I should quickly explain why I am sitting in said sports car applying yet another coat of red lip gloss. I was a normal girl up until the eighth grade graduation ceremony. I don't know what started it, but my parents decided right then and there to get divorced. No, don't make the assumption that I'm angst ridden because it wasn't that big a deal. I was more or less living with my dad as it was since my mom's job at the hospital kept her there most of the time. So, the next week I moved with my dad.

Please, don't get bored yet because this is where it gets exciting. In a couple of weeks I got sick and I mean really sick. Don't ask me what this mysterious illness was, at fourteen one doesn't pay attention to anything even resembling Latin. All I can say is that there was some funky shit growing in the walls and it did a number on my system. I could barely move for two months and to say that I got bored would be a vast understatement. Thusly, my dad got me a laptop so I could entertain myself with the wonderful world wide web from the comfort of the prison known as my bed. My favorite pastime? Fan fiction and original romances.

I shit you not.

So yes, laugh it up all you want but I will proudly admit to being an absolute addict. I'm talking the popular guy and timid girl, the sex god and snarky smart ass, hated each other for years before finding love, swore he wasn't gay until now, fantasy, comedy, fluff, drama, and as long as it had romance, I read it.

How does this pertain to my current situation? Well, as I read and read (and read some more) I realized that there is that one girl who appears in every story, no matter the premise; the Queen Bitch. Now in the beginning I hated her like any self-respecting romance junky would, but then I noticed a pattern, a horrible yet fascinating underlying pattern. Who is the one that the guy is with when he realizes he wants more than long legs and big tits? Who makes her realize that she is jealous and has feelings for him? Who does the one thing that makes them both decide to admit their feelings, there when the shit hits the fan? The Queen Bitch.

Take a moment to think about it.

Right before freshman year I swore to myself that I would become her and play matchmaker all through high school. There is no better way to push people together than from the position of most power. By changing school districts I was able to get my plan going without worrying that someone would recognize me. Besides, between the sickness and resulting physical therapy I'd lost a good twenty-five pounds. I was no longer the chubby weirdo who didn't have feminine in her dictionary. In fact, I studied makeup techniques, fashion trends and most of all, how to be a bitch. Dad didn't make crazy money, but to soften the blow of the divorce and a new school he bought me a whole new wardrobe. While not at the height of fashion, it was enough to get me started. By now I can apply makeup in a moving car with no mirror, run in four inch heels, get a guy hard in two minutes and make a girl cry in three.

The next three years I perfected the art of whoredom, each year stepping it up a notch. Freshman year it took me two weeks to get to the top, sophmore year was one week and junior year I owned the place in three days. Trust me when I say I am your worst high school memory. Now I'm not a bitch at heart and every girl that I really tormented ended the year with the man of her dreams. At first I could only set up one couple a semester but last year I racked up a whopping twenty relationships. Once I was working on four cases at the same time.

And how does my dad feel about this? He pretty much doesn't know. My clothes at home are regular jeans and a shirt, and I slut it up on the way to school. He works insanely hard fixing up other businesses. Yeah, I didn't know there was a corporate repairman either but from the beginning of September to the end of July he's got you back on track. August first is official moving day.

But that is enough reminiscing. Naturally my car has attracted a lot of attention so my exit has to be perfect. I open the door slowly and pause with one leg on the pavement. My legs are nowhere near long and shapely, but with a good moisturizer and three hundred dollar shoes, they don't have to be. Next, I slide out quickly and snap to a haughty pose, holding it for a second while regaining my balance. Swinging my "favorite" Gucci bag over my shoulder, I slam the door with just enough force to catch the attention of the whole lot. With a flip of my hair the first performance is over and I saunter to the gates of Crestllan High.

Now, I have practiced "the walk" for hours and the click of my heels and sway of wide hips, where I lost the least amount of weight, is flawless. The part that most people forget is the slight movement of the torso, led by the natural swing of your arms, that give your breasts just enough bounce to draw attention without looking silly. And I have a lot of breasts compliments of an amazingly padded push up bra. If you touch the bottom half of my boobs, I won't feel a damn thing, it's that padded.

The second I step into the school heads turn and rumors circulate. I already know where my locker is (scouting out the place beforehand is mandatory) and stride confidently over. A small group of girls in short skirts and guys in Varsity jackets are lounging like they own the place only ten feet from my locker. Spinning the combination effortlessly (again preparation is key) I size up them up. Getting "in" is easier than it may seem. If I approach them it would seem desperate, but the elite cannot let a fellow bitch run loose around campus for long.

After tossing in some books and closing my locker I slut walk their way. Deliberately slowing my pace as I pass the group, all eyes turn to me. From close up the majority of the girls are blue-eyed blondes, making my dark brown and darker brown combo an anomaly. Something as small and petty as that could hurt my chances, but one look at who has to be the football captain, and all misgivings fade away. I recognize that look of hunger and confidence. He sees me as just another piece of ass for him to use and lose. The thought makes my stomach churn with anger. I mark him as my first project just because that leering has me on edge. My face however remains appraising, smooth, and most of all cocky. I turn my head away in what is clearly a show of dismissal causing shocked whispers just seconds behind.

"What a bitch!"

"I'd fuck that any day."

"Did you see that bag?"

The first bell of the day rings.

Let the games begin.