The Queen Bee of Bridgeton Read online

  The

  Queen Bee

  of

  Bridgeton

  Leslie DuBois

  Copyright © 2011 Leslie DuBois

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0615460534

  ISBN-13: 978-0615460536

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Leslie DuBois on Amazon

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Amazon Edition License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Dedicated to all my little Queen Bees

  AH class of 2008

  Chapter 1

  Caught in the Noose

  "Every student who has faced this honor council has been found guilty and expelled," Headmaster Collins said from behind the judge's bench of Dardem Hall. Though I knew the expulsion rate of Bridgeton Academy, I prayed the outcome of my own honor trial would be different. I mean, innocence had to account for something, right?

  I felt like everyone in the world was staring at me. Probably because they were. The five members of the honor council, which included my sister Sasha, sat in the middle of the stage waiting for my explanation of events. She held her face in her hands shaking with tears as she, too, knew my fate. My accuser smiled smugly, crossed his arms, and winked at me. It was obvious he knew I was innocent. But did that matter?

  I cast my eyes down to avoid their gaze, but the view wasn't much better. My pink ballet tights totally clashed with my green plaid school uniform skirt. What was I thinking? Lucky tights or not, this was a major fashion faux pas. I couldn't bear to look at myself anymore, but looking into the sea of Bridgeton uniforms in the audience was even worse. I caught a glimpse of Ashley's evil little face. I wondered if she noticed the tights too or did her smirk just reveal the utter joy she found in my obvious suffering.

  "Sixteen years ago, in my first year here at Bridgeton, I expelled half the senior class along with eleven juniors and three sophomores. I do not tolerate dishonorable actions on my campus." Headmaster Collins continued informing me and the audience of things we already knew. Things he reminded us of constantly every Monday morning in the weekly honor speech.

  God, I wanted to be off that stage. I wanted to be anywhere else in the world. Why couldn't I be dancing with the Russian Ballet instead? Hell, I'd take dancing in my tiny bedroom in Venton Heights with gravel in my pointe shoes over this torture. I mean, at Bridgeton, being called a cheater was worse than being called a bank robber or a murderer or a Democrat.

  Ashley tapped Lauren on the shoulder, whispered something into her ear, then they giggled hysterically while staring at me. Even through her evilness, Ashley was still beautiful. With her flowing blonde hair and soft blue eyes she looked exactly like Alice from Alice in Wonderland, except with a hint of skank.

  Like a queen on her throne, Lauren tossed her curly golden brown hair over her shoulder and shared the joke with Brittany who sat on her other side. Brittany's eyes expanded while she laughed, exaggerating her already horse-like features.

  Headmaster Collins banged his gavel. "Is there something you would like to add to these proceedings, Ms. DeHaven?" he said to Lauren in the front row.

  "Oh no, sir," she said with syrupy sweetness. "My classmates and I were just commenting on how wonderful it will be when our school is free of people who don't appreciate honesty and virtue." She smirked at me. I wanted to jump off the stage and slap the sneer off her face. But that wouldn't have helped the situation.

  I had to admire their ingenuity, somewhat. I mean, to frame me for cheating and have video footage. Pretty genius. If I was more like them, this whole thing probably would never have happened. But I'm not. A poor, black girl from Venton Heights could never defeat the likes of Ashley, Brittany and Lauren. I shouldn't have even tried.

  My father used to tell me being black was not a negative no matter how the media portrayed us. He told me I should "Say it loud, 'I'm black and I'm proud." I tried to feel that way, but sometimes I just didn't think it was true. I mean, if nothing is wrong with being black, then why did no one want to be 'blacklisted', 'blackballed', or blackmailed? Why is Angel food cake white and Devil's food cake black?

  Of course, a black man did get elected president. That helped my self-image a little, but not much. I mean, it wasn't a fair comparison. I'm pretty sure Barack and Michelle didn't grow up in Venton Heights. When Homeless Murray from the alley behind my apartment becomes president, then maybe I'll feel comfortable celebrating my blackness.

  I needed to concentrate and figure out how to make them believe me. But how could I explain away the video footage those bitches had concocted? Students had been convicted and expelled for much less. I was surprised Headmaster Collins went through this formality at all since he seemed so ready to expel students all the time.

  Headmaster Collins, or Colonel Collins as he was sometimes called, scared the pee out of me figuratively and literally.

  Once, during my first week at Bridgeton, I inadvertently stepped into a class already in progress just to avoid passing him in the hallway.

  Everyone in the class stared at me like the complete moron I was. Even the teacher, with chalk in mid air turned and gave me the classic 'what the hell are you doing?' teacher stare waiting for me to explain my presence. I tried to think quickly as, in my mind, the seconds ticked into minutes, but thinking quickly was not my strong suit. Neither was public speaking. One of two things usually happened when I was caught in a situation like that; either I stood there with my mouth open and eyes bulging as if choking on a chicken bone, or, I started babbling incoherently. That day, I wished for the choking.

  "Bathroom…no, I know this is not the bathroom. If it was, then all of you wouldn't be here. Unless it was one of those bathrooms you see in other countries that are just big rooms with several holes and people just squat and go. But all of you people have your clothes on so, I know you're not using the bathroom…um what I mean is that I'm looking for the bathroom. Yeah, that's what I mean." I glanced outside the door to see if it was safe to make my exit, but Headmaster Collins had stopped to talk with a faculty member. I had to continue my embarrassing soliloquy long enough for him to pass. "So, bathroom is what I'm looking for because I have to…you know…use it. Not that I can't hold it because I can, I mean I haven't wet myself in like…" just then Headmaster Collins passed and without even finishing my thought, I darted out of the classroom and away from the scathing eyes of my schoolmates. I tried to convince myself that what had just happened didn't happen, but the raucous laughter emanating from the classroom told me otherwise.

  "Was that Sasha?" Someone in the classroom asked as they tried
to control their giggles.

  "Oh, God no!" someone else said. "Have you ever seen Sasha be that…that awkward?"

  "I think that was her sister. What's her name again?"

  "No idea."

  With Archibald Collins as headmaster, Bridgeton was nicknamed the Ivy League High School of North America. Last year 87% of the senior class went on to Ivy League universities. Eighty seven percent! That's like…okay, I don't know how many students that is. Math is another one of my many weaknesses. But, in any case, 87% was a lot of brainiacs going off to brainy schools to do big brainy things.

  Dardem Hall was specially erected by Headmaster Collins to review honor violations. This small scale replica of a court house was built on the east lawn and loomed like a noose above all of our heads just waiting for one of us to figuratively hang ourselves by flouting Headmaster Collins' rules. This was only my second year at Bridgeton, but it seemed to me there were a particularly high number of noose victims. I remembered attending trials for other students and feeling absolutely mortified on their behalf for the humiliation they were suffering. The day of my trial, I felt the same mortification, as well as my own personal humiliation.

  "In my opinion," the headmaster continued, "cheating is the worst possible offense. Not only does it bring shame upon this school, but it also degrades your personal character. There is no room in Bridgeton for cheaters." He looked at me and said, "Sonya Garrison, unless you can give us an adequate explanation, you will have to finish your junior year elsewhere."

  My heart raced. My hands were hot and slippery with sweat. A knot developed in my throat making it impossible for me to utter a sound. What could I possibly say to get out of this? The imminent doom of a life without a high school education pounded my thoughts, and gave me an agonizing headache. What would I do without a high school diploma? Sasha was going to kill me. After we'd worked so hard to make it out of the projects, I had somehow figured out a way to ruin it. Well, in all fairness, I didn't ruin it. It was completely not my fault. Ashley, Brittany, and Lauren set me up and I knew it. Together queen Lauren and her hoochies made up what’s called the Bitch Brigade of Bridgeton. The most feared girls in the school. But why did they have it in for me? Why were they so determined to ruin my life? In order to understand, I'd have to start from the beginning. And I guess the beginning started with dance.

  Chapter 2:

  Dancing Dream

  I remember the day I decided to become a ballerina. I wrote a poem for a third grade contest and won free tickets to see the Houston Dance Company perform in Newark. Actually, the poem was more like a prayer asking God to take me out of the nightmare called Venton Heights. My family had only lived there for two weeks, but I had already been beaten up five times for the offense known as "acting white." Because I didn't know the slang or the words to the latest rap song apparently I wasn't black enough.

  We had to move to Venton Heights because the bank foreclosed on our little white house with the red shutters in Jersey City. For two years it was my mother, father, Sasha, and I sharing a two bedroom apartment until my mother kicked my father out. There were a number of reasons why my parents’ marriage didn't work, but basically, he just wasn't reliable. My mother couldn't rely on him to pay the bills or pay her enough respect to not cheat on her.

  At the dance performance, I remembered being completely mesmerized by the movements of the performers. They didn't just dance, they floated like angels. As they twirled around and leaped ten feet in the air, I could practically see myself on stage with them in the pretty costumes. Every arm movement and leg placement inspired me. What would it be like to move like that? I could barely sit as I started to imitate some of the steps. After the third dirty look from the person next to me, I brought my knees to my chin, hugged my legs, and continued to stare at the stage in awe.

  When I got home from the performance, I looked in the phone book and found Ms. Alexander's School of Dance. As the only ballet school near Venton Heights, I knew it would be my only opportunity to receive any ballet instruction.

  "Please, Mommy, please. If I don't take dance lessons I'll die!" I pleaded with her late one night when she came home from work. It had to be after midnight but I stayed awake sliding around the kitchen in my socks trying to replicate the movements I'd seen from those angelic dancers. I stretched my legs and flailed my arms and spun around on my tip toes. I tried to look graceful. I probably looked ridiculous.

  "Baby girl, I just can't afford it. You know times are tight for me and your father right now. Can't you just take a dance class at school?"

  "Yeah, if I wanna be in a rap video or something. They don't teach this kind of dancing. This is ballet, Mommy. It's special and it's beautiful and it takes years of practice. Ms. Alexander's school is my only chance, Mommy, please." My mother sat at the kitchen table, slid her shoes off and massaged her feet. She had worked three double shifts in a row just to make this month's rent. Then, first thing in the morning, she had to go to one of her cleaning jobs.

  My mother closed her eyes, sighed, and said, "I'll see what I can do." Two days later, she brought home a pair of second hand ballet slippers. It was all she could do.

  She gave me those slippers thinking they would appease me long enough to forget this ridiculous dream. She had every reason to feel that way. She thought this new found desire was just like when I was five and I begged her to buy me a dell. No, not the computer. In fact, I didn't even know what a dell was. I'd just been singing "The Farmer in the Dell" and I decided I wanted to be a farmer so, naturally, I needed a dell. Or, when I was seven and I had just watched Star Wars and desperately needed a light saber because I felt the force and I was definitely a jedi. She thought I would grow out of it, but oh, how wrong she was. I borrowed books and videos about ballet from the library. I collected cans until I had enough money to buy a leotard. I even started hanging out in front of Ms. Alexander's studio watching through the window and imitating everything they did. One day, Ms. Alexander herself grabbed me by the shirt collar and dragged me inside.

  "Why you stand window stare? No free show!" I was so scared I thought I would wet myself. I had difficulty understanding her thick Asian accent. She would be so much easier to understand if she used a preposition once in a while. I learned later that Ms. Alexander was Japanese. She preferred to go by her husband's last name because Americans could never say her real name properly.

  "I'm sorry. I.. I'm sorry...I didn't know I couldn't watch…I'm sorry." I kept repeating myself like a babbling idiot. At eight years old, I was already almost her height, but her demeanor scared me senseless. Not to mention the fact that she carried a walking stick. It wasn't a cane. It was a stick. It was a huge stick nearly as tall as she was and she looked like she might beat me with it.

  "What you want?" she demanded still holding my shirt with one hand and her stick with the other. She was skinny as a rail but so strong I couldn't twist myself loose. I didn't know what to say. I looked around the lobby trying to find an excuse as to why I would be standing outside every day staring in the window. Nothing came to me. I got a glimpse into her office and saw papers lying on the floor. The mess wouldn't have bothered me at all, but I could just hear Sasha's voice in my head telling me for the tenth time in any particular day to clean up my side of the room. She could be such a neat freak sometimes. Then it hit me.

  "A job. I..I want a job. Do you need someone to clean?"

  "No."

  "I…I work for really cheap. In fact, you can just pay me with lessons."

  "You dance?"

  "I want to." Suddenly she dragged me down the hall and into one of the empty classrooms. There were mirrors everywhere, and the wooden floor was so smooth anyone could move like an angel on it. She let me go then walked over to the stereo.

  "Move," she barked after she turned on some music.

  "What?"

  "You too old. I no teach if you no move."

  "Move where?"

  "Dance!" she yelled. I jumped and t
hen started moving to the music. She played this beautiful enchanting song I didn't know. Later I learned it was the adagio for Beethoven's sonata Pathetique. It instantly became one of my favorites. I closed my eyes and moved to the music. I didn't know what the movements were or what the steps were called; I just did what I saw all the other dancers do. When I opened my eyes, Ms. Alexander was gone. I thought I must have been so bad she couldn't stand to look at me anymore. I waited and waited. When the song ended I turned to leave the studio, head hanging low with shame and embarrassment when suddenly, she appeared.

  "Take this," she said, as she handed me a bundle of leotards, tights, and ballet slippers. "Come tomorrow. Clean mirrors, sweep floors, throw away old magazines. Take beginner class. You clean, you dance, that's it, now go."

  And that's how it started. Soon I spent more time in Mrs. Alexander's studio than in Venton Heights. And that was fine with me. Dancing was, without a doubt, the best thing to ever happen to me. It even got me into Bridgeton.