Dead Little Mean Girl. Eva Darrows

was a Tuesday, and we were working with watercolors. The exercise was to blend the paints as seamlessly as possible. It wasn’t difficult, but apparently it wasn’t interesting enough for Quinn. I could see her in the front row. She alternated between twisting the paintbrush between her fingers and reaching into her bag to pull out her phone. Every time Mr. Riddell patrolled to look at work, she’d thrust her hands under the table or put the phone away, but Mr. Riddell wasn’t an idiot.

      “Focus on the work, Miss Littleton. Not whatever it is you’re doing over there.”

      “Uh-huh.” She flashed him an oopsie smile, probably hoping her revolting cuteness would sway him, before picking up the paintbrush and doing three swirls across her paper. The moment he walked out of her row, she was back at the phone, her head pointed down, her shoulders hunched so she could hide when Riddell patrolled near. To use my dad’s saying, it was as subtle as a fart in church.

      “Dumbass,” Nikki muttered to me under her breath.

      “Yep.”

      Three more circuits through the room, two more warnings from the teacher before Mr. Riddell got tired of Quinn’s crap. He didn’t come at her from the front row, but from the row behind. Quinn had her head down, her thumbs flying when he reached over her shoulder to pluck the phone from her grasp. She yelped and whirled around, trying to snatch it from his ham fist, but Riddell shook his head and headed toward his desk, depositing the phone in his top drawer.

      “You may retrieve it at the end of the school day,” he said.

      Quinn’s ears went pink. It wasn’t shame—she wasn’t really capable of shame—so much as annoyed exasperation. “What if there’s an emergency? Like, a school shooter. There’s a billion trench coat kids here. Tommy Nutters has crazy eyes. Hello?”

      Tommy Naughters may have been my ex-boyfriend, but he was still my friend. I glowered at the back of her head, wishing I had heat-ray vision. Sadly, my lack of superpowers meant her strawberry blondeness didn’t erupt into flames.

      Mr. Riddell grimaced. “Back to work, Quinn.”

      “But...”

      “Multiple warnings to put it away means no buts. You may collect the phone at the end of the day. If that doesn’t suit you, I can give it to the principal’s office and they can call your mother to collect it for you.”

      Quinn’s pink face went red. This was a telltale precursor of Quinn having a fit, which at home resulted in headaches and new designer purses from Karen. I almost hoped she’d lose it in class so I could snicker about her rotting in detention for the rest of her natural life, but a pat on the shoulder from Drone A on her left calmed her enough that she kept her trap shut.

      “Whatever,” she snapped, slamming her paintbrush down on her worktable.

      Okay, mostly kept her mouth shut.

      Class was unremarkable after that. Quinn was sullen. The watercolors were watercolors and did what watercolors do, which wasn’t much. By the time the bell rang, Quinn had worked herself into a snit. She grabbed her books and stormed toward Mr. Riddell’s desk, one hand perched on her hip, her shoe tapping against the tile floor.

      “Can I have it now? My last class is across the building and I have plans after school.”

      Mr. Riddell made a show of stacking his papers in a neat pile. “This will be the third time you’ve pushed me, so no, you may not. And now your choice is to pick it up tomorrow after school or I’ll call your mother to pick it up today.”

      “Come on! I’m expecting a call from my dad later. Please?”

      I’d been easing my way toward the door when Quinn’s wail stopped me short. Nikki was at my elbow, and she leaned back so she had a clear view of Riddell’s desk. He didn’t seem all that concerned with Quinn’s plea or the multiple eyes watching the unfurling drama.

      “No. Tomorrow or your mother. Which is it?”

      “This is so stupid.” Quinn marched for the door, grumbling under her breath the entire time. She was about out of the classroom when Mr. Riddell called her name. She turned, eyes bulging with barely suppressed rage. I sensed the imminent threat of combustion. The art room easels would be strewed with glittery entrails, lacy underwear and Midol.

      “Which is it, Quinn? That wasn’t rhetorical.” At Quinn’s blank stare because rhetorical had too many syllables, Mr. Riddell sank into his computer seat, his hand drumming on the desktop. “Tomorrow, or should I call your mother today?”

      “Tomorrow,” she spat, her temper barely in check as she stomped her way into the hall. Nikki and I shared a look and headed out, both of us thinking Quinn would get her phone back tomorrow and that’d be it.

      Noooooope.

      Quinn avoided Mr. Riddell calling home so she could deliver her own slant to her mother after school. She made it sound like Mr. Riddell had screamed at her mercilessly before amputating the arm attached to the phone. The complaining went on for hours, Quinn saying what a jerk Mr. Riddell was and how boring class had been so, really, it was his fault that she’d been texting in the first place. She actually screeched in rage because she had to use something as archaic as the house phone. It couldn’t even look at the internet, she reminded us, and she had to go all the way upstairs to check her Instagram on her computer! And how stupid was that? OH MY GOD!

      How we survived her hissy fit is a wonder. It probably had something to do with Karen getting Quinn out of the house at dinnertime so no one accidentally impaled her in the forehead with a butter knife. And by “accidentally,” I mean totally on purpose because the whining made me crazy.

      “She’s going to buy her off, you realize,” I said to my mother after they left. Mom gave me a look for stating the obvious, but sure enough, two hours later Quinn walked in with a dress bag in one hand and an ice cream sundae in the other. My mom gave Karen the hairy eyeball for it, but there were certain battles she wouldn’t pick. Karen’s lackluster conflict-management skills was one of them.

      Quinn got her phone back the next day and was, by all appearances, properly chastened. If she was a sane person, that would have been the end of it, but no. A week after the confiscation, Mr. Riddell made the tragic mistake of coming to school sick. He was pink and sweaty and clearly uncomfortable. I was guessing he was feverish because he took off his vest, his tie and divested himself of the stuff in his pockets, like the extra weight made him hotter. Halfway through class, while we painted watercolor animals, he excused himself and rushed out the door for the bathroom. This wasn’t noteworthy until Quinn noticed Mr. Riddell’s phone on the corner of his desk.

      “Oh. Oh, ho,” Quinn said, standing. She whispered to the girl next to her, Melody Cohler, who was in the larval stages of BFFness. Melody’s scandalized giggles spurred Quinn onward. Quinn sauntered over to the phone, and by the utter joy spreading across her face, I could tell Mr. Riddell hadn’t password protected it. Her thumbs flew over the keypad before she paused and eyed the door, her smile turning feline.

      I glanced at Nikki. She scowled at Quinn’s back. And then she was sitting up straighter in her chair, her mouth falling open. I followed her gaze and then my mouth fell open. Quinn was in the corner lifting her shirt, snapping off selfies of her boobs with Mr. Riddell’s phone.

      “What the crap are you doing?” I asked because no one else in the class could articulate. They were all too stunned to speak.

      “Stay out of it, Emma,” she replied as she took more pictures from the side view. My classmates started snickering, and one of the guys in the back made whooping noises, but Quinn spun around to stab a talon in his direction. “Shut up, Aidan. Everyone shut up or I swear I will kick your asses. This is between me and Riddell.”

      Quinn took some less risqué pictures. There was a picture of a vase and some art on the walls, a few shots of the paintbrushes drying on the window ledge. I didn’t understand why until Nikki snorted, looking down at her half-finished painting of a goat. Other people painted pandas or parrots or ponies,