Queen Bee

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the cleverest of them all?’ Violet said.

‘Why you of course,’ the little voice in her head dutifully replied.

Wind trumpeted through the drainpipes as the old house creaked and groaned. Violet stood in the middle of the room and glanced at the silver locket which dangled from her neck. It didn’t contain photos of loved-ones, but pictures of herself. One was when she’d been awarded Dux of the school and another was her holding a debating trophy. Violet’s emerald earrings caught the light and accentuated the sequins on her top. The whole family had gathered at an Airbnb for her uncle’s wedding and they were having a week of festivities.

That night, Violet’s relatives sat around the dining table and helped themselves to potato salad, bowls of peas and slabs of meat.

‘So you’ve started your course, have you?’ Violet asked Penny, her youngest cousin.

‘Yeah, I got into Arts at Cranebrook Uni.’

Violet’s lip curled. Cranebrook? That was a third-rate institution.

‘And what are you planning to do with it?’

‘I’m not sure. I’m thinking of having a year off and travelling before I make up my mind.’

‘Good idea,’ Violet said, her voice hard.

‘What about you, Dale? How’s your job going?’ Violet enquired of another cousin.

‘Oh, not too bad. I’m working part-time so I can focus on my YouTube channel.’

‘Wow, I’d like to see it.’

‘Well, I’m still in the planning phase.’

Violet stifled a laugh. Dale, who was a sweaty, middle-aged actuary was hardly the creative type. ‘It’s not X-rated or anything, is it?’

Dale’s eyes bulged from their sockets. ‘I’m interviewing model-train enthusiasts. How to build scenery, bridges, things like that.’

Violet smirked. How boring.

A man in a scruffy corduroy jacket walked in and sat next to her. His hair looked like it had been through a cyclone and there was stubble on his chin.

‘Hi, I’m Jake,’ he said, shaking Volet’s hand.

‘I’m Violet. And what do you do, Jake?’

‘Blogging, photography, that sort of thing.’

Violet smiled. She was a fully qualified journalist, not some half-baked blogger.

A pea rocketed from Dale’s fork and landed on Jake’s shirt. Oil mushroomed on the cotton and he excused himself to give it a scrub. As Jake pushed in his chair, he was unaware that a card had fallen from his pocket. The plumbing heaved and Violet picked it up.

Dr Jake Willard, PhD

Clinical Psychologist

‘Why did he say he was a blogger?’ Violet asked the room.

‘He’s my therapist,’ Dale said. ‘He wanted to meet the queen bee.’

Suddenly, Violet’s mouth went dry. Was she really that bad?

Before she went to bed, Violet stared into the mirror, her eyes puffy. ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the nastiest of them all?’

The little voice in her head answered. Removing her necklace, she stuffed the locket deep inside her bag and vowed never to wear it again.