Hive

Mandy says she’s queen of seventh grade and we’re her workers and she “ha ha ha’s,” but her eyes flash venom and it’s annoying because Mandy’s the new girl and already thinks she’s royalty but she’s so pretty that we whirr around her, happy because it’s Friday night and her parents are out of town not hovering like ours and we’re getting our buzz on, stolen Hennessy from the liquor cabinet sweet on our tongues, and we slick on lavender-scented gloss, practice kissing, braces tangling, tongues proboscis-swirling pretending it’s Jesse, the hottest guy at school, and Mandy says “back off, he’s mine,” because she’s queen and we dart away—stingers out, antennae quivering—then remember from Mr. Gary’s science class when new queens stress the workers they surround her inside a burning mass and when she dies her body’s thrown from the hive, so we swarm Mandy, scorching, waiting for her to ignite.