Mom touched my hair gently. “You’ve always been good at standing up for yourself with Rafe.”

“He’s different,” I said.

“How?”

“Because he’s Rafe!” I stabbed a long spoon into my milk shake and stirred. “He isn’t the queen of anything. Missy is.”

Mom looked over at Missy’s table again. “I know it’s hard to stand up for yourself sometimes,” she said. “I wasn’t any good at it at your age either.” She bit her lip. “I still have trouble sometimes.”

“I guess it’s genetic, then,” I said.

Mom frowned for a minute, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Pearl buzzed by with a “Jules, honey, would you be a sweetheart and take care of table eight?”

“Sure,” Mom said to Pearl. Then she touched my shoulder. “We’ll talk later?”

“Okay,” I said, but my words only reached empty air. Mom had darted off again.

I glanced over at Missy and caught her watching me. I narrowed my eyes at her.

Just you wait, Missy Trillin, I thought. Your queendom is about to get trashed.