Author's Notes: This story is based on a true story. The names and instruments of the two girls in it have been changed to protect their privacy. Some elements of the story were also exaggerated for humor, so this is only a semi-true story.

The events of this story really did happen to me in the seventh grade. There was a girl who really, truly believed that she was all that and a bag of Doritos – that is, until reality shot her down. Oh, was she ever angry at me for getting first chair! That said, I hope that you enjoy this somewhat true tale of band-related drama and unintended vengeance. It proves that, if anything, life will deal with those who are vain and over-prideful, and those people that are will fall from their high horse eventually.


To put it simply, I hate her.

Sharon, the shining star. Sharon, the blonde, blue-eyed beauty queen who has constantly left me playing second fiddle.

Then again, that's not exactly surprising. It started, as a matter of fact, in seventh grade. I was but a young clarinetist then, but for a middle school student, I wasn't half bad. I was pretty talented, winning mostly ones at competitions. I was first chair for several terms running, and I was simply amazing with style and tempo. Yet, for all this, I never bragged. I really couldn't care less about being the uber-best at everything – I was merely doing what I loved to do, and that was playing the clarinet.

Needless to say, the directors loved me – they always gave me solos, always said what a nice job I was doing, and sometimes, to my chagrin, used me as an example. Hey, they may be the directors, but they're still my teachers – and nobody likes to be branded a teacher's pet. I was among their favorite of favorites – that is, until she came.

Sharon was also a clarinetist, and a good one at that, and like me, she too had swept all competition in her district and was first chair at her previous school. She had pride in her ability to handle the slightest change in tempo or dynamics, and her ability to flick from fingering to fingering was simply awe-inspiring. So subtle was she with sixteenth notes that our first chair oboist went green with envy, and her lighter-than-air tonguing positively made the brasswind section sick. She was the directors' pride and joy from day one, and they constantly used her as an example.

It was quite simply revolting how easily she took over the band, the uppity little snob. She befriended only those who thought that she was the best ever, and snobbed the rest of us – which was, unfortunately, most of the band. In eight grade, she displaced me as first chair clarinetist. In ninth grade, she and I both went to festival, and both of us were fiercely competitive, but she, of course, got a one in the end, leaving me with a two and a bitter scowl.

But the worst part was the way she bragged about it. I hated how she would act all sweet and humble, lying through her teeth to the entire band and giving me disdainful looks all the while. I hated her snotty tone, used only on those she thought worse than scum, and the rude, snarky comments that she frequently bombarded me with.

I wanted to kill her.

I was now in tenth grade, and the day of seating quiz results was upon us. The last few people had just finished their quizzes, and I was just about to read the list that the director had put up when who should come in but Sharon, flouncing her long, blonde curls and sashaying her way right up to the front to look.

Now, I'm not the most beautiful girl ever born, and I sure as hell wouldn't be crowned Miss America any time soon, but I am fairly good-looking. Unfortunately, I'm also very insecure about my facial features, and Sharon's petty comments concerning the relative size of my nose and drabness of my hair were doing nothing to assuage me. She was so very sickeningly sure that it was her who had once again taken first chair, forever securing her vomitously sweet eyes and deceptively cherubic features in the position of student role model.

That was just like her, though. Always so sure that she was the victor.

Imagine her surprise when she looked to the seating arrangement and it was my name, and not hers, that graced the position of first chair clarinet player.

Oh, that burned her up! She was the queen, how dare they replace her with some loser who would never be anything more than a third-rate clarinetist? The unspeakable horror!

I watched, faintly amused, as Sharon flew into a rage, her angel-blue eyes darkening like storm clouds and her face turning such a deep shade of reddish-purple that she looked like an angered beet. Funny, those sweet and innocent facial features didn't look quite so beautiful when she was throwing a temper tantrum…

"How dare you?!" she shrieked, her normally soft voice now loud enough to rival that of an angered god's. "I was tutored! I practice every – single – night!"

She paused in the middle of her ranting, just long enough to point an accusatory finger at me.

"And you!" She said, her voice as bitterly cold as a winter wind, "I'm better than you! That chair should be MINE!!!"

For ten minutes she carried on like this, demanding that the teacher change the seating arrangement and screaming so loudly that several classes had filtered out of their rooms just to see what all the yelling was about.

The teacher, of course, politely and rationally declined to change the seating, but Sharon would hear none of it. I am pretty certain that I heard half a dozen different swears come out of her mouth, and several other spiteful comments besides, all directed towards the teacher in general. I am fairly certain that calling the director of the band a "Stupid fucking shitfaced bastard" qualifies as abuse towards a teacher, and as such, she was quite promptly given a referral and told to go down to the principal's office.

She of course refused, needing instead to be dragged down there by several teachers.

I grinned as she was ushered out of the door, and I was still grinning as she looked back to give me a dark glare of deepest loathing and hatred. I merely gave her a friendly little wave in return, then picked up my instrument case and went to class, thankful that we had more than one band teacher.

I saw neither hide nor hair of her the next day.

Revenge is sweet.