by Laura Steven
Carson: Cocky grin, trademark swagger, “Izzzzaaaayyyyyyy.”
Vaughan: Fierce blushing, frenzied throat-clearing, not a word. [Probably picturing the goose-feather cushion and getting aroused all over again.]
“Hello, gentlemen,” I say ever-so-calmly, despite the voice inside my head screaming ABORT ABORT ABORT. Remember how I love all drama except my own? This definitely falls under the category of drama I do not love.
Ajita grins ecstatically next to me, probably wishing she had a bucket of popcorn and some 3D glasses. Her mocking gaze flits between us all in turn, waiting for someone to break the ice. For a minute there’s just the sound of freshmen giggling nearby, and Vaughan flipping awkwardly through his history textbook as though its subject matter is of urgent importance to this nonconversation, then:
“So –”
“D’you –”
Carson and I both start to speak at the same time, then both immediately stop when the other makes a sound, gesturing vaguely to continue, which neither of us do. It is this precise phenomenon that makes me despise phone calls.
Thankfully, Vaughan mutters something inaudible and excuses himself, disappearing in the direction of the chemistry labs. With his history textbook. Very good.
Ajita senses the opportunity for me to chat to Carson and follow through on my teeny-tiny crush, so reluctantly says, “I’ll see you in English, Iz.” She disappears swiftly, giving my elbow a supportive squeeze on the way.
“So I heard your good news,” Carson says, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Nice one. Always knew you were funny as hell.”
Those last three words have the same effect on me as a certain other three words would have on most normal people. It turns me to mush. Especially when uttered in that ridiculously attractive voice of his.
“Thanks, man,” I manage to reply, immediately regretting calling him “man”.
“No problem. Long as I can be your arm candy when your movie premieres.” He winks, slowly and exaggeratedly, in a way that lets me know he’s mainly joking, but also a little bit serious.
I play ball. “What’s in it for me?”
He strokes his freshly shaven chin, pretending to consider the options. “Don’t suppose the pleasure of my company would cut it?”
“Hard pass,” I answer matter-of-factly. “I’ve gotta get to class, but lemme know if you come up with anything worth my while.”
Carson’s smile is so massive I can practically see his tonsils, and, to be fair, he has got that movie-star charisma that’d probably make him right at home on the red carpet.
“Will do, O’Neill. Will do.”
12.49 p.m.
Holy hell. So we’re leaving the classroom after a snooze-worthy session on some idiots called Cathy and Heathcliff, ready to meet Danny outside so we can walk to lunch together, when Ajita stops talking abruptly. She’s seen something, or someone, that I haven’t. I follow her gaze.
Carson is leaning back against a row of lockers, bouncing a basketball up and down. He must feel our eyes on him, because he stops dribbling immediately – and doesn’t pick the ball back up, just leaves it mid-bounce and strolls over.
“Hey,” he says, not even registering Ajita’s presence because he’s looking at me so intensely. He smiles another huge smile. “So I thought of something that might convince you to let me be your red-carpet date.”
I smirk. He has specks of red and white paint on his shirt, and the palms of his hands are stained blue. He must’ve come from art class, which is unexpected in itself. “Oh yeah? What’s tha–”
But before I can even finish my sentence, HE KISSES ME!! Right there in the hallway!
He tastes fresh and awesome, like spearmint, and his technique is much better than it was that night at the party. It’s not a full-blown tongues affair, more soft and gentle. I like it. I like it a lot. I drop my copy of Wuthering Heights and let my hands rest on his chest.
When he pulls away, still somehow maintaining his cartoonish grin, I half expect Ajita to give us a round of applause. Instead she just says in a strange voice, “Izzy . . .”
She’s wincing, looking just over my shoulder. I turn around, hands still on Carson.
Danny is standing on the opposite side of the corridor, watching. When I meet his eye, he shakes his head in disgust, slams his fist against the nearest locker and storms off toward the fire exit.
“Crap,” Carson says, big smile fully disappeared. “I didn’t mean to get in the middle of anything. Are you guys –”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. It’s . . . complicated.”
Carson looks relieved, but not altogether convinced. He rubs the back of his head, uncertain. “All right. Well, I guess I’ll catch you later then?”
Somewhat deflated, he picks up his ball and walks away. I turn helplessly to Ajita, who for once does not seem to be enjoying the show.
“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs, grabbing my book off the floor for me. “Really. Danny’s the douche who punched a locker. That was so not cool of him, crush or not. Don’t feel bad, okay?”
“Okay,” I lie, knowing perfectly well I’m going to agonize over this for several hours. Even though I know she’s right, and it was a dick move to cause a scene like that. In fact, I’m kinda mad at him for making Carson feel like shit. “Should I text him? Apologize?”
I don’t even know whether I mean Danny or Carson at this point, but Ajita assumes the former.
“I don’t think so. Just leave him to cool off. Let him come to you. Now, lunch?”
For probably the first time in my life, I don’t finish my cheeseburger. From guilt, and from the butterflies lingering in my tummy from the first sober kiss of my life.
7.56 p.m.
Being an astonishing success story is really quite time-consuming. Ajita invites me over to film a sketch later, but I have to tackle the screenplay rewrites if I’m going to make Monday’s deadline.
I start by separating the judges’ feedback into two sections: Big Edits [e.g. stuff about character arcs, plot and pace, etc.] and Small Edits [lines that don’t quite work, sections that need a bit of TLC, all that jazz]. It’s beyond cool having actual professionals give me feedback on my script. At first, reading criticism of your work kinda stings, but I think that’s probably because the school environment conditions you to think criticism is inherently negative. And yet this criticism doesn’t feel that way at all. It’s positive as hell, and actually fun to read and consider. Like, this bit is great, but this bit isn’t working so well – why not try this other awesome technique instead? I’m already learning so much.
Tonight I plan to tackle the character stuff [mainly the fact that my male protagonist, the beautiful prostitute, doesn’t really change at all throughout the course of the script – my bad], so make myself a giant mug of hot cocoa with extra mini marshmallows and get to work.
Yes! Me! Working! It’s absurd on the face of it. But it’s weird. When you enjoy what you’re doing, it doesn’t really feel like work at all. It’s difficult, sure, but it’s still fun. What a revelation. I’ve never once felt this way about schoolwork, which is nothing but hard work.
I get into a rhythm with Post-it notes on my bedroom wall and actually find myself enjoying doing something other than being an unbelievable waste of space. Then I work up character profiles for both the male prostitute and his client, fleshing them out as much as possible before weaving these new details through the script to make the characters feel more developed and rounded.
In the back of my mind while I write is Carson’s kiss. I remember the smallest details – the tingling mint on his lips, the vague scent of paint on his hands, the shape of his chest beneath my hands. The fluttering in my belly.
Like I say, it was the first kiss I’ve ever had while not under the influence of alcohol. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to do it sober, more that the opportunity has never really arisen. I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I’ve never really go
tten close enough to anyone to want to make out with them outside of a party setting.
[Also *whispers* maybe I’m not as confident as I make myself out to be, and I just need the wonderful inhibition-lowering qualities of Capri-Sun to take the edge off – and remove that layer of fear Ajita is always trying to get me to defy.]
Anyway, all I know is that despite the obvious Danny issues, I really, really enjoyed it. And would very much like to repeat it in the not-so-distant future.
But back to business. While I’m editing, a few things trip me up, like whether the fact the love interest’s career obsession makes her cold or unrelatable, so I start a list of things to discuss with Mrs Crannon when I next see her.
It’s all going pretty well until my phone bleeps.
I half expect it to be Vaughan with another close-up of his genitals, or Danny telling me to burn in hell, but it’s my main squeeze Ajita.
Um. Iz. I dunno how to tell you this, so I’m not going to. But . . . well. Xo
And there’s a link attached: http://izzyoneillworldclasswhore.com/
What. The. Eff ?
Frowning, I open a new browser window and type in the URL. And instantly regret it.
Someone made a blog. With the title Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore. And it’s just pages and pages and pages of posts about how much of a slut I am.
Hands shaking like crazy, I scroll through all the selfies I’ve taken over the past year – each with a dick Photoshopped into my mouth.
I scroll through anonymous “confessions” about all of the hideous sexual acts I’ve apparently engaged in.
I scroll through a detailed account of last Saturday night, i.e. Sexmageddon. My encounters with both Vaughan and Carson are on display for the whole world to read.
The worst part? Someone has taken a picture of me straddling Vaughan on the garden bench – judging by the angle, it was taken from the kitchen. You can’t see any dicks or va-jay-jays, but it’s pretty clear we’re having sex.
Bile rises in my throat.
I mean, I know I hardly kept my sexual encounters particularly hidden at the party. I quite literally did it like they do on the Discovery Channel, which the Bloodhound Gang would be very proud of, although I’m not altogether convinced they’re my target audience so this may not be considered a win.
But . . . fuck. There are so many details nobody should know.
How does the person who made this account know Carson only lasted thirty seconds?
How do they know I have a nipple piercing?
How do they know every single little detail of what happened that night? I set my blog to private before I posted about any of that stuff.
My blood runs cold. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw up all over my stack of Post-it notes.
Who would do this to me? Who hates me this much?
Not even Danny and Ajita know some of this stuff. Stuff I don’t think I’ve ever told another living soul. How is this happening?
My privacy has somehow been violated, but I can’t even process the logistics right now. All I feel is a repeated stabbing pain in my chest, like palpitations but ten times as vicious.
I might put on a tough exterior, but . . . nobody likes to be hated.
Ajita texts me again.
Have you looked? Are you okay? xo
It takes me several attempts to type out my response.
No, Ajita. I’m not. I’m the exact opposite of okay.
Thursday 22 September
9.04 a.m.
I’ve been here less than twenty minutes and school is already a second circle of humiliation hell. Everyone stares.
I walk down the hallway to a chorus of mutterings and whisperings, like those creepy church scenes in The Da Vinci Code where the Illuminati are chanting and shit. [Did that actually happen? I might be reinventing the plot for comedic purposes. Regardless, I feel like I should be wearing some kind of dramatic hooded cloak and carrying an ancient torch.]
I’m a performer. I’m used to people watching me. But this feels different, you know? At least when I’m on stage, or cracking a dirty joke, I want to be watched. I want to be laughed at.
But this?
Nothing about this is on my terms.
The low murmuring and conspiratorial giggles make me want to cut someone. Ajita tries her damn best to cheer me up, though her jokes fall on deaf ears somewhat. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my head, and the horrible comments play on a loop. Slut. Whore. Bitch. Ugly. C***.
Worst of all is the picture of me straddling Vaughan like something out of a cheap porno. You can’t see my face, but still. Everyone who was at that party knows it was me.
As we walk, the hallway around me whooshes and swirls. It feels a little like an out-of-body experience, which I’ve always dismissed as melodramatic until now. I have to snap out of this. I can’t let cyber-bullies win. So I plaster a smile on my face and pretend not to care.
Besides, it could be worse, I suppose. It could always be worse. I’m not quite sure how exactly, but Betty often says I am so optimistic it borders on the sociopathic, and now is as good a time as any to look on the bright side. I’ve been through the death of both parents on the same day. I won’t let the words of a pathetic bully leave a scar.
So, like the disturbingly chirpy individual I am, I whistle cheerily as I stroll down the hallway, completely ignoring the hordes of people staring me down. Unfortunately I cannot whistle, so really I’m just blowing silently [behave yourselves], but the effect on my mood is positive all the same.
But then, when I walk into second period, there’s a group of girls crowded around a desk, staring at a phone and whispering stuff like, “Oh my God, what a slut!” and “Fucking whore” and “If I was her, there’d be no way I could show my face around here.”
They shut up when they see me, but it’s too late. I already heard.
2.34 p.m.
Of course. Of course today is the day we have a mandatory sex ed lecture in the sports center. Of course it is.
Hundreds of us pile into the hall, taking up seats on the rows of bleachers. There was a basketball game last night, and there are still plastic bottles and wads of tickets stuffed underneath the benches.
Ajita sits protectively next to me, with Danny on her other side. Other than, “I’m sorry, Iz,” he hasn’t really said all that much about the website, which is probably justified. It can’t be nice looking at pictures of the girl you love having al-fresco intercourse with the guy you hate.
The whole way through the talk, I feel everyone staring at me. Not all at once, but in turn. As soon as one person turns away, another chances a sneaky glance in my direction. It’s a constant stream of staring I can’t escape from.
For some reason, our Bible-hugging English teacher and all-round abstinence champion Miss Castillo is the one delivering the talk. Because obviously in America the only thing we should be teaching our teens about sex is that they shouldn’t do it. Don’t have sex because you will get pregnant and die. That sort of thing. It’s working out soooo well for us.
So instead of informing us about contraception and such, she goes on an epic rant about the will of God and how virginity should be preserved until marriage. This works well for her in theory, because by the time we are all married, we’ll be long gone from Edgewood High and she won’t have to do any awkward banana demonstrations. I’m pretty sure this is the main reason she preaches abstinence. Banana aversion tactics. [And also it’s the law.]
Then come the questions. Oh, the questions. Here’s what never to ask a crowd of two hundred horny teenagers: “Do you have anything you’d like to ask about sex?”
A football jock pipes up first. “Is it normal to masturbate over fifty times a week?”
Everyone laughs. Castillo blushes furiously, smoothing down nonexistent creases in her pussy-bow blouse. “I-I . . . masturbation is impure, Jackson, and –”
Another dude from the basketball team interrupts. “Is it normal
to have sex dreams about your teachers?” Then he winks at Castillo. She looks like she wants to die.
Amanda Bateman, who has a stellar reputation as a lover of third base, chirps up next. “Is it true guys don’t like handjobs because they can do it better themselves? So there’s no point in anything but a blowie?”
Castillo cringes so severely it looks like she’s giving birth in a similar manner to that scene from Alien. “I really wouldn’t know, Amanda, but –”
“Maybe you should ask Izzy O’Neill,” someone shouts, and everyone cackles. “She’s a bit of an expert.”
The mention of my name is like an electric shock as adrenaline spikes unpleasantly up and down my arms.
That picture.
My cheeks burn. Then the jeering starts. Another girl yells, “Yeah, how many guys is it now, O’Neill? Or did you lose count at a hundred?”
“And that’s just on Saturday night!” another dude shouts.
Never one to cower in the corner, I force myself to raise my voice and call back, “You’re just mad you didn’t make the cut. A hundred guys and I still won’t sleep with you! Gotta hurt.” I shout loud enough to disguise the shaking in my voice. Steer into the joke, O’Neill. You can do this.
Castillo toughens up a little at this point, and leaps to my defense. “That’s enough! Out. All of you. Class dismissed.”
I think she has a soft spot for me, which is extremely baffling on account of my poor moral compass and alleged Sexual Centurion. But I’m grateful all the same.
We all stand up at the same time, and conversation erupts everywhere. No prizes for guessing the topic on everyone’s lips.
The muttering and giggling as we file out of the sports center isn’t about Castillo’s cringeworthy delivery. It’s all for me. From behind me, Ajita squeezes my elbow. Focusing on breathing as steadily as I can, I steel myself as much as possible. I can break down later, in the privacy of my own home.
8.17 p.m.
By the end of school I’m really quite miserable, despite my best efforts to power through, so Ajita throws an impromptu “would you rather” party in her basement for our somewhat fractured tripod. This basically consists of us taking turns in asking each other impossibly difficult “would you rather” questions, such as “would you rather have teeth for pubes or pubes for teeth?” and then heartily debating the answers like we’re members of the UN.