by Laura Steven
Danny agrees to call a truce for the purposes of this emergency situation, and although he doesn’t apologize for his locker-based violence, he doesn’t bring up the kiss either. Which I suppose is a win.
Prajesh joins us for a while, but once the questions become increasingly blue he starts to get more and more uncomfortable hearing his big sister talk about sex so openly. He excuses himself with the general expression of someone who’s trying very hard not to be sick in his mouth.
When he leaves, he gives Danny this weird fist-bump and says, “We still cool to hang out after I finish at the meet tomorrow?”
“‘Course, bro,” Danny replies. It’s incredibly cringeworthy hearing him call anyone bro, but nevertheless Ajita nudges his shoulder and flashes him a grateful look.
After an hour or so, with the aid of a metric crap-ton of nachos, I’m slowly coming back to life and laughing hysterically while listening to Danny justify why he’d rather have penises for arms than a vagina for a mouth. Ajita is insisting that this is just not practical because a) penises can’t grip things, and b) there would simply be no hiding your arousal. You would just be walking around the supermarket with your arms in the air, knocking boxes of cereal off the shelves, trying to convince the store assistant that you aren’t sexually attracted to Cap’n Crunch.
The website thing is actually falling to the back of my mind, until Ajita asks me: “Would you rather sit on a cake and eat dick, or sit on a dick and eat cake?”
Clearly, because unlike the pube-teeth debacle there is only one correct answer, I reply, “The latter, definitely. In fact, there is literally not any situation I would enjoy more.”
Danny then scoffs and mutters, “Jesus. Are you ever not thinking about sex?”
I’m kind of caught off guard by his tone, which is nothing short of scathing, but like the talented improv actor I am, I bounce back. “No. One time I thought I might be thinking about the Chinese inflation rate, but I was, in fact, thinking about dogging.”
To this he shakes his head and mutters, “Unbelievable. No wonder . . .” and then he trails off.
My nerves bristle at this. Ajita jumps to my defense.
“No wonder what, Danny? No wonder someone has set up a vile and intrusive blog dedicated to assassinating our best friend for her sex life?”
He stares into his lap. “Forget it.”
I’m honestly just not in the mood for a fight, and in fact I feel like I could burst into tears at any moment, so I just say, “Next question, please.” But his bitter expression and disgusted body language haunt me for the rest of the night.
It’s only when I’m leaving Ajita’s that the dark thought emerges.
Is it possible Danny’s behind the blog?
11.24 p.m.
I’m going on a mini internet hiatus this weekend. I need to clear my noggin, and also some time and space away from the place where a full-blown character assassination of me is taking place.
Have also told Ajita not to expect hearty contributions to our group chats for the foreseeable future and, like the horrid creature she is, she informed me that my contributions are not particularly valued anyway, so I wouldn’t be a huge loss. I also told her to keep Danny so entertained that he won’t ask questions pertaining to my virtual disappearance, and if she’s not sufficiently hilarious and endearing, just to tell him that I’ve joined the Hitler Youth and won’t be returning for quite some time. I feel like this is both plausible and horrifying enough that he’ll have to just accept it and move on, and hopefully will also have the effect that he falls swiftly and irrevocably out of love with me.
On that note: so long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodnight, or however that preposterous song goes.
Monday 26 September
6.14 a.m.
Have spent the entire weekend working on my screenplay, sending it back to the judges, walking Dumbledore a combined total of forty-two yards, and attempting to figure out how to confront Danny about his potential involvement in the Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore blog.
In a feat of willpower one could accurately label superhuman, I’ve managed to steer clear of the blog itself. In fact, I have become quite content in my vacuum of ignorance, to the extent that I’ve not even told Betty about this unfortunate development. Not just because the idea of showing her a picture of me having sex on a garden bench is both horrifying and disturbing, but also because I don’t want to worry her. While I often share the whimsical and occasionally explicit details of my love life with my aging grandma, somehow telling her about the accompanying shame and fear feels a little too personal. [I know. I’m all kinds of messed up.]
Ugh, shame? Where did that come from? I’ve never, ever felt ashamed of my sex life before. I refuse to let those internet trolls do this to me. I refuse.
What I want to know more than anything is the who and the why. I’ve been obsessing pretty hardcore over whether or not to believe Danny is behind it. It’s not the kind of accusation I can leverage lightly, and I’m pretty sure that no matter what happens he will hog-tie me and roast me over a campfire for even deigning to ask the question. But I have to know.
Here are the facts:
1. He’s butthurt about being friend-zoned and liable to lash out.
2. He saw Carson kiss me and punched a locker.
3. This is Danny we’re talking about.
4. Danny!
I mean, that’s pretty much it. On the other hand, there’s no way he could’ve known half of the stuff that was posted on the blog, and the picture of me fornicating was taken at the same time he was necking on with Michelle Obama Junior. In fact, he didn’t even know I’d had sex with Vaughan until I inadvertently admitted it to him the next night. So logistically there’s no way he could’ve taken that picture.
Also, this might sound insignificant, but the tone just doesn’t really sound like him. He’s a pretty articulate and educated guy. He spends a lot of time on nerdy alternate history forums, for example. Throwing around unimaginative and rather lowbrow insults like “slut” and “whore” and “loosey-goosey” [no, really] isn’t his style.
But yeah. I’m going to confront him at lunch. Is that stupid? We’ll soon find out.
The thought of returning to school and having to face not only the relentless abuse of my peers, but also the potential wrath of my best friend, is giving me Nervous Belly. Hardcore. Like, I’ve had four poops already this morning, all of which had the consistency of oatmeal.
Basically it’s D-Day, only I’m fairly sure the troops landing in Normandy were a bit more relaxed than I am at present. In fact, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say the only person who has ever been less relaxed than me is Jack Bauer in 24, and he is a work of fiction. I wonder if the Counter Terrorist Unit has any interest in hiring me. Maybe I should send off a résumé? Come to think of it, Ajita would not take it particularly well if I were to up and move to Los Angeles, even if it were in our country’s best interests.
Shit! Ajita! I’ve forgotten to end my group chat hiatus. I fire off a quick message despite the ungodly hour.
Guten Morgen meine Freunde! Had a wonderful time with the Hitler Youth, but found their beliefs a bit liberal for my tastes. So I have returned to the land of the brave. God bless America!
I’m really hoping Ajita has fed Danny the Deutschland story at some point this weekend or the lack of context may lead him to believe I am, in fact, a raving lunatic and also vaguely xenophobic.
[You may be thinking at this point, wow, Izzy O’Neill is such an inspiration for maintaining her sense of humor and wit at a time like this, but honestly it’s more that I just don’t have the mental capacity to process serious situations. Rest assured, the inevitable apocalyptic breakdown is imminent. Can I just take this opportunity to state: THIS APPROACH IS NOT ADVISABLE. I would love to be your poster girl for squeaky-clean mental health, but unfortunately I am not that chick.]
7.13 a.m.
To kill time before school, I pluck my
eyebrows. Unfortunately for myself and others around me, I get a bit overzealous with the tweezers and remove a significant portion of my left brow. Current look: cast member of cutting-edge nineties movie about soccer hooliganism and rival drug gangs. I’m not sure if this is an actual cinematic genre, but you know exactly what I mean.
7.16 a.m.
Don’t have an eyebrow pencil, but managed to find a box of crayons. Have filled in the patch of hairless brow with Burnt Umber. The finish is a little waxy for my taste, but that’s all the rage nowadays, isn’t it? People stupidly pay for two separate products, both powder and wax, and yet they really need look no further than their average arts and crafts box.
7.17 a.m.
Had to wash the crayon off. Think I might be slightly allergic as my entire forehead is now mottled with charming red pinpricks. I’m so glad Danny will be able to take me seriously as I accuse him of ruining my life.
10.32 a.m.
As I walk down the corridor toward math class, a gaggle of thirteen-year-olds point and laugh. News spreads fast.
I almost flip them off, but the idea that they’ve all seen a picture of me having sex, and that they know I have a nipple piercing, and that they all probably buy into the notion that I am a whore of unparalleled proportions, makes me feel hot and exposed under the harsh strip lighting.
It’s a horrible dynamic flip, suddenly having a group of younger kids feel like they have emotional power over you.
1.34 p.m.
Disappointingly my eyebrow does not magically grow back before lunch, which is unfortunate as I was hoping for at least a little five o’clock shadow by now. The look of alarm on Danny’s face as I approach him in the cafeteria is cartoonish and hilarious.
He’s queuing up for chilli fries, staring intently at his phone. Très suspicious, non ?
“Heycanwetalk?” I mutter from around twenty feet away.
He looks up, baffled, and says, “Pardon?”
I clear my throat and force myself to meet his eye. And actually get within three feet of him. His gaze keeps floating up to my spotted-dick forehead.
Anyway, we arrange to meet in the woods after school. I briefly consider burning the woods down, but decide against it.
5.42 p.m.
Well, that could’ve been worse. Such as if the dinosaurs had been roused from extinction and ravaged the entire school campus.
It’s pretty cold in the woods, even though it’s still early fall, and I shiver as I pluck up the courage to say what’s on my mind. Danny shuffles awkwardly, kicking at a pine cone with the rubber toe of his sneaker.
“So this website thing,” I start incredibly tactfully and eloquently, trying not to meet the gaze of the phys ed teacher who is pole-vaulting with a long tree branch just ten feet to my left. “Sucks.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Iz. Sucks.”
At this point we have both established it sucks. I can’t even be bothered to make a joke about two-way sucking and/or 69s, which is how you know I’m in a poor emotional state.
“I just kind of wondered whether . . . you might know anything about who’s behind it?”
Obviously at this point I do not expect him to say, “Yes, of course, Izzy, it was I, jilted man friend and all-round Nice Guy – forsooth, how doth thine know?” [There I go again with my unconvincing usage of medieval lingo.] But I am studying his reaction pretty intensely for flushed cheeks or averted gazes.
He just shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno.” Then, realizing his performance is lackluster at best, he tries to inject some anger. He curls the fist he used to punch the locker, which I noticed is swollen and bruised. “But if I ever find out who did this, so help me God, I will –”
“As much as I enjoy the ‘Prince Charming to the rescue’ routine,” I interrupt, only half jokingly, “I don’t need you defending my honor. I can look after myself.”
“Clearly,” he snarls, with such immediate and unflinching spite I recoil slightly. The two syllables drip with sarcasm.
Snapping back with equal vigor, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks conflicted, like part of him wants to backtrack, but he knows I’m stubborn and won’t let that comment slide. So he just mumbles, “I’ve been defending your honor for thirteen years. Protecting you from jerks at school, from social workers.” A pointed eyebrow raise. “From yourself.”
I cross my arms and fix a firm look on my face. This is difficult, because I have the opposite of Resting Bitch Face. My round cheeks, big eyes and docile demeanor often encourage conversation from strangers at bus stops, which sounds quite pleasant, but has in fact made me consider an acid attack on myself on more than one occasion.
“Saving me from myself ?” I retort. “Are you kidding me? Because I’m such a disaster that I can’t be trusted to make my own choices?”
He doesn’t reply, but from the sarcastic sneer I can tell what he’s thinking: if you made better choices, there would be no World Class Whore website. Judgmental prick.
“Look, Danny,” I say, eager to get to the actual point of this confrontation. “All I know is you weren’t that happy with me after the whole two-one-night-stands scenario. And there aren’t many people in the world that know such intimate details about me. That’s all.”
In the silence that follows, branches crack and snap, and the gym teacher pants nearby.
Danny peers at me with an expression I can’t read. Anger, I’d guess, but laced with something else. “What are you accusing me of ?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
My heart hammers against my ribcage. A thousand cruel comments repeat on a loop in my head. Slut. Whore. Ugly bitch. “I just want to figure out who’s behind it all. Because you know my motto: do no harm, but take no shit. And this right here is shit I am categorically unwilling to receive.”
He shakes his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t believe this. I genuinely thought that when you asked to talk to me, you’d had a change of heart. About . . . us. I thought . . .” He swallows whatever he was about to say next. Then: “But no. You’re actually accusing me of setting up that blog.”
The awkwardness-averse cringe-phobe inside me desperately wants to backtrack, to insist I’m not accusing him of anything, but I’m too upset. I won’t back down. “Yes.”
I’ll never forget the quiet venom in his next words.
“Fuck you, Izzy O’Neill.”
6.00 p.m.
So he lost his shit? xo
Ajita texting, obviously.
Ajita, I don’t think Danny has been in full possession of his shit since 2006. But yep. Totally lost it.
This can’t be an easy situation for her to be in, stuck between the two of us. [Actually, who am I kidding? She loves the drama. She feeds on it like a reality-TV-addicted leech.]
You still think he’s behind it? Xo
I have no idea. In fact it’s frightening how few ideas I have. What do you think?
A pause.
I think the boy is stupidly in love with you on account of his terrible taste in women. But no. I don’t think he did it. xo
In fairness, I am starting to feel a little bit bad for asking him in the first place. We’ve been best friends for so long, and yes, he’s harboring an inconvenient crush on me for reasons I cannot begin to understand, and yes, I did accidentally kiss him that one time, and yes, he did see me kiss Carson just a few days later. But surely I know him better than that. Surely he would never set out to hurt me that way.
Doubt creeps in. Did I do the wrong thing in confronting him?
11.04 p.m.
In all the self-loathing and furor, I almost forgot that two other people were sort of dragged down with me on the blog – Vaughan and Carson were collateral damage. Of course, they are not generally subjected to the same level of sexual scrutiny due to their Y chromosomes, but still.
I am essentially a Mother Teresa meets Dalai Lama type figure, so I take it upon myself to reach out to these poor fuckboys an
d make sure they’re okay. I know, I know. Fully anticipating the Nobel Peace Prize anytime now. I mean, anyone can get shot in the head by the Taliban, but it takes a really big person to text a fuckboy. [I am 113 percent being sarcastic here. I firmly believe Malala should be leader of the free world, and also CEO of Hershey’s because I swear to God peanut butter cups are getting smaller, which is an act of terrorism in itself.]
Text to Vaughan:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
Facebook message to Carson:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. So would a ruptured bumhole. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
As you can see I utilized the copy-paste function on my phone very well [adding the bumhole comment for the second text because I know Carson’s sense of humor is even more vile and misjudged than my own]. You know by now that I am a fan of a shortcut, such as when shaving your legs [nobody cares about anything above your knees], or while performing any other sort of body-hair admin. In fact, I think cutting corners is advisable in almost every physical situation, with the exception of maybe brain surgery.
Because he is by far the superior human being/fuckboy, Carson is the only one who replies.