by Laura Steven
Yo! Ah, hey now, don’t you worry. This kinda thing doesn’t really bother me. Are you okay, though? Pretty brutal stuff on there, bro. Sorry you gotta deal with it. Lemme know if you need anything.
I am quite touched by this, to the extent where I am willing to overlook him calling me bro.
I’m doing ok. Trying not to let it get to me. Thanks for being awesome about it.
Against all the odds, I go to bed in good snuff. [This is a seventeenth-century term for “happy” which I firmly believe should be reinstated in the modern vernacular. See, I do pay attention in school when it suits me, such as for picking up entertaining slang.]
Tuesday 27 September
10.34 a.m.
Aforementioned good snuffery does not last as long as one might have hoped.
For one thing, we have math first period. Honestly, what was that Pythagoras dude’s problem? Why did he have to ruin the simple triangle for everyone? It’s just downright inconsiderate, is what it is.
I think it is perhaps the repeated usage of the word “hypotenuse” that sends most of the class into a state of deep boredom that can only be relieved by taking the ever-loving piss out of someone. Of course that someone is me on this occasion, due to my unashamed sexploits and generally ludicrous nature that invites piss-taking in all its forms. Thus my new nickname becomes Herpes McWartface. Kids really are not very inventive with their mockery these days.
As a rule, I tend to lean into jokes at my expense, like how you’re supposed to steer into the swerve when you’re driving and lose control, so I marked my homework H McW yesterday and promptly forgot all about it. So when Mr Wong hands us the homework back, he frowns and says, “Who is H McW? Do we have a new student?”
The whole class erupts. Because I am sick in the head, I enjoy the laughs. As a comedian I am perfectly willing to throw my dignity under the bus if it means getting a giggle.
But Mr Wong won’t let it drop and insists I explain the new initials to him. He’s the sort of teacher who quite fancies himself as someone who’s pals with his students, but he doesn’t really pull it off because he is fundamentally not a cool person.
Always coming to my rescue, Ajita chimes in with, “Sir, I believe it is an allusion to the sexually transmitted diseases my friend here may or may not have contracted according to the website Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore. Anonymous source. Would you like my bibliography in the Harvard referencing style, or will footnotes suffice?”
Even I crack up at this point. People all around me are just dying, like actually expiring with the utter hilarity of the situation, and Mr Wong tries his very best to muster an “I’m-with-you-comrades” sort of grin, despite the fact he’s so disgusted he might possibly shit himself right here and now.
The only guy in the entire room whose face looks like a smacked fish? Danny. He glares as me disparagingly and grits his teeth.
And just like that I’m back to feeling like dirt.
1.04 p.m.
By lunchtime the mockery begins to focus on the garden bench picture. You know, the picture in which I am literally having sex on a garden bench. Wunderbar.
We’re in the cafeteria, which is actually pretty quiet because the entire sophomore year group is off at some careers fair in the city. It’s spaghetti and meatballs day, and the kitchen obviously forgot about the mass sophomore absence, so those of us still in school are enjoying mammoth bowls of the stuff.
A guy I half recognize as a member of the cross-country team (which is how I immediately know he is some form of psychopath, as a person who voluntarily runs without a gun pointing at his head) approaches the bench I’m sitting at with Ajita by my side. She is mid-rant about our absurd two-party political system and its failings, so is quite annoyed at the interruption.
“Hey, Izzy,” Psychopath Runner says, a nauseating grin combined with a strange fake-concerned expression on his face. “Are you all right? Would you like me to fetch the first-aid kit from the nurse’s office?”
I sigh. “All right, I’ll play along. Why would I require the first-aid kit?”
He’s beside himself with excitement at being granted the opportunity to recite his punchline. “Well, you’re bound to have splinters from rubbing your knees back and forth on that garden bench. And back. And forth. And back. And –”
“Yes, yes, very good, thank you,” Ajita says, slurping her Capri-Sun. [It actually is Capri-Sun for once. Even Ajita doesn’t drink beer at school. Yet. Give it time.] “Goodbye now.”
He disappears, receiving a multitude of fist-bumps from his fellow cross-country psychopaths.
Ajita finishes her juice pouch and scrunches it up. “Hey, I made you something.”
She attempts to toss the pouch in the nearby trash can, missing entirely, then starts digging around in her backpack until she triumphantly pulls out a glossy postcard.
It’s a printout of the garden bench pic, but she’s turned it into a work of art! I think she’s probably just applied one of those Photoshop filters that makes it look like stained glass, but still. It is funny and very Ajita.
I squeeze her hand. “Thank you. For . . . y’know.”
Standing by me. Making me laugh. Allowing me to feel like I might actually survive this ordeal, even though I’m too proud to ever dream of asking for help.
She squeezes mine back. “I know. You’re welcome.”
4.23 p.m.
A girl I vaguely recognize from math class comes up to me in the hallway before last period. She’s in a wheelchair and has mousy brown hair and little round glasses and I think her name is Meg.
“Izzy?”
I try very hard to maintain an air of detachedness, since there’s at least a ninety-five percent chance she’s about to mock me. “Yes, Meg? May I help you?”
“Erm, I . . .”
“If you are here to crack any sort of garden-bench-based joke whatsoever, please do it in the next five seconds because I’m going to be late for geography, and Lord knows rock formations are the number one thing on my mind right now. The last lesson ended on quite a cliffhanger.” [Geddit? Cliffhanger! Rock formations! The best jokes are the ones you have to explain.]
She shakes her head vehemently. “No! I wasn’t going to. I just wanted . . . well, I wanted to say that I think you’re really cool. And funny. You really made me laugh in math this morning. With the H McW thing. I wish I could be as funny as you.” She’s blushing furiously at this point.
A huge grin breaks out across my face. I can’t help it. The unexpected sweetness catches me so off guard that I completely forget the aloof vibe I was aiming for. “That’s such a nice thing to say, Meg! You should totally come and hang out with me and Ajita sometime. We make excellent nachos.”
“Ohmygosh, really?” she beams. “I would love that!”
I scribble down my phone digits for her and head to geography class, feeling very grateful for the few remaining nice people in the world.
5.16 p.m.
WTF ? Danny rocks up to Great Gatsby rehearsals carrying a bunch of tulips and a box of my favorite chocolates [Ferrero Rocher. Yes, my taste in confectionery is unreasonably pretentious given my financial situation]. Bearing in mind the last thing he said to me was “fuck you”, at first I foolishly think this is but a simple apology. Alas, that is not how the following events transpire.
He waltzes down the aisle between rows of seats. Everyone turns to stare. We’re about to start blocking the opening scene so everyone is on stage, and when he walks down, face completely obscured by the obnoxiously large bunch of flowers, an eerie silence falls over us.
Mrs Crannon absolutely does not know how to proceed. So I just slip off the stage and run over to Danny, hissing, “Please tell me these are not for me,” silently praying that they are lest I look like a self-absorbed loon.
An innocent frown. “I thought tulips and posh Nutella balls were your favorites?”
“They are. But . . . why?” Here’s where I’m hoping he’ll acknowledge
he was a giant dickwad and will apologize accordingly.
He thrusts the gifts into my arms and awkwardly shoves his hands into his pockets. “Just because. I want to start fresh. Forget the last few weeks, you know?” When I don’t say anything in response, he adds, “And . . . well, I wanted to show you how great it could be. If we were together.”
And that’s when I realize. It’s not an apology. It’s a bribe. Here, have some gifts. Please be my girlfriend and blow my mind with your sexual prowess. That sort of thing.
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. I guess.”
I mean, what else could I say with a whole room of extravagant drama-types watching? Besides, I’m still all kinds of hurt that he said “fuck you” in such a vile way.
Danny smiles awkwardly. “You’re welcome. I’m going to win you over. You’ll see.”
If you ask me, this is very uncool. To the innocent onlooker it might seem sort of sweet. To me it seems like he’s saying: “I don’t respect your decision not to want to fuck me, and I will manipulate the hell out of your emotions until you change your mind.”
But sure enough, one slow clap from Evan Maclin turns into a hearty round of applause as every single one of them [bar Ajita] interprets this as a display of romance and affection rather than a thinly veiled assertion of male dominance and ultimate rejection of his place in the Friend Zone.
I dump my “gifts” on the front-row seats [on account of my complete lack of regard for my personal belongings, my purse and phone and other worldly possessions are chucked irresponsibly backstage at the beginning of every rehearsal] and retake my place on stage, stomach twisting uncomfortably. Danny’s got an awful bashful-but-also-proud-of-himself face on, accepting the “awwww”s from girls and shoulder jostles from guys.
Argh. I’ve told him I don’t want a romantic relationship. Why isn’t that enough?
8.02 p.m.
By the time rehearsals are over I’m absolutely exhausted and vaguely annoyed, and just want to get home to leftover mac and cheese and a gallon of hot cocoa. But no! That would be too simple!
Vaughan is waiting for me by the school gates, shifting on his feet like a rookie drug dealer. I’m about to inform him that I’m all set for horse tranquilizers when he grabs my arm, hard enough that it’s painful, and mutters, “Can we talk in the woods?”
Carrying Danny’s obscene gifts in my arms, I follow him until we reach a clearing. “If any detectives happen to be tailing us, this definitely looks like a botched drug deal type situation,” I say. He looks at me like I have all of a sudden grown an extra nose. I pat my face just to make sure.
Vaughan grits his teeth. I honestly don’t know why his default facial expression is a poor imitation of beef cattle. I would bring it up, but he already looks so unimpressed by my character as a whole. “It’s not funny. Stop making jokes.”
“I’m sorry. It’s because of who I am as a person.”
I’m about to ask him what he wanted to talk to me about when both of our phones bleep at exactly the same time. This doesn’t sound particularly impressive, but seriously, how often do phones make the same tone in perfect synchrony? Am I just easily pleased? [My sexual track record would suggest yes.]
The joy and merriment of the ringtone situation quickly evaporates when I see the issue.
My nude picture has been leaked.
The one I sent Vaughan.
Every single inch of me. Plastered all over the internet for the whole world to see.
No no no no no no no no no please no.
Whoever posted it has dragged Vaughan down with me, because his name shows up at the top of the conversation.
Which means it’s a screenshot.
Which means it was taken from my phone. Because my messages are in blue bubbles. So are his – the begging and the dick pic and everything. But all I see is my own naked body.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit nooooooooo.
[Sorry for the expletives, but I cannot muster anything more articulate right now.]
My boobs and va-jay-jay are out there in the world. I feel disgusting and violated and bare.
Twisting uncomfortably in my chest, my heart sinks. This absolutely cannot be happening. I’m shaking so hard it’s probably measuring on the Richter scale.
Vaughan slams his palm against a tree trunk. He’s definitely going to regret that tonight when he can’t rage-masturbate.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You leaked them. Thought it’d be good publicity for your little screenplay. Nothing launches a career quite like a sex scandal, does it?” His eyes are wide with mania and/or recreational drug use.
“I guarantee I am not that intelligent,” I say numbly.
A crazed grin splits his face in half. [Not literally.] “Do you know what my father is going to do when he finds out about this? Kill me. He’s going to kill me.” He looks like he might genuinely cry. “How do we make this go away? How do I make you go away?” He practically spits this last part.
He then grabs Danny’s tulips from my hands, hurls them to the ground and starts stamping on them like he’s trying to kill a cockroach. He does this for at least thirty seconds before I ask, “What are you trying to achieve exactly?”
Vaughan stops abruptly. “Do you have any idea what kind of pressure I’m under? To support my father, to go to law school, to be successful? To be the perfect fucking model son with the perfect fucking grades and the perfect fucking life?”
“No, I don’t,” I say matter-of-factly. “Because my parents are dead.” Adrenaline is ringing in my ears. “I’m going to walk away now because you’re pissing me off. Come and talk to me when you’ve calmed down and we’ll figure out how to fix this mess. I will either be here or in Mexico. It’s really anyone’s guess at this point.”
8.54 p.m.
New plan: go home, talk to Betty about my disastrous existence, maybe purchase and consume a vegetable because, on top of everything else, I’m probably at real risk of developing scurvy at this point.
9.28 p.m.
Betty’s pretty weary after a double shift at the diner, and to be honest she smells like old fries, but I still hug her super tight the minute she walks in the door. She’s damp from the rain outside, which is nice because when I cry silently all over her woolly yellow cardigan she barely notices.
“Kiddo! What’s all this about?” she asks. We’re standing in the doorway, her sodden umbrella dumped next to the shoe rack, me clinging to her like a limpet to a rock pool. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sudden and alarming displays of affection as much as the next girl. But this isn’t usually your style.”
“Sorry,” I sniffle, finally pulling away. Betty pushes the door shut, locking and chaining it while still looking at me with deep concern.
Her glasses are spotted with rain, but instead of wiping them dry she just peers at me through the kaleidoscopic droplets. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
She ushers me into the kitchen and immediately gets to work filling the kettle. It’s one of those unnecessarily heavy beasts which she inherited from her grandma, and she can barely lift it despite the Popeye arms she’s developed over decades of manual labor.
Once it’s simmering away on the stove, she takes a seat at the table with me. It’s still covered in crumbs from our bacon sandwiches this morning. I fill Betty in on the Danny situation, but somehow, when I come to tell her about the leaked nudes, the words get stuck in my throat.
“That’s sweet of Danny to buy you flowers,” Betty says, missing the point entirely.
“No, it’s not.”
The kettle whistles on the stove and Betty goes to get up, but I gesture for her to stay seated. She’s been on her feet all day. I busy myself making tea in the biggest mugs I can find.
“Why isn’t it?” Betty asks, propping her feet up on the chair I left empty.
Stirring milk and a third spoonful of sugar into each cup, I sigh. “It was a way to assert his male dominance over me as a woman by not re
specting my decision not to partake in a romantic relationship with him. Did you not read that Feminism 101 book I got you for Christmas?”
“I don’t think this exact scenario was in there.”
I bring the tea over to the table and take a seat, propping Betty’s feet up into my lap. Dumbledore sniffles around the floor, hoping for some rogue bacon juice or even a mini marshmallow from last night’s hot cocoa, even though he’s probably checked this exact spot a hundred times today. I scoop him up onto my lap too, so he can act as a footwarmer for Betty. He wiggles uncomfortably at first, but soon settles into the strange sort of cuddle, accepting my gentle strokes of his soft brown fur.
“Anyway, the hows and the whys are sort of beside the point,” I say. “I’m just feeling kind of exhausted by it all. School. Danny. And . . . some other stuff.” I trail off vaguely.
I’m not sure why I don’t want to tell Betty about the website, or the nudes. Mainly I don’t want to worry her, especially when she’s so damn exhausted herself. In fact, I feel kind of guilty about complaining, given all the sacrifices she makes to her health just to keep me alive and in full-time education.
But it seems like she’s not really listening. She traces a wrinkly thumb around the rim of the teacup, staring intently at the steam. It looks like she wants to say something heartfelt, but she often needs to give herself a pep talk before spouting a sentence containing actual emotion, so I give her the space she needs to build up to it.
“Listen, kiddo,” she starts, throat hoarse like it so often is at the end of a long shift. “I wish your mom was here to see you now.” Her voice catches. “You know your own mind, and you’re not afraid to speak it, you know?”
Tears press heavily against my eyes.
No, I’m not, I want to scream. If my parents were here, they’d see nude pictures of me all over the internet!
I can’t talk about this. I can’t. And from the tension on Betty’s face, she’s too exhausted to see the conversation through to the end. So I shut it down.