The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  While Ajita’s showering and Sharon is changing into costume, I take the opportunity to ask Danny, “How’s Praj doing? Anything we need to worry about?”

  Danny shrugs, not really looking at me as he tinkers with a mic. “He seems okay. Focusing on his next track meet. Still seems kinda lonely, though. I’m hanging out with him at some point next week, which is helping, I think, but I still want him to make some friends his own age, you know?”

  “I do. You’re a good friend, looking out for him,” I say, and I mean it. There aren’t many eighteen-year-old dudes who’d hang out with their best friend’s little brother just to make sure he’s doing okay. It reminds me why I’m friends with Danny despite all the melodrama.

  Part of me suspects Danny enjoys being around Praj too. Like I say, he doesn’t have many guy friends, and if things are rough at home it’s probably serving as a nice distraction. And he really loves Mario Kart.

  Once Ajita has washed away her rogue urine and hopefully found a diaper to wear, I call action. Despite my love of performing, I do secretly love to direct, even though I have a tendency to whine about it. Mainly I just enjoy bossing people around, but there’s something so satisfying about seeing your creation come to life on screen. I get a strange little flutter of excitement at the idea of doing this as a career.

  I check my emails for the millionth time today, hoping for news about the screenplay comp despite the fact it’s only been a few days since I sent back my revised script. Nothing.

  Then it hits me. What if the judges have seen the nudes?

  8.50 p.m.

  Honestly, what a self-obsessed drama queen I am. Why would hotshot comedy producers and a panel of professional screenwriting judges be scouring the internet in pursuit of teen nudes? If that were the case, surely they’re the ones who should be embarrassed, not me.

  Get a grip, O’Neill.

  10.14 p.m.

  Danny and I cycle back from Ajita’s together. Our neighborhoods are pretty close, even though his is so much more expensive it might as well be another world.

  We’re at the junction and about to part ways when he says, “Hey, why don’t you come to mine for a bit? My mom’s been nagging me to invite you over for months. It’s been so long.”

  To be a hundred percent honest, I’m super tired and just want to get home to Betty, Dumbledore and my cozy bed, but I don’t want to spark another argument by saying no. Plus I remember what Betty told me about his parents’ rocky marriage, and the way he dismissed me when I probed him about it. Inviting me back to his is a big show of trust – one our friendship definitely needs right now. And it would be nice to see his mom, Miranda. She was my mom’s best friend, and she always has the best stories.

  Which is how, nine minutes later, I’m sitting in the living room of their fancy four-bedroom house, making polite conversation and wishing I was in the comfort of my own home.

  Their living room is super formal. It has stiff Chesterfield sofas with tiny, firm cushions, and the floor is pale marble topped with a giant Persian rug. The fireplace itself is bare and unused, but the mantelpiece bears an antique clock and several miniature statues of Jesus and his disciples.

  Miranda Wells is beautiful, but in a plastic surgery kind of way. Her forehead’s a little too tight and her lips are a little too plump, but she’s always impeccably dressed. It’s hard to imagine her and my mom being best friends in college. My mom was apparently a total hippie type, by all accounts, all tie-dye and weed and protests. Maybe Miranda used to be too, but she’s been the way she is now for as long as I can remember.

  “So Izzy, how’s school going?” she asks, folding one leg tightly over the other and taking a sip of chilled white wine. “Have you figured out which colleges you’re going to apply to yet?”

  Here we go again. “Actually, I –”

  Danny butts in. “Izzy’s decided she doesn’t need to go to college.”

  Sure. It’s because I don’t need to go. I press my lips together. “I just don’t think it’s the best option for me right now.”

  Miranda looks like she might be trying to raise her eyebrows, but it’s impossible to be sure through all the Botox. “But Izzy, darling! It’s so important to get a good education. I know it’s what your parents would’ve wanted, especially your mom. Did you know she graduated summa cum laude? Political science major.” [This comes across badly in writing, but I know her heart’s in the right place. She’s not trying to make me feel crappy by bringing up my parents. She’s just old-fashioned about this stuff.]

  Again, Danny speaks on my behalf. “I’ve tried telling her, Mom, but she thinks she knows best. Standard Izzy.” He smiles likes he’s simply jesting good-naturedly, but his words feel sharp. Loaded.

  Eager to move on, I change the subject. “So Mrs Wells, are you going back to Lake Michigan for Thanksgiving this year?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of visiting my sister and brother-in-law in Europe,” she replies. She sways slightly. I wonder how many glasses of wine she’s had. Or where Mr Wells is at ten thirty on a Wednesday night. She thinks I don’t see her checking her watch every few seconds, but I do. “I haven’t seen them in so long.”

  There’s something oddly sad and vacant about Miranda tonight. I wonder if everything’s really that terrible between her and Mr Wells. I feel bad for her, I really do. She might be a bit cold sometimes, but she’s always been there for me. And she was important to my mom, so she’s important to me too.

  “What the hell, Mom?” Danny snaps, catching both Miranda and me off guard. “When were you planning on telling me?”

  “Sorry, son, I wasn’t quite sure what –”

  “Why don’t you care about what I want to do?” Danny huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “You know I love going to Lake Michigan for the holidays. It’s the only thing keeping me going at the moment.”

  He looks like a petulant only child. Which, you know, he is. It’s been so long since I’ve been to his house that I’ve forgotten how spoilt he can be sometimes. I mean, sure, we’re all different around our parents or various legal guardians. But still. I can barely stand the sight of him when he’s like this.

  Suddenly the weight of everything hits me. I’m just so tired that I can’t bear to be here a second longer. “Mrs Wells, I better be taking off,” I say, rising from the sofa. Danny doesn’t look at me. “It’s been good to see you. I won’t leave it so long next time.”

  With a slight wobble, Miranda stands up too, placing her glass of wine down on the coffee table a bit too hard. Unexpectedly, she throws her arms around me. She smells of expensive perfume and Sauvignon Blanc. “You take care of yourself, Izzy. And you always know where I am if you need anything.” It’s not a maternal gesture, and for once I don’t feel like there are thirty years between us. It just feels like one struggling woman hugging another. Like we’re peers.

  I smile warmly, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “Right back at you.”

  Danny doesn’t see me out, just stays on the sofa, shooting daggers at his poor mom. I walk through the hallway and toward the front door right at the same time Mr Wells is returning home from . . . wherever. Judging by the smell of Scotch, he’s been at the bar opposite his office building.

  He clumsily removes his coat and hangs it on the umbrella stand beside the door. His gray hair has gotten so white, and I’m surprised by the swollen paunch belly hanging over his suit pants – it’s expanded a lot since I last saw him.

  Only when he turns around does he finally see me. A sloppy grin registers on his face. “Izzy! Great to see you. Been too long.”

  And then, slowly, deliberately, his eyes run up and down my body. And in that heart-dropping second, I know he’s seen the photo too.

  I feel disgusting. Like I’m being forced to grow up too fast.

  Thursday 29 September

  1.35 p.m.

  Today some delightful human has printed off and photocopied hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of my nudes and stac
ked them in neat piles all over campus like some sort of visitor information leaflet. They’re all grainy and grayscale, but the quality of the printing is not the issue here. The issue is that everywhere I look the photo is tucked into ringbinders and journals and shirt pockets and uuurgggghhhhhhh.

  As I walk down the gap between benches in the cafeteria, several gorilla boys from the soccer team fling paper airplanes made from the nude printouts at me. Ajita bats them out of the way with her palm like she’s merely swatting flies. One stabs me in the elephant ear. Everyone laughs.

  But Ajita just sits me down at our usual table, sweeps away a fleet of origami boats also made from the photocopies, and launches into a monologue about the livelihood of barley farmers in Ethiopia. I mean, I wasn’t really listening, so it might not have been about that, but let’s give her the benefit of the doubt.

  At this point I am so ridiculously grateful for Ajita Dutta. If it weren’t for her I’d definitely be spending my lunchtimes holed up in a toilet cubicle, or hiding up a tree trying desperately to avoid branch-swinging Tarzan wannabes practising their muscle-ups.

  Still, I can’t bring myself to ask her about Carlie. It’s sheer cowardice really, but I don’t trust myself to broach the subject without upsetting her. Because in reality she doesn’t know I found that bikini pic on her laptop, and she maybe isn’t aware of the blatant attraction floating between her and the red-headed goddess whenever they’re together. I don’t want to burst her bubble and force her to confront something she might not be ready to confront just yet.

  I wish I was better at this stuff. I can crack jokes and tell stories and make my best friend laugh until the cows come home, but I seem to be missing that innate ability to emotionally support someone through something tough. I really need to work on this, because it’s not okay. Is there some sort of course I can take? A diploma in being a certified good pal? Remind me to look into it.

  4.47 p.m.

  Unbelievable. Danny has bought me another gift to apologize for freaking out over the destruction of his previous gift – the tulips – which were also an apology in themselves. I just want to scream at him, “I don’t need gifts! I just need you to stop being a Grade-A bucket of dicks!” but I don’t think that would go down very well. Preserving his trademark Nice Guy image is very important to him.

  Anyway, as we’re all walking home together after school – lamenting the bitterly cold wind – he makes the following announcement: “So . . . what are you guys doing on the first weekend in December? Oh, I know! You’re going to see Coldplay live at the arena!”

  Oh, wonderful. My inner cynic suspects he probably just wants to sing along to “Fix You” while crying and staring poignantly at me.

  Ajita squeals and throws her arms around him. “Danny! That’s so awesome. Thank you! I can’t even think of anything horrible or sarcastic to say right now.”

  I attempt to muster some gratitude and deliver a well-intended-but-somewhat-lackluster high five. Lackluster due to my emotional exhaustion and general wariness toward the behavior of Mr Wells, which almost seems to have some kind of ulterior motive.

  He purses his lips, clearly put out by my lack of enthusiasm. In his defense, they must have set him back a buck or two of his parents’ cash since it’s been sold out for months.

  Again, it kind of rubs me the wrong way, this pattern that’s emerging. It feels like every time he wants me to feel a certain way about him, he throws money at the situation. Milkshakes, Harry Potter merch, tulips, Ferrero Rocher, gig tickets. Almost as if he thinks he can buy my love.

  “I wanted to show you how great it could be. If we were together.”

  Maybe I’m overreacting. The Coldplay tickets are quite sweet, I suppose. Danny knows Ajita and I love them, and despite the fact he himself is too hipster to allow himself to enjoy their “overrated drivel”, he’s a big enough person to swallow his own taste in pretentious hipster music and attend the concert with us. He is trying to be a good friend at least. In his own way.

  I just can’t figure him out at the moment. One minute he’s looking after Ajita and Prajesh like they’re his own family, and the next he’s treating his actual family like dirt. There must be some serious shit going down chez Wells; even worse than the affair, if that’s possible. The thought alone makes me feel bad enough to overlook his weird behavior.

  Plus, things are crappy enough in my life right now. And I have the option to forgive Danny’s relentless stream of weapons-grade douchebaggery, and try to rebuild our fractured friendship. All I want is for things to go back to normal, and this seems as good a place to start as any.

  So I say thank you and hug him too.

  6.58 p.m.

  We’ve been playing ping-pong in Ajita’s basement for around eleven minutes, deftly avoiding the nude elephant in the room, when my phone vibrates. Message.

  Since I’m in the throes of a heated tiebreak with Ajita, Danny inexplicably picks it up and reads before I can even stop him. “It’s from Carson,” he says flatly. “He wants to see you.”

  Shit! I forgot to reply to Carson’s last text!

  Shit! Why did Danny read it?

  “Oh. Right,” I respond, carefully avoiding Danny’s stare. He wants to gauge my reaction, obviously, and I want to deprive him of that luxury. I pick up the ball to serve, facial expression set to intense mode as though winning this match means more to me than anything in the entire world, even awesome basketball-playing boys who look like movie stars and make me laugh and don’t judge me for screwing up.

  “Bow chicka wow wow!” Ajita adds helpfully, despite the fact I’ve told her twice a day for half a decade that nobody says that anymore. “Manning wants round two. Who could blame him?”

  I try to serve, but miss the table entirely. The score’s now 22–22.

  At Ajita’s comment, Danny goes bright red, hurls my phone at the couch, shoves his feet into his beat-up sneakers and mutters something about seeing us later, which I silently pray does not come to fruition. Within three seconds he’s gone.

  For God’s sake. Just when I was ready to move past this confusing episode of unrequited love and emotional manipulation.

  I’m so stunned at his departure I allow Ajita to ace me. 22–23. “What. The. Actual. Hell?”

  She shakes her head. “I get it. The guy’s hopelessly in love with you. And he knows he’s taken up permanent residence in the Friend Zone.”

  “Oh, right,” I snap. “And because he’s spent enough money and inserted enough friendship tokens, the offer of sex and/or marriage should just fall out anytime now?”

  Sighing, she bounces the ball up and down, waiting for me to regain sporting composure. “I know. It’s male-entitlement bullshit.”

  “But?”

  “Still can’t be nice reading that message.”

  “Oh yes. Poor Danny. He is absolutely the one we should feel sorry for in this scenario. Did I ask him to read it? No. I know I’m sadistic at times, but masochistic I am not. And this hurts me as much as it does him.”

  “Does it really?” she asks pointedly.

  “Really what?”

  “Hurt you.” She lays her bat down on the table, perceptively realizing I shall not be calming down anytime soon, and takes a swig of cream soda. “You seem to be taking all of this in your stride. The website, the nudes, the whispers in the hallway. Vaughan. Danny. I know you’re a tough cookie, and you’d rather impale yourself on a garden rake than ask for help or show emotion of any kind, but you’re allowed to freak out, you know?”

  I’m not taking it in my stride! I want to scream. It’s absolutely killing me! But I’m incapable of showing vulnerability and asking for help because I am a TRAGIC ORPHAN WHO USES HUMOR AS A COPING MECHANISM!!!

  Instead I say: “Have you ever considered a career in the counseling profession? That garden rake image in particular is very vivid.”

  She sighs. “You know what I mean. You don’t have to be unflappable all the time. And you’re allowed to ask
for help.”

  I do appreciate her trying to talk to me semi-sensibly for once, but honestly, I am just so filled with wrath at Danny’s self-pitying martyrdom that I just cannot face it. And also I know she’s probably dealing with her own stuff. Figuring out her sexuality and such. So it doesn’t seem fair to offload on her.

  I smirk. “Can we talk about something else, like how you pissed yourself yesterday?”

  Another episode of Scrubs starts in the background, with that irritatingly catchy theme tune: “But I can’t do this all on my own, no, I know, I’m no Superman.” Or whatever.

  Obviously Ajita has no self-control and cannot help herself. “You are no Superman, Izzy. And you can’t do it all on your own.”

  Like I say, I’m not in the mood, so I nip this conversation in the bud. “Good talk, coach.”

  She finally gives up. I feel kind of bad because I know how painful she finds trying to be a decent human being, but what can I even say? That all of this is like some kind of night terror, and I’ve woken up paralyzed and can’t do anything but sit and watch?

  8.21 p.m.

  I head down to the outdoor basketball courts after eating five portions of Betty’s iconic mac and cheese. Don’t tell her I told you, but the secret is she crushes up salt and vinegar chips and mixes the crumbs with the grated cheese topping to make a crunchy crust thing that is basically better than sex, and I should know, because I have had a lot of both.

  Because the universe clearly felt bad for leaving me in this cesspool of a situation, Carson is at the courts alone, shooting hoops. Shirtless. Seriously, what have I done to deserve this good karma? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

  It’s still light outside, but the sky has that kind of late-summer dusty quality, with tiny flies and a slight haze hanging in the air.