The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  She putters around making nachos – spraying grated cheese and rogue tortilla chip crumbs everywhere as she tries to stay in droid character – while I rant.

  “I just don’t get it,” I say from my perch on a bar stool. “Why does anyone care about my sexploits? It’s just so absurd.”

  “Agreed,” she replies, sucking some spilled salsa out of the R2-D2 onesie. “I don’t care either. I wasn’t even listening to what you just said, for instance. You really are a hugely uninteresting individual.”

  “Right? And yet four thousand people give a crap about the fact I slept with a senator’s son. On a garden bench. And sent him a nude. WHY?”

  She rams the haphazard nacho tray under the grill and hops up onto the counter, which is where she always prefers to sit given the chance. She insists it’s more comfortable than any sofa money can buy. She’s an oddball, my best friend. “In all reality, though, how are you feeling about it? Because this cannot be easy.”

  I shudder. “The worst part is knowing how many actual adults will now see those pictures. When it was just the website, I assumed the damage would be contained to fellow high-school students. Which was far from ideal, but it was easier to stomach than knowing parents and teachers and all sorts are now going to see my foofer.” I groan. “Oh God. I just thought of something else. Nobody in this godforsaken town is going to hire me now.”

  This feels terrible. Betty is going to have to work even longer just because her disaster zone of a granddaughter has rendered herself completely unemployable.

  Ajita tries her best to put a positive spin on the situation. “I mean, you don’t know that. I feel like you might have a USP among owners of struggling dive bars. From their point of view, your incredible boobs might attract a whole slew of sleazy clientele as they arrive in their hordes to attempt to woo you. Sales of Johnnie Walker will skyrocket.”

  I groan again, dropping my head into my hands. This all feels like a bad dream. Why can’t I wake up?

  “So Danny mentioned you guys had a bit of a fight,” Ajita says, changing the subject in a bid to distract me from the fact my future is evaporating before my eyes. “Something about a screenwriting course? Care to fill me in on the non-biased, non-Dannyfied version?”

  Instead of spelling it all out, I just hand her my phone and let her read the messages herself.

  “Jeez,” she says, eyes widening. “Hey, Danny, might wanna cover up a bit. Your privilege is showing.”

  Exasperated, but also hungry, I pad over to the fridge and open it up, scanning for any potential snackage situations. “Do you understand what I was trying to say, though? Did I come off too harsh with all that stuff about not wanting or needing a rich person to buy me in?” I settle on the remainder of the grated cheese and start shovelling it into my face like popcorn.

  “Not harsh at all,” she says, giving the nacho tray a shimmy and dumping more guac on top. “It’s like when I talk about racism, I’m not asking for one single white person to wave their magic privilege wand and fix one single symptom. What I’m saying is that I want the systemic racism to not exist in the first place. I want a cure, not a Band-Aid.” She shrugs. “But a lot of rich white guys will never get that. They’ll always make it about them. And why wouldn’t they? Historically, it always has been about them.”

  Frustration is building in my blood to such a high concentration that not even rapid ingestion of cheddar can take the edge off. “Do you know, Ajita, I’m starting to lose all faith in the world.”

  “So how do we take your mind off it? I really thought the Star Wars costume would do it.”

  “What Star Wars costume?” I ask innocently.

  “Yes, very good. Har har. Shall we do some karaoke? I’ve also got a Chewbacca outfit you can wear for the occasion.”

  It really is incredible how much better singing along to Eminem’s [admittedly highly problematic] greatest hits can make you feel. A personal highlight is our rendition of ‘Love the Way you Lie’. I perform the rap segments while Ajita takes Rihanna’s chorus. Magical.

  Unfortunately her parents return at the precise moment Ajita is holding her brother’s teddy bear over the gas cooker, crooning “just gonna staaaaand there and watch me burn” as the blackened nachos set off the fire alarm. But you take the wins where you can get them.

  [I would show you the video of us dancing on the breakfast bar dressed as a Wookie and a droid, but then I’d have to kill you.]

  Tuesday 4 October

  6.31 a.m.

  Someone posted a condom stuffed with dog turd through our letterbox this morning. Dumbledore got confused, bless him, and thought it was an exciting new chew toy. And that’s the story of how we’re going to have to get a new couch.

  12.58 p.m.

  Betty finally let me stay off school today. She’s being all cute and protective and bringing me things. She even knitted me a scarf now that the weather’s getting cooler, and it is the single most ugly garment I have ever seen in my life – like roadkill really – but I love it dearly.

  Still haven’t plucked up the courage to check the news again.

  2.12 p.m.

  Whyyyyyyy???????

  Whyyyyyyy did you let me check the news???????

  The clickbait piece featuring Vaughan’s speech has now amassed over 100,000 shares all across the state, and has been updated to include quotes from Ted Vaughan, whose political beliefs are as wrong as a sultana in a salad [or really just salad as a concept]. He has this to say:

  “The accusations of my son’s involvement in this disgusting display of teenage promiscuity are outrageous and deeply insulting. His mother and I have dedicated our lives to raising this young man the correct way, and to insinuate his behavior has been anything other than exemplary for the past seventeen years is nothing but a vicious lie. Izzy O’Neill, whoever you are: please take responsibility for your own actions, which are a living embodiment of everything that’s wrong with America’s youth culture today.”

  Ted Vaughan is the kind of guy who’s probably absolutely thrilled with this handy little PR boost his campaign so desperately needed. He then goes on about abortion policies and what steps he’d take to fix us broken teens, which I can only assume involve systematic castration of the homosexual population and mandatory chastity belts for all unmarried women.

  There’s also expert analysis on the ineptitude of sex education-professionals across the country, a roundup of all the female celebrities who’ve had their nudes leaked, someone preaching passionately about abstinence being the only real form of contraception, and a lot of religious bigots condemning me to an eternity in hell.

  And the photo of me having sex with Vaughan on a garden bench. Everywhere.

  I’m trying very hard to process these developments, with special regard to the fact my name and face and private parts are now plastered all over the internet, but I feel strangely detached and unable to convince myself this is actually happening.

  I have six thousand texts from Ajita asking if I’m all right, and predictably zero from Danny. Ajita’s most recent:

  Look, I know this is a little off-brand, but I am seriously worried about you. My skin is in more of a mess than, I don’t know, Lionel Messi, and there are reporters at the school gates asking people for quotes about you, and though I am surprisingly tough there are only so many times I can rugby-tackle our peers to the ground before my shoulder gives out, and FOR SHIT’S SAKE WILL YOU JUST ANSWER ME, WOMAN?? Otherwise I shall be forced to call you and we both know how much you hate unsolicited phone calls when a simple text message would do. xo

  I fire off an eloquent and insightful message about my mental state:

  Re the reporters: I don’t give a fuck. In fact, if you listen very carefully, you’ll hear the sound of all the fucks I used to give exploding one by one, into tiny little fucklet particles that are imperceptible to the naked eye. Stop by after school? Love you.

  Then she says:

  Love you??? Are you sure you aren’t
dying?? It sounds suspiciously like you’re dying. And I know you’re a tireless curator of all the fucks nobody gives, but promise me you’re okay? This press field day is on a whole new unprecedented level of suckage. You would have to combine blowjob extraordinaire Amanda Bateman with a high-end Dyson to even come close to how much this sucks. xo

  Despite the enticing myriad of innuendo options available to me right now, I don’t even have the energy to reply.

  7.28 p.m.

  Having spent the whole day inside alone, trying and failing to fight the deep, gnawing shame eating my insides, I have to get out. Of the house, of my body, of my mind. I just have to get out.

  In an attempt to cheer me up, Ajita insists on taking me shopping for sketch props with her mom’s credit card. I have brief concerns over being recognized in the mall – which is where basically everyone from within a 100-mile radius hangs out on evenings and weekends – but aside from the people I actually know from school, no one seems to notice me.

  In fairness, most of the WCW website, and indeed the recent press coverage, has been focused on my body. Nobody is particularly interested in my face, and with my body covered up like it is right now, what else do I have to offer the world? Precisely nothing.

  Still, every store assistant who serves us, every cashier who swipes Ajita’s mom’s card, I wonder if they know. I wonder if they’ve seen me naked. I wonder if they laughed at me with their friends, or showed their colleagues in the break room. I wonder if they think I got what I deserved. I wonder if they know the intimate parts of my body that are now public property.

  I feel powerless. Completely and utterly powerless.

  We’re now sitting in the food court, drinking milkshakes [I go peanut-butter Oreo because I am very committed to my varied diet and believe in consuming equal quantities of fat and sugar] and planning a series of satirical Instagram posts using an avocado onesie. Although hipster foodies are absolutely harmless and probably very nice people, we can’t resist an easy target. In fact, it’s often quite physically painful for us to try and refrain from making obvious gags, like the time I tried to give up “your mom” jokes and almost gave myself a stroke, thus it would effectively count as self-flagellation to attempt to control ourselves. This is, both medically and philosophically speaking, a thing. Trust me. I have an IQ of 84.

  Once the hilarity wears off over the mental image of me smeared on wholewheat toast and topped with cracked black pepper, Ajita asks me ever so casually, “So have you thought any more about who started that website in the first place? Cos, you know. This is all their fault. Not yours. I don’t want you getting big-headed or anything, because your ego is already intolerable, but . . . you are wonderful. None of this is your fault.”

  Genuinely I almost cry at this, but manage to resist lest Ajita think I actually have emotions. “It’d be nice if Danny was telling the truth,” I say. “That he really did have nothing to do with it.”

  She mulls this over, taking a swig of her s’mores shake. Next to her is a sign that says Your Sandwish Is My Command. [Don’t you dare laugh at this. It’s the least funny name for a fast-food restaurant in the whole word. Think of all the wasted opportunities! Lord of the Fries. Forrest Rump. The Codfather. I could go on, but I shan’t.]

  I add, “I think I’m going to choose to believe him, simply because it’s too depressing not to.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, I’m getting quite tired of people proving themselves to be royal dickwads every other second.” I pause meaningfully, fumbling with the straw wrapper. “Did you invite him today?”

  “No. I’d rather fuck a fruit bowl than look at his mopey face all afternoon.”

  I laugh so hard at this I almost vomit.

  9.04 p.m.

  Sound the drama klaxon! Within the space of the last thirty minutes, the following hath ensued:

  1. Vaughan called me [like, an actual telephone call, in this day and age! Who does he think he is??] to apologize for the media shitstorm he accidentally caused by making a cafeteria speech more ill-judged than the 2003 invasion of Iraq. I essentially told him to have sexual intercourse with the nearest cactus, and he called me a bitch and hung up.

  2. Danny texted me, kicking off about my secret girl date with Ajita. It went like this: Thanks for the invite today. It was really great to hear my two supposed best friends were hanging out behind my back. He is such a man child. Currently researching ancient witchcraft rituals in an attempt to cajole the universe into smiting him. [I do feel like smite is an underused verb, no?]

  I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with either.

  11.02 p.m.

  The day has left me feeling grubby and miserable, so I have a long, hot shower in an attempt to wash it all away. The website, the nudes, the press coverage. Danny. Everything.

  Usually I’m in and out within five minutes, barely even looking at my body as I slather it in cheap shower gel and drag a razor wherever necessary, but tonight I examine it more closely than I have in years. It’s been put under a microscope for the whole world to inspect, and I want to see what they see. It’s sadistic, but it’s an itch I have to scratch.

  Cellulite and stretch marks around my hips and thighs. A giant mole on my left butt cheek. Swollen boobs because of the time of the month.

  Imperfections that, up until a few weeks ago, were mine and mine alone. Until I shared them with two boys I trusted. Now the whole world sees them too.

  I scrub for an hour but still can’t wash away the dirty feeling.

  Wednesday 5 October

  8.28 a.m.

  Just when you think life could not possibly get any more dramatic and palpitation-inducing, a gaggle of reporters flock to the gates of your housing community and bombard you on your way to school. Seriously, big fluffy mikes, cameras, the works. Now I know how that Jenner woman feels when people ask about her lips all the time.

  “Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!”

  No. Go away.

  “Izzy? Izzy, can you talk to us about Zachary Vaughan? Has his father made any effort to contact you directly?”

  No.

  “How does it feel to have your naked body on display to the entire world?”

  NO.

  They just want to hear my side of the story, they say. Yes, but so do the other 631 bloggers/journalists/scumbags who emailed me personally to ask for THE TRUTH and THE LIES and THE SCANDAL and for a verbatim quote on how much of a royal dick Ted Vaughan is.

  Vultures, the lot of them. I just cannot begin to understand why they even care about my naked teenage body and unpalatable promiscuity. Aren’t there wars happening or something? Are sex scandals really that interesting nowadays, or are we still in 2007? Is that the buzz of Britney’s razor I hear?

  Honestly, it was like running a gauntlet. Danny was nowhere to be seen this morning, probably goldfish pouting about our fight and how Vaughan is getting more attention than him, but thankfully Ajita, a.k.a. my guardian-angel-come-pit-bull, shielded me from the flashing cameras as best she could. It was a little like an ant trying to protect Hagrid, but I was touched nonetheless.

  In related news, in homeroom I’m going to rip off Vaughan’s balls and stitch them to a sock puppet, and then I will explain to the reporters, using my innovative new mouthpiece, just how I feel about that unbelievable scumbag.

  10.54 a.m.

  Outside of Ajita, the only other student who isn’t treating me like I have leprosy is, surprise surprise, Carson Manning.

  We bump into each other by the water fountain before second period. He sneaks up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “Hey, you. How you holding up?” He smells freshly showered – he must’ve just finished practice.

  I wipe a rogue trail of water away from my mouth [seriously, is there any way to drink gracefully from a water fountain?] and turn to him, mustering up the most convincing smile I can.

  “I’m all right, I guess. Trying not to look at the media.”

  He’s wearing a
gray hoodie and black jeans, and I want to rip them right off him. Good to know the whole sex-scandal thing hasn’t deterred the insatiable nymphomaniac inside me.

  Carson rubs his forehead, looking anxious on my behalf. “Don’t blame you. Please don’t . . .”

  As he trails off, he shakes his head.

  “Please don’t what?” I prompt him, rearranging my backpack. I have a terrible habit of hauling my books around on just my right shoulder instead of wearing it properly across both, so am therefore a few short months away from resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  He looks around the busy corridor, where kids of all ages and social standings are staring at us, whispering conspiratorially. “Please don’t think any of this is your fault, a’ight? Cos it ain’t.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “I’ll try not to.”

  And then, despite all the stares and whispers, he gives me the biggest bear hug I’ve ever received.

  He’s so warm and comforting as he whispers in my ear, “You tougher than they are. Hell, you tougher than most people.”

  Before I can even reply, he pulls away, picks up the textbook he dropped and, after one last reassuring smile, sets off toward his next class.

  These past few days have felt like my insides were being shredded with frozen icicles of shame, but Carson thaws them. Because he doesn’t treat me any differently. He looks at me the same way he always has: like I’m funny and cool and someone he wants to be around. Like I’m a person, not a piece of meat.

  Something in my chest aches, but not in a sad way.

  11.35 a.m.

  Fuck. Just when a well-timed pep talk from a guy I care about has me feeling like I might actually survive this, BuzzFeed gets hold of the story. I’m global.