The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  Well, the Vaughan family are global, but I’m caught up in the crossfire. Because revenge porn is still legal in my state, and such a high-profile case involving a politician’s son has attracted a storm of media attention and debate. And because I’m eighteen, and thus not a child, they’re allowed to show my pictures without being accused of child pornography.

  Part of me is glad the issue is being discussed. I just wish I wasn’t the catalyst.

  Checked my Gmail for shortlist news [and to satisfy the paranoid part of me who’s still worried the producers will see the nudes and put two and two together].  Nada, but I’ve had an influx of emails from yet more journalists and bloggers asking to interview me exclusively, and a smattering of hate mail, and also an offer from one of those vile tea detox brands asking me to promote their product to my whopping 213 Instagram followers now that I am apparently an international icon for all that is wrong with the world.

  Prior to today, all I really received were emails like “Have you noticed how you have become so fat and hopeless?” and generous offers for $1 liposuction in Outer Mongolia, but now that heyday of spam is apparently over.

  1.20 p.m.

  Though I’m getting used to lunchtime being an unbelievably traumatic affair, today it reaches all new levels, now that I am known internationally as a slut of the highest order.

  Kids listen in on my hushed conversations with Ajita and record our mumblings on their phones. We’re only discussing which movie we wanna see this weekend, but still. They snap pictures and take videos and look at my nudes for the thousandth time while masturbating into their sloppy lasagna. [Again, I made this last one up, which you will not be at all surprised to learn. If you are currently consuming lasagna or any other baked pasta dish, I apologize for the mental image.]

  I know citizen journalism is meant to be a positive movement, and for authentic coverage of protests and police brutality and natural disasters, yes, I can see the benefits, but this? Really?

  Teens must send thousands, if not millions, of explicit photographs to each other every single day. Why is mine so damn interesting? Debating the legality of revenge porn is one thing. Showcasing my body for sport is quite another.

  And, fellow students, do you really think Fox News is going to pay you for your under-the-bench photo of my crossed-over knees just because I’m having an unwarranted moment in the limelight? Are you really that desperate for a few extra quarters?

  Ajita tries her best to distract me and continue with our conversation about whether or not to see the big-budget thriller or the subtitled art-house movie, but eventually we give up and head for the woods to live out the rest of our lunch hour alone and in peace.

  Well, you know, except for our phys ed teacher a.k.a. Crossfit Monkey. But I’m starting to find him strangely comforting. He doesn’t exist in the same realm of the universe as us mere mortals, always thinking about how many push-ups he can do before he passes out, so chances are he hasn’t seen me naked. Always a win.

  2.34 p.m.

  Ms Castillo goes a bit “oh, captain, my captain” on us in English this afternoon. She’s picked up on the air of animosity and flatulence in the classroom and tries to give us all a motivational speech about the importance of kindness and abstinence, etc. Anyway it was kind of ruined by the chorus of “you don’t even go here”, but it was sort of sweet for her to try and make things a bit less crappy for me.

  But then she corners me after class, waiting until everyone else leaves before sitting me down and smiling in the most patronizing of ways. “Oh, sweet child.” In a very adulty way, I resist the urge to start singing Guns N’ Roses at the top of my lungs, instead plastering a receptive expression on my face. “You’ve had a tough time, haven’t you?”

  I’ve had this exact conversation with almost every single teacher in school. Soon as I mess up, by their standards, they take me to one side and instigate a long and painful exchange about my orphan upbringing. They take one look at my overworn clothing and unkempt scarecrow hair and think I’m a tragic Annie-like figure, and usually I don’t have the heart to ruin the charade.

  Another syrupy-sweet smile. “It can’t have been easy, losing your parents at such a young age.”

  I shrug. What does she want me to say? “I’ve had thirteen years to get used to it.”

  Then she goes into full concerned-grown-up-mode and I get a Shakespearean monologue about how the effects of deep trauma like losing parents can often take a while to manifest. Then: “All I’m saying is that nobody blames you for acting up, and you have a large support system around you no matter how this situation turns out, okay?”

  There it is. That buzz phrase adults love: “acting up”. It’s hilarious because they often use it in the context of behavior they themselves also participate in, such as sex and alcohol. One of the reasons I love my grandma so much is that she’s never once uttered those three syllables in my direction.

  Normally I’d let it go, but for some reason this bugs me so much more than normal. Probably because I’m guessing she hasn’t pulled Vaughan to one side like this.

  “Sorry, Miss Castillo, but can you define ‘acting up’ for me? I’m struggling to understand what you mean.”

  A sympathetic head-tilt. “Our Lord does not support premarital sex, Izzy. You know that.”

  My ruthless snark rears its ugly head just at the right/wrong time. “Oh! Well, fortunately I’m an atheist, and I have it on good authority that the scientific universe doesn’t concern itself with the romantic activity of teenage girls.”

  Her hand flutters to the dainty cross necklace around her neck, as if it’s an inanimate incarnation of “our” Lord himself, whose ears are too delicate to hear such blasphemy. Though I’m willing to bet that if said Lord really is all-seeing and all-knowing, he’s witnessed a hell of a lot worse.

  “He still loves you, Izzy. There’s always forgiveness for those who ask. I hope you know that.”

  Smirk. “Awesome. In that case, I’ve got some more acting up to do before I have him wipe my record clean.”

  I’m taking it too far. I know I am. A little more meekly, I add, “Am I excused?” People in my hometown take religion very seriously, and poking the bear with offensive banter is not advisable unless you want to be chased down main street with a pitchfork.

  [Which incidentally is coming my way anyway. Stay tuned.]

  2.59 p.m.

  In the hallways and the cafeteria I am an A-list celebrity. Kids I don’t even know seem to be torn between a) sucking up to me and trying to get all of the goss so they can sell it to the Daily Mail and b) standing in front of me and doing impressions of a Labrador humping an Ugg boot. Some even attempt both which I suppose is commendable in its own special way.

  While waiting for math to begin, I give in and read one of the more enticingly headlined articles about me: “Why You Should Care About Izzy O’Neill’s Nudes.” It should be fairly obvious why I chose this particular feature, since I myself am struggling to understand what all the hoo-hah is about.

  In a plot twist so obscene it’s bordering on implausible, the feature is essentially a defense of me and my actions. Firstly, it opens with an image gallery of all the gross things politicians and journalists and sleazeballs the world over have been saying about me via Twitter. For example:

  “Despite what Kim K wants you to think, feminism is NOT flashing your tits and vaj to the world. Have some class, ladies.”

  “Nothing less attractive than a slut. Put some damn clothes on, girl.”

  “Those teen nudes are beyond disgusting. How have we raised our young generation so poorly? How did we FAIL so BADLY?”

  “I know we’re supposed to be outraged about these Izzy O’Neill nudes but . . . HOLY HELL. Thanks for sharing #nicetits”

  “Izzy O’Neill and Zachary Vaughan symbolize everything that’s wrong with teen culture.”

  But then this kick-ass female columnist goes on to retaliate against every single one on my behalf, circ
ling everything back to victim-blaming and violation of privacy. Sending nudes as an eighteen-year-old isn’t a crime. Revenge porn should be.

  Hear fucking hear.

  3.51 p.m.

  I can’t believe what’s just happened. Except I can, and that’s what makes it even worse.

  Math class is, as usual, a form of mental torture on a par with those Russian sleep-deprivation experiments. But I keep myself to myself, pretending to have the faintest idea what people are on about when they say sohcahtoa, and generally watching the clock on the back wall as every second slips painfully by. Then, against all the odds, the school bell rings. Everyone has already started packing up, surreptitiously zipping up their pencil cases under the desk while coughing loudly, and I am no exception.

  Before I can escape, though, Mr Wong says, “Miss O’Neill, can I see you for a moment?”

  At the mention of my name, everyone’s heads whip around. They watch me like I’m a sitcom character, eager for a slice of my humiliation. They’re hungry for it now. The nude pictures whetted their appetites, and now they want more.

  Standing just in front of his desk, I chew the inside of my lip, feeling as trapped and powerless as I have for days. “Yes, sir.”

  To the dismay of my classmates, he shepherds them all out and closes the door behind him. I’m fully anticipating another Castillo-esque lecture on my abhorrent behavior.

  When he crosses back to the desk, he sits on the front of it, leaning uncomfortably close to me and with his legs spread, like the “just call me by my first name” meme that made the rounds a few years back. He is clearly still working very hard on his nonexistent reputation as a cool teacher.

  When he doesn’t immediately say anything, I ask, “What can I do for you, Mr Wong?”

  He nods weirdly, like he’s appreciating something funny I’ve said or done. Smirking in an uncomfortable way I can’t quite put my finger on. “You’re handling this very well, Miss O’Neill.”

  “Sir?”

  “All the media attention.” He stares at me intently. “You’re holding your head up high, and I like that.” I can smell tuna salad on his breath.

  I take a few steps back, putting some much-needed distance between us, and lean against a front-row table. “Umm, thank you, sir.”

  “You’re not ashamed of who you are, are you, Izzy?” A creepy smile that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “Not that you should be. Not . . . one . . . bit.”

  Then his eyes drop south, and that’s when I know: he’s seen the photos. He’s picturing them right now. He’s staring through my clothes, at the naked body he knows is underneath.

  The old Izzy, the girl that existed before this all went down, might’ve answered back. Might’ve called him out, or told him to back the hell off. But she’s gone now, and all I can do is run from the room, my eyes stinging and goosebumps covering every inch of me. Run down the hallway, run past a concerned-looking Carson, run out of the front doors until I’m gasping in fresh air like my life depends on it.

  Standing on the front steps and trying to catch my breath, I want to claw my skin off. Despite all of the things that make me me – my personality, my heart, my sense of humor – I’ve been reduced to nothing more than a grainy filter and a pair of tits. To a mere sex object.

  I wonder whether I’ll ever stop feeling so dirty.

  4.17 p.m.

  I feel bad for pushing past Carson in the hallway earlier, so once I’ve calmed down in the bathroom – slathering lip balm all over my tear-dried lips – I venture back out to my locker in the hope of bumping into him again. I get my wish, but not in the way I wanted. Not even close.

  A handful of basketball players are gathered by the lockers opposite mine, and Carson is among them. They’re all carrying their kit bags and heading to practice, by the looks of things. None of them see me as I cross to my locker and fiddle with the combination, hands still shaking from my mini-meltdown. I figure I’ll try and catch Carson later, when he’s alone. I’m not in the mood to deal with the shoulder jostling and inappropriate comments from his teammates.

  Turns out I’m subjected to them anyway.

  “. . . pictures. Like, damn. Girl’s got a body on her, right?” a short dude I don’t really know is saying. He sniggers and spins a basketball on his index finger while Carson fishes around in his locker.

  My ears prick up. Are they talking about me?

  Don’t be paranoid, O’Neill. Probably just discussing some girl he’s dating.

  Baxter pipes up. “Seconded. That nipple piercing is . . .” He kisses the tips of his fingers to his lips as he smacks them, like a French waiter complimenting a bowl of onion soup. They all laugh.

  “Not that I’d touch her with a bargepole,” the short dude chips in. “Not after the whole world’s seen her naked. Supply and demand, right? If you’re giving it away for free, ain’t nobody gonna pay for it. Plus, she’s probably riddled, right? Girl that loose gotta be carrying somethin’.”

  Now I know I’m not just being paranoid. They’re definitely talking about me.

  My cheeks burn as I bury my head in my locker. But despite being surrounded by empty peanut butter cup packets and untouched textbooks, I can still hear everything they’re saying.

  Or, in Carson’s case, not saying.

  He doesn’t defend me. Not once. Just listens in silence as his friends destroy me piece by piece.

  6.59 p.m.

  Finally, after a never-ending Gatsby rehearsal, I leave school feeling utterly exhausted. Like, if I do not sleep within the next 5.2 seconds, I will disembowel a bitch very slowly and painfully using a ballpoint pen.

  Was followed by reporters on my way home again, but I arrive relatively unscathed.

  The more I think about what happened with Carson in the hallway, the more hurt I feel. Up until today, he’s made such a point of having my back, of not treating me like dirt because of the photos. But he sat and listened to his friends pick me apart without saying a word.

  Does he really care about me the way he says he does? Or is it all just an act? Does he just want me for sex? Or is it more that he’s worried his friends will judge him for being with me? I don’t know which is worse. That’s what this entire ordeal feels like: going from bad to worse and back again.

  It’s exhausting, and I want it all to stop.

  Remembering how refreshed and centered I felt after filming the selfie-pay skit, I sit down to try and flesh out a three-act structure plan for my latest screenplay idea – the lesbian couple with the failing marriage until one loses the power of speech. It’s like pulling teeth. Except more painful. Everything I come up with is either dull and boring or incredibly clichéd. Normally I can visualize key scenes in my head, but tonight I have nothing.

  Maybe I’m just too tired to focus on a big project. Maybe I should write a skit or two to get my writerly juices flowing.

  Again, usually my mind is filled with hundreds of sketch ideas, and I just have to reach out and pluck one from my subconscious and get it down on paper. But nothing funny or clever or imaginative comes to mind.

  I scroll through today’s news, hoping something will jump out and inspire a satirical idea. I read interviews with athletes and profiles of politicians and coverage from the Middle East, but nothing is remotely funny. Especially since I have to force my eyes away from the Most Read sidebar which shows ‘Senator’s Son In Sex Scandal’ as the fourth most viewed piece of the day.

  No. No no no. Shake it off, O’Neill. Do not engage.

  What about a parody? What movies have I seen or books have I read recently that I could take the piss out of without much trouble?

  Nothing.

  My creative resource pool feels as dry as the Sahara.

  8.03 p.m.

  I text Ajita. I want to tell her about Mr Wong, first of all, and also about Carson not sticking up for me. And, for once, I want to actually open up about how I’m feeling. About the panicky, powerless sensation gripping my very bones.
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  Feeling kinda bummed. Wanna come over?

  It takes her at least fifteen minutes longer to reply than it usually does.

  Sorry kid, I’m hanging out with Carlie after tennis practice. Tomorrow? xo

  I shove my phone underneath my pillow and curl up under the covers, probably looking as pathetic as I feel.

  10.14 p.m.

  I’m just taking my makeup off when there’s a buzz at the gate. After a few seconds, guess whose voice I hear at the door?

  Danny’s.

  Thursday 6 October

  1.02pm

  Was so mad last night I couldn’t even bring myself to type out the exchange with Mr Wells. In fact, I’m still so angry I’m just lying in bed in a vague state of furious nausea, like how I imagine Melania feels when she watches Donald remove his shirt.

  So he arrives all sheepish-looking [Danny not Donald Trump] and asks to come in, and Betty kindly offers him a whiskey hot cocoa even though he drove here. He declines and asks for some privacy with her granddaughter, which is quite hilarious considering our apartment is about six square feet so there’s no such thing as privacy [something I discovered around the same time I located the bald man in the canoe]. Anyway, Betty goes to the living room and promptly presses her ear to the flimsy wall, which I know because I can hear her trying to suck a poppy seed out of her false teeth from about a yard away.

  “What’s up, Danny?” I say in a very traditional and unIzzylike manner. At this point I’m unsure what the tone of the conversation will be, so I play it safe. [In retrospect I wish I’d begun with, “Hello, you horrid little cretin,” but you live and learn.]

  Dumbledore watches with interest. Danny runs his hands through his wild hair, which is bordering on dreads at this point. I consider lecturing him about cultural appropriation, but decide against it.

  He eventually says, “I just . . . wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay, with everything that’s going on.”