by Laura Steven
Better late than never.
We haven’t spoken much since he offered me money to help with my career. Even when BuzzFeed first got hold of the nude picture story, he kept his distance. So it kind of feels like this is too little, too late, but I figure he deserves the chance to make it right again. We’ve been friends for too long not to give him that. He’s practically family, and he’s going through a hard time too.
“Oh, you know, I’m all right. It sucks a bit. But you know. Fine.” This is an understatement on a par with “the political landscape in the Middle East is a little tense”, but I’m not in the mood to go into specifics.
Honestly, he looks terrible. His skin is all flaky like a dry bit of pastry, and his eyes are red-rimmed. I thought I had trademarked this esthetic last year when Ajita went away to teach textiles at a summer camp and I missed her so much I couldn’t sleep, so it’s strange to see it on Danny for a change.
After shuffling awkwardly for a few more seconds and absent-mindedly brushing toast crumbs off our counter [Dumbledore nearly has a seizure with excitement and immediately begins vacuuming them up], he says, “Good. I’m glad. I just . . . um, I just wanted you to know that . . . well, I forgive you, Iz.”
I was not even a little bit expecting him to say this. As far as I can remember, I have not wronged him in any way, other than maybe kissing him when I didn’t intend for the kissing to be a recurring event. Last time I checked, this was a thing I am entitled to do, and something menfolk do all the time. Maybe not great to do it to your best pal, but still.
“I . . . what?” For once I am actually quite speechless.
“I forgive you. Really. I do.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us. And I want to make things work between . . .” He trails off at the sight of my furious expression.
Exasperated, I clarify. “No, I mean what exactly are you forgiving?”
He peers at me questioningly through his glasses, which desperately need cleaning. “Everything.”
Maybe I’m just exhausted, or hormonal, or my bullshit tolerance levels are out of whack, but I am ready to cut him at this stage.
“Define ‘everything’, Danny. I dare you.”
Wringing his hands together, he says, “Well, you know. Acting up. The whole sleeping around thing. Leading me on. Spending time with Ajita without me. Sending that nude. Rubbing you and Carson in my face. Crushing my flowers. Treating me like shit for offering you money. Do you really want me to make a list?”
“Sounds like you already have,” I snap.
“What’s up with you? I’m trying to be nice here.”
“Right. You ‘forgive’ me for acting how every guy in high school acts. Because you’re just such a Nice Guy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you ever think maybe I don’t want your forgiveness for those things?” I say. “We’re not together, Danny. I can date whoever I like. I can make decisions about my own body without your approval. So shove your forgiveness up your ass.”
Part of me expects him to just crumple – head in hands, dissolve into tears, the whole shebang – but he’s obviously in fighting mood too, because he just snarls like Remus Lupin at a full moon and says, “You know, after everything I’ve done for you, you should be grateful to have people like me in your life. Not every guy would put up with this shit, let alone still want to be with you. And the others? Well, where are they now? On CNN talking about what a waste of space you are?”
ARE YOUUUUU KIDDDDIIIINGG MEEEEEEEEEEE???????
“I should be grateful?” I yell. “To be treated with basic fucking respect? Get the fuck out of my house, Danny. Right now.”
I swear I hear Betty whisper, “Oh snap,” through the wall at this point, but I could be hallucinating through sheer tiredness and frustration.
To his credit, he leaves.
So now I’m sitting in the cafeteria giving Ajita the full debrief, and she’s just as mad at him as I am due to her pit-bullish tendencies, and in real genuine danger of giving him a rectal exam using a bottle of ketchup, when her phone bleeps. She looks down, instantly horrified.
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Don’t freak out . . .” she says slowly.
“Always a great start.”
She chews her bottom lip, eyes scanning something on her screen. Then, without even looking at me, she shakes her head in disbelief and says:
“Carson Manning sold his story.”
The bottom falls out of my gut like a trapdoor opening. “Sold his story? What story?”
Then the worst moment of my life takes place.
Her face crumples. “You told him I was gay?”
4.44 p.m.
Carson spoke to one of the regional newspapers. They asked him for his side, since he’s been mentioned a ton of times on the World Class Whore site, and I guess he needed the money, or has no soul, because he did it. He told them everything.
And I mean everything. Not just his opinion on all the shit that’s already been covered, like that fateful night at the party [funnily enough, he doesn’t mention the fact he lasted less than forty-five seconds] and my nude pictures, but stuff that’s happened between the two of us since. Me texting him to apologize for everything, and thus admitting sole responsibility, according to the article. Meeting him at the basketball courts. Telling tasteless jokes about the Fritzl family.
There’s a direct quote too. Calling me a whore.
There are screenshots of our text conversations in an image gallery attached to the article.
Hey, is your friend Ajita single? One of my firm-penised teammates wants to ask her out.
She is indeed single! However, I am not sure firm penises are her jam. I mean, neither are flaccid ones. Like, I just don’t think penises are her preferred genitalia.
I doubt the reporter particularly cared about Ajita or the guy who wanted to ask her out. The piece is entirely focused on my disgusting manner in general, and the way teenage girls as a whole have lost all class, all self-respect and dignity – basically supporting everything the Vaughan family has been spouting ever since this atomic bomb of horse shit exploded all over my life. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Vaughans paid this reporter to write such a tacky feature, to be honest.
But Ajita was collateral damage. And for that I will never forgive myself.
Carson texted me as soon as the news hit. Insisting it wasn’t him, insisting we’d both been screwed over, insisting he’s not that kind of guy. Insisting he’d had his phone hacked, and that everything in the paper could’ve been gleaned from his text messages. It’s true, I guess. Maybe he was hacked. Then again, maybe he wasn’t.
I don’t know what to believe anymore. I don’t even think I care about Carson right now. All I know is how terrible I feel about what I’ve done to my best friend.
Why did I think it was okay to joke about it when Ajita herself has never addressed it? Why did I have a lapse in judgment so sudden and severe that I threw my best friend under the bus for the sake of a punchline?
All this time, the media have been talking about my string of hideous mistakes, about how I don’t think through my actions, about how I’m so shortsighted and irresponsible that I can’t see how disastrous the consequences of the things I do can be.
Until now I’ve resisted that line of thinking. Until now I’ve tried to own my actions, dismissing the idea that they were mistakes at all. So I had sex. So I drank beer. So I sent a nude. Those are things millions of other people, teenagers and adults alike, are doing every single minute of every single day. Knowing deep down I’m not a bad person is all I had left to cling onto, like a life raft when I’m drowning.
But this? Ajita? This was a mistake. This was a lapse in judgment.
This does make me a bad person.
I try to call her – my lovely best friend I’d do anything to protect, my lovely best friend who I
’ve hurt so badly, my lovely best friend who might never forgive me – for the thousandth time since she fled the cafeteria in tears.
She doesn’t pick up.
8.59 p.m.
I just got an email from LA. My screenplay made the shortlist. And I don’t care. Not one bit.
Friday 7 October
7.14 a.m.
The entire world has gone insane. And not like good, quirky insane, like Ajita after two beers or The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Ugh, Ajita. My heart hurts whenever I think of her. I’ve sent her over a thousand texts and she won’t reply.
I don’t blame her.
I wonder if her parents have seen it. I wonder if she’s currently fielding endless questions about it from her extended family. I wonder if I’ve ruined everything for her. I wonder if I was so far off the mark that it doesn’t matter anyway. I wonder just how much damage I’ve caused.
Although it’s not like I’m getting off scot-free. The garden bench picture was on the evening news last night. The evening news! Seriously, I am just some random teenage girl with a penchant for nachos and peanut butter cups and sexual intercourse. Why would the host of a primetime TV show invite some political analyst into the studio to discuss Ted Vaughan’s campaign, and his flawed parenting, and the implications of his son’s involvement in this stupid, small-town scandal?
Why would the entire Vaughan clan use me as a launching pad to discuss their wacko opinions on abstinence?
Why would professional journalists use the word “slut” to describe an innocent eighteen-year-old girl?
I have to go to school today because I’m falling severely behind in basically every class. At this point I would rather sit naked on a traffic cone than walk those hallways, but the stubborn streak in me is screaming like a banshee: “Fuck you guys! Fuck you all! I’ll never let you fuck with me!” Except they are quite clearly fucking with me, and I’m not handling it particularly well.
For instance, last night I cried so hard onto Dumbledore that his fur became all matted with snot and saliva, and Betty had to run him a bath in the kitchen sink, and I just watched them both and continued to weep hysterically about all manner of things, such as a) the unfavorable press coverage obviously, b) my adorable grandmother and pet and how I would run through the fiery pits of hell and/or a particularly hilly cross-country trail for them, c) Vaughan turning out to be such a prick, despite his inoffensive manner at the party, d) my eyebrow still not recovering from the overzealous plucking incident and how much it accentuates my lazy eye, e) people who attempt to use “jamp” as the past participle of “to jump”, f) how my best friend in the whole entire world will probably never speak to me again and it’s entirely deserved, g) how I had my very own guardian angel in the form of Mrs Crannon and I’ve let her down, h) I was starting to fall for Carson and yet he turned out to be just another fuckboy . . . et cetera, ad infinitum.
Anyway. Long story short, I have to go to school and pretend to care about Tudor England. If I see Vaughan, Danny or Carson I plan to pull a full Henry VIII on their asses. I know we are not married so the metaphor doesn’t quite work, but rest assured I will feel approximately zero remorse following the public beheading of those treasonous goats. I have brief concerns over probably not having the upper-body strength to lift an axe above my head, but Ned Stark makes it look very easy. I’ll keep you updated.
8.05 a.m.
As per our usual morning routine, Betty sits me down for a bowl of cereal and a much-needed heart-to-heart before I haul myself to Edgewood for another day of character assassination.
I’m crunching miserably through a bowl of Lucky Charms, and she’s slurping the milk from the bottom of her already demolished shredded wheat.
She finishes and smacks her lips. “Listen, kiddo, I know things are rough right now, but I promise you they’ll blow over. Do you realize how short an attention span most people have? By this time next month they’ll have forgotten all about you. I know weathering the storm until then isn’t going to be fun, but you have so much going for you. The screenplay, for example! That’s such incredible news about being shortlisted. Mrs Crannon must be so thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her yet,” I mumble.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get your ass into school, put a smile on that lovely face of yours, and tell your mentor that she has every damn reason to be proud of you. All right?”
“All right,” I lie, knowing I’m still far too embarrassed to show my face in Mrs Crannon’s office. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look her in the eye again. Whether I’ll be able to look anyone in the eye. I’m even struggling to meet Betty’s worried gaze, even though I know she loves me unconditionally.
The shame is seeping into my bones. They feel heavy as I leave the sanctuary of my tiny home and out into a world full of people who despise me.
8.27 a.m.
More journalists hound me on the way to school, and it’s infinitely worse without Ajita there to protect me. They follow me all the way to the school gates with their fluffy microphones and TV cameras and notepads and flashing Dictaphones, even though I don’t say a word at any point. I am even very careful to maintain an alarmingly neutral facial expression, just in case they manage to flash a pic in which I look a) angry, b) devastated, or c) anything other than a stone-cold Ice Queen with no soul, which is how I prefer to appear at all times.
Getting through the school gates isn’t any better. Though nobody approaches me, everybody stares. It sounds like a cliché, but seriously. Everybody. Stares. Not one person manages to avert their gaze as I cross the yard. I catch snatches of conversation – the usual buzzwords like whore and slut and self-respect – but don’t allow myself the luxury of sticking around long enough to hear the whole shebang.
As much as I despised being chased by the Japanese kid with the phone cover, or approached by sleazy guys complimenting my nipple piercing, at least then I didn’t feel like such a loner.
It’s the most disconcerting sensation, being looked at but not engaged with. Hot and prickly, like you’re an ant being roasted under a magnifying glass.
10.23 a.m.
Ted Vaughan is using the whole nude picture fiasco as a scapegoat for his deeply rooted misogynistic views, and has issued a staunch statement about how he longs for the good old days when women were classy and respectful and served their male masters like quiet little mice servants with no personality of their own. Something along those lines.
It’s really so irritating how I have become an icon for all that is wrong with teen America. Some people try so hard to become icons, like those folks who go on reality TV shows and pretend to be completely devoid of brain cells, and yet here I am, minding my own business and having sex on garden benches and sending naked pictures of myself to fuckboys, and somehow the whole country suddenly knows who I am.
There are actual, genuine teenage icons out there. People who fight for equality, fight against injustice, fight for human rights. Give them this much attention. I am entirely undeserving.
My newfound celebrity status makes school borderline intolerable. Someone has graffitied “Izzy O’Neill for President!” in a toilet cubicle, which is completely insane and baffling on a number of levels, and then someone else has added “of the Whore Society” in pink highlighter. I will concede this is slightly amusing and far more innovative than most of the abuse being hurled my way, but still.
While I’m peeing and admiring the semi-originality of the libel before me, I hear a couple of girls enter. Their voices sound young – freshmen maybe. Their conversation goes something like this:
“So we were just texting, like, back and forth, you know? Like, the banter was flowing so easily, he’s really funny, like, super hilarious, and I was just bouncing off him, you know? He’s just so easy to talk to, so different to other guys our age, you know?”
“I know, yeah.” At this point I am extremely relieved that we have established the knowledge of Girl Two.
Good grief.
“Oh my God, Louise! I can’t believe you!”
“I know! Then, you’ll never believe this, he asked me to send a picture. I was like, eww, no! I wouldn’t want to end up like that Izzy O’Neill girl, you know?”
“Ugh, I know. I’m surprised she hasn’t killed herself yet.”
The looks on their faces as I exit the cubicle at this point are comedy gold, but for some reason I don’t feel like laughing.
10.59 a.m.
Neither Ajita nor Carson seem to be in school. I’m quite relieved about Carson because although I don’t want to admit it to myself, I was actually starting to care a lot about him, and I’m pretty devastated that he turned out to be even worse than the rest of them. And I hate, more than anything, that Danny was right.
“Not every guy would put up with this shit, let alone still want to be with you. And the others? Well, where are they now? On CNN talking about what a waste of space you are? ”
So yeah, I’m glad Carson isn’t here. As much as I want to tear him limb from limb for what he did, I’m just not really up for a big confrontation.
In fact, I’m not really up for anything anymore. Although usually I am more hyperactive than your average cocker spaniel [this is an absurd and blatant lie: I am and always have been lazy to my very core], these last few weeks have drained the life out of me. Energy is a thing of the past.
This is going to sound really morbid, but lately all I want to do is go to sleep and not wake up for a significant period of time. Not because I want to be dead, or anything. I don’t. I’d never give those toilet girls the satisfaction, for one thing. But being alive feels a lot more difficult than it used to, and I’d really appreciate a prolonged stretch of time off, and to be able to wake up when all of this is ancient history.