The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  Oh, the perils of being internationally reviled simply because of who you are as a person.

  You know what? I’d stay internationally reviled forever if it meant Ajita would forgive me. I wish she was in school, just because it’d mean she’s relatively all right, and that her parents haven’t burned her at the stake or sent her to one of those awful correctional facilities for non-straight people.

  Why did I do this? Seriously, what was my thinking when I sent that text to Carson? That’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking. Not at all. And I’ve done so, so, so much damage through sheer negligence. It’s deeply concerning – that I can screw up so epically and irrevocably, and not even be aware I’m doing it until it’s too late.

  Why am I like this? I know my generally apathetic and humorous nature can be endearing. [At least, I assume that’s why you’ve stuck with me for so long. You’re over 50,000 words into my story and you’re still here! You deserve a medal, I tell you.] But this is not okay. It’s not okay that I’m like this.

  I send Ajita one more message:

  I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I love you. And I’m sorry. Please talk to me. Or don’t. Because I definitely don’t deserve it. But just know how sorry I am. I’m so lost without you xxx

  Anyway, Vaughan’s in school today, but he’s deftly avoiding me. He’s probably heard about how I plan to decapitate him in a brutal Westeros-style murder situation.

  Then – because everything I thought I knew about myself and those around me appears to have been blown out of the water – I start to wonder whether he’s really the one I should be hating here. Yeah, he made that ill-judged speech in the cafeteria that ended up hitting the press, and he has been a bit of a dick to me on several occasions (e.g. stomping on my flowers), but I sort of understand his thinking. It all boils down to the fact he’s scared of his dad. And yeah, he does stupid stuff without thinking – in the same way I do apparently – but I don’t think there’s any genuine malice there. Just fear, and a desperate need for approval.

  The person I should really be pissed at is the person who turned this from something personal between Vaughan and me into a fully fledged scandal. The person who made that website. The person who leaked my nude photo. Because that was cold, and calculated, and vicious. That was malicious.

  I need to find out who it is.

  11.45 a.m.

  When I’m walking out of biology class after a highly traumatic dissection of a pig’s heart, I see the last person I expect to bump into at school: Betty.

  She’s leaving the principal’s office, and looks absolutely furious about something. The principal, a stern fellow with a big gray mustache, goes to shake her hand, but she totally shuns him, flat out ignoring the peace offering and storming away. She nearly knocks over a gaggle of girls gathered at the water fountain like gormless geese. [Check out dat alliteration. In the unlikely event you are studying this book for a high-school English class, please do feel free to point out my astonishing grasp of literary devices. Between you and me it was just a happy accident, but your teacher doth not need to know this.]

  Betty finally spots me gaping at her and approaches with a look of wild hysteria in her eyes. “Izzy! Darling granddaughter! Why did you not inform me that your principal is a cretinous goblin with the worst breath I have ever encountered in my life?”

  She’s speaking so loudly that everyone within a thirty-mile radius can hear, but I’m truly beyond caring at this point. To say my reputation is in the gutter would be an understatement of epic proportions, so really how much worse can a mad, raving loony of a grandmother make things?

  “Betty-O. Dare I ask what you’re doing here?”

  A strained smile. “Well, Iz-on-your-face, I –”

  “Hilarious new nickname by the way.”

  “Why thank you, I do try. Anyway, I thought I’d have a chat with your principal about his complete lack of action in determining the founder of the World Class Whore website, and his apparent disinterest in the way you’re being treated in this godforsaken sanctuary for cretinous goblins.”

  A small crowd has gathered to listen to our conversation, including Mr Wong. To the average onlooker, it appears he’s abandoned an AP class just to get a good vantage point for this unlikely scenario: a lunatic grandma set loose on the halls of a so-called cretinous goblin sanctuary. But I know the truth. He’s probably just watching his back; making sure I haven’t ratted him out. That this dramatic confrontation isn’t about him.

  “And? What did he say?”

  She turns beetroot-colored at this point. “Funny you should ask! He said that while the website is being investigated, the school has limited resources and cannot prioritize instances of a self-inflicted nature.”

  WTF ? “Self-inflicted?! Someone hacked into my phone! That’s victim-blaming. And revenge porn is a big deal. It’s illegal in at least thirteen states.”

  “Exactly what I said, Iz-on-your-face, but the twat goblin just made some sanctimonious remarks about self-respect. He also said that while revenge porn isn’t illegal in our state, having sex in public is, and we should be thankful nobody is pressing charges.”

  “It was on private property!”

  “I know, I know. But he seems to think that I should, I quote, ‘lie low and not make this any worse than it already is’.”

  I puff air through my cheeks. “Shitting hell.”

  “Yes. Shitting hell indeed.”

  The murmuring crowd remains gathered around the principal’s office long after Betty departs. I just hope my comment about victim-blaming rings true, even to just a handful of them.

  I had my phone hacked. I had my privacy violated. I had my personal life broadcast across the country. And I’m tired of feeling like a criminal for it.

  When Betty leaves, I head straight for the woods. It’s the only place on this godforsaken campus that you can find any space to breathe. And I’m desperate to get away from the eyes, the constant eyes on me, the never-ending stares that follow me wherever I go. It’s suffocating.

  But when I get to the clearing, Danny’s there. He’s sitting on the ground, back against the tree I leaned against when we had that first confrontation all those weeks ago, after I accidentally kissed him.

  His head is in his hands, skinny shoulders shaking. Is he . . . crying? I haven’t seen him cry since we were twelve years old.

  A twig crunches under my foot, but his ears don’t prick up. He hasn’t seen or heard me yet, and all I want to do is to turn and walk away. The last words he said to me burn through my mind.

  “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.”

  Just walk away, Izzy. Walk away.

  It’s not that easy, though. When you’ve been so close to someone for so long, seeing them hurt or sad breaks you a little bit. It’s an animal instinct to protect them. They’re your family, and even if you’re mad, even if you’ve been in a fight, it all gets put on the backburner if one of you is upset.

  “Danny,” I say carefully, not wanting to give him a shock. But he doesn’t hear me. Louder: “Danny?”

  He freezes, caught in the act. Then sniffs, wipes his nose and says, “Go away, Izzy.”

  “No,” I reply, defiant. I edge closer. “You’re upset. We can put the fight on pause. What happened?”

  “Why do you even care?” His voice is sad, but slightly venomous. “I mean nothing to you.”

  “You know that’s not true,” I say, persevering through his stubbornness. “You’re my best friend. I care when you’re hurt.”

  I step forward until I’m right beside him, but he still doesn’t look up at me. He just stares straight ahead, teeth gritted.

  “What happened, Danny?” I try again. “Talk to me. Is it your parents?”

  For a second he looks like he’s considering telling me, but eventually he shakes his head, dissolving int
o fresh tears. “Please. Just go.”

  So I go.

  12.36 p.m.

  Lunchtime. Cafeteria. I’m sitting alone on a bench, trying to eat my grilled cheese and tomato soup in peace. I’ve accidentally put too much salt in the soup so every time I have a spoonful my face resembles a bulldog sucking a lemon, but in the grand scheme of my life at present I’m sure this is not the greatest tragedy I’m facing. Still, it’s taken me a good half-hour to even make a dent in the bowl, and at this point it’s just all cold and lumpy.

  Carlie and her gang of tennis-playing cronies are sitting on the bench behind me, and for the most part I’m barely listening to what they’re saying because, for all their chit-chat about balls, it’s not the entertaining kind. But then I hear something that pricks my ears up.

  “. . . that Ajita chick,” a white girl with cornrows [no, really] says to Carlie. “Is it true? Are you two having a thing?”

  “Ugh, God no,” Carlie says, as though she’s never heard anything more disgusting in her life. “She’s so annoying. She follows me around like a lost puppy. I only invited her to trials to be polite, and now she’s on the team I can’t get rid of her.”

  The underlying anger I’ve been trying to bury for weeks begins to bubble a little hotter.

  “Really?” another girl asks. “You seemed to be having a nice time in the woods together last week, and if the leaked texts from that Izzy slut were anything to go by . . .”

  The whole table giggles. God, I hate high school.

  “Shut up, all right?” Carlie snaps like the stick of celery she’s gnawing. “Why would someone like me be interested in someone like her? She’s a midget, she thinks she’s hilarious, she’s got these weird Indian parents –”

  As calmly as I can muster, I stand up, pick up my bowl of cold, oversalted soup, and pour the entire thing over Carlie’s head.

  Gasps and squeals ripple around the table as Carlie screams infernally. Lumps of unblended tomato trail into her open mouth and down her cleavage. It smells like a sauce factory explosion. People all around the cafeteria stop and stare, pointing disbelievingly at the unfolding scene.

  Standing over her like a disapproving parent, I sneer at Carlie, whose smugness is now completely obscured by red chunks. “You will never, ever be good enough for Ajita Dutta.”

  And then I storm out. Or at least I try to. Before I even reach the door, someone grabs my arm. Mr Richardson.

  “Miss O’Neill. Principal’s office. Now.”

  2.25 p.m.

  “You could’ve given her third-degree burns.” Mr Schumer’s angry voice is even quieter than his normal voice. He’s intimidating in that cold, calm way, like President Snow in The Hunger Games.

  His office is impossibly neat and orderly, and he never has the radiator turned on, so I can practically see my breath. It’s like a morgue.

  I sit in front of his desk, refusing to be sheepish or remorseful, because I’m not. “But I didn’t burn her. The soup was cold.”

  “You didn’t know that.”

  I match his calm, measured tone. “I did. I’d been eating it a mere thirty seconds earlier.”

  There’s a silent standoff in which all we can hear is the buzzing of the strip lighting and the vague sound of the road outside.

  “Why did you do it?” he asks, but I can tell by his voice there’s no right answer. He’s just trying to vilify me even more; to prove that I’m some uncontrollable monster.

  “Because they were disrespecting my best friend.” On the chair next to me is Betty’s scarf. She must’ve left it here earlier. Nothing but a coincidence of course, but it gives me strength. It feels like she’s here with me. I pick it up and wrap it around my neck, inhaling her scent – whiskey and cocoa.

  An awful sneer. “Oh. I’m surprised you’re familiar with the concept of respect.”

  My anger flares again, but I do everything in my power not to erupt. To prove I’m capable of self-control. “They’re bullies.”

  He leans back in his chair, robotically, not breaking eye contact. “Just because someone acts in a way you don’t agree with, doesn’t mean you have the right to punish them for it.”

  I scoff. “See, that’s what I’m having a little trouble wrapping my head around, Mr Schumer. Because a few weeks ago I too acted in a way some people didn’t agree with. And ever since that moment the world has done nothing but punish me.”

  Again, our headteacher says nothing. But I don’t miss it when his traitorous eyes drop to my chest, even though it’s only for a split second.

  He’s seen the photo too. Of course he has.

  I jut my chin out defiantly. Before I can talk myself out of it, I add, “And since it’s such an important subject to you, maybe you want to have a word with your faculty about respect. A certain math teacher can’t keep his eyes off me. Especially when he keeps me behind after class just to make inappropriate comments.” His eyes narrow. The light catches on his expensive watch and flashes in my face, but I don’t flinch. I power through. “Don’t you want to know which teacher I’m accusing of sexual harassment, Mr Schumer? Or should I just go straight to the school board with my complaints? I don’t mind either way.”

  Sneering disparagingly, he replies, “You can try. But after your antics I’m not sure there’s a single board member who would take your allegations seriously. Miss O’Neill, it doesn’t escape my attention that all this is a little convenient. You’re remembering these inappropriate incidents just now, when you’re facing disciplinary action? Falsely accusing my staff of harassment will not get you off the hook.”

  My blood spikes red hot, and I fight the urge to clamber over the desk and tear his face off.

  “I should suspend you immediately. But I won’t.”

  I snort. “Let me guess. Because I’m a tragic orphan?”

  “Something like that.”

  We stare each other down for a few more minutes. That doesn’t sound like much, but there are certain times in your life when you realize just how long a minute is, such as when waiting for another driver to let you slip into their lane during a traffic jam, or when waiting for a microwave meal to cook. This is one of those times.

  I feel like he’s waiting for me to apologize, but I won’t do it.

  Eventually he says, “You may go. But if this happens again I won’t be so lenient. Your behavior has already attracted a wealth of unwanted attention to our school, Miss O’Neill, and by continuing to act up you’re only making it worse for yourself. I know you’ve had a troubled upbringing, but there’s only so much understanding we can give before we have to take action.”

  Now I feel like he wants me to thank him for letting me off the hook, but again, I won’t do it.

  I walk out without a word.

  4.47 p.m.

  Desperate to have my faith in the world restored, I stop by Mrs Crannon’s office after final bell. Instead of candy wrappers, she’s surrounded by balled-up tissues and a tube of menthol oil, and her nose is redder than a baboon’s behind. Bless her.

  And yet, at the sight of my weary expression, she’s the one offering me sympathy. “Oh, Izzy. You poor thing. How are you doing?”

  My skin crawls. The idea that this lovely, warm and kind woman has seen my vagina is so sickening, so gut-wrenching, that I can barely breathe. But I’m getting used to having the wind knocked out of my lungs, and I try to push past it.

  Swallowing hard, I perch on a desk instead of condemning myself to several minutes of torture-chair hell. “I’m okay, I guess. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to it all, you know? Should I be fighting back? Or lying low for the time being?”

  She blows her nose like a trumpet, mumbling against the tissue. “Well, I think only you can answer that. There’s no right answer. Just do what feels most comfortable, and know that you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. Those of us who truly care about you know that too, and don’t look at you any differently.”

  Even though she’s being swee
t, my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I let it really, truly sink in that my middle-aged drama teacher has seen me naked. You know those dreams you have when you’re a kid, that you accidentally go to school without any clothes on, and everyone stares and there’s nowhere to hide and you just want to die?

  That’s my reality.

  I can’t do this.

  I’d planned to chat to her about my screenplay, but I’m too mortified. I leave without even saying goodbye. Maybe she calls after me, but I can’t hear anything over the blood roaring in my ears and the self-loathing rippling through my veins.

  4.59 p.m.

  I almost don’t see him.

  I’m hurrying down the hallway in the arts and social sciences building, chin tucked to my chest and heart beating wildly, dreaming of the moment I hit the fresh air, but knowing deep down it won’t make me feel any less dirty.

  Mercifully, there are no other students around. Most are either at team practice – yes, on a Friday night, because sportsball is evil – or cutting loose for the weekend. Feeling excited about the weekend is an alien concept to me these days.

  Because it’s so quiet, the soft remixed reggae floats out into the corridor even though the door to the art studio is closed. It’s so out of place, so incongruous, that it jars in my subconscious. It takes me back to a very specific time and place in the not-so-distant past – to Baxter’s party, sipping beer on the soft couch with Carson pressed up against my shoulder. Before . . . everything.

  I stop in my tracks. The art studio is just down the hall and, while the door is shut, the blind over the window hasn’t been pulled down. Curiosity gets the better of me and I edge closer, the music growing louder as I do. It’s not as intense as it was at the party; it has that tinny quality you get when you play songs through your phone speakers. But it’s definitely the same song.

  Carson has his back to the door as he paints, working on a giant canvas propped up on an easel. As I creep toward the window, I try to get a better look at what he’s drawing, but his body obscures the middle of the canvas. Around the edges, in the background of whatever he’s shielding, is the star-spangled banner, painted in the same red and white I saw speckled on his shirt back when he kissed me in the hallway; the same blue that stained his hands.