The Exact Opposite of Okay

by Laura Steven

  A thought dawns on me. “Hey, the . . . person who made the World Class Whore website knew we were texting.” I remember Danny flinging my phone across Ajita’s basement and storming out. It all fits. “He would’ve known to hack your iCloud account and read your messages. Probably thought I’d sent you a nude too.”

  Carson raises an eyebrow hopefully. “So you believe me?”

  Random people start shouting, “Believe him!” and, “How can you resist that face?” and “What the hell is going on here? Why are none of you in second period?” [I think this last one was Mr Cheung, which is one hundred percent justified.]

  I pause for dramatic effect before replying, “I’m thinking about it.”

  Dimples form in his smooth brown cheeks, like they always seem to when he’s smiling at me.

  He mumbles, “Yeah? So, uh . . . what about that pizza sometime? Cos I’m kinda tired of us pretending we’re not into each other.”

  The dumb part of my heart that inconveniently fell for his puppylike nature all those weeks ago flutters.

  “Who says I’m pretending?” I smile. “But I never say no to pizza.”

  4.56 p.m.

  Ajita orchestrates a meeting between Danny and me in the woods after school.

  She bids me farewell at the gates saying, “Good luck, old buddy old pal. Meet you in the diner in a half-hour? There’ll be a s’mores milkshake waiting for you.” A coy smile. “Oh, and Meg’s coming too.”

  For the second time today, my stone heart melts. I love my friends. The old ones and the new ones. The real ones, who don’t make websites condemning me to an eternity in hell just because I’m not attracted to them.

  Danny doesn’t know that I know, so he unsuspectingly shows up to our usual clearing with a look of casual indifference about him. That’s about to change, because I’m going to come raining down on him harder than a monsoon in, well, monsoon season.

  I step out from behind a tree like a Bond villain revealing themselves. [It’s probably quite clear that I have not watched many Bond movies, but I assume this is the sort of thing that happens.]

  Before he has a chance to even blink, I launch my attack. “It was you. You started that website. It was you. ”

  I don’t have to force the venom into my voice. I just remember how low I felt after that screenplay email, before Meg messaged me, before I finally asked for help . . . and the anger comes rushing back.

  “Izzy, I –”

  “No! You don’t get to talk. You’ve done enough damage, and there’s nothing you can say to make this better.  Nothing. You know there’s a term for what you’ve done to me, right? Revenge porn. It’s illegal in the UK, and it’s becoming more and more illegal here. State by state, they’re cracking down. It might not be against the law here yet, but it will be. Soon. And personally? I hope to God you pay for this.”

  He says nothing, staring at me without emotion. Remorseless.

  “Are you hearing me?” I’m almost crying. “You nearly ruined my life, Danny. Did you know that I’ve been kicked out of the screenplay competition? Did you know Betty is being attacked by journalists and politicians every day? Did you know that now, when I walk down the street, it’s so excruciating knowing how many strangers have seen me naked that I just want to disappear? Did you know that on Saturday night, after it felt like I’d lost everything, I genuinely wanted to not be here anymore?”

  He drops his backpack to the ground and leans back against a tree, finally letting a crack of emotion show on his face.

  I keep going. “You broke into Carson’s phone, and you leaked those messages.  You pretended to be him, and you spoke to a journalist.  You allowed Ajita’s sexuality to be revealed to the world because, why? Bitterness? I don’t get it. Why would you do this? Why would someone who claims to love me want to systematically ruin my life? Have you enjoyed it, seeing me in this much pain?”

  He still doesn’t say anything, just rubs his face with his hands, looking like he might throw up.

  I scoff, throwing my hands up in the air, letting my voice rise above the trees. “Or was that your goal all along? To annihilate my sense of self-worth so that I’d collapse into your arms and beg you to fix me?” I raise my voice and scream so loudly a flock of birds fly away from a nearby tree. “You nearly killed me! Is that what you wanted?”

  This gets a reaction. He pushes off the tree trunk and flies toward me so fast I actually recoil.

  “No, Izzy! All I wanted was you !” His eyes are shining too, but he yells like he’s made of pure anger. “How do you think I feel? I love you so damn much, Izzy, and just because I’m not Channing Tatum I’ve been relegated to the Friend Zone for the rest of eternity. I have to watch you chase the same good-looking assholes that every other girl wants to fuck, then pick up the pieces after they inevitably screw you over.”

  My eyes narrow and I fight the urge to spit at him. “Oh my God, I’m so sick of your entitled bullshit. You didn’t get what you wanted, so you lashed out with the sole intention of hurting me. Hurting me for not wanting you back. How do you think I feel, Danny? My supposed best friend thinks I’m obliged to go out with him just because he wants me to?” I clench and unclench my fist. “Yeah, I messed up when I kissed you, and I’m sorry if that led you on. But stop with this poor little Nice Guy crap. You really think being ‘friend-zoned’ is worse than finding out someone you thought valued you as a whole person just wanted to fuck you? If my friendship is not enough, then fuck you. Just . . . fuck you.”

  Danny snarls in an ugly way. Then he says: “You know what? This isn’t about me. This is about you and your complete inability to be emotionally available. Are you even capable of love, Izzy? Or are you just too damn scared to let yourself feel anything? You’re . . . you’re dead inside.”

  This is like a stab to the chest. I genuinely double over a little bit. “So the only reason I could possibly not be attracted to you is psychological damage? I can’t believe you’d . . .” I trail off, speechless for probably the second time in my life. And then the floodgates open, because I’m exhausted and just all-round devastated that my former best friend is being so cruel.

  “What do you want me to say, Danny? That I’m so completely broken and fucked up that I’ve come all the way back around to detached?” I gasp as I choke on a sob, but I keep going. “That there’s a gaping parent-shaped hole in my life? That I use humor as a coping mechanism? That yeah, I am terrified to fall in love because of what happened to my parents?”

  “Iz –”

  “No, Danny. Stop. You’re butthurt, and you’re lashing out at me again, and you think it’s justified because you believe you have a right to have sex with me, a right to my love, but just . . . stop. We’re done. Our friendship is done. Which is totally fine, because it turns out it was never enough for you anyway.”

  And then I walk away. Because for the first time since this all started, I genuinely believe this is not my fault.

  I do not deserve this. Not one bit.

  Friday 15 October

  9.05 a.m.

  As soon as I get to school I go straight to Mrs Crannon’s office. I checked her timetable, and first period on Friday morning is one of her only frees of the week.

  She seems surprised to see me as she’s tucking into a delicious-looking Danish pastry. I briefly wonder if Mr Rosenqvist is wooing her into friendship with Scandinavian delights. I would so be here for a Crannon-Rosenqvist buddy comedy.

  “Hi, Mrs Crannon,” I say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Do you have a sec?”

  From behind her towers of books, she says, “I’ll always have a sec for you, Izzy. Take a seat!”

  I’m feeling bolshy, so I plonk myself down into the Iron Maiden chair without a second thought. I’ll apologize to my buttocks at a later date.

  I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look at her rather than twiddling with my zipper as I usually do during serious conversations. “Can I be honest with you, Mrs Crannon?”


  One of her warm smiles lights up the room. “Always.”

  “Okay. Well, ever since everything blew up with, you know, the pictures and everything, I’ve been too ashamed to come and talk to you.”

  “Izzy! That’s –”

  “Please, let me finish.” I feel bad for interrupting her, but if I don’t say this now I never will. “I know this might sound crazy, because you’re my teacher and not my mom or anything, but I’ve been fighting the feeling that I let you down.” I pause. “I made the shortlist.” Her face lights up, and she goes to celebrate, but I stop her. “No. They kicked me out a few days later. They found out about the . . . scandal.” I swallow the wave of shame that rises like nausea.

  Her face collapses in sympathy. There are pastry flakes all over her tunic. “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I can’t believe they’d do that.”

  I shrug. “I’ve been surprised by a lot of things these past few weeks, but that wasn’t one of them. I get it. They don’t want the bad publicity.”

  “But still. You’re a talented young woman, and you deserve a shot, no matter what’s going on in your personal life. Which, by the way, you should never feel embarrassed about. We’ve all had sex. We’ve all sent risky pictures. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She says this last part so sincerely, without even blushing or mumbling or showing any sign of discomfort, that it emboldens me to carry on.

  “Thank you. Really. You’ve been so supportive since day one, and I’m so, so grateful. I’m sorry you wasted your dad’s fifty bucks.”

  “Wasted? Izzy, did you get great feedback from the judges?” I nod. “Is your script better for it?” Nod again. “And has it cemented in your mind that this is how you want to spend your life – writing?” My face says it all. She smiles. “Well then, I’d hardly call that a waste, would you?”

  2.46 p.m.

  Ajita, Meg and I are in Martha’s Diner, being poured fresh OJ by my wonderful grandmother. Yes, at quarter to three on a Friday afternoon.

  Half an hour earlier we’re all in English class together, listening to Castillo trying in vain to make Emily Brontë even half as interesting as Charlotte by talking about the feminist undertones of Wuthering Heights.

  That’s when Sharon pipes up with a pass-agg comment definitely aimed in my direction. “I think it’s interesting how everyone seems to think feminism in the twenty-first century is better than it’s ever been. I think it’s just the opposite. Women had so much more class back when the Brontës were writing. They’d probably be horrified to see how some girls behave these days. You know, sleeping around, sending tacky nude pictures, and all that.”

  Everyone shoots me the same judgmental/pitying/snooty looks as usual, but honestly it barely even registers. I just roll my eyes. It’s funny how fast you get used to being treated like a piece of crap.

  But you know who’s not willing to just stay quiet and let me suffer?

  Ajita.

  She stands up haughtily, gathering her belongings. “Izzy, we’re leaving.”

  “I . . . what?” I look up at her in shock, just like every other member of the class.

  “I’m not going to sit here and listen to ignorant assholes say crap like that about you. Especially if the person who’s supposed to be in charge of the class just lets it happen without saying a word.” She shoots Castillo a look so withering it makes Medusa look mild-mannered. “So, in conclusion, we’re leaving.”

  I fucking love that girl. She just threw cold tomato soup all over Castillo. You know, metaphorically.

  I gather up my stuff and shove it into my backpack as fast as I can, stray highlighters scattering everywhere, but I don’t care. I just do not care anymore.

  Castillo finally finds her voice. “Now, listen here, girls. Don’t you dare walk out of that door, or I’ll have you suspended.”

  Ajita shrugs as if she has literally never cared about anything less in her entire life. “So now’s when you speak up? Not when one of your students is being bullied relentlessly by her peers, but when she finally decides to stand up for herself ? Shame on you, Miss Castillo. Shame on you.”

  And with that, she strides confidently toward the door. I follow. Everyone just stares in utter amazement.

  Meg’s in the back row. As Ajita passes, she adds, “Meg, are you coming?”

  Delighted to be involved in the protest, Meg grins ecstatically and wheels herself out after us, abandoning everything on her desk. Literally abandoning her pencil case, textbooks, everything. Amazing.

  Castillo calls meekly after us, “But wait . . .”

  We barely hear. We’re too busy whooping down the corridor like we’re the most badass bitches on the planet.

  So now we’re slurping milkshakes (I went strawberry cheesecake, Ajita and Meg both chose mint Oreo) and chatting and feeling all fired up. The diner is almost empty, since it’s mainly a hangout for high-school kids and all the non-rebellious ones are still in class.

  “You know what?” I say, raising my voice over the clatter of pans from the kitchen, and the crooning of Elvis Presley emanating from the nearby jukebox. “I’m tired of lying down and letting stuff happen to me without resisting.”

  “Damn straight,” Ajita says. “It’s time we stood up for ourselves, you know? It’s time we threw cold tomato soup everywhere. Why should I let my own mother bully me into silence over a major part of my life? Why should we let people make us feel like crap?”

  Meg jumps in. “What’s that Eleanor Roosevelt quote? Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

  “YES!” Ajita and I both yell. She smacks the table so hard in agreement that the salt shaker nearly headbutts its peppery cousin.

  “I’m sick of it,” I continue. “I’m sick of feeling like I live in a lose/lose world, and that there’s nothing I can do about it. As a woman, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. A slut if you send the nudes and a prude if you don’t. A whore if you have sex and frigid if you don’t. A bitch if you fight back and submissive if you don’t.”

  “We should reclaim the word ‘bitch’,” Ajita argues, her eyes alight with passion. I love it when she gets like this. Meg watches in awe of her fiery new pal. “It’s been used to silence opinionated women for too long. Women who have beliefs and goals and things to say. Women who won’t stand for injustice or mistreatment. They’re labeled bitches by men – and other women – who feel intimidated.”

  I nod along like one of those bobbing dogs middle-class people inexplicably have in the back windows of their cars.

  Meg speaks up. “Bitches bite back. And men hate that. Society hates that.” A charming little milkshake mustache has settled on her upper lip, but we’re both taking her as seriously as a president addressing the nation.

  A spark of an idea forms in my head; dim at first, then brighter than an exploding sun. I gasp. “We should start a website. A community of teen girls who refuse to stay silent any longer. And it could be called . . .” I grin. “Bitches Bite Back.”

  Ajita laughs excitedly. “That. Is. Awesome.”

  “I really think it would resonate with so many young women,” Meg agrees. “From all walks of life. What teenage girl can’t relate to being called a bitch?”

  We all look at each other, magic and milkshakes in the air.

  “Let’s make this happen.”

  11.34 p.m.

  It’s hard to believe that less than a month ago my life was entirely different to how it is now.

  I hadn’t had my screenwriting dream almost within reach – and then snatched away again. My crush on Carson was yet to manifest, and I hadn’t yet slept with him or Vaughan. Danny was still my best friend. Ajita was still in the closet. Meg wasn’t in my life. I wasn’t the center of a national sex scandal. My naked body wasn’t on display to the entire world, and journalists weren’t gathered around the school gates. Betty hadn’t told me she was proud of me. I hadn’t had my life torn apart on a public website made with the sole intention of rui
ning my life. Nor had I stitched my life back together with the help of the people I love the most.

  Shame. It’s a peculiar beast, especially when it happens in public. It leaves you powerless. It strips you of everything you thought you knew about yourself, forces you to examine the very core of your being. Do I like who I am? Am I proud of my choices? How can I become better?

  And then: how can I change the world – and myself ?

  I don’t regret sending the nude picture. I don’t regret having two one-night stands. I do regret hurting my best friend.

  That’s what truly matters to me: the people I love. And it took a fuckup of epic proportions to realize that.

  A month ago, if you’d asked me what three things I wanted to be, I’d have said: funny, cool, well-liked.

  What do I want to be now? Bold. Fierce. Honest.

  A fighter. A revolutionary. A bitch.

  Because the way the world treats teenage girls – as sluts, as objects, as bitches – is not okay.

  It’s the exact opposite of okay.

  Old White Men Love It When You Slut-shame

  posted by Izzy O’Neill in Bitches Bite Back

  Slut-shaming In which a woman is labeled a “slut” or “whore” for enjoying sex (or even just looking like they might) and is subsequently punished socially.

  Interestingly, only girls and women are called to task for their sexuality; boys and men are congratulated for the exact same behavior. This is the essence of the sexual double standard: boys will be boys, and girls will be sluts.

  Unless, of course, you’re not a slut, in which case you are some variation of the following: a frigid bitch, a cock-tease, a boring prude, or matronly purveyor of the Friend Zone.

  Basically, if you’re a woman, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. If you refrain from any expression of sexiness, you may be written off as irrelevant and unfeminine, but if you follow the male-written guidelines, you run the risk of being judged, shamed and policed. It’s super awesome.