The Exact Opposite of Okay(28)

“I don’t think so. Just leave him to cool off. Let him come to you. Now, lunch?”

For probably the first time in my life, I don’t finish my cheeseburger. From guilt, and from the butterflies lingering in my tummy from the first sober kiss of my life.


7.56 p.m.

Being an astonishing success story is really quite time-consuming. Ajita invites me over to film a sketch later, but I have to tackle the screenplay rewrites if I’m going to make Monday’s deadline.

I start by separating the judges’ feedback into two sections: Big Edits [e.g. stuff about character arcs, plot and pace, etc.] and Small Edits [lines that don’t quite work, sections that need a bit of TLC, all that jazz]. It’s beyond cool having actual professionals give me feedback on my script. At first, reading criticism of your work kinda stings, but I think that’s probably because the school environment conditions you to think criticism is inherently negative. And yet this criticism doesn’t feel that way at all. It’s positive as hell, and actually fun to read and consider. Like, this bit is great, but this bit isn’t working so well – why not try this other awesome technique instead? I’m already learning so much.

Tonight I plan to tackle the character stuff [mainly the fact that my male protagonist, the beautiful prostitute, doesn’t really change at all throughout the course of the script – my bad], so make myself a giant mug of hot cocoa with extra mini marshmallows and get to work.

Yes! Me! Working! It’s absurd on the face of it. But it’s weird. When you enjoy what you’re doing, it doesn’t really feel like work at all. It’s difficult, sure, but it’s still fun. What a revelation. I’ve never once felt this way about schoolwork, which is nothing but hard work.

I get into a rhythm with Post-it notes on my bedroom wall and actually find myself enjoying doing something other than being an unbelievable waste of space. Then I work up character profiles for both the male prostitute and his client, fleshing them out as much as possible before weaving these new details through the script to make the characters feel more developed and rounded.

In the back of my mind while I write is Carson’s kiss. I remember the smallest details – the tingling mint on his lips, the vague scent of paint on his hands, the shape of his chest beneath my hands. The fluttering in my belly.

Like I say, it was the first kiss I’ve ever had while not under the influence of alcohol. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to do it sober, more that the opportunity has never really arisen. I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I’ve never really gotten close enough to anyone to want to make out with them outside of a party setting.

[Also whispers maybe I’m not as confident as I make myself out to be, and I just need the wonderful inhibition-lowering qualities of Capri-Sun to take the edge off – and remove that layer of fear Ajita is always trying to get me to defy.]

Anyway, all I know is that despite the obvious Danny issues, I really, really enjoyed it. And would very much like to repeat it in the not-so-distant future.

But back to business. While I’m editing, a few things trip me up, like whether the fact the love interest’s career obsession makes her cold or unrelatable, so I start a list of things to discuss with Mrs Crannon when I next see her.

It’s all going pretty well until my phone bleeps.

I half expect it to be Vaughan with another close-up of his genitals, or Danny telling me to burn in hell, but it’s my main squeeze Ajita.

Um. Iz. I dunno how to tell you this, so I’m not going to. But . . . well. Xo

And there’s a link attached: http://izzyoneillworldclasswhore.com/

What. The. Eff??

Frowning, I open a new browser window and type in the URL. And instantly regret it.

Someone made a blog. With the title Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore. And it’s just pages and pages and pages of posts about how much of a slut I am.

Hands shaking like crazy, I scroll through all the selfies I’ve taken over the past year – each with a dick Photoshopped into my mouth.

I scroll through anonymous “confessions” about all of the hideous sexual acts I’ve apparently engaged in.

I scroll through a detailed account of last Saturday night, i.e. Sexmageddon. My encounters with both Vaughan and Carson are on display for the whole world to read.

The worst part? Someone has taken a picture of me straddling Vaughan on the garden bench – judging by the angle, it was taken from the kitchen. You can’t see any dicks or va-jay-jays, but it’s pretty clear we’re having sex.

Bile rises in my throat.

I mean, I know I hardly kept my sexual encounters particularly hidden at the party. I quite literally did it like they do on the Discovery Channel, which the Bloodhound Gang would be very proud of, although I’m not altogether convinced they’re my target audience so this may not be considered a win.

But . . . fuck. There are so many details nobody should know.

How does the person who made this account know Carson only lasted thirty seconds?

How do they know I have a nipple piercing?

How do they know every single little detail of what happened that night? I set my blog to private before I posted about any of that stuff.

My blood runs cold. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw up all over my stack of Post-it notes.

Who would do this to me? Who hates me this much?

Not even Danny and Ajita know some of this stuff. Stuff I don’t think I’ve ever told another living soul. How is this happening?