The Exact Opposite of Okay(29)

My privacy has somehow been violated, but I can’t even process the logistics right now. All I feel is a repeated stabbing pain in my chest, like palpitations but ten times as vicious.

I might put on a tough exterior, but . . . nobody likes to be hated.

Ajita texts me again.

Have you looked? Are you okay? xo

It takes me several attempts to type out my response.

No, Ajita. I’m not. I’m the exact opposite of okay.





Thursday 22 September


9.04 a.m.

I’ve been here less than twenty minutes and school is already a second circle of humiliation hell. Everyone stares.

I walk down the hallway to a chorus of mutterings and whisperings, like those creepy church scenes in The Da Vinci Code where the Illuminati are chanting and shit. [Did that actually happen? I might be reinventing the plot for comedic purposes. Regardless, I feel like I should be wearing some kind of dramatic hooded cloak and carrying an ancient torch.]

I’m a performer. I’m used to people watching me. But this feels different, you know? At least when I’m on stage, or cracking a dirty joke, I want to be watched. I want to be laughed at.

But this?

Nothing about this is on my terms.

The low murmuring and conspiratorial giggles make me want to cut someone. Ajita tries her damn best to cheer me up, though her jokes fall on deaf ears somewhat. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my head, and the horrible comments play on a loop. ?Slut. Whore. Bitch. Ugly. C***.

Worst of all is the picture of me straddling Vaughan like something out of a cheap porno. You can’t see my face, but still. Everyone who was at that party knows it was me.

As we walk, the hallway around me whooshes and swirls. It feels a little like an out-of-body experience, which I’ve always dismissed as melodramatic until now. I have to snap out of this. I can’t let cyber-bullies win. So I plaster a smile on my face and pretend not to care.

Besides, it could be worse, I suppose. It could always be worse. I’m not quite sure how exactly, but Betty often says I am so optimistic it borders on the sociopathic, and now is as good a time as any to look on the bright side. I’ve been through the death of both parents on the same day. I won’t let the words of a pathetic bully leave a scar.

So, like the disturbingly chirpy individual I am, I whistle cheerily as I stroll down the hallway, completely ignoring the hordes of people staring me down. Unfortunately I cannot whistle, so really I’m just blowing silently [behave yourselves], but the effect on my mood is positive all the same.

But then, when I walk into second period, there’s a group of girls crowded around a desk, staring at a phone and whispering stuff like, “Oh my God, what a slut!” and “Fucking whore” and “If I was her, there’d be no way I could show my face around here.”

They shut up when they see me, but it’s too late. I already heard.


2.34 p.m.

Of course. Of course today is the day we have a mandatory sex ed lecture in the sports center. Of course it is.

Hundreds of us pile into the hall, taking up seats on the rows of bleachers. There was a basketball game last night, and there are still plastic bottles and wads of tickets stuffed underneath the benches.

Ajita sits protectively next to me, with Danny on her other side. Other than, “I’m sorry, Iz,” he hasn’t really said all that much about the website, which is probably justified. It can’t be nice looking at pictures of the girl you love having al-fresco intercourse with the guy you hate.

The whole way through the talk, I feel everyone staring at me. Not all at once, but in turn. As soon as one person turns away, another chances a sneaky glance in my direction. It’s a constant stream of staring I can’t escape from.

For some reason, our Bible-hugging English teacher and all-round abstinence champion Miss Castillo is the one delivering the talk. Because obviously in America the only thing we should be teaching our teens about sex is that they shouldn’t do it. Don’t have sex because you will get pregnant and die. That sort of thing. It’s working out soooo well for us.

So instead of informing us about contraception and such, she goes on an epic rant about the will of God and how virginity should be preserved until marriage. This works well for her in theory, because by the time we are all married, we’ll be long gone from Edgewood High and she won’t have to do any awkward banana demonstrations. I’m pretty sure this is the main reason she preaches abstinence. Banana aversion tactics. [And also it’s the law.]

Then come the questions. Oh, the questions. Here’s what never to ask a crowd of two hundred horny teenagers: “Do you have anything you’d like to ask about sex?”

A football jock pipes up first. “Is it normal to masturbate over fifty times a week?”

Everyone laughs. Castillo blushes furiously, smoothing down nonexistent creases in her pussy-bow blouse. “I-I . . . masturbation is impure, Jackson, and –”

Another dude from the basketball team interrupts. “Is it normal to have sex dreams about your teachers?” Then he winks at Castillo. She looks like she wants to die.

Amanda Bateman, who has a stellar reputation as a lover of third base, chirps up next. “Is it true guys don’t like handjobs because they can do it better themselves? So there’s no point in anything but a blowie?”

Castillo cringes so severely it looks like she’s giving birth in a similar manner to that scene from Alien. “I really wouldn’t know, Amanda, but –”