The Exact Opposite of Okay(32)
10.32 a.m.
As I walk down the corridor toward math class, a gaggle of thirteen-year-olds point and laugh. News spreads fast.
I almost flip them off, but the idea that they’ve all seen a picture of me having sex, and that they know I have a nipple piercing, and that they all probably buy into the notion that I am a whore of unparalleled proportions, makes me feel hot and exposed under the harsh strip lighting.
It’s a horrible dynamic flip, suddenly having a group of younger kids feel like they have emotional power over you.
1.34 p.m.
Disappointingly my eyebrow does not magically grow back before lunch, which is unfortunate as I was hoping for at least a little five o’clock shadow by now. The look of alarm on Danny’s face as I approach him in the cafeteria is cartoonish and hilarious.
He’s queuing up for chilli fries, staring intently at his phone. ?Très suspicious, non??
“Heycanwetalk?” I mutter from around twenty feet away.
He looks up, baffled, and says, “Pardon?”
I clear my throat and force myself to meet his eye. And actually get within three feet of him. His gaze keeps floating up to my spotted-dick forehead.
Anyway, we arrange to meet in the woods after school. I briefly consider burning the woods down, but decide against it.
5.42 p.m.
Well, that could’ve been worse. Such as if the dinosaurs had been roused from extinction and ravaged the entire school campus.
It’s pretty cold in the woods, even though it’s still early fall, and I shiver as I pluck up the courage to say what’s on my mind. Danny shuffles awkwardly, kicking at a pine cone with the rubber toe of his sneaker.
“So this website thing,” I start incredibly tactfully and eloquently, trying not to meet the gaze of the phys ed teacher who is pole-vaulting with a long tree branch just ten feet to my left. “Sucks.”
“Yeah. Sorry, Iz. Sucks.”
At this point we have both established it sucks. I can’t even be bothered to make a joke about two-way sucking and/or 69s, which is how you know I’m in a poor emotional state.
“I just kind of wondered whether . . . you might know anything about who’s behind it?”
Obviously at this point I do not expect him to say, “Yes, of course, Izzy, it was I, jilted man friend and all-round Nice Guy – forsooth, how doth thine know?” [There I go again with my unconvincing usage of medieval lingo.] But I am studying his reaction pretty intensely for flushed cheeks or averted gazes.
He just shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno.” Then, realizing his performance is lackluster at best, he tries to inject some anger. He curls the fist he used to punch the locker, which I noticed is swollen and bruised. “But if I ever find out who did this, so help me God, I will –”
“As much as I enjoy the ‘Prince Charming to the rescue’ routine,” I interrupt, only half jokingly, “I don’t need you defending my honor. I can look after myself.”
“Clearly,” he snarls, with such immediate and unflinching spite I recoil slightly. The two syllables drip with sarcasm.
Snapping back with equal vigor, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks conflicted, like part of him wants to backtrack, but he knows I’m stubborn and won’t let that comment slide. So he just mumbles, “I’ve been defending your honor for thirteen years. Protecting you from jerks at school, from social workers.” A pointed eyebrow raise. “From yourself.”
I cross my arms and fix a firm look on my face. This is difficult, because I have the opposite of Resting Bitch Face. My round cheeks, big eyes and docile demeanor often encourage conversation from strangers at bus stops, which sounds quite pleasant, but has in fact made me consider an acid attack on myself on more than one occasion.
“Saving me from myself??” I retort. “Are you kidding me? Because I’m such a disaster that I can’t be trusted to make my own choices?”
He doesn’t reply, but from the sarcastic sneer I can tell what he’s thinking: if you made better choices, there would be no World Class Whore website. Judgmental prick.
“Look, Danny,” I say, eager to get to the actual point of this confrontation. “All I know is you weren’t that happy with me after the whole two-one-night-stands scenario. And there aren’t many people in the world that know such intimate details about me. That’s all.”
In the silence that follows, branches crack and snap, and the gym teacher pants nearby.
Danny peers at me with an expression I can’t read. Anger, I’d guess, but laced with something else. “What are you accusing me of??”
“Nothing.” Everything.
My heart hammers against my ribcage. A thousand cruel comments repeat on a loop in my head. ?Slut. Whore. Ugly bitch. “I just want to figure out who’s behind it all. Because you know my motto: do no harm, but take no shit. And this right here is shit I am categorically unwilling to receive.”
He shakes his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t believe this. I genuinely thought that when you asked to talk to me, you’d had a change of heart. About . . . us. I thought . . .” He swallows whatever he was about to say next. Then: “But no. You’re actually accusing me of setting up that blog.”
The awkwardness-averse cringe-phobe inside me desperately wants to backtrack, to insist I’m not accusing him of anything, but I’m too upset. I won’t back down. “Yes.”