The Exact Opposite of Okay(35)
Mrs Crannon absolutely does not know how to proceed. So I just slip off the stage and run over to Danny, hissing, “Please tell me these are not for me,” silently praying that they are lest I look like a self-absorbed loon.
An innocent frown. “I thought tulips and posh Nutella balls were your favorites?”
“They are. But . . . why?” Here’s where I’m hoping he’ll acknowledge he was a giant dickwad and will apologize accordingly.
He thrusts the gifts into my arms and awkwardly shoves his hands into his pockets. “Just because. I want to start fresh. Forget the last few weeks, you know?” When I don’t say anything in response, he adds, “And . . . well, I wanted to show you how great it could be. If we were together.”
And that’s when I realize. It’s not an apology. It’s a bribe. Here, have some gifts. Please be my girlfriend and blow my mind with your sexual prowess. That sort of thing.
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. I guess.”
I mean, what else could I say with a whole room of extravagant drama-types watching? Besides, I’m still all kinds of hurt that he said “fuck you” in such a vile way.
Danny smiles awkwardly. “You’re welcome. I’m going to win you over. You’ll see.”
If you ask me, this is very uncool. To the innocent onlooker it might seem sort of sweet. To me it seems like he’s saying: “I don’t respect your decision not to want to fuck me, and I will manipulate the hell out of your emotions until you change your mind.”
But sure enough, one slow clap from Evan Maclin turns into a hearty round of applause as every single one of them [bar Ajita] interprets this as a display of romance and affection rather than a thinly veiled assertion of male dominance and ultimate rejection of his place in the Friend Zone.
I dump my “gifts” on the front-row seats [on account of my complete lack of regard for my personal belongings, my purse and phone and other worldly possessions are chucked irresponsibly backstage at the beginning of every rehearsal] and retake my place on stage, stomach twisting uncomfortably. Danny’s got an awful bashful-but-also-proud-of-himself face on, accepting the “awwww”s from girls and shoulder jostles from guys.
Argh. I’ve told him I don’t want a romantic relationship. Why isn’t that enough?
8.02 p.m.
By the time rehearsals are over I’m absolutely exhausted and vaguely annoyed, and just want to get home to leftover mac and cheese and a gallon of hot cocoa. But no! That would be too simple!
Vaughan is waiting for me by the school gates, shifting on his feet like a rookie drug dealer. I’m about to inform him that I’m all set for horse tranquilizers when he grabs my arm, hard enough that it’s painful, and mutters, “Can we talk in the woods?”
Carrying Danny’s obscene gifts in my arms, I follow him until we reach a clearing. “If any detectives happen to be tailing us, this definitely looks like a botched drug deal type situation,” I say. He looks at me like I have all of a sudden grown an extra nose. I pat my face just to make sure.
Vaughan grits his teeth. I honestly don’t know why his default facial expression is a poor imitation of beef cattle. I would bring it up, but he already looks so unimpressed by my character as a whole. “It’s not funny. Stop making jokes.”
“I’m sorry. It’s because of who I am as a person.”
I’m about to ask him what he wanted to talk to me about when both of our phones bleep at exactly the same time. This doesn’t sound particularly impressive, but seriously, how often do phones make the same tone in perfect synchrony? Am I just easily pleased? [My sexual track record would suggest yes.]
The joy and merriment of the ringtone situation quickly evaporates when I see the issue.
My nude picture has been leaked.
The one I sent Vaughan.
Every single inch of me. Plastered all over the internet for the whole world to see.
No no no no no no no no no please no.
Whoever posted it has dragged Vaughan down with me, because his name shows up at the top of the conversation.
Which means it’s a screenshot.
Which means it was taken from my phone. Because my messages are in blue bubbles. So are his – the begging and the dick pic and everything. But all I see is my own naked body.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit nooooooooo.
[Sorry for the expletives, but I cannot muster anything more articulate right now.]
My boobs and va-jay-jay are out there in the world. I feel disgusting and violated and bare.
Twisting uncomfortably in my chest, my heart sinks. This absolutely cannot be happening. I’m shaking so hard it’s probably measuring on the Richter scale.
Vaughan slams his palm against a tree trunk. He’s definitely going to regret that tonight when he can’t rage-masturbate.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You leaked them. Thought it’d be good publicity for your little screenplay. Nothing launches a career quite like a sex scandal, does it?” His eyes are wide with mania and/or recreational drug use.
“I guarantee I am not that intelligent,” I say numbly.
A crazed grin splits his face in half. [Not literally.] “Do you know what my father is going to do when he finds out about this? Kill me. He’s going to kill me.” He looks like he might genuinely cry. “How do we make this go away? How do I make you go away?” He practically spits this last part.