The Exact Opposite of Okay(43)
I’m not taking it in my stride! I want to scream. It’s absolutely killing me! But I’m incapable of showing vulnerability and asking for help because I am a TRAGIC ORPHAN WHO USES HUMOR AS A COPING MECHANISM!!!
Instead I say: “Have you ever considered a career in the counseling profession? That garden rake image in particular is very vivid.”
She sighs. “You know what I mean. You don’t have to be unflappable all the time. And you’re allowed to ask for help.”
I do appreciate her trying to talk to me semi-sensibly for once, but honestly, I am just so filled with wrath at Danny’s self-pitying martyrdom that I just cannot face it. And also I know she’s probably dealing with her own stuff. Figuring out her sexuality and such. So it doesn’t seem fair to offload on her.
I smirk. “Can we talk about something else, like how you pissed yourself yesterday?”
Another episode of Scrubs starts in the background, with that irritatingly catchy theme tune: “But I can’t do this all on my own, no, I know, I’m no Superman.” Or whatever.
Obviously Ajita has no self-control and cannot help herself. “You are no Superman, Izzy. And you can’t do it all on your own.”
Like I say, I’m not in the mood, so I nip this conversation in the bud. “Good talk, coach.”
She finally gives up. I feel kind of bad because I know how painful she finds trying to be a decent human being, but what can I even say? That all of this is like some kind of night terror, and I’ve woken up paralyzed and can’t do anything but sit and watch?
8.21 p.m.
I head down to the outdoor basketball courts after eating five portions of Betty’s iconic mac and cheese. Don’t tell her I told you, but the secret is she crushes up salt and vinegar chips and mixes the crumbs with the grated cheese topping to make a crunchy crust thing that is basically better than sex, and I should know, because I have had a lot of both.
Because the universe clearly felt bad for leaving me in this cesspool of a situation, Carson is at the courts alone, shooting hoops. Shirtless. Seriously, what have I done to deserve this good karma? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.
It’s still light outside, but the sky has that kind of late-summer dusty quality, with tiny flies and a slight haze hanging in the air.
Carson stops dribbling [the ball, not from his mouth] when he sees me lurking on the bleachers. I wave awkwardly, i.e. the way I do absolutely everything ever. He slowly makes his way over to me, buff chest rising and falling rapidly from the exertion. Oh, flashbacks.
Flumping down onto the bench in front of me, he grins. “Izzzaaayyyy. Come for round two?”
My eyes follow his dark snail trail, disappearing into the waistband of his yellow basketball shorts. “Ummm.”
He winks. He’s so beautiful, seriously. “No joke, though. I had a lot of fun last weekend. You’re a lot of fun.”
Now I’m grinning too. Stop, Izzy! Do not engage with flirtatious banter! I repeat, do not engage!
“Thanks, Carson. If only the entire world did not equate harmless fun with whoredom of the highest order.”
His face kinda drops at this point, and I feel bad for lowering the mood so soon. I didn’t mean to bring up my woeful personal life, but bam, there you go. I fidget with my keyring – an Indian elephant wearing a top hat. Ajita got me it when she went to Delhi with her family back in tenth grade. She said it reminded her of my ears. Bless.
“Yeah,” he nods, wincing. “Sorry, dude. It sucks, the way people are treating you. Like they ain’t ever seen titties before.”
“To be fair, most of them haven’t.”
“Yeah.” A sarcastic eye-roll as he spins a ball on his index finger. “Virgins.”
I’m not sure what point he is trying to make here, but he says the word “virgins” with such vitriol I don’t bother questioning it. Boys are weird.
“You got any idea who’s behind it all?” he asks as I try and fail to look him in the eye. [Not because I’m ashamed, but because his torso is just so appealing.] “The website. The leaked photo. All that.”
“Nah,” I shrug, pretending to be nonchalant when in reality my heart rate is roughly one-ninety-two. “Whoever it was had my phone at one point, though. I leave it backstage in the theater all the time. So it could’ve been anyone who took the screenshot.”
He stares at me, utterly aghast, as though I have just announced my candidacy for Prime Minister of Uzbekistan. “You gotta be the only person in the northern hemisphere not to have a passcode on your phone, dude.”
I shrug again, because apparently I am incapable of doing anything else. “I can barely remember my home address. Or the fact I have to brush my teeth in the morning. The last thing I need is something else to forget.”
A cheeky grin, which does flippy things to my insides. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting that photo anytime soon.”
Urgh. This does not sit right with me, and I guess my face shows it because he hurriedly adds, “Because you’re so hot. Not because, you know, you should be embarrassed or anything. Cos you shouldn’t. Not at all.”
But I don’t know. Making that kind of comment about naked pictures I did not want to be shared just feels kinda skeevy. I mean, he’s a teenage boy. They’re generally skeevy by nature. But . . . urgh.