The Exact Opposite of Okay(52)
Once the hilarity wears off over the mental image of me smeared on wholewheat toast and topped with cracked black pepper, Ajita asks me ever so casually, “So have you thought any more about who started that website in the first place? Cos, you know. This is all their fault. Not yours. I don’t want you getting big-headed or anything, because your ego is already intolerable, but . . . you are wonderful. None of this is your fault.”
Genuinely I almost cry at this, but manage to resist lest Ajita think I actually have emotions. “It’d be nice if Danny was telling the truth,” I say. “That he really did have nothing to do with it.”
She mulls this over, taking a swig of her s’mores shake. Next to her is a sign that says Your Sandwish Is My Command. [Don’t you dare laugh at this. It’s the least funny name for a fast-food restaurant in the whole word. Think of all the wasted opportunities! Lord of the Fries. Forrest Rump. The Codfather. I could go on, but I shan’t.]
I add, “I think I’m going to choose to believe him, simply because it’s too depressing not to.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, I’m getting quite tired of people proving themselves to be royal dickwads every other second.” I pause meaningfully, fumbling with the straw wrapper. “Did you invite him today?”
“No. I’d rather fuck a fruit bowl than look at his mopey face all afternoon.”
I laugh so hard at this I almost vomit.
9.04 p.m.
Sound the drama klaxon! Within the space of the last thirty minutes, the following hath ensued:
1. Vaughan called me [like, an actual telephone call, in this day and age! Who does he think he is??] to apologize for the media shitstorm he accidentally caused by making a cafeteria speech more ill-judged than the 2003 invasion of Iraq. I essentially told him to have sexual intercourse with the nearest cactus, and he called me a bitch and hung up.
2. Danny texted me, kicking off about my secret girl date with Ajita. It went like this: Thanks for the invite today. It was really great to hear my two supposed best friends were hanging out behind my back. He is such a man child. Currently researching ancient witchcraft rituals in an attempt to cajole the universe into smiting him. [I do feel like smite is an underused verb, no?]
I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with either.
11.02 p.m.
The day has left me feeling grubby and miserable, so I have a long, hot shower in an attempt to wash it all away. The website, the nudes, the press coverage. Danny. Everything.
Usually I’m in and out within five minutes, barely even looking at my body as I slather it in cheap shower gel and drag a razor wherever necessary, but tonight I examine it more closely than I have in years. It’s been put under a microscope for the whole world to inspect, and I want to see what they see. It’s sadistic, but it’s an itch I have to scratch.
Cellulite and stretch marks around my hips and thighs. A giant mole on my left butt cheek. Swollen boobs because of the time of the month.
Imperfections that, up until a few weeks ago, were mine and mine alone. Until I shared them with two boys I trusted. Now the whole world sees them too.
I scrub for an hour but still can’t wash away the dirty feeling.
Wednesday 5 October
8.28 a.m.
Just when you think life could not possibly get any more dramatic and palpitation-inducing, a gaggle of reporters flock to the gates of your housing community and bombard you on your way to school. Seriously, big fluffy mikes, cameras, the works. Now I know how that Jenner woman feels when people ask about her lips all the time.
“Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!”
No. Go away.
“Izzy? Izzy, can you talk to us about Zachary Vaughan? Has his father made any effort to contact you directly?”
No.
“How does it feel to have your naked body on display to the entire world?”
NO.
They just want to hear my side of the story, they say. Yes, but so do the other 631 bloggers/journalists/scumbags who emailed me personally to ask for THE TRUTH and THE LIES and THE SCANDAL and for a verbatim quote on how much of a royal dick Ted Vaughan is.
Vultures, the lot of them. I just cannot begin to understand why they even care about my naked teenage body and unpalatable promiscuity. Aren’t there wars happening or something? Are sex scandals really that interesting nowadays, or are we still in 2007? Is that the buzz of Britney’s razor I hear?
Honestly, it was like running a gauntlet. Danny was nowhere to be seen this morning, probably goldfish pouting about our fight and how Vaughan is getting more attention than him, but thankfully Ajita, a.k.a. my guardian-angel-come-pit-bull, shielded me from the flashing cameras as best she could. It was a little like an ant trying to protect Hagrid, but I was touched nonetheless.
In related news, in homeroom I’m going to rip off Vaughan’s balls and stitch them to a sock puppet, and then I will explain to the reporters, using my innovative new mouthpiece, just how I feel about that unbelievable scumbag.
10.54 a.m.
Outside of Ajita, the only other student who isn’t treating me like I have leprosy is, surprise surprise, Carson Manning.
We bump into each other by the water fountain before second period. He sneaks up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “Hey, you. How you holding up?” He smells freshly showered – he must’ve just finished practice.