The Exact Opposite of Okay(53)
I wipe a rogue trail of water away from my mouth [seriously, is there any way to drink gracefully from a water fountain?] and turn to him, mustering up the most convincing smile I can.
“I’m all right, I guess. Trying not to look at the media.”
He’s wearing a gray hoodie and black jeans, and I want to rip them right off him. Good to know the whole sex-scandal thing hasn’t deterred the insatiable nymphomaniac inside me.
Carson rubs his forehead, looking anxious on my behalf. “Don’t blame you. Please don’t . . .”
As he trails off, he shakes his head.
“Please don’t what?” I prompt him, rearranging my backpack. I have a terrible habit of hauling my books around on just my right shoulder instead of wearing it properly across both, so am therefore a few short months away from resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
He looks around the busy corridor, where kids of all ages and social standings are staring at us, whispering conspiratorially. “Please don’t think any of this is your fault, a’ight? Cos it ain’t.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I’ll try not to.”
And then, despite all the stares and whispers, he gives me the biggest bear hug I’ve ever received.
He’s so warm and comforting as he whispers in my ear, “You tougher than they are. Hell, you tougher than most people.”
Before I can even reply, he pulls away, picks up the textbook he dropped and, after one last reassuring smile, sets off toward his next class.
These past few days have felt like my insides were being shredded with frozen icicles of shame, but Carson thaws them. Because he doesn’t treat me any differently. He looks at me the same way he always has: like I’m funny and cool and someone he wants to be around. Like I’m a person, not a piece of meat.
Something in my chest aches, but not in a sad way.
11.35 a.m.
Fuck. Just when a well-timed pep talk from a guy I care about has me feeling like I might actually survive this, BuzzFeed gets hold of the story. I’m global.
Well, the Vaughan family are global, but I’m caught up in the crossfire. Because revenge porn is still legal in my state, and such a high-profile case involving a politician’s son has attracted a storm of media attention and debate. And because I’m eighteen, and thus not a child, they’re allowed to show my pictures without being accused of child pornography.
Part of me is glad the issue is being discussed. I just wish I wasn’t the catalyst.
Checked my Gmail for shortlist news [and to satisfy the paranoid part of me who’s still worried the producers will see the nudes and put two and two together]. ?Nada, but I’ve had an influx of emails from yet more journalists and bloggers asking to interview me exclusively, and a smattering of hate mail, and also an offer from one of those vile tea detox brands asking me to promote their product to my whopping 213 Instagram followers now that I am apparently an international icon for all that is wrong with the world.
Prior to today, all I really received were emails like “Have you noticed how you have become so fat and hopeless?” and generous offers for $1 liposuction in Outer Mongolia, but now that heyday of spam is apparently over.
1.20 p.m.
Though I’m getting used to lunchtime being an unbelievably traumatic affair, today it reaches all new levels, now that I am known internationally as a slut of the highest order.
Kids listen in on my hushed conversations with Ajita and record our mumblings on their phones. We’re only discussing which movie we wanna see this weekend, but still. They snap pictures and take videos and look at my nudes for the thousandth time while masturbating into their sloppy lasagna. [Again, I made this last one up, which you will not be at all surprised to learn. If you are currently consuming lasagna or any other baked pasta dish, I apologize for the mental image.]
I know citizen journalism is meant to be a positive movement, and for authentic coverage of protests and police brutality and natural disasters, yes, I can see the benefits, but this? Really?
Teens must send thousands, if not millions, of explicit photographs to each other every single day. Why is mine so damn interesting? Debating the legality of revenge porn is one thing. Showcasing my body for sport is quite another.
And, fellow students, do you really think Fox News is going to pay you for your under-the-bench photo of my crossed-over knees just because I’m having an unwarranted moment in the limelight? Are you really that desperate for a few extra quarters?
Ajita tries her best to distract me and continue with our conversation about whether or not to see the big-budget thriller or the subtitled art-house movie, but eventually we give up and head for the woods to live out the rest of our lunch hour alone and in peace.
Well, you know, except for our phys ed teacher a.k.a. Crossfit Monkey. But I’m starting to find him strangely comforting. He doesn’t exist in the same realm of the universe as us mere mortals, always thinking about how many push-ups he can do before he passes out, so chances are he hasn’t seen me naked. Always a win.
2.34 p.m.
Ms Castillo goes a bit “oh, captain, my captain” on us in English this afternoon. She’s picked up on the air of animosity and flatulence in the classroom and tries to give us all a motivational speech about the importance of kindness and abstinence, etc. Anyway it was kind of ruined by the chorus of “you don’t even go here”, but it was sort of sweet for her to try and make things a bit less crappy for me.