The Exact Opposite of Okay(55)

Before I can escape, though, Mr Wong says, “Miss O’Neill, can I see you for a moment?”

At the mention of my name, everyone’s heads whip around. They watch me like I’m a sitcom character, eager for a slice of my humiliation. They’re hungry for it now. The nude pictures whetted their appetites, and now they want more.

Standing just in front of his desk, I chew the inside of my lip, feeling as trapped and powerless as I have for days. “Yes, sir.”

To the dismay of my classmates, he shepherds them all out and closes the door behind him. I’m fully anticipating another Castillo-esque lecture on my abhorrent behavior.

When he crosses back to the desk, he sits on the front of it, leaning uncomfortably close to me and with his legs spread, like the “just call me by my first name” meme that made the rounds a few years back. He is clearly still working very hard on his nonexistent reputation as a cool teacher.

When he doesn’t immediately say anything, I ask, “What can I do for you, Mr Wong?”

He nods weirdly, like he’s appreciating something funny I’ve said or done. Smirking in an uncomfortable way I can’t quite put my finger on. “You’re handling this very well, Miss O’Neill.”

“Sir?”

“All the media attention.” He stares at me intently. “You’re holding your head up high, and I like that.” I can smell tuna salad on his breath.

I take a few steps back, putting some much-needed distance between us, and lean against a front-row table. “Umm, thank you, sir.”

“You’re not ashamed of who you are, are you, Izzy?” A creepy smile that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “Not that you should be. Not . . . one . . . bit.”

Then his eyes drop south, and that’s when I know: he’s seen the photos. He’s picturing them right now. He’s staring through my clothes, at the naked body he knows is underneath.

The old Izzy, the girl that existed before this all went down, might’ve answered back. Might’ve called him out, or told him to back the hell off. But she’s gone now, and all I can do is run from the room, my eyes stinging and goosebumps covering every inch of me. Run down the hallway, run past a concerned-looking Carson, run out of the front doors until I’m gasping in fresh air like my life depends on it.

Standing on the front steps and trying to catch my breath, I want to claw my skin off. Despite all of the things that make me me – my personality, my heart, my sense of humor – I’ve been reduced to nothing more than a grainy filter and a pair of tits. To a mere sex object.

I wonder whether I’ll ever stop feeling so dirty.


4.17 p.m.

I feel bad for pushing past Carson in the hallway earlier, so once I’ve calmed down in the bathroom – slathering lip balm all over my tear-dried lips – I venture back out to my locker in the hope of bumping into him again. I get my wish, but not in the way I wanted. Not even close.

A handful of basketball players are gathered by the lockers opposite mine, and Carson is among them. They’re all carrying their kit bags and heading to practice, by the looks of things. None of them see me as I cross to my locker and fiddle with the combination, hands still shaking from my mini-meltdown. I figure I’ll try and catch Carson later, when he’s alone. I’m not in the mood to deal with the shoulder jostling and inappropriate comments from his teammates.

Turns out I’m subjected to them anyway.

“. . . pictures. Like, damn. Girl’s got a body on her, right?” a short dude I don’t really know is saying. He sniggers and spins a basketball on his index finger while Carson fishes around in his locker.

My ears prick up. Are they talking about me?

Don’t be paranoid, O’Neill. Probably just discussing some girl he’s dating.

Baxter pipes up. “Seconded. That nipple piercing is . . .” He kisses the tips of his fingers to his lips as he smacks them, like a French waiter complimenting a bowl of onion soup. They all laugh.

“Not that I’d touch her with a bargepole,” the short dude chips in. “Not after the whole world’s seen her naked. Supply and demand, right? If you’re giving it away for free, ain’t nobody gonna pay for it. Plus, she’s probably riddled, right? Girl that loose gotta be carrying somethin’.”

Now I know I’m not just being paranoid. They’re definitely talking about me.

My cheeks burn as I bury my head in my locker. But despite being surrounded by empty peanut butter cup packets and untouched textbooks, I can still hear everything they’re saying.

Or, in Carson’s case, not saying.

He doesn’t defend me. Not once. Just listens in silence as his friends destroy me piece by piece.


6.59 p.m.

Finally, after a never-ending Gatsby rehearsal, I leave school feeling utterly exhausted. Like, if I do not sleep within the next 5.2 seconds, I will disembowel a bitch very slowly and painfully using a ballpoint pen.

Was followed by reporters on my way home again, but I arrive relatively unscathed.

The more I think about what happened with Carson in the hallway, the more hurt I feel. Up until today, he’s made such a point of having my back, of not treating me like dirt because of the photos. But he sat and listened to his friends pick me apart without saying a word.

Does he really care about me the way he says he does? Or is it all just an act? Does he just want me for sex? Or is it more that he’s worried his friends will judge him for being with me? I don’t know which is worse. That’s what this entire ordeal feels like: going from bad to worse and back again.