The Exact Opposite of Okay(58)
All this time, the media have been talking about my string of hideous mistakes, about how I don’t think through my actions, about how I’m so shortsighted and irresponsible that I can’t see how disastrous the consequences of the things I do can be.
Until now I’ve resisted that line of thinking. Until now I’ve tried to own my actions, dismissing the idea that they were mistakes at all. So I had sex. So I drank beer. So I sent a nude. Those are things millions of other people, teenagers and adults alike, are doing every single minute of every single day. Knowing deep down I’m not a bad person is all I had left to cling onto, like a life raft when I’m drowning.
But this? Ajita? This was a mistake. This was a lapse in judgment.
This does make me a bad person.
I try to call her – my lovely best friend I’d do anything to protect, my lovely best friend who I’ve hurt so badly, my lovely best friend who might never forgive me – for the thousandth time since she fled the cafeteria in tears.
She doesn’t pick up.
8.59 p.m.
I just got an email from LA. My screenplay made the shortlist. And I don’t care. Not one bit.
Friday 7 October
7.14 a.m.
The entire world has gone insane. And not like good, quirky insane, like Ajita after two beers or The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Ugh, Ajita. My heart hurts whenever I think of her. I’ve sent her over a thousand texts and she won’t reply.
I don’t blame her.
I wonder if her parents have seen it. I wonder if she’s currently fielding endless questions about it from her extended family. I wonder if I’ve ruined everything for her. I wonder if I was so far off the mark that it doesn’t matter anyway. I wonder just how much damage I’ve caused.
Although it’s not like I’m getting off scot-free. The garden bench picture was on the evening news last night. The evening news! Seriously, I am just some random teenage girl with a penchant for nachos and peanut butter cups and sexual intercourse. Why would the host of a primetime TV show invite some political analyst into the studio to discuss Ted Vaughan’s campaign, and his flawed parenting, and the implications of his son’s involvement in this stupid, small-town scandal?
Why would the entire Vaughan clan use me as a launching pad to discuss their wacko opinions on abstinence?
Why would professional journalists use the word “slut” to describe an innocent eighteen-year-old girl?
I have to go to school today because I’m falling severely behind in basically every class. At this point I would rather sit naked on a traffic cone than walk those hallways, but the stubborn streak in me is screaming like a banshee: “Fuck you guys! Fuck you all! I’ll never let you fuck with me!” Except they are quite clearly fucking with me, and I’m not handling it particularly well.
For instance, last night I cried so hard onto Dumbledore that his fur became all matted with snot and saliva, and Betty had to run him a bath in the kitchen sink, and I just watched them both and continued to weep hysterically about all manner of things, such as a) the unfavorable press coverage obviously, b) my adorable grandmother and pet and how I would run through the fiery pits of hell and/or a particularly hilly cross-country trail for them, c) Vaughan turning out to be such a prick, despite his inoffensive manner at the party, d) my eyebrow still not recovering from the overzealous plucking incident and how much it accentuates my lazy eye, e) people who attempt to use “jamp” as the past participle of “to jump”, f) how my best friend in the whole entire world will probably never speak to me again and it’s entirely deserved, g) how I had my very own guardian angel in the form of Mrs Crannon and I’ve let her down, h) I was starting to fall for Carson and yet he turned out to be just another fuckboy . . . et cetera, ad infinitum.
Anyway. Long story short, I have to go to school and pretend to care about Tudor England. If I see Vaughan, Danny or Carson I plan to pull a full Henry VIII on their asses. I know we are not married so the metaphor doesn’t quite work, but rest assured I will feel approximately zero remorse following the public beheading of those treasonous goats. I have brief concerns over probably not having the upper-body strength to lift an axe above my head, but Ned Stark makes it look very easy. I’ll keep you updated.
8.05 a.m.
As per our usual morning routine, Betty sits me down for a bowl of cereal and a much-needed heart-to-heart before I haul myself to Edgewood for another day of character assassination.
I’m crunching miserably through a bowl of Lucky Charms, and she’s slurping the milk from the bottom of her already demolished shredded wheat.
She finishes and smacks her lips. “Listen, kiddo, I know things are rough right now, but I promise you they’ll blow over. Do you realize how short an attention span most people have? By this time next month they’ll have forgotten all about you. I know weathering the storm until then isn’t going to be fun, but you have so much going for you. The screenplay, for example! That’s such incredible news about being shortlisted. Mrs Crannon must be so thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her yet,” I mumble.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get your ass into school, put a smile on that lovely face of yours, and tell your mentor that she has every damn reason to be proud of you. All right?”
“All right,” I lie, knowing I’m still far too embarrassed to show my face in Mrs Crannon’s office. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look her in the eye again. Whether I’ll be able to look anyone in the eye. I’m even struggling to meet Betty’s worried gaze, even though I know she loves me unconditionally.