The Exact Opposite of Okay(59)
The shame is seeping into my bones. They feel heavy as I leave the sanctuary of my tiny home and out into a world full of people who despise me.
8.27 a.m.
More journalists hound me on the way to school, and it’s infinitely worse without Ajita there to protect me. They follow me all the way to the school gates with their fluffy microphones and TV cameras and notepads and flashing Dictaphones, even though I don’t say a word at any point. I am even very careful to maintain an alarmingly neutral facial expression, just in case they manage to flash a pic in which I look a) angry, b) devastated, or c) anything other than a stone-cold Ice Queen with no soul, which is how I prefer to appear at all times.
Getting through the school gates isn’t any better. Though nobody approaches me, everybody stares. It sounds like a cliché, but seriously. Everybody. Stares. Not one person manages to avert their gaze as I cross the yard. I catch snatches of conversation – the usual buzzwords like whore and slut and self-respect – but don’t allow myself the luxury of sticking around long enough to hear the whole shebang.
As much as I despised being chased by the Japanese kid with the phone cover, or approached by sleazy guys complimenting my nipple piercing, at least then I didn’t feel like such a loner.
It’s the most disconcerting sensation, being looked at but not engaged with. Hot and prickly, like you’re an ant being roasted under a magnifying glass.
10.23 a.m.
Ted Vaughan is using the whole nude picture fiasco as a scapegoat for his deeply rooted misogynistic views, and has issued a staunch statement about how he longs for the good old days when women were classy and respectful and served their male masters like quiet little mice servants with no personality of their own. Something along those lines.
It’s really so irritating how I have become an icon for all that is wrong with teen America. Some people try so hard to become icons, like those folks who go on reality TV shows and pretend to be completely devoid of brain cells, and yet here I am, minding my own business and having sex on garden benches and sending naked pictures of myself to fuckboys, and somehow the whole country suddenly knows who I am.
There are actual, genuine teenage icons out there. People who fight for equality, fight against injustice, fight for human rights. Give them this much attention. I am entirely undeserving.
My newfound celebrity status makes school borderline intolerable. Someone has graffitied “Izzy O’Neill for President!” in a toilet cubicle, which is completely insane and baffling on a number of levels, and then someone else has added “of the Whore Society” in pink highlighter. I will concede this is slightly amusing and far more innovative than most of the abuse being hurled my way, but still.
While I’m peeing and admiring the semi-originality of the libel before me, I hear a couple of girls enter. Their voices sound young – freshmen maybe. Their conversation goes something like this:
“So we were just texting, like, back and forth, you know? Like, the banter was flowing so easily, he’s really funny, like, super hilarious, and I was just bouncing off him, you know? He’s just so easy to talk to, so different to other guys our age, you know?”
“I know, yeah.” At this point I am extremely relieved that we have established the knowledge of Girl Two.
“And then out of nowhere he starts trying to sext me! Like, asking what I was wearing, what I’d do if we were together. It was so awkward, but I just played along because I didn’t want him to think I’m frigid, you know?”
Good grief.
“Oh my God, Louise! I can’t believe you!”
“I know! Then, you’ll never believe this, he asked me to send a picture. I was like, eww, no! I wouldn’t want to end up like that Izzy O’Neill girl, you know?”
“Ugh, I know. I’m surprised she hasn’t killed herself yet.”
The looks on their faces as I exit the cubicle at this point are comedy gold, but for some reason I don’t feel like laughing.
10.59 a.m.
Neither Ajita nor Carson seem to be in school. I’m quite relieved about Carson because although I don’t want to admit it to myself, I was actually starting to care a lot about him, and I’m pretty devastated that he turned out to be even worse than the rest of them. And I hate, more than anything, that Danny was right.
“Not every guy would put up with this shit, let alone still want to be with you. And the others? Well, where are they now? On CNN talking about what a waste of space you are??”
So yeah, I’m glad Carson isn’t here. As much as I want to tear him limb from limb for what he did, I’m just not really up for a big confrontation.
In fact, I’m not really up for anything anymore. Although usually I am more hyperactive than your average cocker spaniel [this is an absurd and blatant lie: I am and always have been lazy to my very core], these last few weeks have drained the life out of me. Energy is a thing of the past.
This is going to sound really morbid, but lately all I want to do is go to sleep and not wake up for a significant period of time. Not because I want to be dead, or anything. I don’t. I’d never give those toilet girls the satisfaction, for one thing. But being alive feels a lot more difficult than it used to, and I’d really appreciate a prolonged stretch of time off, and to be able to wake up when all of this is ancient history.
Oh, the perils of being internationally reviled simply because of who you are as a person.