The Exact Opposite of Okay(61)

“Yes. Shitting hell indeed.”

The murmuring crowd remains gathered around the principal’s office long after Betty departs. I just hope my comment about victim-blaming rings true, even to just a handful of them.

I had my phone hacked. I had my privacy violated. I had my personal life broadcast across the country. And I’m tired of feeling like a criminal for it.

When Betty leaves, I head straight for the woods. It’s the only place on this godforsaken campus that you can find any space to breathe. And I’m desperate to get away from the eyes, the constant eyes on me, the never-ending stares that follow me wherever I go. It’s suffocating.

But when I get to the clearing, Danny’s there. He’s sitting on the ground, back against the tree I leaned against when we had that first confrontation all those weeks ago, after I accidentally kissed him.

His head is in his hands, skinny shoulders shaking. Is he . . . crying? I haven’t seen him cry since we were twelve years old.

A twig crunches under my foot, but his ears don’t prick up. He hasn’t seen or heard me yet, and all I want to do is to turn and walk away. The last words he said to me burn through my mind.

“You know, after everything I’ve done for you, you should be grateful to have people like me in your life. Not every guy would put up with this shit, let alone still want to be with you.”

Just walk away, Izzy. Walk away.

It’s not that easy, though. When you’ve been so close to someone for so long, seeing them hurt or sad breaks you a little bit. It’s an animal instinct to protect them. They’re your family, and even if you’re mad, even if you’ve been in a fight, it all gets put on the backburner if one of you is upset.

“Danny,” I say carefully, not wanting to give him a shock. But he doesn’t hear me. Louder: “Danny?”

He freezes, caught in the act. Then sniffs, wipes his nose and says, “Go away, Izzy.”

“No,” I reply, defiant. I edge closer. “You’re upset. We can put the fight on pause. What happened?”

“Why do you even care?” His voice is sad, but slightly venomous. “I mean nothing to you.”

“You know that’s not true,” I say, persevering through his stubbornness. “You’re my best friend. I care when you’re hurt.”

I step forward until I’m right beside him, but he still doesn’t look up at me. He just stares straight ahead, teeth gritted.

“What happened, Danny?” I try again. “Talk to me. Is it your parents?”

For a second he looks like he’s considering telling me, but eventually he shakes his head, dissolving into fresh tears. “Please. Just go.”

So I go.


12.36 p.m.

Lunchtime. Cafeteria. I’m sitting alone on a bench, trying to eat my grilled cheese and tomato soup in peace. I’ve accidentally put too much salt in the soup so every time I have a spoonful my face resembles a bulldog sucking a lemon, but in the grand scheme of my life at present I’m sure this is not the greatest tragedy I’m facing. Still, it’s taken me a good half-hour to even make a dent in the bowl, and at this point it’s just all cold and lumpy.

Carlie and her gang of tennis-playing cronies are sitting on the bench behind me, and for the most part I’m barely listening to what they’re saying because, for all their chit-chat about balls, it’s not the entertaining kind. But then I hear something that pricks my ears up.

“. . . that Ajita chick,” a white girl with cornrows [no, really] says to Carlie. “Is it true? Are you two having a thing?”

“Ugh, God no,” Carlie says, as though she’s never heard anything more disgusting in her life. “She’s so annoying. She follows me around like a lost puppy. I only invited her to trials to be polite, and now she’s on the team I can’t get rid of her.”

The underlying anger I’ve been trying to bury for weeks begins to bubble a little hotter.

“Really?” another girl asks. “You seemed to be having a nice time in the woods together last week, and if the leaked texts from that Izzy slut were anything to go by . . .”

The whole table giggles. God, I hate high school.

“Shut up, all right?” Carlie snaps like the stick of celery she’s gnawing. “Why would someone like me be interested in someone like her? She’s a midget, she thinks she’s hilarious, she’s got these weird Indian parents –”

As calmly as I can muster, I stand up, pick up my bowl of cold, oversalted soup, and pour the entire thing over Carlie’s head.

Gasps and squeals ripple around the table as Carlie screams infernally. Lumps of unblended tomato trail into her open mouth and down her cleavage. It smells like a sauce factory explosion. People all around the cafeteria stop and stare, pointing disbelievingly at the unfolding scene.

Standing over her like a disapproving parent, I sneer at Carlie, whose smugness is now completely obscured by red chunks. “You will never, ever be good enough for Ajita Dutta.”

And then I storm out. Or at least I try to. Before I even reach the door, someone grabs my arm. Mr Richardson.

“Miss O’Neill. Principal’s office. Now.”


2.25 p.m.

“You could’ve given her third-degree burns.” Mr Schumer’s angry voice is even quieter than his normal voice. He’s intimidating in that cold, calm way, like President Snow in The Hunger Games.