The Exact Opposite of Okay(64)
I press “previous page” until I hit pay dirt. The very first post. The picture of me having sex with Zachary Vaughan on a garden bench. Caption reading: “Izzy O’Neill, slut extraordinaire, in action.” There are some tags too: #slut #whore #sex #bitch #noshame. Below are 1,704 comments.
Crap. When I first found this site, the picture only had two comments, both from anonymous users and both fairly standard iterations of what a slut I am. But 1,704? How am I supposed to sort through all of these?
I start with the top-rated comments. Trawl through dozens of posts about how nobody will ever take me seriously after this, about how I’ve ruined any hope of a career, about how I deserve to burn in hell for all of eternity because I’m having sex outside of marriage. Huh. Maybe Castillo is a prime candidate.
What I’m really looking for are replies from the owner of the WCW blog themselves, anything I can use to glean hints from, but there are surprisingly few. Just the odd “preach” or “amen!” or “God bless” when someone particularly vile says something derogatory about me. So I guess the site founder is on the religious side of things, which is not exactly a surprise, but that’s about all I’ve got.
A quick flip through Facebook shows me Vaughan got his offer from Stanford. There are 403 likes and 189 comments on his status, not one of them mentioning his dick pic. I don’t know why I’m even surprised.
I open a new tab: Twitter. I haven’t checked it once since this all kicked off, and I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared for the inevitable deluge of hurtful slander being thrown my way. But then I think, how much worse can it possibly be? Everything horrible that could potentially be said about me has already been thrown out there in the public domain. There’s no stone left unturned. It’s been well established at this point that my lopsided boobs and I deserve the most painful of demises. So, Twitter, do your worst.
After scanning my tags, searching my name and scrolling through the feed for ten minutes or so, I’m not surprised by the insults. There really is nothing new. Not from the hundreds of politicians and right-wing journalists and religious organizations condemning me, nor from the regular people reacting to the story, nor from the school kids I genuinely believed were my friends. The tweet from deadpan queen Sharon – “Am I the only one who doesn’t see the appeal? Girl should rly lose some weight before her next nude leaks” – hurts a bit, especially after I took her under my wing and invited her to appear in our sketches, but I move on as fast as I can.
Ted Vaughan is louder than them all, vehemently posting every hour about me and his angelic son. I’m scum, I’m a whore, I have no self-respect, I’m everything that’s wrong with millennials. I’m out to destroy his son’s life, to sabotage his future career, to make him look like the bad guy when really I’m the one who has no place on this planet. Blah blah blah.
But what I am surprised by is the sheer number of people defending me. There’s support from other teen girls fighting my corner, saying I’m beautiful and unapologetic and deserve respect no matter what. From feminist organizations discussing consent and misogyny. From columnists exploring gender inequality and slut-shaming, demanding that Zachary Vaughan be held to the same level of public scrutiny for his dick pic.
For every negative comment, there’s a positive one to match.
It should feel good, but it doesn’t. It’s too much. This is all too much.
Betty is out. Ajita and Danny both hate me. Even Dumbledore is more interested in licking his own asshole than cuddling with me.
The whole world is watching me suffer. Enjoying it even. Everyone knows who I am, everyone has something to say about me. And I have never felt more alone in my life.
Saturday 8 October
8.15 a.m.
I barely slept last night because of the aggressive palpitations rippling through my chest. I think I finally dozed off at around 5 a.m., and only a few hours later I’m awoken by a knock on the front door.
Bleary-eyed, still half asleep, I strain my ears as Betty pads over and opens it.
A low voice, male, sort of familiar. Not Danny’s southern twang or Vaughan’s clipped upper-class lilt. It’s warm, gravelly, confident.
Carson.
I can’t make out what they’re saying, but Betty’s tone is pretty harsh. I hear the door bang shut again, and a few seconds later she’s perching softly on the edge of my bed. I roll over so I’m facing her, aware my eyes are probably all gloopy and gross from last night’s tears. She strokes my hair, tucking the most unruly locks behind my Dumbo ears.
“Carson’s here. He wants to talk to you.”
I groan incoherently.
“He said something about tomato soup, but I might have misheard him.”
Betty’s all hunched over and sad-looking. This debacle has aged her massively, and I know she has to work today. Just another thing to add to my endless list of things to feel guilty about.
“He insists it wasn’t him. That he didn’t talk to the press. Do you believe him?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’m losing faith in pretty much everyone. Even myself. Especially myself.”
“Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that. You’re the best person I know, and I love you very much. I’ll do anything to protect you.” She kisses me on the forehead as a fresh wave of sobs cause my chest to almost cave in on itself. “I’ll tell him to go.”