The Exact Opposite of Okay(65)
“Thank you, Grandma,” I croak. “I love you too.”
10.43 a.m.
Thanks to the tomato-soup fiasco, which Carlie’s parents immediately told the press about, journalists have started making comments about my grandma’s parenting abilities, or supposed lack thereof, and Betty herself had to talk me down from heading over to the local radio station and Hulk-smashing the hosts with all my worldly rage.
As many of the most vile insults usually are, these comments are disguised as concern, like when fat-shamers preach to the obese about their health when really they’re just judgmental reptiles who don’t like to look at stretch marks lest they choke on their meal-replacement shakes. These reporters are framing their comments as concern over the social-care system and its supposed failings, in the context of how an elderly woman with such a meager income was granted custody of her orphaned grandchild, and whether or not she was emotionally equipped to raise me after going through such a trauma herself, and whether it is in fact Betty O’Neill’s fault that her granddaughter is such an indiscriminate whore.
You should add that to your résumé. “Izzy O’Neill: talented writer, below-average mathematician, indiscriminate whore.” xo
At this point I have to imagine what Ajita’s commentary would be. I think I nailed it.
Betty’s acting like the public disapproval of her parenting skills isn’t bothering her, but I know it’s getting her down. Normally she sings upbeat Motown in the shower, and though this morning’s rendition of ‘Everybody Hurts’ with improvized rap segments was beautiful yet haunting, I’m worried.
I read the shortlist email one more time. About how I have three weeks to act on the next round of feedback before they select the finalists. About how I show a lot of promise, and about how the judges are sure that a bright future in screenwriting awaits.
I still don’t care.
12.34 p.m.
Holy fuck. I know who’s behind World Class Whore. And . . . holy fuck.
The site creator made a fatal error. They set up social-media accounts for WCW and linked them all together. Then they posted the garden bench pic to the Instagram account.
And accidentally shared it to their personal Facebook account.
When I mindlessly log in while I’m eating my lunch, the first thing I see at the top of my feed is the garden bench photo, with the caption “Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore”.
It’s on Danny’s account.
My former best friend has ruined my life, sparked a national sex scandal, made me feel like a worthless piece of shit – all because I rejected him. All because I put him in the Friend Zone.
“After everything I’ve done for you.”
He thought he’d earned the right to my love. And when I didn’t give it to him, he retaliated by tearing me apart.
I think a dark part of me always knew it was him. I believed his denial because I wanted to; because it was easier than confronting the fact my best friend had betrayed me.
No. Looking back, he never did deny it. Not once did he say, “No, I didn’t do it.” Instead he said:
“I’ve been defending your honor for thirteen years. Protecting you from jerks at school, from social workers. From yourself.”
“What are you accusing me of??”
“I can’t believe this. I genuinely thought that when you asked to talk to me, you’d had a change of heart. About . . . us. But no. You’re actually accusing me of setting up that blog.”
“Fuck you, Izzy O’Neill.”
He never denied it. And still I turned a blind eye. Let myself believe that I really knew the guy standing in front of me. That he cared too much about me to let rejection and jealousy stand in the way of our friendship. That he had seen me cry over my dead parents for so many years, and he would never do anything to hurt me.
I should be convulsing with anger right about now. I should be ranting to Ajita, or screaming in Danny’s face, or seeking elaborate and brutal revenge on that pathetic prick. But I’m not. I don’t have the energy, or the conviction. I feel hollowed out by his betrayal.
And, beneath it all, bereft. Bereft of one of my best friends. I think of the Danny of even just last year. Funny and smart and protective and loyal. Happy. Lately, there have been glimmers of Old Danny – playing dumb games, taking Prajesh under his wing, supporting Ajita through her crisis over her future, wrapping his arm around me when I was being attacked in school – but there’s no denying it. He hasn’t been happy for a while. He hasn’t been Danny.
Maybe it’s because of me. Maybe it’s his parents. Maybe something else; something so far below the surface he’ll never let anyone close enough to see it. And yeah, that sucks. It sucks that he’s going through a hard time. But sadness is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. It doesn’t allow you to treat the people around you like human punchbags. Like they exist solely to make you happy again.
All of this is Danny’s fault. He’s become spiteful and jealous and cruel. I know that, deep down. And yet a dark part of me, the part forged in this fire of hatred, still wants to blame myself.
I loaded the gun. He just pulled the trigger.
4.09 p.m.
I decide to go over to Ajita’s and beg her to talk to me. Can you feel homesick for a person? I have a constant pit of guilt and sadness in my gut. I need her. It’s selfish, but I need her. I need her to not hate me anymore. There’s no way I can survive this otherwise.