The Exact Opposite of Okay(75)

“Izzy! That’s –”

“Please, let me finish.” I feel bad for interrupting her, but if I don’t say this now I never will. “I know this might sound crazy, because you’re my teacher and not my mom or anything, but I’ve been fighting the feeling that I let you down.” I pause. “I made the shortlist.” Her face lights up, and she goes to celebrate, but I stop her. “No. They kicked me out a few days later. They found out about the . . . scandal.” I swallow the wave of shame that rises like nausea.

Her face collapses in sympathy. There are pastry flakes all over her tunic. “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I can’t believe they’d do that.”

I shrug. “I’ve been surprised by a lot of things these past few weeks, but that wasn’t one of them. I get it. They don’t want the bad publicity.”

“But still. You’re a talented young woman, and you deserve a shot, no matter what’s going on in your personal life. Which, by the way, you should never feel embarrassed about. We’ve all had sex. We’ve all sent risky pictures. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She says this last part so sincerely, without even blushing or mumbling or showing any sign of discomfort, that it emboldens me to carry on.

“Thank you. Really. You’ve been so supportive since day one, and I’m so, so grateful. I’m sorry you wasted your dad’s fifty bucks.”

“Wasted? Izzy, did you get great feedback from the judges?” I nod. “Is your script better for it?” Nod again. “And has it cemented in your mind that this is how you want to spend your life – writing?” My face says it all. She smiles. “Well then, I’d hardly call that a waste, would you?”


2.46 p.m.

Ajita, Meg and I are in Martha’s Diner, being poured fresh OJ by my wonderful grandmother. Yes, at quarter to three on a Friday afternoon.

Half an hour earlier we’re all in English class together, listening to Castillo trying in vain to make Emily Bront? even half as interesting as Charlotte by talking about the feminist undertones of Wuthering Heights.

That’s when Sharon pipes up with a pass-agg comment definitely aimed in my direction. “I think it’s interesting how everyone seems to think feminism in the twenty-first century is better than it’s ever been. I think it’s just the opposite. Women had so much more class back when the Bront?s were writing. They’d probably be horrified to see how some girls behave these days. You know, sleeping around, sending tacky nude pictures, and all that.”

Everyone shoots me the same judgmental/pitying/snooty looks as usual, but honestly it barely even registers. I just roll my eyes. It’s funny how fast you get used to being treated like a piece of crap.

But you know who’s not willing to just stay quiet and let me suffer?

Ajita.

She stands up haughtily, gathering her belongings. “Izzy, we’re leaving.”

“I . . . what?” I look up at her in shock, just like every other member of the class.

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to ignorant assholes say crap like that about you. Especially if the person who’s supposed to be in charge of the class just lets it happen without saying a word.” She shoots Castillo a look so withering it makes Medusa look mild-mannered. “So, in conclusion, we’re leaving.”

I fucking love that girl. She just threw cold tomato soup all over Castillo. You know, metaphorically.

I gather up my stuff and shove it into my backpack as fast as I can, stray highlighters scattering everywhere, but I don’t care. I just do not care anymore.

Castillo finally finds her voice. “Now, listen here, girls. Don’t you dare walk out of that door, or I’ll have you suspended.”

Ajita shrugs as if she has literally never cared about anything less in her entire life. “So now’s when you speak up? Not when one of your students is being bullied relentlessly by her peers, but when she finally decides to stand up for herself?? Shame on you, Miss Castillo. Shame on you.”

And with that, she strides confidently toward the door. I follow. Everyone just stares in utter amazement.

Meg’s in the back row. As Ajita passes, she adds, “Meg, are you coming?”

Delighted to be involved in the protest, Meg grins ecstatically and wheels herself out after us, abandoning everything on her desk. Literally abandoning her pencil case, textbooks, everything. Amazing.

Castillo calls meekly after us, “But wait . . .”

We barely hear. We’re too busy whooping down the corridor like we’re the most badass bitches on the planet.

So now we’re slurping milkshakes (I went strawberry cheesecake, Ajita and Meg both chose mint Oreo) and chatting and feeling all fired up. The diner is almost empty, since it’s mainly a hangout for high-school kids and all the non-rebellious ones are still in class.

“You know what?” I say, raising my voice over the clatter of pans from the kitchen, and the crooning of Elvis Presley emanating from the nearby jukebox. “I’m tired of lying down and letting stuff happen to me without resisting.”

“Damn straight,” Ajita says. “It’s time we stood up for ourselves, you know? It’s time we threw cold tomato soup everywhere. Why should I let my own mother bully me into silence over a major part of my life? Why should we let people make us feel like crap?”