Anyway, after the pep talk with Betty my general sadness over the Danny situation has made way for crushing guilt. What am I supposed to do now? [I am asking this purely rhetorically. I almost never follow the advice of others due to my insane stubbornness.]
I would love to be brave enough to take matters into my own hands, like a soldier who proudly charges to the front line and faces enemy troops head-on. But alas I am instead going to hide out in my soggy trench until the problem passes, or I’m brutally murdered by a rogue grenade. Either way I am fundamentally a coward and not the kind of person you want on your side in a battle zone. [There have been a lot of war metaphors in this post, which I think is a beautiful representation of my emotional turmoil and deep inner conflict. Imagery and whatnot. What a poet I am. Like T S Eliot but with better boobs.]
Unreasonable though it may be, I feel a bit cross with Danny for messing up a perfectly good friendship, even though I logically know it’s not his fault.
Is it mine? Is my raw sexuality, infectious personality and awe-inspiring modesty sending out the wrong message?
11.59 p.m.
Update: just looked at myself in the mirror. My blonde hair is more “terrifying scarecrow” than “glossy shampoo commercial” and I have raccoon eyes from three days worth of mascara and eyeliner gradually building up and soaking into my skin. The bra I’m wearing doesn’t fit properly, on account of me never having any money, so I have a slight case of quadruple-boob going on. My thrifted Hooters T-shirt [shut up, I bought it ironically] has cocoa stains all down the front, and also a patch of Dumbledore drool shaped like Australia.
It might not be the raw sexuality thing.
Saturday 17 September
1.30 p.m.
Party day! Danny and I are spending the afternoon trailing Ajita around every clothing store imaginable in search of the perfect outfit for tonight, both of us providing helpful and educational commentary on her selections. So far we have vetoed the sequined overalls [like a cabaret show vomited onto a hillbilly], the high-waisted mom jeans [she’s three feet tall and they come up to her nipples] and the distressed faux-vintage band tee [when challenged to name any song or album by Pink Floyd, she mumbled something about us being assholes, which is offensive yet accurate].
I’m super excited to wear my outfit for tonight – a gray silky shirt I’ve had for years and years, but I still feel like an absolute queen when I wear it. It’s an original Armani with these silver studs all around the collar, and it’s the only piece of designer clothing I own.
When I was fourteen and just starting to be painfully aware of how badly I dressed compared to everyone else, I found it on a weekend shopping trip with Ajita [I could never afford to actually buy anything, but I enjoyed hanging out with Ajita enough to tag along]. It was in Goodwill for $40, which is a lot of money for Goodwill, and I had nowhere near enough to afford it. I went home and begged Betty to loan me some cash, and she agreed to put aside a little money from her next paycheck to buy it for me. I spent every single night praying nobody else would buy it in the meantime. By the time we went back to get it, it had sold, and I was heartbroken.
But who’d bought it? Ajita, who had got it for my birthday. I honestly nearly cried when I tore open the carefully wrapped tissue paper and saw the silky gray material I’d fantasized over for so many weeks. I still only wear it on special occasions because I never want the magic to fade.
Anyway, back to our preparty preparation. The mall is absolutely packed, and I keep subconsciously hoping we’ll bump into Carson and Co. There’s a group of basketball dudes hanging out at the wishing fountain, laughing raucously at something on one of their phones, but Carson isn’t among them. In fact, on second glance, I’m not even sure they go to our school. By the time we finally sit down for hot pretzels, I’m pretty sure I’ve given myself repetitive strain injury in my neck.
I guess it’s a good thing we don’t see Carson since Danny might just expire in sheer fury if we did. Though to be fair to him, he’s acting pretty normal today. Making witty observations about dumb fashion trends and such. Long may it last, I say.
Still, thinking about what Betty told me about his parents, while Ajita’s ordering our cream sodas and pretzels, I nudge him on the shoulder. He’s doing anything he can not to look at me, staring up at the fake palm trees which shade us from the strong September sun currently beaming through the mall’s vast skylight.
“Hey, everything okay at home?” I say, quietly enough so the table of snooty-faced soccer moms next to us don’t hear, but loud enough that it’s not weird or conspiratorial.
Regardless of my volume policing, he immediately tenses. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He sweeps stray salt granules off the table with his hoodie sleeve, then rubs at a dried condensation ring with his thumb.
Message received. “No reason. Forget I asked.”
The plan for tonight is to get ready at Ajita’s, as her house is a stupidly beautiful mansion and also just around the corner from Baxter’s place. Her parents are super-rich neurosurgeon geniuses, and fully expect Ajita to follow in their footsteps, which is hilarious because Ajita has flunked every biology class we’ve taken over the last two years. Not because she’s dumb [she isn’t], but because Danny and I are dreadful human beings who lead her astray on a daily basis, like annoying parrots sitting on her shoulder and chirping in her ear about how much more fun it is to perform a silent film for our classmates than it is to learn about plant-cell structure.
Besides, I have it on good authority that in the real world, nobody will ever question you on the function of the mitochondria [THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL! See, I know things] or the vacuole [nah, I got nothing]. By good authority I obviously mean my grandma.
[Man, you really just cannot predict where my tangents are going to take you next! From fashion advice to cell biology. What a narrative rollercoaster. I really am incredibly versatile and insightful.]
Then, armed with our crates of beer [Capri-Sun], we’ll get a lift to Baxter’s empty house at like seven thirty this evening. The party starts at eight, and I know it is borderline tragic to arrive so early, but you remember how I told you I need to know everyone’s drama and business? Yeah, I have FOMO when I miss a significant portion of a social event. Ajita does too. So we just sit in a corner watching everyone and eating popcorn, like Big Brother but more intrusive.
6.24 p.m.
Writing this from Ajita’s ensuite bathroom, because DANNYYYY.
About five minutes ago, after I’d dragged a brush through my scarecrow hair and done my makeup to the best of my ability [smoky charcoal eyes and nude lipstick if you’re interested] I pulled my party attire out of my duffel bag and started to get changed in front of Ajita and Danny, as I have a hundred million times before. Seriously, they have both seen me in so many different stages of undress that they could probably do a pretty accurate life drawing of my naked body, with freckle location accuracy down to a fraction of a millimetre. Since I’m not body conscious, and because we’ve all known each other for so long, I’ve never felt weird getting changed in front of them. It just wasn’t a thing. Before tonight.
Ajita’s sitting at her vanity table, trying and failing to get fake eyelashes to stay on her face, and has accidentally glued one eye shut as a result, while Danny’s sitting on the edge of her bed and flipping through his phone. Honestly, he’s barely even paying attention to either me or Ajita. I kinda get the feeling he’d rather be playing video games with Prajesh, but Ajita’s athletics prodigy of a brother is away at some sadistic training camp in another state.