Mr Wong, our math teacher, answers. “Miss O’Neill. How can I help you?”
I barely have time to register his attempt at banter because I’m ready to burst with excitement. “Is Mrs Crannon around?”
A few seconds later she appears at the door, wrapped up in a raincoat and clearly ready to rock and roll her way out of the building.
Breathless, I manage to say, “I made the longlist!”
“Izzy! That’s wonderful!” She throws her arms around me, which teachers are absolutely not supposed to do nowadays for fear of being accused of sexual assault, but neither of us particularly care in that instant because we’re just so goddamn happy that something in the world is going well.
It feels good. It feels really, really good.
10.18 p.m.
Betty gives us the green light to have a few tipples at mine, which might sound like lax parenting, but you forget that I am a tragic orphan, so Ajita and Danny traipse over at around eight and we merrily crack open a couple of beers and toast my completely unexpected and quite frankly baffling career success.
We’re all piled onto our mangled couch, Ajita in between Danny and me to prevent any awkward bodily contact, and sharing a bag of chips. I’ve been chewing the skin around my nails too much – nervous habit – and the salt and vinegar flavoring makes the broken skin sting like nothing else, so my chip consumption is nowhere near as formidable as usual.
Licking her fingers with her freak tongue, Ajita sighs. “I wish I knew what I wanted to do in life. You’re so ahead of everyone else, Iz. It’s awesome. But I’m kinda jealous.” She sighs again, rummaging in the bottom of the chip packet. “I just don’t understand. How the hell are we supposed to have it all figured out by the age of eighteen? We don’t even know who we are yet, and still we’re expected to choose what we want to do with the next fifty years. It’s madness.”
The way she says “who we are” makes me wonder whether she’s thinking of her sexuality – whether she’s still trying to figure it all out for herself.
Danny shifts on the sofa, and the whole thing groans despite his meager body mass. “We’ll figure it out though. All of us. We have each other’s backs, right? Jeets, if you wanna hash out some career ideas sometime, I’m all ears.” I smile. I haven’t heard him call her Jeets, her old nickname, in a while. “I know your parents pressure you and Praj like hell, but there’s gotta be something you love doing just for you. We can build on that, okay?”
It’s actually really nice to see Old Danny resurface for a while. He’s always been a sweetheart when it comes to encouraging Ajita and me. Even though his complex feelings toward me have somewhat damaged the dynamic between us, it’s good to see him be genuinely decent and supportive without wanting anything in return. I’ve missed this version of him. Maybe hanging out with Praj has been good for him – he doesn’t have many other guy friends.
“Thanks, D,” Ajita says. “There are a couple of things I want to look into, but I think if I told my parents I might want to go into fashion they’d just expire there and then.” A sad sort of smile. Again I wonder if she’s thinking of other things she has to tell them. “Anyway, maybe we won’t have to do anything for ourselves,” she adds. “Izzy’s gonna be so rich she’ll buy us a mansion each.”
While Ajita is mid-rant about the potential benefits of having a world-famous comedienne as a best friend, most of which involve her getting free stuff, my phone bleeps with a text message from an unknown number.
Hey, Izzy, it’s Zachary. Vaughan. Heard about your scriptwriting thing – ’grats! Remember me when you’re famous, won’t you?
Slyly, so that Danny doesn’t see me engage with his sworn enemy, I reply:
Thanks! Word travels fast. Hope everything’s good with you!
Two seconds later, bzz bzz.
Things are awesome, thanks. Can’t stop thinking about last weekend.
AND HE ATTACHES A DICK PIC. I shit you not. An actual photograph of his erect penis. I nearly drop the phone in horror and disgust. [All right, you nosy bastards. It’s above average in length, below average in girth and bends slightly to the left. Are you happy now??]
I honestly do not know why guys think unsolicited dick pics are a turn on. Like, have they ever seen a penis? Do they really look at their own genitals and think, “Yeah, that looks good.” No. Exactly.
At first I think Danny picks up on my absolute horror and disgust because something odd flickers across his face, but thankfully he and Ajita have moved on from the mild success of their sex-crazed best friend and are now discussing a sketch idea based on a surfing shark who’s terrified of humans. So I’m guessing they don’t notice me turn a delightful shade of salmon.
It takes a few seconds to regain composure, but before I’ve even mustered a halfway humorous response, he messages me again.
Your turn ;)
Like I know triple-texting is an accepted thing now, which I am very glad about due to my incredibly needy nature, but surely when one of those texts is a photograph of a penis, we should re-evaluate protocol?
I am slightly buzzed from the couple of beers I’ve necked like a giraffe [I am aware this simile doesn’t quite work], but my inhibitions have not been adequately lowered as of yet. So I simply say:
Thank you for the splendid dick show. Really. You should start charging for admission to this world-class event! I confess this would price me out of action due to the fact I am a poverty-stricken orphan, but as your business advisor this is a risk I am willing to take.
Not sure what possesses me to go all Richard Branson on him, but I’m not in the habit of questioning where my “jokes” come from, and I am not about to start while embroiled in a disturbing dick-pic fiasco.
God, you’re weird. But also very hot. Just one pic? ;)
Then three milliseconds later:
I’ll make it worth your while . . .
Teenage boys really do have precisely zero chill when it comes to nudes.
I leave him hanging for a little while, because I’m very evil and enjoy the idea of him sitting on the couch next to his Republican senator of a father, indiscreetly checking his phone five times a minute, and trying to disguise his lopsided boner with a goose-feather cushion, or whatever posh people use to shield their aroused penises from each other.
But then, once Ajita and Danny have stumbled out the front door like moderately intoxicated baby deer, I retire to my bedroom, whip off my clothes and take the damn picture, hitting send before I have time to talk myself out of it.
[Yes, gasp, sigh. But are you even surprised at this point?]
Wednesday 21 September
7.20 a.m.
I fall asleep before Vaughan replies, but it’s no great loss because he only manages to say “fuck” before I assume making a mess of the goose-feather cushion. And that’s that.
11.57 a.m.
Morning recess is spent freaking out in the bathrooms and trying not to get kicked outside by the power-hungry prefects who take their jobs as school police more seriously than the actual US police force. We have to go outside and get fresh air during recess periods, for no other reason than the school authorities want us to be miserable. Fresh air is number three on my top ten list of overrated things in life, which, although constantly evolving, currently looks like this:
1. Sliced bread. It’s undeserving of its eponymous cliché “the best thing since sliced bread”. Give me a crusty baguette any day. Maybe the cliché-makers chose sliced bread because “the best thing since a French stick” sounds vaguely sexual.
2. The Super Bowl. Its only redeeming quality is the way we as a nation come together to eat chicken wings and yell at the TV, but you can do that any day of the week, without the inconvenient sportsball.
3. Fresh air. Outside = weather, insects and the chance that at any given moment you may be hit by a car. I also think people who love camping should never be trusted.
4. Shower sex. A logistical nightmare from start to finish.