So, like the disturbingly chirpy individual I am, I whistle cheerily as I stroll down the hallway, completely ignoring the hordes of people staring me down. Unfortunately I cannot whistle, so really I’m just blowing silently [behave yourselves], but the effect on my mood is positive all the same.
But then, when I walk into second period, there’s a group of girls crowded around a desk, staring at a phone and whispering stuff like, “Oh my God, what a slut!” and “Fucking whore” and “If I was her, there’d be no way I could show my face around here.”
They shut up when they see me, but it’s too late. I already heard.
2.34 p.m.
Of course. Of course today is the day we have a mandatory sex ed lecture in the sports center. Of course it is.
Hundreds of us pile into the hall, taking up seats on the rows of bleachers. There was a basketball game last night, and there are still plastic bottles and wads of tickets stuffed underneath the benches.
Ajita sits protectively next to me, with Danny on her other side. Other than, “I’m sorry, Iz,” he hasn’t really said all that much about the website, which is probably justified. It can’t be nice looking at pictures of the girl you love having al-fresco intercourse with the guy you hate.
The whole way through the talk, I feel everyone staring at me. Not all at once, but in turn. As soon as one person turns away, another chances a sneaky glance in my direction. It’s a constant stream of staring I can’t escape from.
For some reason, our Bible-hugging English teacher and all-round abstinence champion Miss Castillo is the one delivering the talk. Because obviously in America the only thing we should be teaching our teens about sex is that they shouldn’t do it. Don’t have sex because you will get pregnant and die. That sort of thing. It’s working out soooo well for us.
So instead of informing us about contraception and such, she goes on an epic rant about the will of God and how virginity should be preserved until marriage. This works well for her in theory, because by the time we are all married, we’ll be long gone from Edgewood High and she won’t have to do any awkward banana demonstrations. I’m pretty sure this is the main reason she preaches abstinence. Banana aversion tactics. [And also it’s the law.]
Then come the questions. Oh, the questions. Here’s what never to ask a crowd of two hundred horny teenagers: “Do you have anything you’d like to ask about sex?”
A football jock pipes up first. “Is it normal to masturbate over fifty times a week?”
Everyone laughs. Castillo blushes furiously, smoothing down nonexistent creases in her pussy-bow blouse. “I-I . . . masturbation is impure, Jackson, and –”
Another dude from the basketball team interrupts. “Is it normal to have sex dreams about your teachers?” Then he winks at Castillo. She looks like she wants to die.
Amanda Bateman, who has a stellar reputation as a lover of third base, chirps up next. “Is it true guys don’t like handjobs because they can do it better themselves? So there’s no point in anything but a blowie?”
Castillo cringes so severely it looks like she’s giving birth in a similar manner to that scene from Alien. “I really wouldn’t know, Amanda, but –”
“Maybe you should ask Izzy O’Neill,” someone shouts, and everyone cackles. “She’s a bit of an expert.”
The mention of my name is like an electric shock as adrenaline spikes unpleasantly up and down my arms.
That picture.
My cheeks burn. Then the jeering starts. Another girl yells, “Yeah, how many guys is it now, O’Neill? Or did you lose count at a hundred?”
“And that’s just on Saturday night!” another dude shouts.
Never one to cower in the corner, I force myself to raise my voice and call back, “You’re just mad you didn’t make the cut. A hundred guys and I still won’t sleep with you! Gotta hurt.” I shout loud enough to disguise the shaking in my voice. Steer into the joke, O’Neill. You can do this.
Castillo toughens up a little at this point, and leaps to my defense. “That’s enough! Out. All of you. Class dismissed.”
I think she has a soft spot for me, which is extremely baffling on account of my poor moral compass and alleged Sexual Centurion. But I’m grateful all the same.
We all stand up at the same time, and conversation erupts everywhere. No prizes for guessing the topic on everyone’s lips.
The muttering and giggling as we file out of the sports center isn’t about Castillo’s cringeworthy delivery. It’s all for me. From behind me, Ajita squeezes my elbow. Focusing on breathing as steadily as I can, I steel myself as much as possible. I can break down later, in the privacy of my own home.
8.17 p.m.
By the end of school I’m really quite miserable, despite my best efforts to power through, so Ajita throws an impromptu “would you rather” party in her basement for our somewhat fractured tripod. This basically consists of us taking turns in asking each other impossibly difficult “would you rather” questions, such as “would you rather have teeth for pubes or pubes for teeth?” and then heartily debating the answers like we’re members of the UN.
Danny agrees to call a truce for the purposes of this emergency situation, and although he doesn’t apologize for his locker-based violence, he doesn’t bring up the kiss either. Which I suppose is a win.
Prajesh joins us for a while, but once the questions become increasingly blue he starts to get more and more uncomfortable hearing his big sister talk about sex so openly. He excuses himself with the general expression of someone who’s trying very hard not to be sick in his mouth.
When he leaves, he gives Danny this weird fist-bump and says, “We still cool to hang out after I finish at the meet tomorrow?”
“‘Course, bro,” Danny replies. It’s incredibly cringeworthy hearing him call anyone bro, but nevertheless Ajita nudges his shoulder and flashes him a grateful look.
After an hour or so, with the aid of a metric crap-ton of nachos, I’m slowly coming back to life and laughing hysterically while listening to Danny justify why he’d rather have penises for arms than a vagina for a mouth. Ajita is insisting that this is just not practical because a) penises can’t grip things, and b) there would simply be no hiding your arousal. You would just be walking around the supermarket with your arms in the air, knocking boxes of cereal off the shelves, trying to convince the store assistant that you aren’t sexually attracted to Cap’n Crunch.
The website thing is actually falling to the back of my mind, until Ajita asks me: “Would you rather sit on a cake and eat dick, or sit on a dick and eat cake?”
Clearly, because unlike the pube-teeth debacle there is only one correct answer, I reply, “The latter, definitely. In fact, there is literally not any situation I would enjoy more.”
Danny then scoffs and mutters, “Jesus. Are you ever not thinking about sex?”
I’m kind of caught off guard by his tone, which is nothing short of scathing, but like the talented improv actor I am, I bounce back. “No. One time I thought I might be thinking about the Chinese inflation rate, but I was, in fact, thinking about dogging.”
To this he shakes his head and mutters, “Unbelievable. No wonder . . .” and then he trails off.
My nerves bristle at this. Ajita jumps to my defense.
“No wonder what, Danny? No wonder someone has set up a vile and intrusive blog dedicated to assassinating our best friend for her sex life?”
He stares into his lap. “Forget it.”
I’m honestly just not in the mood for a fight, and in fact I feel like I could burst into tears at any moment, so I just say, “Next question, please.” But his bitter expression and disgusted body language haunt me for the rest of the night.
It’s only when I’m leaving Ajita’s that the dark thought emerges.
Is it possible Danny’s behind the blog?
11.24 p.m.