“Yeah. Sorry, Iz. Sucks.”
At this point we have both established it sucks. I can’t even be bothered to make a joke about two-way sucking and/or 69s, which is how you know I’m in a poor emotional state.
“I just kind of wondered whether . . . you might know anything about who’s behind it?”
Obviously at this point I do not expect him to say, “Yes, of course, Izzy, it was I, jilted man friend and all-round Nice Guy – forsooth, how doth thine know?” [There I go again with my unconvincing usage of medieval lingo.] But I am studying his reaction pretty intensely for flushed cheeks or averted gazes.
He just shrugs nonchalantly. “I dunno.” Then, realizing his performance is lackluster at best, he tries to inject some anger. He curls the fist he used to punch the locker, which I noticed is swollen and bruised. “But if I ever find out who did this, so help me God, I will –”
“As much as I enjoy the ‘Prince Charming to the rescue’ routine,” I interrupt, only half jokingly, “I don’t need you defending my honor. I can look after myself.”
“Clearly,” he snarls, with such immediate and unflinching spite I recoil slightly. The two syllables drip with sarcasm.
Snapping back with equal vigor, I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He looks conflicted, like part of him wants to backtrack, but he knows I’m stubborn and won’t let that comment slide. So he just mumbles, “I’ve been defending your honor for thirteen years. Protecting you from jerks at school, from social workers.” A pointed eyebrow raise. “From yourself.”
I cross my arms and fix a firm look on my face. This is difficult, because I have the opposite of Resting Bitch Face. My round cheeks, big eyes and docile demeanor often encourage conversation from strangers at bus stops, which sounds quite pleasant, but has in fact made me consider an acid attack on myself on more than one occasion.
“Saving me from myself??” I retort. “Are you kidding me? Because I’m such a disaster that I can’t be trusted to make my own choices?”
He doesn’t reply, but from the sarcastic sneer I can tell what he’s thinking: if you made better choices, there would be no World Class Whore website. Judgmental prick.
“Look, Danny,” I say, eager to get to the actual point of this confrontation. “All I know is you weren’t that happy with me after the whole two-one-night-stands scenario. And there aren’t many people in the world that know such intimate details about me. That’s all.”
In the silence that follows, branches crack and snap, and the gym teacher pants nearby.
Danny peers at me with an expression I can’t read. Anger, I’d guess, but laced with something else. “What are you accusing me of??”
“Nothing.” Everything.
My heart hammers against my ribcage. A thousand cruel comments repeat on a loop in my head. ?Slut. Whore. Ugly bitch. “I just want to figure out who’s behind it all. Because you know my motto: do no harm, but take no shit. And this right here is shit I am categorically unwilling to receive.”
He shakes his head slowly, narrowing his eyes. “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. I thought . . .” He swallows whatever he was about to say next. Then: “But no. You’re actually accusing me of setting up that blog.”
The awkwardness-averse cringe-phobe inside me desperately wants to backtrack, to insist I’m not accusing him of anything, but I’m too upset. I won’t back down. “Yes.”
I’ll never forget the quiet venom in his next words.
“Fuck you, Izzy O’Neill.”
6.00 p.m.
So he lost his shit? xo
Ajita texting, obviously.
Ajita, I don’t think Danny has been in full possession of his shit since 2006. But yep. Totally lost it.
This can’t be an easy situation for her to be in, stuck between the two of us. [Actually, who am I kidding? She loves the drama. She feeds on it like a reality-TV-addicted leech.]
You still think he’s behind it? Xo
I have no idea. In fact it’s frightening how few ideas I have. What do you think?
A pause.
I think the boy is stupidly in love with you on account of his terrible taste in women. But no. I don’t think he did it. xo
In fairness, I am starting to feel a little bit bad for asking him in the first place. We’ve been best friends for so long, and yes, he’s harboring an inconvenient crush on me for reasons I cannot begin to understand, and yes, I did accidentally kiss him that one time, and yes, he did see me kiss Carson just a few days later. But surely I know him better than that. Surely he would never set out to hurt me that way.
Doubt creeps in. Did I do the wrong thing in confronting him?
11.04 p.m.
In all the self-loathing and furor, I almost forgot that two other people were sort of dragged down with me on the blog – Vaughan and Carson were collateral damage. Of course, they are not generally subjected to the same level of sexual scrutiny due to their Y chromosomes, but still.
I am essentially a Mother Teresa meets Dalai Lama type figure, so I take it upon myself to reach out to these poor fuckboys and make sure they’re okay. I know, I know. Fully anticipating the Nobel Peace Prize anytime now. I mean, anyone can get shot in the head by the Taliban, but it takes a really big person to text a fuckboy. [I am 113 percent being sarcastic here. I firmly believe Malala should be leader of the free world, and also CEO of Hershey’s because I swear to God peanut butter cups are getting smaller, which is an act of terrorism in itself.]
Text to Vaughan:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
Facebook message to Carson:
Hey. Assume you’ve seen the blog. I have no idea how the person who made it knows so much about what happened that night, but I can only apologize – obviously this is the last thing I wanted to happen. Well, not the LAST. The zombie apocalypse would be worse I think. So would a ruptured bumhole. Anyway. Hope you’re all right.
As you can see I utilized the copy-paste function on my phone very well [adding the bumhole comment for the second text because I know Carson’s sense of humor is even more vile and misjudged than my own]. You know by now that I am a fan of a shortcut, such as when shaving your legs [nobody cares about anything above your knees], or while performing any other sort of body-hair admin. In fact, I think cutting corners is advisable in almost every physical situation, with the exception of maybe brain surgery.
Because he is by far the superior human being/fuckboy, Carson is the only one who replies.
Yo! Ah, hey now, don’t you worry. This kinda thing doesn’t really bother me. Are you okay, though? Pretty brutal stuff on there, bro. Sorry you gotta deal with it. Lemme know if you need anything.
I am quite touched by this, to the extent where I am willing to overlook him calling me bro.
I’m doing ok. Trying not to let it get to me. Thanks for being awesome about it.
Against all the odds, I go to bed in good snuff. [This is a seventeenth-century term for “happy” which I firmly believe should be reinstated in the modern vernacular. See, I do pay attention in school when it suits me, such as for picking up entertaining slang.]
Tuesday 27 September
10.34 a.m.
Aforementioned good snuffery does not last as long as one might have hoped.