Danny smiles awkwardly. “You’re welcome. I’m going to win you over. You’ll see.”
If you ask me, this is very uncool. To the innocent onlooker it might seem sort of sweet. To me it seems like he’s saying: “I don’t respect your decision not to want to fuck me, and I will manipulate the hell out of your emotions until you change your mind.”
But sure enough, one slow clap from Evan Maclin turns into a hearty round of applause as every single one of them [bar Ajita] interprets this as a display of romance and affection rather than a thinly veiled assertion of male dominance and ultimate rejection of his place in the Friend Zone.
I dump my “gifts” on the front-row seats [on account of my complete lack of regard for my personal belongings, my purse and phone and other worldly possessions are chucked irresponsibly backstage at the beginning of every rehearsal] and retake my place on stage, stomach twisting uncomfortably. Danny’s got an awful bashful-but-also-proud-of-himself face on, accepting the “awwww”s from girls and shoulder jostles from guys.
Argh. I’ve told him I don’t want a romantic relationship. Why isn’t that enough?
8.02 p.m.
By the time rehearsals are over I’m absolutely exhausted and vaguely annoyed, and just want to get home to leftover mac and cheese and a gallon of hot cocoa. But no! That would be too simple!
Vaughan is waiting for me by the school gates, shifting on his feet like a rookie drug dealer. I’m about to inform him that I’m all set for horse tranquilizers when he grabs my arm, hard enough that it’s painful, and mutters, “Can we talk in the woods?”
Carrying Danny’s obscene gifts in my arms, I follow him until we reach a clearing. “If any detectives happen to be tailing us, this definitely looks like a botched drug deal type situation,” I say. He looks at me like I have all of a sudden grown an extra nose. I pat my face just to make sure.
Vaughan grits his teeth. I honestly don’t know why his default facial expression is a poor imitation of beef cattle. I would bring it up, but he already looks so unimpressed by my character as a whole. “It’s not funny. Stop making jokes.”
“I’m sorry. It’s because of who I am as a person.”
I’m about to ask him what he wanted to talk to me about when both of our phones bleep at exactly the same time. This doesn’t sound particularly impressive, but seriously, how often do phones make the same tone in perfect synchrony? Am I just easily pleased? [My sexual track record would suggest yes.]
The joy and merriment of the ringtone situation quickly evaporates when I see the issue.
My nude picture has been leaked.
The one I sent Vaughan.
Every single inch of me. Plastered all over the internet for the whole world to see.
No no no no no no no no no please no.
Whoever posted it has dragged Vaughan down with me, because his name shows up at the top of the conversation.
Which means it’s a screenshot.
Which means it was taken from my phone. Because my messages are in blue bubbles. So are his – the begging and the dick pic and everything. But all I see is my own naked body.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit nooooooooo.
[Sorry for the expletives, but I cannot muster anything more articulate right now.]
My boobs and va-jay-jay are out there in the world. I feel disgusting and violated and bare.
Twisting uncomfortably in my chest, my heart sinks. This absolutely cannot be happening. I’m shaking so hard it’s probably measuring on the Richter scale.
Vaughan slams his palm against a tree trunk. He’s definitely going to regret that tonight when he can’t rage-masturbate.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You leaked them. Thought it’d be good publicity for your little screenplay. Nothing launches a career quite like a sex scandal, does it?” His eyes are wide with mania and/or recreational drug use.
“I guarantee I am not that intelligent,” I say numbly.
A crazed grin splits his face in half. [Not literally.] “Do you know what my father is going to do when he finds out about this? Kill me. He’s going to kill me.” He looks like he might genuinely cry. “How do we make this go away? How do I make you go away?” He practically spits this last part.
He then grabs Danny’s tulips from my hands, hurls them to the ground and starts stamping on them like he’s trying to kill a cockroach. He does this for at least thirty seconds before I ask, “What are you trying to achieve exactly?”
Vaughan stops abruptly. “Do you have any idea what kind of pressure I’m under? To support my father, to go to law school, to be successful? To be the perfect fucking model son with the perfect fucking grades and the perfect fucking life?”
“No, I don’t,” I say matter-of-factly. “Because my parents are dead.” Adrenaline is ringing in my ears. “I’m going to walk away now because you’re pissing me off. Come and talk to me when you’ve calmed down and we’ll figure out how to fix this mess. I will either be here or in Mexico. It’s really anyone’s guess at this point.”
8.54 p.m.
New plan: go home, talk to Betty about my disastrous existence, maybe purchase and consume a vegetable because, on top of everything else, I’m probably at real risk of developing scurvy at this point.
9.28 p.m.
Betty’s pretty weary after a double shift at the diner, and to be honest she smells like old fries, but I still hug her super tight the minute she walks in the door. She’s damp from the rain outside, which is nice because when I cry silently all over her woolly yellow cardigan she barely notices.
“Kiddo! What’s all this about?” she asks. We’re standing in the doorway, her sodden umbrella dumped next to the shoe rack, me clinging to her like a limpet to a rock pool. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sudden and alarming displays of affection as much as the next girl. But this isn’t usually your style.”
“Sorry,” I sniffle, finally pulling away. Betty pushes the door shut, locking and chaining it while still looking at me with deep concern.
Her glasses are spotted with rain, but instead of wiping them dry she just peers at me through the kaleidoscopic droplets. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
She ushers me into the kitchen and immediately gets to work filling the kettle. It’s one of those unnecessarily heavy beasts which she inherited from her grandma, and she can barely lift it despite the Popeye arms she’s developed over decades of manual labor.
Once it’s simmering away on the stove, she takes a seat at the table with me. It’s still covered in crumbs from our bacon sandwiches this morning. I fill Betty in on the Danny situation, but somehow, when I come to tell her about the leaked nudes, the words get stuck in my throat.
“That’s sweet of Danny to buy you flowers,” Betty says, missing the point entirely.
“No, it’s not.”
The kettle whistles on the stove and Betty goes to get up, but I gesture for her to stay seated. She’s been on her feet all day. I busy myself making tea in the biggest mugs I can find.
“Why isn’t it?” Betty asks, propping her feet up on the chair I left empty.
Stirring milk and a third spoonful of sugar into each cup, I sigh. “It was a way to assert his male dominance over me as a woman by not respecting my decision not to partake in a romantic relationship with him. Did you not read that Feminism 101 book I got you for Christmas?”
“I don’t think this exact scenario was in there.”
I bring the tea over to the table and take a seat, propping Betty’s feet up into my lap. Dumbledore sniffles around the floor, hoping for some rogue bacon juice or even a mini marshmallow from last night’s hot cocoa, even though he’s probably checked this exact spot a hundred times today. I scoop him up onto my lap too, so he can act as a footwarmer for Betty. He wiggles uncomfortably at first, but soon settles into the strange sort of cuddle, accepting my gentle strokes of his soft brown fur.