Danny shakes his head at me and flumps dejectedly into the seat in front of me.
Yeah. Like he’s the one who should be feeling sorry for himself right about now. You’d think he’d be concerned about the emotional stability of his best friend, who’s just been exposed in all her naked glory to the entire world, and maybe, just maybe, put his own butthurt feelings aside for once.
But no. This is all about him, like it always is. He’s incapable of imagining how situations affect other people, and thinks solely of his own feelings. That’s what the flowers symbolize: he was hurt that I rejected him, so he set out to fix it. To make himself feel better. Never mind how I felt; that I was content with my decision to stay friends.
I’m getting tired of his bullshit. Unfortunately, right now I need all the friends I can get.
3.56 p.m.
So the entire school has now seen my lady parts. And holy backlash, Batman.
I am essentially Cersei Lannister in that messed up-scene [spoiler alert] where she’s walking naked through the streets of King’s Landing while the peasants chant “shame” and throw vegetables at her. [This seems hugely unnecessary and quite wasteful if you ask me. These people are supposed to be starving and yet they fling food around like chimps.] At this point I can only be grateful nobody has shorn my hair in a similar fashion because I am the last person in North America who could convincingly pull off a pixie cut. My ears have something of a elephantine vibe to them, so I really need the scarecrow hair to balance things out.
[As usual, I digress. Imagine being able to hold a coherent and logical conversation! What larks!]
The rest of my day at school is an unmitigated nightmare. Everywhere I go, kids of all ages and social standings point, whisper and laugh, the words “slut” and “whore” and “legend” echoing around the corridor. The latter was in reference to the two dudes who bedded me, as that is the way of high school and also the entire world. At one point I pass Prajesh in the hallway. He’s by himself, but he doesn’t say hey to me. He just tucks his chin into his chest and barrels past as though I’m not there.
I get it. I do. If he’s already feeling like a bit of a pariah, the last thing he wants to do is associate with an actual pariah and alienate himself even further. But it still stings.
Vaughan’s dad arrives at lunchtime and practically drags his son out of the school gates, probably to prepare his press statement about how Vaughan is an innocent party in this debacle, and the rumors surrounding his involvement are nothing more than high school hearsay. Honestly, I don’t even care. After his flower-stomping and woe-is-me performance I’d be quite glad not to be sexually associated with him.
I was sort of hoping a bunch of other girls in school might rally around me in a show of feminist support, but alas, this is not what happens.
When I’m using the bathroom just after lunch, some horrid creature with an incredibly unoriginal sense of humor says loudly to her pal: “No wonder she’s peeing. Being pregnant makes you pee a lot. Ha ha ha!” Seriously. How is anyone so unfunny? It is truly beyond me.
To be fair, her friend promptly fact-checks this lackadaisical attempt at humor and says, “I don’t think she’s pregnant. She’s just a whore. With lopsided boobs and love handles.” More giggles.
Delightful.
In all seriousness, I don’t really blame the other kids for their excessive reactions. After all, it’s human nature to experience a kind of dark thrill whenever Something Happens. It’s like me and my love of other people’s drama. I think anything that helps pass the time in a slightly more interesting manner is always going to become a topic of conversation. So yeah, I don’t blame them for their fascination.
And then, if you delve even deeper into your own psyche, you realize that you still experience the dark thrill even when the Something is happening to you. You get that jolt of excitement, especially in those first few moments before reality sinks in. When I first scrolled through the website – before it felt real – I felt a strange kind of . . . buzz. Tragedy is stimulating, you know?
I don’t know why this is a thing. Maybe because, as a species, humans are generally just bored. That’s why we keep inventing new technologies, in the hope that this will finally be the thing that cures our boredom forever. It’s why we love smartphones so much, I reckon. And I’d bet a lot of criminals – serial killers, arsonists, hackers – are probably at least partially motivated by the dark thrill they experience when Something Happens. Hell, it’s probably why someone created World Class Whore. Restlessness. A desire for entertainment.
Anyway. I’ll stop arguing that murderers are just bored. I clearly have a tendency to rant incoherently when I’m upset. Moving on.
I’m hanging out with Ajita and Danny tonight. I wonder just how mad he is about the flower thing. Maybe witnessing my brutal public shaming will have made him feel a tad sorry for me. Usually my toes would curl at the idea of such sympathy but like I say, right now I’ll take any kindness I can get.
Speaking of which, Ajita did something very thoughtful for me earlier. She made me laugh again! Yes, I am still capable of such jubilance. She arrived at my house with a beautifully wrapped package and a gift card written in her brother’s calligraphy pen. It read:
For when times get really tough. Love, A xo
And it was a bottle of bleach for me to drink!! She just gets me on a soul-deep level.
[I apologize if my bi-chapterly references to death-by-bleach are in any way triggering. You may have noticed this, but I use humor as an emotional crutch. Only twice have I ever considered actually drinking toilet cleaner, but we shall save those stories for another time. I am just a goldmine of hilarious yet emotionally wrought tales. You lucky devils. Good job on your decision to purchase/pirate this tome.]
4.08 p.m.
Text from Carson.
Hey, Iz. Sorry for dropping off the radar lately – family stuff. Anyway, if you wanna meet up and chat about anything that’s going on, give me a shout. Playing b-ball this afternoon, but free all day tomorrow. Let me know. C
Why is my chest fluttering like some sort of lovesick teenager? Seriously. This is Carson Manning we’re talking about. Class clown! Brisk fornicator! Why is my ridiculous crush on him escalating despite everything that’s going on?
There’s another part of me that’s relieved. After the debacle with Danny punching a locker, and then the sudden appearance of the WCW website, and then the leakage of my nude photo, an insecure part of me wondered if Carson would tap out of . . . whatever he and I are. I know he’s a generally good dude, but even so, it’s a lot of drama to willfully be associated with. And also it can’t be nice having the whole world know you only lasted a few seconds during a drunken one-night stand. Men inexplicably care about that kind of thing, as if lasting more than an hour in the sack is vital to their masculinity.
Look at me! Enduring a full-blown character assassination and yet still concerning myself with the sexual reputation of a fuckboy! Danny Wells could stand to learn a thing or two about empathy from me. [Oops, right back to sounding arrogant once again. Swings and roundabouts.]
6.21 p.m.
After school we go to Ajita’s to film a sketch or two. And, you know, generally take my mind off the hideous state of affairs plaguing my existence.