2. Danny texted me, kicking off about my secret girl date with Ajita. It went like this: Thanks for the invite today. It was really great to hear my two supposed best friends were hanging out behind my back. He is such a man child. Currently researching ancient witchcraft rituals in an attempt to cajole the universe into smiting him. [I do feel like smite is an underused verb, no?]
I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with either.
11.02 p.m.
The day has left me feeling grubby and miserable, so I have a long, hot shower in an attempt to wash it all away. The website, the nudes, the press coverage. Danny. Everything.
Usually I’m in and out within five minutes, barely even looking at my body as I slather it in cheap shower gel and drag a razor wherever necessary, but tonight I examine it more closely than I have in years. It’s been put under a microscope for the whole world to inspect, and I want to see what they see. It’s sadistic, but it’s an itch I have to scratch.
Cellulite and stretch marks around my hips and thighs. A giant mole on my left butt cheek. Swollen boobs because of the time of the month.
Imperfections that, up until a few weeks ago, were mine and mine alone. Until I shared them with two boys I trusted. Now the whole world sees them too.
I scrub for an hour but still can’t wash away the dirty feeling.
Wednesday 5 October
8.28 a.m.
Just when you think life could not possibly get any more dramatic and palpitation-inducing, a gaggle of reporters flock to the gates of your housing community and bombard you on your way to school. Seriously, big fluffy mikes, cameras, the works. Now I know how that Jenner woman feels when people ask about her lips all the time.
“Miss O’Neill! Miss O’Neill!”
No. Go away.
“Izzy? Izzy, can you talk to us about Zachary Vaughan? Has his father made any effort to contact you directly?”
No.
“How does it feel to have your naked body on display to the entire world?”
NO.
They just want to hear my side of the story, they say. Yes, but so do the other 631 bloggers/journalists/scumbags who emailed me personally to ask for THE TRUTH and THE LIES and THE SCANDAL and for a verbatim quote on how much of a royal dick Ted Vaughan is.
Vultures, the lot of them. I just cannot begin to understand why they even care about my naked teenage body and unpalatable promiscuity. Aren’t there wars happening or something? Are sex scandals really that interesting nowadays, or are we still in 2007? Is that the buzz of Britney’s razor I hear?
Honestly, it was like running a gauntlet. Danny was nowhere to be seen this morning, probably goldfish pouting about our fight and how Vaughan is getting more attention than him, but thankfully Ajita, a.k.a. my guardian-angel-come-pit-bull, shielded me from the flashing cameras as best she could. It was a little like an ant trying to protect Hagrid, but I was touched nonetheless.
In related news, in homeroom I’m going to rip off Vaughan’s balls and stitch them to a sock puppet, and then I will explain to the reporters, using my innovative new mouthpiece, just how I feel about that unbelievable scumbag.
10.54 a.m.
Outside of Ajita, the only other student who isn’t treating me like I have leprosy is, surprise surprise, Carson Manning.
We bump into each other by the water fountain before second period. He sneaks up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. “Hey, you. How you holding up?” He smells freshly showered – he must’ve just finished practice.
I wipe a rogue trail of water away from my mouth [seriously, is there any way to drink gracefully from a water fountain?] and turn to him, mustering up the most convincing smile I can.
“I’m all right, I guess. Trying not to look at the media.”
He’s wearing a gray hoodie and black jeans, and I want to rip them right off him. Good to know the whole sex-scandal thing hasn’t deterred the insatiable nymphomaniac inside me.
Carson rubs his forehead, looking anxious on my behalf. “Don’t blame you. Please don’t . . .”
As he trails off, he shakes his head.
“Please don’t what?” I prompt him, rearranging my backpack. I have a terrible habit of hauling my books around on just my right shoulder instead of wearing it properly across both, so am therefore a few short months away from resembling the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
He looks around the busy corridor, where kids of all ages and social standings are staring at us, whispering conspiratorially. “Please don’t think any of this is your fault, a’ight? Cos it ain’t.”
A lump forms in my throat. “I’ll try not to.”
And then, despite all the stares and whispers, he gives me the biggest bear hug I’ve ever received.
He’s so warm and comforting as he whispers in my ear, “You tougher than they are. Hell, you tougher than most people.”
Before I can even reply, he pulls away, picks up the textbook he dropped and, after one last reassuring smile, sets off toward his next class.
These past few days have felt like my insides were being shredded with frozen icicles of shame, but Carson thaws them. Because he doesn’t treat me any differently. He looks at me the same way he always has: like I’m funny and cool and someone he wants to be around. Like I’m a person, not a piece of meat.
Something in my chest aches, but not in a sad way.
11.35 a.m.
Fuck. Just when a well-timed pep talk from a guy I care about has me feeling like I might actually survive this, BuzzFeed gets hold of the story. I’m global.
Well, the Vaughan family are global, but I’m caught up in the crossfire. Because revenge porn is still legal in my state, and such a high-profile case involving a politician’s son has attracted a storm of media attention and debate. And because I’m eighteen, and thus not a child, they’re allowed to show my pictures without being accused of child pornography.
Part of me is glad the issue is being discussed. I just wish I wasn’t the catalyst.
Checked my Gmail for shortlist news [and to satisfy the paranoid part of me who’s still worried the producers will see the nudes and put two and two together]. ?Nada, but I’ve had an influx of emails from yet more journalists and bloggers asking to interview me exclusively, and a smattering of hate mail, and also an offer from one of those vile tea detox brands asking me to promote their product to my whopping 213 Instagram followers now that I am apparently an international icon for all that is wrong with the world.
Prior to today, all I really received were emails like “Have you noticed how you have become so fat and hopeless?” and generous offers for $1 liposuction in Outer Mongolia, but now that heyday of spam is apparently over.
1.20 p.m.
Though I’m getting used to lunchtime being an unbelievably traumatic affair, today it reaches all new levels, now that I am known internationally as a slut of the highest order.
Kids listen in on my hushed conversations with Ajita and record our mumblings on their phones. We’re only discussing which movie we wanna see this weekend, but still. They snap pictures and take videos and look at my nudes for the thousandth time while masturbating into their sloppy lasagna. [Again, I made this last one up, which you will not be at all surprised to learn. If you are currently consuming lasagna or any other baked pasta dish, I apologize for the mental image.]
I know citizen journalism is meant to be a positive movement, and for authentic coverage of protests and police brutality and natural disasters, yes, I can see the benefits, but this? Really?
Teens must send thousands, if not millions, of explicit photographs to each other every single day. Why is mine so damn interesting? Debating the legality of revenge porn is one thing. Showcasing my body for sport is quite another.