And, fellow students, do you really think Fox News is going to pay you for your under-the-bench photo of my crossed-over knees just because I’m having an unwarranted moment in the limelight? Are you really that desperate for a few extra quarters?
Ajita tries her best to distract me and continue with our conversation about whether or not to see the big-budget thriller or the subtitled art-house movie, but eventually we give up and head for the woods to live out the rest of our lunch hour alone and in peace.
Well, you know, except for our phys ed teacher a.k.a. Crossfit Monkey. But I’m starting to find him strangely comforting. He doesn’t exist in the same realm of the universe as us mere mortals, always thinking about how many push-ups he can do before he passes out, so chances are he hasn’t seen me naked. Always a win.
2.34 p.m.
Ms Castillo goes a bit “oh, captain, my captain” on us in English this afternoon. She’s picked up on the air of animosity and flatulence in the classroom and tries to give us all a motivational speech about the importance of kindness and abstinence, etc. Anyway it was kind of ruined by the chorus of “you don’t even go here”, but it was sort of sweet for her to try and make things a bit less crappy for me.
But then she corners me after class, waiting until everyone else leaves before sitting me down and smiling in the most patronizing of ways. “Oh, sweet child.” In a very adulty way, I resist the urge to start singing Guns N’ Roses at the top of my lungs, instead plastering a receptive expression on my face. “You’ve had a tough time, haven’t you?”
I’ve had this exact conversation with almost every single teacher in school. Soon as I mess up, by their standards, they take me to one side and instigate a long and painful exchange about my orphan upbringing. They take one look at my overworn clothing and unkempt scarecrow hair and think I’m a tragic Annie-like figure, and usually I don’t have the heart to ruin the charade.
Another syrupy-sweet smile. “It can’t have been easy, losing your parents at such a young age.”
I shrug. What does she want me to say? “I’ve had thirteen years to get used to it.”
Then she goes into full concerned-grown-up-mode and I get a Shakespearean monologue about how the effects of deep trauma like losing parents can often take a while to manifest. Then: “All I’m saying is that nobody blames you for acting up, and you have a large support system around you no matter how this situation turns out, okay?”
There it is. That buzz phrase adults love: “acting up”. It’s hilarious because they often use it in the context of behavior they themselves also participate in, such as sex and alcohol. One of the reasons I love my grandma so much is that she’s never once uttered those three syllables in my direction.
Normally I’d let it go, but for some reason this bugs me so much more than normal. Probably because I’m guessing she hasn’t pulled Vaughan to one side like this.
“Sorry, Miss Castillo, but can you define ‘acting up’ for me? I’m struggling to understand what you mean.”
A sympathetic head-tilt. “Our Lord does not support premarital sex, Izzy. You know that.”
My ruthless snark rears its ugly head just at the right/wrong time. “Oh! Well, fortunately I’m an atheist, and I have it on good authority that the scientific universe doesn’t concern itself with the romantic activity of teenage girls.”
Her hand flutters to the dainty cross necklace around her neck, as if it’s an inanimate incarnation of “our” Lord himself, whose ears are too delicate to hear such blasphemy. Though I’m willing to bet that if said Lord really is all-seeing and all-knowing, he’s witnessed a hell of a lot worse.
“He still loves you, Izzy. There’s always forgiveness for those who ask. I hope you know that.”
Smirk. “Awesome. In that case, I’ve got some more acting up to do before I have him wipe my record clean.”
I’m taking it too far. I know I am. A little more meekly, I add, “Am I excused?” People in my hometown take religion very seriously, and poking the bear with offensive banter is not advisable unless you want to be chased down main street with a pitchfork.
[Which incidentally is coming my way anyway. Stay tuned.]
2.59 p.m.
In the hallways and the cafeteria I am an A-list celebrity. Kids I don’t even know seem to be torn between a) sucking up to me and trying to get all of the goss so they can sell it to the Daily Mail and b) standing in front of me and doing impressions of a Labrador humping an Ugg boot. Some even attempt both which I suppose is commendable in its own special way.
While waiting for math to begin, I give in and read one of the more enticingly headlined articles about me: “Why You Should Care About Izzy O’Neill’s Nudes.” It should be fairly obvious why I chose this particular feature, since I myself am struggling to understand what all the hoo-hah is about.
In a plot twist so obscene it’s bordering on implausible, the feature is essentially a defense of me and my actions. Firstly, it opens with an image gallery of all the gross things politicians and journalists and sleazeballs the world over have been saying about me via Twitter. For example:
“Despite what Kim K wants you to think, feminism is NOT flashing your tits and vaj to the world. Have some class, ladies.”
“Nothing less attractive than a slut. Put some damn clothes on, girl.”
“Those teen nudes are beyond disgusting. How have we raised our young generation so poorly? How did we FAIL so BADLY?”
“I know we’re supposed to be outraged about these Izzy O’Neill nudes but . . . HOLY HELL. Thanks for sharing #nicetits”
“Izzy O’Neill and Zachary Vaughan symbolize everything that’s wrong with teen culture.”
But then this kick-ass female columnist goes on to retaliate against every single one on my behalf, circling everything back to victim-blaming and violation of privacy. Sending nudes as an eighteen-year-old isn’t a crime. Revenge porn should be.
Hear fucking hear.
3.51 p.m.
I can’t believe what’s just happened. Except I can, and that’s what makes it even worse.
Math class is, as usual, a form of mental torture on a par with those Russian sleep-deprivation experiments. But I keep myself to myself, pretending to have the faintest idea what people are on about when they say sohcahtoa, and generally watching the clock on the back wall as every second slips painfully by. Then, against all the odds, the school bell rings. Everyone has already started packing up, surreptitiously zipping up their pencil cases under the desk while coughing loudly, and I am no exception.
Before I can escape, though, Mr Wong says, “Miss O’Neill, can I see you for a moment?”
At the mention of my name, everyone’s heads whip around. They watch me like I’m a sitcom character, eager for a slice of my humiliation. They’re hungry for it now. The nude pictures whetted their appetites, and now they want more.
Standing just in front of his desk, I chew the inside of my lip, feeling as trapped and powerless as I have for days. “Yes, sir.”
To the dismay of my classmates, he shepherds them all out and closes the door behind him. I’m fully anticipating another Castillo-esque lecture on my abhorrent behavior.
When he crosses back to the desk, he sits on the front of it, leaning uncomfortably close to me and with his legs spread, like the “just call me by my first name” meme that made the rounds a few years back. He is clearly still working very hard on his nonexistent reputation as a cool teacher.
When he doesn’t immediately say anything, I ask, “What can I do for you, Mr Wong?”
He nods weirdly, like he’s appreciating something funny I’ve said or done. Smirking in an uncomfortable way I can’t quite put my finger on. “You’re handling this very well, Miss O’Neill.”
“Sir?”
“All the media attention.” He stares at me intently. “You’re holding your head up high, and I like that.” I can smell tuna salad on his breath.