I take a few steps back, putting some much-needed distance between us, and lean against a front-row table. “Umm, thank you, sir.”
“You’re not ashamed of who you are, are you, Izzy?” A creepy smile that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “Not that you should be. Not . . . one . . . bit.”
Then his eyes drop south, and that’s when I know: he’s seen the photos. He’s picturing them right now. He’s staring through my clothes, at the naked body he knows is underneath.
The old Izzy, the girl that existed before this all went down, might’ve answered back. Might’ve called him out, or told him to back the hell off. But she’s gone now, and all I can do is run from the room, my eyes stinging and goosebumps covering every inch of me. Run down the hallway, run past a concerned-looking Carson, run out of the front doors until I’m gasping in fresh air like my life depends on it.
Standing on the front steps and trying to catch my breath, I want to claw my skin off. Despite all of the things that make me me – my personality, my heart, my sense of humor – I’ve been reduced to nothing more than a grainy filter and a pair of tits. To a mere sex object.
I wonder whether I’ll ever stop feeling so dirty.
4.17 p.m.
I feel bad for pushing past Carson in the hallway earlier, so once I’ve calmed down in the bathroom – slathering lip balm all over my tear-dried lips – I venture back out to my locker in the hope of bumping into him again. I get my wish, but not in the way I wanted. Not even close.
A handful of basketball players are gathered by the lockers opposite mine, and Carson is among them. They’re all carrying their kit bags and heading to practice, by the looks of things. None of them see me as I cross to my locker and fiddle with the combination, hands still shaking from my mini-meltdown. I figure I’ll try and catch Carson later, when he’s alone. I’m not in the mood to deal with the shoulder jostling and inappropriate comments from his teammates.
Turns out I’m subjected to them anyway.
“. . . pictures. Like, damn. Girl’s got a body on her, right?” a short dude I don’t really know is saying. He sniggers and spins a basketball on his index finger while Carson fishes around in his locker.
My ears prick up. Are they talking about me?
Don’t be paranoid, O’Neill. Probably just discussing some girl he’s dating.
Baxter pipes up. “Seconded. That nipple piercing is . . .” He kisses the tips of his fingers to his lips as he smacks them, like a French waiter complimenting a bowl of onion soup. They all laugh.
“Not that I’d touch her with a bargepole,” the short dude chips in. “Not after the whole world’s seen her naked. Supply and demand, right? If you’re giving it away for free, ain’t nobody gonna pay for it. Plus, she’s probably riddled, right? Girl that loose gotta be carrying somethin’.”
Now I know I’m not just being paranoid. They’re definitely talking about me.
My cheeks burn as I bury my head in my locker. But despite being surrounded by empty peanut butter cup packets and untouched textbooks, I can still hear everything they’re saying.
Or, in Carson’s case, not saying.
He doesn’t defend me. Not once. Just listens in silence as his friends destroy me piece by piece.
6.59 p.m.
Finally, after a never-ending Gatsby rehearsal, I leave school feeling utterly exhausted. Like, if I do not sleep within the next 5.2 seconds, I will disembowel a bitch very slowly and painfully using a ballpoint pen.
Was followed by reporters on my way home again, but I arrive relatively unscathed.
The more I think about what happened with Carson in the hallway, the more hurt I feel. Up until today, he’s made such a point of having my back, of not treating me like dirt because of the photos. But he sat and listened to his friends pick me apart without saying a word.
Does he really care about me the way he says he does? Or is it all just an act? Does he just want me for sex? Or is it more that he’s worried his friends will judge him for being with me? I don’t know which is worse. That’s what this entire ordeal feels like: going from bad to worse and back again.
It’s exhausting, and I want it all to stop.
Remembering how refreshed and centered I felt after filming the selfie-pay skit, I sit down to try and flesh out a three-act structure plan for my latest screenplay idea – the lesbian couple with the failing marriage until one loses the power of speech. It’s like pulling teeth. Except more painful. Everything I come up with is either dull and boring or incredibly clichéd. Normally I can visualize key scenes in my head, but tonight I have nothing.
Maybe I’m just too tired to focus on a big project. Maybe I should write a skit or two to get my writerly juices flowing.
Again, usually my mind is filled with hundreds of sketch ideas, and I just have to reach out and pluck one from my subconscious and get it down on paper. But nothing funny or clever or imaginative comes to mind.
I scroll through today’s news, hoping something will jump out and inspire a satirical idea. I read interviews with athletes and profiles of politicians and coverage from the Middle East, but nothing is remotely funny. Especially since I have to force my eyes away from the Most Read sidebar which shows ‘Senator’s Son In Sex Scandal’ as the fourth most viewed piece of the day.
No. No no no. Shake it off, O’Neill. Do not engage.
What about a parody? What movies have I seen or books have I read recently that I could take the piss out of without much trouble?
Nothing.
My creative resource pool feels as dry as the Sahara.
8.03 p.m.
I text Ajita. I want to tell her about Mr Wong, first of all, and also about Carson not sticking up for me. And, for once, I want to actually open up about how I’m feeling. About the panicky, powerless sensation gripping my very bones.
Feeling kinda bummed. Wanna come over?
It takes her at least fifteen minutes longer to reply than it usually does.
Sorry kid, I’m hanging out with Carlie after tennis practice. Tomorrow? xo
I shove my phone underneath my pillow and curl up under the covers, probably looking as pathetic as I feel.
10.14 p.m.
I’m just taking my makeup off when there’s a buzz at the gate. After a few seconds, guess whose voice I hear at the door?
Danny’s.
Thursday 6 October
1.02pm
Was so mad last night I couldn’t even bring myself to type out the exchange with Mr Wells. In fact, I’m still so angry I’m just lying in bed in a vague state of furious nausea, like how I imagine Melania feels when she watches Donald remove his shirt.
So he arrives all sheepish-looking [Danny not Donald Trump] and asks to come in, and Betty kindly offers him a whiskey hot cocoa even though he drove here. He declines and asks for some privacy with her granddaughter, which is quite hilarious considering our apartment is about six square feet so there’s no such thing as privacy [something I discovered around the same time I located the bald man in the canoe]. Anyway, Betty goes to the living room and promptly presses her ear to the flimsy wall, which I know because I can hear her trying to suck a poppy seed out of her false teeth from about a yard away.
“What’s up, Danny?” I say in a very traditional and unIzzylike manner. At this point I’m unsure what the tone of the conversation will be, so I play it safe. [In retrospect I wish I’d begun with, “Hello, you horrid little cretin,” but you live and learn.]
Dumbledore watches with interest. Danny runs his hands through his wild hair, which is bordering on dreads at this point. I consider lecturing him about cultural appropriation, but decide against it.
He eventually says, “I just . . . wanted to see you. Make sure you’re okay, with everything that’s going on.”