I try to call her – my lovely best friend I’d do anything to protect, my lovely best friend who I’ve hurt so badly, my lovely best friend who might never forgive me – for the thousandth time since she fled the cafeteria in tears.
She doesn’t pick up.
8.59 p.m.
I just got an email from LA. My screenplay made the shortlist. And I don’t care. Not one bit.
Friday 7 October
7.14 a.m.
The entire world has gone insane. And not like good, quirky insane, like Ajita after two beers or The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Ugh, Ajita. My heart hurts whenever I think of her. I’ve sent her over a thousand texts and she won’t reply.
I don’t blame her.
I wonder if her parents have seen it. I wonder if she’s currently fielding endless questions about it from her extended family. I wonder if I’ve ruined everything for her. I wonder if I was so far off the mark that it doesn’t matter anyway. I wonder just how much damage I’ve caused.
Although it’s not like I’m getting off scot-free. The garden bench picture was on the evening news last night. The evening news! Seriously, I am just some random teenage girl with a penchant for nachos and peanut butter cups and sexual intercourse. Why would the host of a primetime TV show invite some political analyst into the studio to discuss Ted Vaughan’s campaign, and his flawed parenting, and the implications of his son’s involvement in this stupid, small-town scandal?
Why would the entire Vaughan clan use me as a launching pad to discuss their wacko opinions on abstinence?
Why would professional journalists use the word “slut” to describe an innocent eighteen-year-old girl?
I have to go to school today because I’m falling severely behind in basically every class. At this point I would rather sit naked on a traffic cone than walk those hallways, but the stubborn streak in me is screaming like a banshee: “Fuck you guys! Fuck you all! I’ll never let you fuck with me!” Except they are quite clearly fucking with me, and I’m not handling it particularly well.
For instance, last night I cried so hard onto Dumbledore that his fur became all matted with snot and saliva, and Betty had to run him a bath in the kitchen sink, and I just watched them both and continued to weep hysterically about all manner of things, such as a) the unfavorable press coverage obviously, b) my adorable grandmother and pet and how I would run through the fiery pits of hell and/or a particularly hilly cross-country trail for them, c) Vaughan turning out to be such a prick, despite his inoffensive manner at the party, d) my eyebrow still not recovering from the overzealous plucking incident and how much it accentuates my lazy eye, e) people who attempt to use “jamp” as the past participle of “to jump”, f) how my best friend in the whole entire world will probably never speak to me again and it’s entirely deserved, g) how I had my very own guardian angel in the form of Mrs Crannon and I’ve let her down, h) I was starting to fall for Carson and yet he turned out to be just another fuckboy . . . et cetera, ad infinitum.
Anyway. Long story short, I have to go to school and pretend to care about Tudor England. If I see Vaughan, Danny or Carson I plan to pull a full Henry VIII on their asses. I know we are not married so the metaphor doesn’t quite work, but rest assured I will feel approximately zero remorse following the public beheading of those treasonous goats. I have brief concerns over probably not having the upper-body strength to lift an axe above my head, but Ned Stark makes it look very easy. I’ll keep you updated.
8.05 a.m.
As per our usual morning routine, Betty sits me down for a bowl of cereal and a much-needed heart-to-heart before I haul myself to Edgewood for another day of character assassination.
I’m crunching miserably through a bowl of Lucky Charms, and she’s slurping the milk from the bottom of her already demolished shredded wheat.
She finishes and smacks her lips. “Listen, kiddo, I know things are rough right now, but I promise you they’ll blow over. Do you realize how short an attention span most people have? By this time next month they’ll have forgotten all about you. I know weathering the storm until then isn’t going to be fun, but you have so much going for you. The screenplay, for example! That’s such incredible news about being shortlisted. Mrs Crannon must be so thrilled.”
“I haven’t told her yet,” I mumble.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get your ass into school, put a smile on that lovely face of yours, and tell your mentor that she has every damn reason to be proud of you. All right?”
“All right,” I lie, knowing I’m still far too embarrassed to show my face in Mrs Crannon’s office. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look her in the eye again. Whether I’ll be able to look anyone in the eye. I’m even struggling to meet Betty’s worried gaze, even though I know she loves me unconditionally.
The shame is seeping into my bones. They feel heavy as I leave the sanctuary of my tiny home and out into a world full of people who despise me.
8.27 a.m.
More journalists hound me on the way to school, and it’s infinitely worse without Ajita there to protect me. They follow me all the way to the school gates with their fluffy microphones and TV cameras and notepads and flashing Dictaphones, even though I don’t say a word at any point. I am even very careful to maintain an alarmingly neutral facial expression, just in case they manage to flash a pic in which I look a) angry, b) devastated, or c) anything other than a stone-cold Ice Queen with no soul, which is how I prefer to appear at all times.
Getting through the school gates isn’t any better. Though nobody approaches me, everybody stares. It sounds like a cliché, but seriously. Everybody. Stares. Not one person manages to avert their gaze as I cross the yard. I catch snatches of conversation – the usual buzzwords like whore and slut and self-respect – but don’t allow myself the luxury of sticking around long enough to hear the whole shebang.
As much as I despised being chased by the Japanese kid with the phone cover, or approached by sleazy guys complimenting my nipple piercing, at least then I didn’t feel like such a loner.
It’s the most disconcerting sensation, being looked at but not engaged with. Hot and prickly, like you’re an ant being roasted under a magnifying glass.
10.23 a.m.
Ted Vaughan is using the whole nude picture fiasco as a scapegoat for his deeply rooted misogynistic views, and has issued a staunch statement about how he longs for the good old days when women were classy and respectful and served their male masters like quiet little mice servants with no personality of their own. Something along those lines.
It’s really so irritating how I have become an icon for all that is wrong with teen America. Some people try so hard to become icons, like those folks who go on reality TV shows and pretend to be completely devoid of brain cells, and yet here I am, minding my own business and having sex on garden benches and sending naked pictures of myself to fuckboys, and somehow the whole country suddenly knows who I am.
There are actual, genuine teenage icons out there. People who fight for equality, fight against injustice, fight for human rights. Give them this much attention. I am entirely undeserving.
My newfound celebrity status makes school borderline intolerable. Someone has graffitied “Izzy O’Neill for President!” in a toilet cubicle, which is completely insane and baffling on a number of levels, and then someone else has added “of the Whore Society” in pink highlighter. I will concede this is slightly amusing and far more innovative than most of the abuse being hurled my way, but still.
While I’m peeing and admiring the semi-originality of the libel before me, I hear a couple of girls enter. Their voices sound young – freshmen maybe. Their conversation goes something like this: