It’s on Danny’s account.
My former best friend has ruined my life, sparked a national sex scandal, made me feel like a worthless piece of shit – all because I rejected him. All because I put him in the Friend Zone.
“After everything I’ve done for you.”
He thought he’d earned the right to my love. And when I didn’t give it to him, he retaliated by tearing me apart.
I think a dark part of me always knew it was him. I believed his denial because I wanted to; because it was easier than confronting the fact my best friend had betrayed me.
No. Looking back, he never did deny it. Not once did he say, “No, I didn’t do it.” Instead he said:
“I’ve been defending your honor for thirteen years. Protecting you from jerks at school, from social workers. From yourself.”
“What are you accusing me of??”
“I can’t believe this. I genuinely thought that when you asked to talk to me, you’d had a change of heart. About . . . us. But no. You’re actually accusing me of setting up that blog.”
“Fuck you, Izzy O’Neill.”
He never denied it. And still I turned a blind eye. Let myself believe that I really knew the guy standing in front of me. That he cared too much about me to let rejection and jealousy stand in the way of our friendship. That he had seen me cry over my dead parents for so many years, and he would never do anything to hurt me.
I should be convulsing with anger right about now. I should be ranting to Ajita, or screaming in Danny’s face, or seeking elaborate and brutal revenge on that pathetic prick. But I’m not. I don’t have the energy, or the conviction. I feel hollowed out by his betrayal.
And, beneath it all, bereft. Bereft of one of my best friends. I think of the Danny of even just last year. Funny and smart and protective and loyal. Happy. Lately, there have been glimmers of Old Danny – playing dumb games, taking Prajesh under his wing, supporting Ajita through her crisis over her future, wrapping his arm around me when I was being attacked in school – but there’s no denying it. He hasn’t been happy for a while. He hasn’t been Danny.
Maybe it’s because of me. Maybe it’s his parents. Maybe something else; something so far below the surface he’ll never let anyone close enough to see it. And yeah, that sucks. It sucks that he’s going through a hard time. But sadness is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. It doesn’t allow you to treat the people around you like human punchbags. Like they exist solely to make you happy again.
All of this is Danny’s fault. He’s become spiteful and jealous and cruel. I know that, deep down. And yet a dark part of me, the part forged in this fire of hatred, still wants to blame myself.
I loaded the gun. He just pulled the trigger.
4.09 p.m.
I decide to go over to Ajita’s and beg her to talk to me. Can you feel homesick for a person? I have a constant pit of guilt and sadness in my gut. I need her. It’s selfish, but I need her. I need her to not hate me anymore. There’s no way I can survive this otherwise.
I arrive at her house on my rickety old bike, and it takes me a good ten minutes to pluck up the courage to walk up the drive and ring the bell. [What a boring sentence. Where has my sense of humor gone in these blog posts? Maybe Ajita was my sense of humor, like that Samson dude who cut off his hair and lost his super strength. Maybe I’m just not funny without her. I certainly don’t feel it. Here, have an Izzy O’Neill original joke: Did you hear about the time Shakespeare used IEDs against his literary rivals? They were completely bomb-Barded. Ha. Ha ha. No, Ajita was definitely my comedic lifeblood.]
Her mom answers the door, dressed for celebration in a red sari. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me sternly. She is absolutely terrifying. She’s short, as short as Ajita, and incredibly round. Knowing how intelligent she is just adds to the stress. I’m intimidated both physically and mentally.
“Hi, Mrs Dutta,” I choke out, through the driest of throats.
“Izzy. What do you want?” The house is weirdly silent behind her. Usually there’s so much going on, with Ajita’s brother playing super-loud video games and their five cats running around and knocking things over and generally wreaking havoc on the Dutta household. But today it’s like a cemetery.
“Is Ajita home?”
“No. She’s not.”
I don’t buy this for a second. “Okay. Do you know where I might find her?”
Mrs Dutta sighs and takes off her glasses, rubbing her eyes wearily. She looks tired as hell. “I’m not sure my daughter wants to see you, Izzy. Not after the lies you’ve been spreading about her.”
Lies. So Ajita denied it to her parents, whether or not it’s true – which I still don’t know for sure. It makes sense. They’re hugely traditional, hugely conservative Hindus. I doubt her coming out at the age of seventeen would go down all that well. [Look, I even managed to resist a joke about people who do go down well. I am a reformed human. Sort of.]
“Please. I just want to explain. To apologize. Please, Mrs Dutta.”
“What is there to explain? Was it just an attempt to shift the attention off yourself for a minute? Is that it?” A heavy sigh. “Do you really think our community has been blind to your antics, Izzy? Do you really think . . .” She trails off. Her words are harsh but her tone is soft as she holds up her palms. “But it’s not my place to judge. You can do what you like. It’s your life to ruin. Just don’t involve my daughter, okay?”
My heart is shattering into a thousand pieces. “Please,” I whisper, more desperate by the second. “Let me talk to her. Five minutes is all I ask.”
A strange expression flits across her face. I think it’s pity, and I hate it.
“My heart goes out to you, Izzy. It does. You’re just a kid, and you’ve been through a lot. Losing your parents at such a young age . . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But it only excuses so much. And this? This is inexcusable.”
I’m about to get down on my hands and knees and beg when I hear babbling voices behind me. A millisecond of fear flashes on Mrs Dutta’s face before a giant fake smile emerges, I’m guessing for the benefit of whoever’s behind me on the driveway.
Turning to see who she’s smiling at, I see a group of Hindu women, around Ajita’s mom’s age, dressed in beautiful saris of turquoise and violet and peach. I wrack my brain for the date. Is it Navratri? Diwali? They’re both in the autumn, but I’m not sure which days the festivals fall on this year.
God, I’m such a shit friend. I should know this, but I’ve been so self-involved lately I’ve barely been able to look past my own reflection. No wonder Ajita hates me.
Hissing through her teeth, Mrs Dutta mutters, “Go. Now.”
I bite my lip to prevent a heaving sob from escaping, and I back away toward the women. They all stare right at me, silence falling on the small group. One of them, wearing a gorgeous sari of cerulean and seafoam, shakes her head and tsks.
Pushing past them with my head tucked to my chest, I can’t look them in the eye.
As I’m mounting my bike, limbs trembling as I clamber over the seat, I hear snatches of their conversation from the doorway.
“. . . sorry we didn’t come by sooner, but what with all the rumors . . .”
“. . . it’s been such a scandal in the community . . .”
“. . . we didn’t know if you’d want to see us, that’s all,” says the woman who tsked at me.
Mrs Dutta’s airy voice dismisses them. “All hearsay, I can assure you. Nothing but spiteful lies.”
The magnitude of what I’ve done hits me all over again. One careless text has shaken Ajita’s entire world – her family, her community, her life.
Whether it was true or not, this was not something she was ready for. This should’ve been on her terms. I stole that from her. And I will never forgive myself.
5.36 p.m.