“No, Izzy! All I wanted was you?!” His eyes are shining too, but he yells like he’s made of pure anger. “How do you think I feel? I love you so damn much, Izzy, and just because I’m not Channing Tatum I’ve been relegated to the Friend Zone for the rest of eternity. I have to watch you chase the same good-looking assholes that every other girl wants to fuck, then pick up the pieces after they inevitably screw you over.”
My eyes narrow and I fight the urge to spit at him. “Oh my God, I’m so sick of your entitled bullshit. You didn’t get what you wanted, so you lashed out with the sole intention of hurting me. Hurting me for not wanting you back. How do you think I feel, Danny? My supposed best friend thinks I’m obliged to go out with him just because he wants me to?” I clench and unclench my fist. “Yeah, I messed up when I kissed you, and I’m sorry if that led you on. But stop with this poor little Nice Guy crap. You really think being ‘friend-zoned’ is worse than finding out someone you thought valued you as a whole person just wanted to fuck you? If my friendship is not enough, then fuck you. Just . . . fuck you.”
Danny snarls in an ugly way. Then he says: “You know what? This isn’t about me. This is about you and your complete inability to be emotionally available. Are you even capable of love, Izzy? Or are you just too damn scared to let yourself feel anything? You’re . . . you’re dead inside.”
This is like a stab to the chest. I genuinely double over a little bit. “So the only reason I could possibly not be attracted to you is psychological damage? I can’t believe you’d . . .” I trail off, speechless for probably the second time in my life. And then the floodgates open, because I’m exhausted and just all-round devastated that my former best friend is being so cruel.
“What do you want me to say, Danny? That I’m so completely broken and fucked up that I’ve come all the way back around to detached?” I gasp as I choke on a sob, but I keep going. “That there’s a gaping parent-shaped hole in my life? That I use humor as a coping mechanism? That yeah, I am terrified to fall in love because of what happened to my parents?”
“Iz –”
“No, Danny. Stop. You’re butthurt, and you’re lashing out at me again, and you think it’s justified because you believe you have a right to have sex with me, a right to my love, but just . . . stop. We’re done. Our friendship is done. Which is totally fine, because it turns out it was never enough for you anyway.”
And then I walk away. Because for the first time since this all started, I genuinely believe this is not my fault.
I do not deserve this. Not one bit.
Friday 15 October
9.05 a.m.
As soon as I get to school I go straight to Mrs Crannon’s office. I checked her timetable, and first period on Friday morning is one of her only frees of the week.
She seems surprised to see me as she’s tucking into a delicious-looking Danish pastry. I briefly wonder if Mr Rosenqvist is wooing her into friendship with Scandinavian delights. I would so be here for a Crannon-Rosenqvist buddy comedy.
“Hi, Mrs Crannon,” I say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Do you have a sec?”
From behind her towers of books, she says, “I’ll always have a sec for you, Izzy. Take a seat!”
I’m feeling bolshy, so I plonk myself down into the Iron Maiden chair without a second thought. I’ll apologize to my buttocks at a later date.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look at her rather than twiddling with my zipper as I usually do during serious conversations. “Can I be honest with you, Mrs Crannon?”
One of her warm smiles lights up the room. “Always.”
“Okay. Well, ever since everything blew up with, you know, the pictures and everything, I’ve been too ashamed to come and talk to you.”
“Izzy! That’s –”
“Please, let me finish.” I feel bad for interrupting her, but if I don’t say this now I never will. “I know this might sound crazy, because you’re my teacher and not my mom or anything, but I’ve been fighting the feeling that I let you down.” I pause. “I made the shortlist.” Her face lights up, and she goes to celebrate, but I stop her. “No. They kicked me out a few days later. They found out about the . . . scandal.” I swallow the wave of shame that rises like nausea.
Her face collapses in sympathy. There are pastry flakes all over her tunic. “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I can’t believe they’d do that.”
I shrug. “I’ve been surprised by a lot of things these past few weeks, but that wasn’t one of them. I get it. They don’t want the bad publicity.”
“But still. You’re a talented young woman, and you deserve a shot, no matter what’s going on in your personal life. Which, by the way, you should never feel embarrassed about. We’ve all had sex. We’ve all sent risky pictures. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
She says this last part so sincerely, without even blushing or mumbling or showing any sign of discomfort, that it emboldens me to carry on.
“Thank you. Really. You’ve been so supportive since day one, and I’m so, so grateful. I’m sorry you wasted your dad’s fifty bucks.”
“Wasted? Izzy, did you get great feedback from the judges?” I nod. “Is your script better for it?” Nod again. “And has it cemented in your mind that this is how you want to spend your life – writing?” My face says it all. She smiles. “Well then, I’d hardly call that a waste, would you?”
2.46 p.m.
Ajita, Meg and I are in Martha’s Diner, being poured fresh OJ by my wonderful grandmother. Yes, at quarter to three on a Friday afternoon.
Half an hour earlier we’re all in English class together, listening to Castillo trying in vain to make Emily Bront? even half as interesting as Charlotte by talking about the feminist undertones of Wuthering Heights.
That’s when Sharon pipes up with a pass-agg comment definitely aimed in my direction. “I think it’s interesting how everyone seems to think feminism in the twenty-first century is better than it’s ever been. I think it’s just the opposite. Women had so much more class back when the Bront?s were writing. They’d probably be horrified to see how some girls behave these days. You know, sleeping around, sending tacky nude pictures, and all that.”
Everyone shoots me the same judgmental/pitying/snooty looks as usual, but honestly it barely even registers. I just roll my eyes. It’s funny how fast you get used to being treated like a piece of crap.
But you know who’s not willing to just stay quiet and let me suffer?
Ajita.
She stands up haughtily, gathering her belongings. “Izzy, we’re leaving.”
“I . . . what?” I look up at her in shock, just like every other member of the class.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to ignorant assholes say crap like that about you. Especially if the person who’s supposed to be in charge of the class just lets it happen without saying a word.” She shoots Castillo a look so withering it makes Medusa look mild-mannered. “So, in conclusion, we’re leaving.”
I fucking love that girl. She just threw cold tomato soup all over Castillo. You know, metaphorically.
I gather up my stuff and shove it into my backpack as fast as I can, stray highlighters scattering everywhere, but I don’t care. I just do not care anymore.
Castillo finally finds her voice. “Now, listen here, girls. Don’t you dare walk out of that door, or I’ll have you suspended.”
Ajita shrugs as if she has literally never cared about anything less in her entire life. “So now’s when you speak up? Not when one of your students is being bullied relentlessly by her peers, but when she finally decides to stand up for herself?? Shame on you, Miss Castillo. Shame on you.”
And with that, she strides confidently toward the door. I follow. Everyone just stares in utter amazement.
Meg’s in the back row. As Ajita passes, she adds, “Meg, are you coming?”
Delighted to be involved in the protest, Meg grins ecstatically and wheels herself out after us, abandoning everything on her desk. Literally abandoning her pencil case, textbooks, everything. Amazing.
Castillo calls meekly after us, “But wait . . .”