The Exact Opposite of Okay

For one thing, I really, really hope Danny isn’t infatuated with me because I don’t feel the same. At least, I don’t think I do. I’ve just never thought of him that way. When you grow up knowing someone your whole life, they feel more like family than a potential suitor. [Suitor? Who do I think I am, a princess in a magical kingdom governed by frog princes?]

But for now I can cling to the hope that maybe this is just a blip, and Ajita is hugely misreading the signals. Maybe these gifts are just his way of showing that he’s proud of me for the screenplay stuff ? And the smiles are him finally growing out of the sullen teenage boy phase? Here’s hoping. Because I have no idea how I would deal with an unrequited love situation. Have you met me? Have you seen how awkward I am? Exactly. It’s just not feasible that I could navigate such a dilemma with my dignity still intact.

Then there’s the Carlie/Ajita thing. Obviously I know it’s irrational to be jealous, but I can’t help it. I think it’s human nature to feel vaguely territorial over your best friend. Not in a canine pissing-all-over-them-to-mark-your-patch type way, but more in a childish not-wanting-to-share-your-favorite-toy type way. Yes, it’s selfish. Yes, I’m immature. But is it so wrong to simply want a monogamous friendship? [Yes, past me. Yes, it is very wrong.]

Anyway, I very much prefer when things stay the same. What’s that biological term? Homeostasis? Does that apply here? Can we please find a way to make it apply to friendship circles?

4.32 p.m.

Alas, all is not lost! Mrs Crannon called me into her office at the end of school. Her computer is wearing several of the 1920s wigs she sourced for our Gatsby production, and she’s combing them as I walk through the door. Before I’ve even taken a seat in the Iron Maiden chair of doom, she offers me a cup of coffee and a triple chocolate chip cookie, which is how I know my instincts were correct and she is in fact a fantastic human being on all fronts.

“So! I finished your script,” she says, all warm and friendly.

Through sheer nerves and stress, my stomach almost plummets through my asshole. [I realize this is a hideous thing to say, but you all know exactly what I mean, and I shall not apologize for vocalizing the sensation.]

“Oh, did you?” I sip the coffee, immediately giving myself third-degree burns, and try to resist the urge to flee the room, banshee-screaming, with my arms flailing in the air and a trail of cookie-based destruction behind me.

She abandons the wigs and leans forward onto her elbows in a very teachery way. “Izzy, I promise you I’m not just saying this because you’re my student and I’m trying to be encouraging. You have an unbelievable talent.”

“Really?” I grin insanely, like an insane person.

“Really! I fully planned to only read the first ten pages last night and make some notes for you, but before I knew it, it was after midnight and I’d finished the entire thing. And I’d completely forgotten to make any notes. That’s how good it is. It’s smart and funny, and your social awareness really shines through. I didn’t feel like I was reading the work of a high-school senior.”

The cynical side of me feels like she’s laying it on a little thick at this point, but I’m so happy I just don’t care. I beam even more. “Thank you, Mrs Crannon. That means the world.”

“I’m glad,” she says, smiling back just as proudly. “Now, I’ve been thinking about next steps for you. You’re unsure about college, which is totally fine, and you’re not in a position to take on unpaid internships just yet. Again, that’s okay. But I did have a few ideas. Firstly, I really think you need to get this script into industry hands, whether agents or producers.”

I sigh. “Right. But no agents or producers accept unsolicited submissions. I already looked into it.”

“Maybe not,” Mrs Crannon agrees. “However, there are a lot of screenplay competitions out there that have judging panels made up of exactly those kinds of people – agents and producers and story developers who’re looking out for fresh new talent. I did a bit of research over lunch, and there’s a fairly established competition running in LA, aimed specifically at younger writers. It’s heavily development-focused, so as you progress through the various rounds, you get a ton of feedback from people who really know their stuff, plus meetings with industry executives if you make it to the finals. And guess what the grand prize is?”

I shake my head, hardly believing what I’m hearing. How could I not have heard about this? It sounds like a dream.

“A college scholarship!”

I blink, wondering if I heard her right. “What?”

She hands me a printout of a web page [literally something only old people ever do] which has all the competition info on it. Across the top is bold branding: The Script Factor.

But my eyes land on one thing.

Entry fee: $50.

“This is great, Mrs Crannon, but . . . I can’t afford it.” My voice is all flat and echoey. “The entry fee, I mean. I could never ask my grandma to give me fifty bucks. That’s like seventeen hours of work at the diner.” [I did mention math not being my strong suit.]

Without a trace of condescension, she replies, “I thought you might say that.” And then the unthinkable happens. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a leather wallet, and hands me a fifty-dollar bill.

I stare at it in her hand, stunned. “Mrs Crannon, I . . . I can’t take that. No. Thank you so much, but no. No, I can’t.”

“You can, Izzy. I want you to. My father recently passed away, and he left me some money. He was a teacher too. English literature. He’d love to know he was helping a talented young creative find their way.”

Her crazy tunic is all orange and pink and yellow flowers, but all the colors blur together as my eyes fill with hot tears. I’m used to having emotional support from a select few people, but to have a near-stranger take such a massive leap of faith in me? It’s overwhelming.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I’m glad to be able to help. Just remember me when you’re famous, won’t you?” She grins and boots up her ancient computer, which still has an actual floppy disk drive. “Now, let’s fill in this entry form together, shall we? The deadline is tomorrow, so we have to move fast.”

11.12 p.m.

Hung out with Danny and Ajita tonight (you know, once she’d finished tennis trials with SATAN PERSONIFIED, i.e. Carlie) and unfortunately the sequence of events that unfolded gave credibility to her theory that Danny is madly in love with me.

We’re in Ajita’s basement, which is bigger than my entire house, playing pool and watching this obscure Canadian sketch show we all love. The conversation drifts toward school gossip, as it so often does, and I just happen to mention finding Carson Manning hot in a sexy-yet-unintimidating way.

Danny is incredulous. “Carson Manning?” He gapes at me, pushing his thick-framed glasses up his nose so he can actually see the red ball he’s trying to pot. His mousy brown hair is doing that weird frizzy thing he hates.

“But he’s . . .”

“Black?” Ajita snaps, aggressively chalking up her cue. Blue dust hangs in the air around her, giving a vaguely satanic vibe. God, is she fierce when calling people out on their problematic bullshit. Reason number 609,315 why I adore her.

“No,” he backtracks hastily. “He’s just . . . well, he spends his whole school day pretending to be an idiot just for laughs. I didn’t think feigned stupidity was your jam.”

I try explaining that finding someone hot does not necessarily imply a deep emotional connection, but he’s too pissed. Ajita and I just eat our nachos and ignore his pet lip, and continue to systematically destroy him at pool for what must be the seven millionth time this year. Ajita goes on an impressive potting spree and buries four stripes in a row. I whoop delightedly. We complete a complicated fist-bump routine we devised in freshman year. Our aversion tactics seem to be working, and Danny almost talks himself out of his emotional crisis, until . . .

Ajita: “So, Izzy, I heard a rumor today.” She pots a fifth. Danny is almost apoplectic. He’s not great at losing.

“Yeah? Did Carlie tell you?” Petty passive aggression aside, I try to act disinterested. But Ajita knows I am deeply nosy, and while I don’t like to be directly involved in conflict itself, I must know absolutely every detail about other people’s drama or else I will spontaneously combust.

“Zachary Vaughan wants to ask you out.”

Soda exits my nose in a violent manner at this point. My brain is fizzing. Is that a thing? It feels like a thing.

Now, it’s important for you to know how utterly despicable Vaughan is on practically every level. He’s pretty, but he knows it, he’s rich and he flaunts it, and his right-wing daddy is so racist he probably has an effigy of Martin Luther King on his bonfire every year.

The effect on Danny is nuclear. “That’s ridiculous. What a joke! Has the dude ever even spoken to you?”

I say nothing, flabbergasted by his vitriol. [Good words. Well done, past me.]

But Danny can’t let it go. He takes aim at the white pool ball and misses entirely. He sighs and thrusts the cue angrily at Ajita. Instead of catching it she just leaps out the way, which if you ask me speaks volumes about her tennis abilities.

Danny scoffs, all haughty and such. “I don’t get it. His dad would freak. What’s he trying to pull, asking a girl like you out?”

This pisses me off a bit, but because of my previously described aversion to actual conflict, I let Ajita fight my corner.

“What do you mean, a girl like her?” Ajita’s awesome when she’s in battle mode.

“Well, he’s a senator’s son,” Danny mumbles in his awkward Dannylike way. “A Republican senator.”

I snort. “And I’m poor. Forget my above-average face and rocking rack – no guy could ever see past my lack of money?”

But instead of biting back on the defensive, Danny does look like he feels genuinely bad for throwing my impoverished state in my face. So even though it stings, I let it go.

Ajita clearly shares my train of thought. She pots the black ball, securing our utter annihilation. “Aaaaanyway. Whaddaya fancy doing for your birthday this year, D?”

It’s Danny’s birthday next month, and while mine is usually a subdued affair, due to my lack of funds, Danny always does something cool for his. He’s an only child, so his parents don’t mind forking out for me to tag along too. Last year we went paintballing, the year before it was go-karting.

“I was thinking maybe zorb football?” Danny says, pushing his glasses up his nose for the thousandth time. “You know, where you run around in inflatable bubbles and attempt to kick a ball around a field while crashing into each other like dodgems. It looks hilarious. And is the only circumstance in which I would consider participating in sports.”

“Oh yeah, that looks incredible,” I enthuse. “I’ve seen some YouTube videos. One of us will almost certainly die a gruesome death, but I’m game.”

Ajita pipes up. “Speaking as the person who will most likely die that gruesome death, I’m willing to take one for the team.”

Danny grins. “Perfect. And I think your brother would love it too, Jeets.” Ajita’s brother, Prajesh, is thirteen and already an amazing athlete.

“You wouldn’t mind inviting him along?” Ajita asks, plonking herself down on the sofa. I nestle in next to her while Danny racks up the pool balls to practise not being awful. “That’s so sweet of you. He would love that.”

“Of course,” he says. The balls spread and rattle around the table as he strikes the white ball in the perfect break. Two plop into pockets, and he smiles with satisfaction. “I think he’s having a rough time at school at the minute.”

Ajita looks crestfallen. “He is?”

I share her concern. Prajesh is like a little brother to me too.

Danny backtracks somewhat. “I mean, it’s nothing sinister. I don’t think he’s being bullied or anything. But the last few times I’ve seen him in the hallway, he’s been by himself, looking a little lost. And I know what it’s like to be a slightly awkward and nerdy thirteen-year-old. So I don’t mind taking him under my wing for a while.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” Ajita smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can tell she’s going to worry and obsess over this. Her big, tight-knit family is her whole world.

A flash of envy catches me off guard. Fleetingly, I wonder what it must be like to have so many people to love and care about, but I shake the thought away like I always do. Self-pity isn’t my style.

[Hold that thought, O’Neill. The worst is yet to come.]

Thursday 15 September

1.23 p.m.

Carson comes up to our table in the cafeteria at lunch. Ajita kicks me under the table because of what I confessed last night, and in response I throw a boiled potato at her perfect brown face. Seriously, how are anyone’s lips that full and skin that smooth and eyes that dark? It’s possible I’m kind of in love with my best friend. She’s ridiculously attractive.

[It’s funny that the horny teenager stereotype tends to refer only to boys. Things I have been aroused by lately: cherry-flavored lip balm, a fluffy blanket, a particularly phallic lamppost.]

Anyway, Carson. He loves the potato-throwing incident because it’s a good ice breaker, and he begins to hypothesize what other vegetables would make suitable weaponry, until Danny rudely asks him what he wants, which is an act of douchebaggery not often associated with Danny Wells – at least, not before any pool-table confessions of attraction occurred.

I try to flutter my eyes seductively/apologetically at Carson, but Ajita kicks me again, which I assume means “Izzy, stop doing that, you look like you’re standing in front of that torture device at the optician’s that blows air into your eyeballs” so I immediately cease and desist. When you’ve been pals with someone for basically your whole life, you learn to decode their secret messages based on the severity of their physical violence.

“Soooo,” Carson says, “there’s a party at Baxter’s this weekend. BYOB. You guys in?”

“Sure,” Ajita replies on behalf of us all. I’m grateful because I suddenly feel like my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I take a desperate gulp of orange soda and pretend to be disinterested in the entire conversation, watching as a gaggle of freshmen attempt to circumnavigate the complex seating hierarchy in the cafeteria.

When I catch his eye, Danny looks like he might combust with rage. Remembering the Gryffindor sweater now stashed at the back of my wardrobe, I do feel sort of bad. But what can I do? Never speak to another male in front of him again?

Carson, unperturbed by the intricate melodrama unfolding, grins. “Awesome. See y’all there.”

And then he disappears, and I’m free to resume normal respiratory function. I’m kind of disappointed by Carson’s lack of eye contact with me, especially after our alpaca-based hijinks in class the other day, but I figure I’ll be able to dazzle him with my unbelievable wit and sarcasm once we’ve both had a few beers at the party. [Sorry, lawyers. I meant Capri-Sun. The best of all the conversational lubricants.]

Afterward I ask Danny what his beef is, even though I quite clearly do not want him to answer, but he just mumbles incoherently about history homework and disappears to the library for probably the first time in his life.

Ajita and I go to the bathroom so she can examine her eyebrows for potato shrapnel and I can text Betty about the party. Not for permission – I can’t think of a time she’s ever prevented me from having fun [perks of being a tragic orphan] – she just likes to be kept in the loop about my social engagements so she can plan when to get drunk herself.

Betty says this in response:

Cool . Baxter, is he the arrogant mofo with the micro-penis complex? I met his mom at parent-teacher night, think her doctor injected her lip fillers with a cattle syringe !

Honestly, the one thing I hate about my grandma is the space she somehow finds between the end of her sentences and subsequent question/exclamation marks. Though at this point I just have to be grateful she gave up on text speak, and calling me hun. Shudder.

I show Ajita the reply as she’s wiping away rogue mascara smudges in the bathroom mirror, and she cackles her witchy cackle. “I’m so jealous,” she says. “I want to be raised by your grandma.”

I helpfully tell her that if she wants I can arrange for her entire family to be killed in a terrifying road accident, but despite all her big talk she doesn’t seem too keen on the idea.

Anyway, after much discussion and speculation, Ajita reckons senator’s son Vaughan made Baxter invite us so he could seduce me with his egotistical banter and ultimately convince me to drop my pants. But I’m crushing on the dude who delivered the invite himself: Carson. So this could be sehr interessant.

Like the true high-school cliché I am, I immediately begin to plan my outfit and strategize on how to convince the boy I like of my brilliance, pushing all thoughts of Danny to the back of my brain.

8.48 p.m.

Danny’s hanging out with Prajesh tonight to make sure he’s doing okay. I think he plans on showing him his collection of vintage Nintendo consoles and having a Mario Kart marathon, so he rain-checks on me and Ajita. To be honest, I’m pretty glad for the girls’ night. With everything that’s going on with Danny’s newfangled feelings toward me, I’m finding myself monitoring my jokes and general behavior around him. It’ll be nice to just relax and not have to worry about making things worse.

We’re chilling and eating junk food in Ajita’s basement, and I decide to fill her in on the latest developments in the screenplay competition and Mrs Crannon’s unbelievable generosity. I mean, fifty bucks. Fifty bucks. I’ve never been in possession of fifty bucks in my life. I’m practically Bill Gates.

“Ajita, consider this. What if – and hear me out, please, because I know this is going to sound absurd – but what if not all teachers are Dementors in human clothing?”

“You’re right, that does sound absurd.” She tosses a Pretzel M&M into the air and catches it in her mouth. This sounds impressive, but you forget her ridiculously long tongue. She’s basically like a lizard catching flies.

“I’m kinda scared, though,” I admit. “About entering this competition.”

“Why?”

I pick at some stray lint on the sleeve of my sweater, despising the admission of vulnerability, but needy for my best friend’s reassurance. “I just keep thinking that I’m too working class. Too ‘common’. They’ll write me off as trash. These opportunities are not for People Like Me, you know?”

Ajita issues a funny kind of smile as she pours the remaining M&Ms down her throat straight from the packet. “I’m Nepali-American. Trust me, I know.”

“Right,” I agree. “And I know your experiences of marginalization are much worse than mine. But do you ever just feel like the deck is stacked against you?”

“All. The. Freaking. Time.” She crumples up the packet and shoves it down the side of the sofa for her parents to uncover in about a year’s time. “And I think I’ll feel that way as long as I live in this country. But what are you going to do – not even try? What’s the worst that can happen if you enter a competition and it doesn’t pan out?”

I properly think about this, and my fear really comes down to this. “I’ll be laughed at. And not in the good way.”

Turning to face me head on, Ajita replies, “So what?”

I smile. I know what’s about to happen. “So I’ll feel stupid.”

“So what?”

“It’ll be embarrassing.”

“So what?”

When one of us is scared to do something for fear of rejection, this is how we talk each other around it. By asking “so what?” and forcing ourselves to justify the fear, we soon realize there’s rarely anything to actually be afraid of.

I’m already struggling to come up with more answers. “So it might make me want to give up writing.”

One more time: “So what?”

Watching as she tucks her legs smugly under her butt, I concede, “All right. You win.”

“No, you win,” she grins. “No matter what. Just by putting yourself out there. Look, it’s human nature to shy away from situations where we might experience shame, especially in public. There’s something primal about wanting to avoid embarrassment at all costs. Not to get too academic on you, but from a psychoanalytic standpoint, it’s about preserving your ego – and thus your sense of personal identity.”

“Calm down, Freud,” I say. “Spare a thought for the idiots in the room.”

“Sorry, I forget about your below-average IQ. All I’m saying is that self-preservation and resistance to shame is natural. But it’s also not logical. And because it’s not a logical fear, it can’t be countered with a logical response. You have to face emotion with emotion. So channel all your passion and bravery and wildness, and shove them in fear’s face, okay?”

“Okay.” I grin back even harder. “You’re the best. Even though you’re far too intelligent to be my best pal.”

“I know. I tell myself this on a daily basis. And yet I’m the one who has absolutely zero idea what to do with my life. Figures. So what are you going to focus on next?” Ajita asks. “You have to be working on something else so you don’t go insane waiting for the results of the competition.”

“I’m not sure,” I say, digging my fist into a bowl of salted popcorn. [It may seem like we’re always eating, but that’s because we’re always eating.] “I had an idea for a short film about a couple in a failing marriage, and one of them – an extremely extroverted individual who never listens to their partner – loses the power of speech to a rare brain disorder. And it, like, totally changes their entire relationship. It upends everything they thought they knew about love and communication and humor. It forces the dominant one in the relationship to swap roles.”

“That sounds cool.”

“Right? But I can’t figure out whether the extrovert who loses their speech should be the man or the woman, because either way the underlying message could be considered problematic. If the man is the outspoken, domineering type, and the wife is super submissive and meek, it feeds into a relationship stereotype you see so often. But then if it’s the woman who ends up losing the power of speech, the message is kind of like, you can only have a successful marriage if the woman sits down and shuts up. You know?”

Flabbergasted, Ajita looks at me as though she’s genuinely shocked I’m capable of posing thought-provoking questions. “That sounds like an exhausting internal debate to have, and I’m quite frankly surprised I can’t smell your brain burning. Why don’t you try and plot out both versions and see which feels best?”

“Good plan, Kazakhstan. Can I borrow your laptop? I’m in the mood to word vomit onto a blank document and see what happens.”

“Sure thing.” She tosses me her sleek MacBook, which makes my decrepit laptop with the H key missing look like some sort of prehistoric tombstone. “Or why don’t you make it a same-sex couple? Two women, one extrovert, one introvert. Seriously messed-up relationship dynamic. What’s not to love?”

She’s not looking at what I’m doing when I open up her browser, which is good. Because as soon as I do, the first thing I see is an open Facebook tab.

The last thing Ajita looked at online was a photo of Carlie on a beach in a tiny bikini.

Kissing a girl.

Friday 16 September

6.17 a.m.

Am I reading too much into this? Was Ajita casually flicking through Carlie’s Cancún photo album and just happened to land on that particular picture before I arrived?

But I remember the weird stares and the familiar welcomes in the cafeteria. I remember how surprised I was that Ajita hadn’t mentioned her new friend to me until that moment.