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 Brontë 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 Brontës 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 . . .”
We barely hear. We’re too busy whooping down the corridor like we’re the most badass bitches on the planet.
So now we’re slurping milkshakes (I went strawberry cheesecake, Ajita and Meg both chose mint Oreo) and chatting and feeling all fired up. The diner is almost empty, since it’s mainly a hangout for high-school kids and all the non-rebellious ones are still in class.
“You know what?” I say, raising my voice over the clatter of pans from the kitchen, and the crooning of Elvis Presley emanating from the nearby jukebox. “I’m tired of lying down and letting stuff happen to me without resisting.”
“Damn straight,” Ajita says. “It’s time we stood up for ourselves, you know? It’s time we threw cold tomato soup everywhere. Why should I let my own mother bully me into silence over a major part of my life? Why should we let people make us feel like crap?”
Meg jumps in. “What’s that Eleanor Roosevelt quote? Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
“YES!” Ajita and I both yell. She smacks the table so hard in agreement that the salt shaker nearly headbutts its peppery cousin.
“I’m sick of it,” I continue. “I’m sick of feeling like I live in a lose/lose world, and that there’s nothing I can do about it. As a woman, you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. A slut if you send the nudes and a prude if you don’t. A whore if you have sex and frigid if you don’t. A bitch if you fight back and submissive if you don’t.”
“We should reclaim the word ‘bitch’,” Ajita argues, her eyes alight with passion. I love it when she gets like this. Meg watches in awe of her fiery new pal. “It’s been used to silence opinionated women for too long. Women who have beliefs and goals and things to say. Women who won’t stand for injustice or mistreatment. They’re labeled bitches by men – and other women – who feel intimidated.”
I nod along like one of those bobbing dogs middle-class people inexplicably have in the back windows of their cars.
Meg speaks up. “Bitches bite back. And men hate that. Society hates that.” A charming little milkshake mustache has settled on her upper lip, but we’re both taking her as seriously as a president addressing the nation.
A spark of an idea forms in my head; dim at first, then brighter than an exploding sun. I gasp. “We should start a website. A community of teen girls who refuse to stay silent any longer. And it could be called . . .” I grin. “Bitches Bite Back.”
Ajita laughs excitedly. “That. Is. Awesome.”
“I really think it would resonate with so many young women,” Meg agrees. “From all walks of life. What teenage girl can’t relate to being called a bitch?”
We all look at each other, magic and milkshakes in the air.
“Let’s make this happen.”
11.34 p.m.
It’s hard to believe that less than a month ago my life was entirely different to how it is now.
I hadn’t had my screenwriting dream almost within reach – and then snatched away again. My crush on Carson was yet to manifest, and I hadn’t yet slept with him or Vaughan. Danny was still my best friend. Ajita was still in the closet. Meg wasn’t in my life. I wasn’t the center of a national sex scandal. My naked body wasn’t on display to the entire world, and journalists weren’t gathered around the school gates. Betty hadn’t told me she was proud of me. I hadn’t had my life torn apart on a public website made with the sole intention of ruining my life. Nor had I stitched my life back together with the help of the people I love the most.
Shame. It’s a peculiar beast, especially when it happens in public. It leaves you powerless. It strips you of everything you thought you knew about yourself, forces you to examine the very core of your being. Do I like who I am? Am I proud of my choices? How can I become better?
And then: how can I change the world – and myself ?
I don’t regret sending the nude picture. I don’t regret having two one-night stands. I do regret hurting my best friend.
That’s what truly matters to me: the people I love. And it took a fuckup of epic proportions to realize that.
A month ago, if you’d asked me what three things I wanted to be, I’d have said: funny, cool, well-liked.
What do I want to be now? Bold. Fierce. Honest.
A fighter. A revolutionary. A bitch.
Because the way the world treats teenage girls – as sluts, as objects, as bitches – is not okay.
It’s the exact opposite of okay.