9.18 a.m.
Last night went up in flames. Seriously, I make such unbelievably bad life choices. Can I blame this on the tragic orphan thing again? No?
Sigh. Here we go.
So Vaughan tracks me down in my little wormhole, a.k.a. the sofa, because I’m not sufficiently committed to my role as a creature of the dirt, and offers to get me a drink. I oblige on account of the fact our crate of beer is running low and I’m losing my buzz quite rapidly, and I think we have established at this point that I am utterly shameless in an impressive spectrum of ways.
En route to the fridge, he makes some actually rather astute observations about our surroundings, such as: “Wow, there are, like, so many people here,” and “Baxter is an embarrassment at beer pong,” and “If Kenan Mitchell were green, he would basically be Shrek.” I agree good-naturedly because I am very thirsty. [Not like that. Stop snickering.]
Of course my respiratory system chooses this precise moment to start evicting a metric fuck-ton of phlegm from my body, and I cough like a maniac for several decades. Vaughan says, “Yeah, it’s really smoky in here. Let’s get some fresh air.” Literally not one individual is smoking a cigarette or any other substance in our immediate proximity, which does seem statistically unlikely and yet is true at this precise moment, but like an idiot I follow him outside anyway because a) he is carrying my beer and b) fresh air doesn’t actually sound too horrible thanks to the general scent of teenage boy in the living room.
We sit on one of those fancy swinging bench things only rich people ever have. The garden is pitch-black, meaning I don’t have to look at his overgelled hair, which is perhaps why I temporarily forget I’m talking to Zachary Vaughan (don’t call him Zach; he gets upset for reasons I cannot begin to understand). I half expect there to be long stretches of awkward silence, but he just hands me my beer and asks me a nice question about my grandma. This is one of many signs that I have somehow fallen through a wormhole and landed in an alternate universe, and thus cannot be held responsible for my own actions. Or something.
“So how’s your dad’s campaign going?” I ask him, once I’ve finished telling him about how, when Dumbledore the Dog dies, we’re going to get another dachshund and call it Voldemort, and pretend to our house guests that the Dark Lord has risen once again and killed all our other pets, including Luna and Neville the goldfish and Hermione the hamster (none of which ever existed, but the story works best if Voldemort commits mass homicide as an opening act). Betty and I both feel this is exactly what Dumbledore the Dog would want. Vaughan appears completely unperturbed by this idea, which you sort of have to admire.
But at the mention of his dad he immediately stiffens. [Again, not like that. What’s wrong with you?]
“Do we have to talk about it?” he snaps, swigging from his plastic cup. We can almost hear the babble of laughter and the low pounding of house music, but the double glazing is doing a pretty good job of keeping the garden quiet. Which is unfortunate because right now I could really do with something cutting through the awkward silence.
Hastily I explain how I don’t give one singular shit about his father’s campaign and only brought it up because conversational protocol dictates that I ask him a question, and I know absolutely nothing else about him.
“You’re cute when you babble,” he says to my total horror and disgust, because unlike the popular noughties rock band, cute is never what I aim for.
“So tell me something about yourself that has zero to do with your family’s controversial political stance,” I say. I regret adding the word “controversial”, but I think he’s a bit drained by my challenging social skills at this point because he lets it go.
“All right. I’m the oldest of four siblings. I want to go to law school, preferably as far away from here as possible.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?”
“No,” he admits. “It’s just what my parents want me to do. They’re both defense attorneys. Or they were until my dad got into politics. God, why does every conversation always swing back round to my dad?” This last sentence is laced with a bitterness I wasn’t expecting.
There’s another lull in conversation. Looking around the rose-smelling garden I can just make out a koi pond, plus the silhouettes of some creepy gnome-type things in a nearby flower bed. One is brandishing a fishing rod like a weapon.
“Er. Right. So. Here’s a question,” I mumble, in a desperate bid to ensure there’s no possible way his dad can crop up again. “What’s your patronus?”
This is in fact a sly test disguised as an interesting point of conversation. If he doesn’t know what a patronus is, I know immediately that there’s very little point in proceeding with the bench-based festivities.
But without even hesitating, he replies simply, “A duckbilled platypus.”
I’m quite taken aback by this. It’s not at all the answer I was expecting. Most dudes go with something obvious like a lion, but this is quite unique. “Oh really? Why’s that?”
He swigs his beer again. Despite the speed of his drinking he still seems pretty sober. “They’re just awesome and unique. Like, did you know they’re the only mammal that has a sense of electroreception? They hunt their prey by detecting the electric fields generated by muscular contractions. So basically they’re super smart, but in their own way.” He shrugs, like he can relate. “And they’re the only venomous mammal on earth. I like that they can strike back and defend themselves if they have to.”
What. The. Hell. He’s genuinely given this some thought. Like, Zachary Vaughan has put some serious time into considering his patronus. If there is any surefire way to win my respect, this is it.
I smile, observing his silhouetted profile. He’s really not terrible to look at – one of those cute dimple chins and a ski-slope nose that tilts up at the end. His father may be a fascist dictator, but he obviously has good genes.
“What about yours?” Vaughan asks.
I’ve had my answer prepared for over a decade. “A sloth.”
He spits beer everywhere as he laughs. “That’s hilarious. It’s so perfect. Cute and sleepy and highly entertaining. Yep, you’re a sloth, Izzy O’Neill.”
I grin. I can’t help it.
“Okay . . . what else can I tell you about myself ?” he muses, looking around the garden as though waiting for divine inspiration to strike. He clocks the gnomes, and looks as perturbed as can be expected.
Then, borderline surprised like it’s the first time the thought has ever crossed his mind, he goes with: “Oh, I know. I’m a virgin, ha ha ha.”
???
[Yeah. Not what I was expecting either. I’ll give you a few minutes to process this.
. . . You good? Okay, so you recovered faster than I did.]
I have zip/zilch/zero/nada/nil problem with the fact he’s a virgin, I just was not anticipating this plot twist in the slightest.
So, very supportively and insightfully, I say: “Oh.”
Then the awkward silence kicks in. And all I can think to add is, “Why are you telling me this, of all people? We’ve never spoken before tonight, even if we do know each other’s patronuses now. How do you know you can trust me? I mean, I assume this is a secret.”
He shrugs and says, “I like you, Izzy. You’re funny and stuff. And I knew you were wary of me, so I told you something personal in the hope you’d see I’m not the jerk everyone thinks I am.”
Now, I personally find this logic quite flawed because I could very easily have turned out to be a vindictive psychopath and leaked this information everywhere. Obviously this is not the course of action I actually choose to take, but really, how did he know I’m not fundamentally awful? Also, being a virgin and being a jerk are not mutually exclusive, so the whole thing is quite hard to wrap my head around.
“Thank you, Vaughan. I feel kind of . . . honored? I guess?”
He just smiles and says nothing.
Mainly because I have no idea what to do or say next, I down the rest of my beer and then instantly start kissing him. Yes, I instigate it, for no other reason than: I wanted to. Which is a mistake, because if you’ve ever downed three-quarters of a can of fizzy liquid in six seconds, you know what happens next.
*burp*
Fuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkkkk –
My cheeks start to burn with the fiery magma of Mount Etna as I pull away, mortified.
Next plot twist: he is not an asshole about this horrifying bodily development. He just laughs and says, “I guess now we both know something embarrassing about each other.”
Then I get all serious, which shockingly I am capable of on occasion. “Being a virgin is not embarrassing, Vaughan. You know that, don’t you?”
“Try telling that to the rest of the basketball team.”
And then he’s kissing me again, and it’s actually not terrible, actually it’s really good, like really good, and he smells like fresh laundry, and his lips are so soft, and sweet Jesus of Nazareth –
You know what happens next. Yes, I take his virginity on the garden bench.
Izzy O’Neill: keeping it classy since never.
12.42 p.m.
Betty just came knocking on my door with a bacon sandwich and a glass of extra pulpy OJ like the true legend she is, and demanded to know everything. I told her the abridged version. She laughed so hard at the burping incident she almost gave herself a hernia.
[Most of you probably find it really odd that I tell my grandmother about my sexual conquests, but she’s just never been weird about it. She’s of the general opinion that my mom (her daughter) led the life of a saint and she still ended up dead at the age of twenty-four, so I may as well enjoy myself because this could all be taken away at any moment, and do I really want to be at heaven’s gates/hell’s trapdoor thinking about all the things (read: people) I wish I’d done?]
[In hindsight, it’s possible my grandmother is partially to blame for the sex-scandal situation.]
Okay. So remember Carson Manning? Hot-yet-unintimidating, class clown, alpaca doodler? Yeah, him.
Vaughan and I come in from outside, and it isn’t like in those cliché movies where people who’ve just had sex look very obviously like they just had sex. There are no tree branches in my hair, for example, or dirt on my knees.
Much like Vaughan thirty seconds ago, the party seems to be reaching its climax. There are several people passed out in corners, several people making out against kitchen counters, and the music is now some sort of soft remixed reggae I don’t actually hate. The windows are steamed up with sweaty condensation, which is quite gross, and there are plastic cups scattered all over the floor.
I disappear to find Danny (oh shit, Danny!!) and Ajita, leaving Vaughan in the kitchen with Baxter and some of the other basketball guys. Vaughan doesn’t do anything gross, like squeeze my ass as I walk away, which I appreciate because catcalling-construction-worker-style romance is not really my idea of a good time. I know some of you may find this unreasonable and absurd, but it’s true.
Ajita is in exactly the same spot on the sofa, playing on her phone and looking generally bored when I track her down. A quick scan of the room shows me Carlie is still MIA.
“Where’s Danny?” I ask, only mildly terrified of the answer on account of his inevitable wrath.
She cocks an eyebrow, knowingly, like Buddha or some other wise religious figure, and points.
Huzzah! Danny is playing tonsil tennis with Michelle Obama Junior! This is excellent news. He can no longer go all Judge Judy on me for my romantic escapades. I celebrate with another beer and plonk myself down on the sofa. Ajita and I play a game of Shut Uppa Yo Face, whereby we watch other people’s conversations from a distance and improvize what we think they’re saying, each of us taking a character. The loser is the one who can’t think of anything to say and stalls, ultimately conceding with the words, “Shut uppa yo face.” I will admit this is a very niche game and not suitable for most social situations.
We’re right in the middle of an epic duologue – a big-issue argument over whether shredded cheese tastes different to its blockier counterparts [obviously I prefer shredded because of my fundamental laziness] – when Carson approaches us. As Ajita and I are both deeply competitive souls, neither of us wants to lose, so we just keep going and going and going, debating heatedly about the merits of grated cheddar. Carson finds this difficult to respond to. Interestingly he does not contribute to the conversation, given he has no idea it is part of an elaborate improvization contest. Maybe he just doesn’t have strong opinions about cheese, which I have difficulty wrapping my head around.
Eventually I lose the game because my beer-marinated banter is not on top form by this stage. Ajita politely excuses herself, disappearing in the direction of Baxter’s hotel-like bathroom.
“O’Neill,” Carson says. His voice is amazing, all warm and gravelly. “Can I sit?”
I resist the temptation to sarcastically reject him and say, “Sure.”
He seems genuinely pleased as he sinks into the sofa next to me. He’s close enough that his arm is pressed against mine, and I can feel his muscles bulging. The smell of his cologne makes me want to lean in even closer, but I manage to control myself for once. The soft remixed reggae continues to play in the background.
“This music’s pretty cool,” I say, bobbing along idiotically to the laid-back beat. I wish I could stop myself from looking like such a moron at all times, but alas I cannot. I’m actually pretty nervous, though I hate to admit it. It’s rare for me to like someone for more than sex – I’m no virgin, but I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. Or, you know. A relationship, period.
“Thanks!” he grins. “It’s actually my iPod.” Again he looks genuinely pleased with the compliment. He’s peeling away the label on his beer bottle and not actually looking at me, though, which makes me think maybe he’s feeling the same nerves as I am. I hope.
We chat idly for a while longer. I would love to give you a play-by-play of this conversation, but frankly it’s a little fuzzy. But what I do remember is . . .
“So, hey,” he says, slurring his words slightly. “I found your blog.”
Any blogger in the history of the internet will understand the sheer horror and humiliation associated with this sentence. It is the stuff of nightmares. It is legitimately enough reason to load yourself into a cannon and fire yourself into the ocean, clutching your laptop to your lifeless chest.
I start scanning my mental archives for any and all mentions of a) periods, b) other bodily functions, or c) Carson himself. Ding ding ding. Pretty sure I’ve covered all the important shame bases with my now-not-so-hilarious anecdotes. I’m about to excuse myself to go and immediately change my URL and install a password [which you will be relieved to know I have now done] and swallow a liter of bleach [have not yet done this, but give it time] when he adds: “So you like me, huh?”
“No,” I say matter-of-factly. “I just think you’re hot in a sexy-yet-unintimidating way.”
He grins wolfishly. “Always the goal.”
I think I might as well just tattoo perma-blush to my face at this point because the amount of time I’ve spent in a state of embarrassment tonight is unprecedented and deeply concerning. I should just save my blood the hassle of having to rush to the surface of my skin and have red ink injected into my cheeks. Fortunately for my Corona-addled voice box, Carson picks up the conversational baton once again.
“And I think you’re hot too. In an entirely intimidating way.”
Then he kisses me!!!
Lest you think I am an even worse homo sapiens than you already do, let me just say that I am fully aware of how inappropriate this is. I can’t even enjoy the moment I’ve fantasized about endlessly through classes on trigonometry, because I’m scanning the room for Danny and/or Vaughan through the corners of my eyes. For a minute I wonder why I am so concerned about Vaughan, and it’s not just that I don’t want him to tell people about my gas problems. I think it’s maybe the fact I’ve recently learned he’s not a grade-A asshole and actually has a soul? Who knows?
Clearly I am not ashamed enough to stop the Carson-kissing and such, but just so you know, I do have a conscience, although it is perpetually buried under several liters of beer and an abnormally high sex drive.
The music is very loud and most people are very drunk, and I’m very dizzy like I’ve spun around in circles for eleven days, so eventually I just relax and let myself enjoy it. Surprisingly Carson is not as good a kisser as Vaughan – too much Dorito-flavored saliva for my personal taste, although I am sure others are into that particular sensation – but he’s kinda cute in the way he keeps pulling away and smiling bashfully before diving in for another round of tongue hockey. Don’t worry, he won’t read this review of his snogging technique. Like I say, I’ve password-protected my blog now. [Which should have really been my first move upon its creation, but you live and learn.]
I’m in a slight quandary.
Part of me – the biggest part – wants to get it on with Carson. He’s cute and funny and, well, I want to, which should not be too hard for you to grasp.
Then there’s the annoying, niggling part of me that worries what people will think of me if I do. If the school population discovers I banged two dudes in one night, the girls will call me a bitch and a slut, and the guys will high five and call me easy while flinging their own feces at each other.
Anyway, due to that abnormally high sex drive I mentioned earlier, I’m soon following him upstairs to Baxter’s parents’ room, where we proceed to have a lovely time. Ten out of ten would recommend having sex with Carson Manning. You can do it at least three times in one commercial break, and I sometimes think brevity is an underrated quality in coitus. I’d rather have short and sweet than cross over into slightly-boring-and-chafey territory.
[I know you’re probably reading this thinking, Oh my god, what an unbelievable whore! even though you generally consider yourself to be fairly progressive, but don’t worry. Later in the book I plan to address your problematic concerns about my promiscuity in a personal essay titled “Old White Men Love It When You Slut-shame”.]