A Girl Called Shameless
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First published in Great Britain in 2019
by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2019 Laura Steven
First e-book edition 2019
ISBN 978 1 4052 8862 0
Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1824 0
www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and the copyright owner.
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Hello again, my dear pals. Turns out that several of you are actually quite interested in the utter debauchery and chaos that is my life, including but not limited to: international sex scandals, kissing beautiful brown boys, and overzealous eyebrow tweezing. This interest comes as quite a surprise, on account of Ajita telling me roughly fourteen times per day how dull I am, and yet here I am, gallivanting bravely onward, hoping that I haven’t somehow run out of jokes in the two months since my last blog post.
On account of the fact I have the memory span of a pair of oven mitts, and I’m willing to bet a bunch of you guys are in the same forgetful boat, I thought [read: my editor thought] it would be a cool idea to do a recap of what happened last time we hung out.
If I was in any way a skilled author, I would attempt to weave all this seamlessly into the first quarter of the book, but since I’m essentially just copy and pasting my old blog posts into a Word document and adding valuable retrospective insights in square brackets, the weaving seemed like a lot of hard work. So, as ever, I’m taking the easy option, but this also makes it the easy option for you, dear reader, and consequently we now all have more time for the important things in life, like laughing and nachos. Cool? Cool.
1. Things started out pretty normal. By pretty normal I mean I was an impoverished orphan living with my eccentric grandmother Betty and our wiener dog named Dumbledore. You know, the way all classic fairy tales start out.
2. And then the Big Bad Wolf ate Betty and stole her identity. Wait, no, that’s not right. Gimme a sec.
3. Ah yes. My charming little friendship tripod, comprising of me and my best friends Ajita and Danny, was thrown into a tailspin when Danny decided that after eighteen years of watching me poop on FaceTime he was in love with me. A sentiment I did not reciprocate – I was about as attracted to Danny as I am to coffee tables, which is precisely not at all. However, this did not stop him from attempting to buy my affections with all manner of gifts, including but not limited to fancy chocolate, Coldplay tickets, and the classic “please-fall-in-love-with-me-and-suck-my-penis-at-your-earliest-convenience” flowers.
4. Around the same time this unrequited love business was going down, I slept with Zachary Vaughan, a Republican senator’s son, on a garden bench at a party. Oh, also I slept with another dude that night, Carson Manning. He and I are now in a relationship, but that is by the by.
5. Anyway, senator’s son. A few days later, I sent him a nude picture, because I wanted to, which should not be too difficult for you to grasp. Then, along with a candid in-situ photo taken mid-hump on the garden bench, someone leaked said nudey pic online, creating a charming website called Izzy O’Neill: World Class Whore. This is a completely a-okay thing to do, since there are no laws against revenge porn in my state. [Revenge porn: the practice of distributing intimate or explicit photos or video of someone without their consent. Just as an FYI.]
6. Said senator’s son received little to no backlash for said nude picture, because that is the way of high school and also of the world. He also performed a catastrophic cafeteria speech declaring his innocence, which ended up being filmed [because high school] and sent to local media outlets. And since his dad is, you know, his dad, a Republican senator and all-round dick, the footage immediately went viral quicker than, I don’t know, the bubonic plague.
7. The website creator turned out to be Danny. I mean, looking at it all laid out like this, it was pretty obvious all along. But, as you may remember, I am not the sharpest erection in the shed/brothel. Conveniently, it took me roughly the length of one book to figure out my jilted best friend was behind the vicious website.
8. Some other stuff that happened: I accidentally outed my other best friend Ajita and nearly destroyed our relationship forever. But miraculously she forgave me, and together with our new friend Meg we launched a platform called Bitches Bite Back aimed toward calling out all the misogyny and nonsense we face on a daily basis.
9. I signed with a hotshot screenwriting agent in LA after being kicked out of a comedy-writing competition because of the nude pic’s media coverage. Huzzah!
10. And I finally learned to open up about my feelings and stop using humor as a defense mechanism. As you can tell by this super-serious and not at all sarcastic introduction, it’s going great.
So settle in, folks, for we’re about to embark on another awkward (and oftentimes calamitous1) adventure together. And who knows? Maybe I’ll actually get round to telling you the story about the old folks’ home break-in this time.
To Nic – the most fun-loving, straight-talking, bird-squawking, queen-saving, bigot-slaying, take-no-shit witch-hunter I know
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Hello. Again.
Monday 2 January
Tuesday 3 January
Wednesday 4 January
Friday 6 January
Sunday 8 January
Monday 9 January
Tuesday 10 January
Wednesday 11 January
Thursday 12 January
Friday 13 January
Saturday 14 January
Sunday 15 January
Monday 16 January
Tuesday 17 January
Wednesday 18 January
Thursday 19 January
Friday 20 January
Monday 23 January
Wednesday 25 January
Friday 27 January
Monday 30 January
Tuesday 31 January
Wednesday 1 February
Thursday 2 February
Friday 3 February
Monday 6 February
Tuesday 7 February
Thursday 9 February
Saturday 11 February
Sunday 12 February
Monday 13 February
Tuesday 14 February
Wednesday 15 February
Friday 17 February
Sunday 19 February
Wednesday 22 February
Friday 24 February
Monday 27 February
Friday 14 April
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Back series promotional page
Monday 2 January
7.14 a.m.
The thing about sex scandals is that you never quite get used to your grandmother having seen you naked.
I mean, obviously she’s seen me naked before. She used to bathe me and clothe me and rub baby oil on my butt. But that was a whole year ago! [I did tell you my jokes may have gone downhill.]
You know what I mean, though. Once adolescence strikes, your parents/legal guardians are highly unlikely to see you au naturel, especially if your nipples are of the pierced variety. Unless of course you have a nude picture leaked to the nation, à la Izzy O’Neill, in which case your bare tits and foofer are sort of on display to millions of people, forever and ever until death do us part.
It’s been a month or two since the media got over the whole fandango, and Betty has never ceased to be a supportive angel, but every single morning, without fail, I sit down to breakfast and immediately picture her picturing me. You know. Me. As in, a euphemism for my genitalia.
Which is ludicrous, because if I were Betty I would have immediately poured hydrochloric acid into my eyes had I seen my teenage granddaughter naked. Or as a less extreme solution, just tried to scrub the image from my memory as best I could. [And I’m in luck, because Betty’s memory is not all that great these days. I still remind her of the time she left her keys in the toaster and nearly murdered us all.]
The usual smell of waffle batter – just about to burn around the edges – and the sound of an upbeat pop song fill the kitchen. Betty and I perform our usual routine: she cooks, I make coffee. She sings along to the radio incorrectly. Dumbledore the dachshund loiters without shame. I can almost hear him praying Betty drops some sausage on the ground, but for once he’s outta luck.
It’s see-your-breath cold in here, because we can only afford to have the heating on for a couple hours a day, and it doesn’t make sense to waste our allowance in the morning when Betty’s about to head to work and I’m returning to school for the first day back after the holidays. So we’re both wearing two bathrobes each, to keep frostbite at bay, and Dumbledore is wearing the delightful wizard’s robes Betty knitted him for Christmas. I don’t think he fully appreciates the effort she went through to fashion a Gryffindor badge out of yarn scraps, which is rude, but he is a dog so I suppose we shall let him off the hook on this occasion.
“Looking forward to getting back to school, kid?” Betty asks completely earnestly and without a trace of sarcasm. Does she truly have no idea how traumatic the school system has become? No, because she’s a hundred years old and thinks an Instagram is a unit of measurement used by supermodels when purchasing cocaine.
“I guess,” I say, because I do not have the time nor the energy to explain, yet again, why education is a cruel and unusual punishment for being born. “Although I’ve loved having so much free time to work on my script.”
And it’s true. Having three weeks off school to polish my screenplay to within an inch of its life – with the help of my new agent [!!] no less – has been the stuff of dreams. I almost can’t believe that I actually have to go back to Edgewood and complete my senior year. For a hot minute it actually started to feel like I was a real screenwriter, and polishing scripts was my new normal.
One day, O’Neill. One day.
“You know, you’re going to have to let me read it at some point,” Betty says, scraping cheap sausages around a frying pan. They splutter aggressively, protesting their own low pork content. “You go on and on and on about your script and your agent and how you’re essentially Quentin Tarantino but with better boobs, and yet will you let your dear old grandma read the damn thing? Will you heck.”
[Guys, there is no way I’m letting her read it. My screenplay – a comedic, gender-swapped Pretty Woman with a myriad of distasteful sex jokes – is a whole other level of inappropriate. And no matter how filthy the old bird is, and no matter how much she would find the whole thing hysterical I do have some boundaries. I know. It was a shock to me too.]
A billow of steam erupts from the waffle iron. The kettle whistles just as I’m done scooping instant coffee and sugar into big purple mugs. I pour, Betty scrapes. We’re a noisy but well-oiled machine. A little too well-oiled in Betty’s case. While a good layer of insulation is generally a good thing for an older lady, sky-high cholesterol not so much. So she’s supposed to be cleaning up her diet, but the token punnet of grapes we bought to appease her fascist of a doctor is molding happily on the windowsill.
Nonetheless, I don’t want her to die or anything, so I spoon a tiny bit less sugar into her mug than usual. New year, new Betty, and all that crap. I top it up with enough creamer that she hopefully won’t notice.
But the old bat takes one swig and spits it dramatically all over Dumbledore. His Gryffindor robes are splattered with subpar coffee. He blinks in confusion, then raises a tiny little leg like he’s high-fiving the air.
Betty turns to me, aghast. “What is this crap? I raised you better than this.”
Honestly, there must be three fewer granules of sugar than normal. It’s like a poor-man’s Princess and the Pea reboot.
“Calm down, Hans Christian Andersen,” I retort. “I’ll get you more sugar.”
She just stares blankly at me. “Hans Christian who?”
See? Education is a total and utter waste of everyone’s time.
2.55 p.m.
The singular upside of the whole sex scandal fandango is the absurd surge in subscribers to Bitches Bite Back – specifically our weird, poorly directed sketch comedy. We’re a few hundred YouTube fans shy of breaking 10,000, which is all kinds of bonkers.
Today’s sketch, penned by yours truly, is about an army of sex dolls who become self-aware and seek revenge on their creepy owner, who not only uses them for some Messed Up sexual shit, but also likes to pretend they are his maids, and beats them when they do not adequately complete household chores. Many of his lines are direct quotes from famous politicians, actors and sportspeople who’ve been accused of abuse. He is an amalgam of all the horrible men in the world, and deliberately nameless and faceless in a way that implies he could be anyone. [Social commentary with dirty jokes = my MO.]
Weirdly, no dudes were up for the challenge of playing said Creepy Owner, so I have carefully constructed an understudy out of two trash cans and a trenchcoat.
This time, I’ve written a speaking part in the sketch for our new
We’ve also managed to recruit most of the girls from theater to play crazed sex dolls, and freshman Fern Fournier – a ridiculously cool French-Japanese girl with awesome stage makeup skills – has agreed to give everyone a Crazed Sex Doll makeover. I did try going to the Mac counter in town and asking if they’d be up for the challenge, but apparently Crazed Sex Doll, while a name of one of their overpriced lipsticks2, is not a makeover style they’re familiar with.
So now there are twelve of us on the makeshift set in Ajita’s basement, thanks to the general awesomeness of Ajita’s parents, who not only had a ramp installed so Meg had a hassle-free way of visiting, but who also provided coffee in an industrial-sized vat suitable to power a dozen hellbent sex dolls.
Fern has set up a mini makeup station beside the pool table, and is currently working her magic on Meg – who also loves makeup, and is chattering excitedly about contour palettes. The rest of the girls are changing into matching costumes we cobbled together from the drama department at school.
The only downside of no longer being friends with Danny is the fact he was the sole provider of fancy filming equipment. Ajita managed to find some basic tripods and collapsible reflectors online, but we’re sorely missing the expensive camera and array of microphones. So we’re just having to make do with Ajita’s parents’ DSLR.
Ajita and I are in the process of moving the sofa to make room for an army of sex dolls to assemble. [Another one of my strange sentences that doesn’t give off a great impression if you take it out of context.] From the corner of the room Meg’s girly giggle cuts through the sound of eight sex dolls running lines. Ajita shoots a weird look over to where Meg and Fern are fawning over a new shade of lipstick, then fluffs a cushion slightly aggressively.
“You okay?” I ask as quietly as I can – which is easier said than done when you have the voice of a malfunctioning foghorn.
Jaw gritted, she rearranges a fallen cushion, not meeting my eye. I’m pretty sure if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear the sound of Ajita grinding her teeth down into bleeding stumps. [That was an unnecessarily brutal mental image.] “Yeah. It’s just . . . I don’t know, dude. You could’ve asked me before you wrote Meg such a big part. It’s meant to be our joint sketch show, you know?”
This is not what I was expecting. Like, at all. And to be honest, it kind of rubs me the wrong way. Why would I need to ask her permission to have Meg in a sketch with us? I’ve always written all the material for our skits. Writing isn’t her thing, and she’s never shown an interest in it before.
This level of pettiness is pretty out of character for her, and I’m on the brink of calling her out when something stops me. Something oddly guilt-shaped. Because after everything that Ajita forgave last semester – after I accidentally outed her to the entire world and she welcomed me back into her life with open arms – I have no right to feel mad at her over a tiny niggle like this. So instead of prodding her for an explanation, I say, “Okay. Sorry. Next time, I’ll ask you first.”
At this point Meg comes over to where we’re sitting, pops the brakes on her wheelchair, and asks, “Do I look okay?”
Ajita paints a falsely bright smile on her face, worlds away from the agitated expression of three seconds ago. “Do sex dolls have regional accents?” She says it with the exact inflection of “Is the Pope a Catholic?” as though phrasing a rhetorical question, except in this instance, there is no clear answer.
6.04 p.m.
Just as we’re packing up after a successful afternoon of shooting, Meg wheels over to me, tinfoil choker round her neck and giant grin spreading from ear to ear. I look up from the lens I’m trying to force into the wrong case and return the smile. This was her acting debut and judging by the look on her face she’s hooked.
“Izzy!” she exclaims, breathless with excitement. “This was so, so fun. Thank you so much for letting me be in a sketch!” Her makeup still looks flawless; pillar-box red is so her color.
“Dude, you’re so welcome,” I say. “You were awesome. Like, was this really the first time you’ve ever acted? Or are you actually in a world-famous improv troupe and just wanted to hustle us?” I mean it too. Meg’s got a natural knack for nuance and didn’t overact at any point, which a lot of beginners do. I’m totally writing her a bigger part in the next sketch. With Ajita’s blessing of course.
Speaking of the devil, Ajita re-enters the room from the top of the stairs, clutching half a dozen cans of soda awkwardly to her chest. She tiptoes down the stairs one at a time, like she’s sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack and trying not to wake her parents, and looks more terrified of dropping the soda cans than if they were live grenades. Reaching the middle of the room five decades later, she lays most of them down on the sofa like newborn infants, then tosses one to me. I catch it and hand it to Meg, then catch the subsequent can she hurls my way. We both crack them open simultaneously with an aggressive puh-tsshhhhh, i.e. the most satisfying sound in the world. [With the possible exception of bubble wrap and/or sexual moans. Not that the two are in any way related. Or, you know, they might be. I don’t know your fetishes.]
Ajita taps the lid of her own can with purple-painted nails. “What’re you guys talking about? My impeccable camera skills? Which, BTW, are literally of an Emmy standard at this point.”
“Something like that,” I say.
“Are we really just going to skip over Ajita saying BTW out loud?” Meg snorts, shooting Ajita a playful look. “We all know how inaccurate her spoken text slang can be.”
I freeze for a second. Will this rub Ajita the wrong way? I mean, she didn’t even seem to want Meg here in the first place. But I need not have worried.
“Whatever,” Ajita says, swigging her grape soda. “I still maintain that LMAO should be pronounced luh-mao, like a dish at a Chinese restaurant. Yes, good evening, waiter, I’ll have the pork luh-mao with a side of egg-fried rice, please. That kind of thing.”
Meg giggles so hard her shoulders start to shake, and Ajita looks extremely pleased with herself, licking grape soda off her lips with her freakishly long tongue, which has the potential to look seductive and yet actually just looks like a slippery pink snake is climbing out of her mouth and ravishing her face.
Tuesday 3 January
8.25 a.m.
Waiting for Ajita at our usual halfway-to-school meeting point is borderline life-threatening, on account of the fact it’s colder than the dark side of the moon. I don’t even know if the dark side of the moon is particularly cold, but I’ve always got standoffish vibes from the moon in general, so let’s just assume its temperature is appropriately frosty.
When she eventually arrives, Ajita is all wrapped up in that Rory-Gilmore-meets-Paddington-Bear duffel coat of hers. Without even saying hello, she greets me with an eloquent, “What the fuck is even the point of it being this fucking cold if it’s not going to fucking snow?”