First published in Great Britain in 2018

by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2018 Laura Steven

First e-book edition 2018

ISBN 978 1 4052 8844 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1823 3

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, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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To Toria and Lucy, a.k.a. the Coven – because in

the immortal words of Kelly Clarkson, my life

would suck without you

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Hello

Tuesday 13 September

Wednesday 14 September

Thursday 15 September

Friday 16 September

Saturday 17 September

Sunday 18 September

Monday 19 September

Tuesday 20 September

Wednesday 21 September

Thursday 22 September

Monday 26 September

Tuesday 27 September

Wednesday 28 September

Thursday 29 September

Friday 30 September

Monday 3 October

Tuesday 4 October

Wednesday 5 October

Thursday 6 October

Friday 7 October

Saturday 8 October

Sunday 10 October

Monday 11 October

Friday 15 October

Old White Men Love It When You Slut-shame

The Friend Zone is as Real as Narnia

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Back series promotional page

Hello

Look, you probably bought this book because you read the blurb about how I’m an impoverished orphan and also at the heart of a national slut-shaming scandal, and you thought, Oh great, this is just the kind of heart-wrenching tale I need to feel better about my own life, but seriously, you have to relax. I am not some pitiful Oliver-Twist-meets-Kim-Kardashian-type figure. If you’re seeking a nice cathartic cry, I’m not your girl. May I recommend binge-watching some sort of medical drama for the high caliber of second-hand devastation you’re looking for.

Either that or you saw the nudes, which, y’know. Most people have. My lopsided boobs have received more press attention than your average international epidemic, which I bet the super-virus population is furious about. All that hard work attempting to destroy the human race gone unnoticed.

In all seriousness, I don’t know why my publisher asked me to write this book, because apart from that one time I accidentally ate a pot brownie and broke into the old folks’ home, my life really hasn’t been all that interesting. But we’ll get to that in due course. It’s not actually relevant to the sex scandal or anything, but it is hilarious on a fairly profound level.

I know, I know, it’s highly confusing that I’m referencing the fact this is a book you bought – unless you pirated it, in which case joke’s on you because this PDF is set to self-destruct in forty-five seconds – but the reason is that I am incredibly meta and pretentious, and I wanted to make your brain hurt like it did when you watched Inception for the first time.

First, I guess I better explain how I got to this point: eighteen and internationally reviled. But instead of wasting time typing it all up for you, what I’m going to do is copy-paste entries from my blog so you can catch up, and add valuable retrospective insights in square brackets. By my calculations this should take up at least ninety-five percent of the manuscript, which is a big win for me because it means significantly less work on my part. When in doubt, always do the least amount of work possible, in order to preserve energy for important things like laughing and sex.

Don’t look at me like that. This is a book about a sex scandal: did you really expect me to be a nun and/or the Virgin Mary?

Tuesday 13 September

7.01 a.m.

Honestly, I swear I’m the only person in the universe who realizes how pointless life is. People act like mere existence is some beautiful gift, completely overlooking the fact that said existence is nothing but the result of a freak accident that occurred a cool 13.7 billion years ago.

Not to rain on the parade or anything, but we’re all doomed to a limited number of sun orbits before we finally kick the bucket and end up in the same infinite hell as Donald Trump and Adolf Hitler. Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but what we do between now and then barely seems worth getting out of bed for.

Maybe I’m being melodramatic. I just really hate getting out of bed.

2.47 p.m.

Just had a career counseling session with Mr Rosenqvist, who is Swedish and very flamboyant. Like Brüno but less subtle. Actually I think Brüno was Swiss or Austrian or something, but whatever. The point is I can’t look at Mr Rosenqvist without seeing Sacha Baron Cohen in a blond wig.

The dude tries really, really hard to make sure everyone FOLLOWS THEIR DREAMS [he is very shouty, hence the caps lock] and TAKES THE PATH LEAST TRAVELED and STOPS INJECTING HEROIN ON WEEKENDS. [I hilariously added that last one myself. To clarify: nobody at Edgewood High is in the habit of injecting heroin on such a regular basis that it would be of concern to our career counselor. In fact, if you are a lawyer who’s reading this, please ignore every such allegation I make throughout this manuscript, because I really don’t need to add a libel suit to my spectacular list of problems.]

We’re sitting in Rosenqvist’s minuscule, windowless office, which I’m pretty sure is just a repurposed broom closet, if the lingering scent of carpet cleaner is anything to go by. He sits behind a tiny desk that would be more suitable for a Borrower. There are filing cabinets everywhere, containing folders on every single student in the entire school. I would imagine there’s probably some sort of electronic database which could replace this archaic system, but Bible Belt schools really love to do things the Old-fashioned Way™.

So he’s all: “Miss O’Neill, have you given mach thought to vat you vould like to study ven you go to college next fall?”

[I’m going to stop trying to type in dialect now as I don’t want to appear racist. If you can even be racist to white Scandinavian men, which I’m not sure you can be.]

Breathing steadily through my mouth in a bid to prevent the bleach smell from burning away my nostril hair, I’m all: “Um, no, sir, I was thinking I might do a bit of traveling, you know, see the world and such.”

And, to be fair, his subsequent line of questioning regarding my economic situation is probably quite legitimate, given that my grandma and I currently require more financial support than the US Army.

“So do you have money saved up to fund your flights at least?” he asks, completely unperturbed by the decades-old feather duster that’s just taken a nosedive from the top shelf behind him. As an aspiring comedian and all-round idiot, it’s very challenging for me to refrain from scoring the duster according to Olympic diving standards. 8.9 for difficulty, etc.

But back to the issue at hand: my negative bank balance. “No, sir, for I am eighteen and unemployed.”

Patiently moving the feather duster to a more secure location in his desk drawer, he shoots me a sympathetic look. A waft of moldy apple stench floats out of the open drawer, and he hastily slams it shut again. This place must violate at least a dozen health codes. Is that the patter of tiny mouse feet I hear?

“I see. And have you tried to find a job?”

“Good God, that’s brilliant!” I gasp, faux-astounded. “I had not previously considered this course of action! Have you ever considered becoming a career counselor?”

In all seriousness, this is a sore point. For the third time this year, I just handed out my résumé to every retailer, restaurant and hotel in town. But there are too few jobs and too many people, and I’m never top of the pile.

He sighs. “I know it’s stating the obvious. But, well . . . have you?”

Grinding my teeth in mild irritation, I sigh back. “Yessir, but the problem is, even the most basic entry-level jobs now require at least three years’ experience, a degree in astrophysics and two Super Bowl trophies to even be considered for an interview. Unfortunately, due to my below-average IQ and complete lack of athletic prowess, I am thus fundamentally unemployable.”

So ultimately we both agree that jet-setting to South Africa to volunteer in an elephant sanctuary, while very noble and selfless, is not a viable option at present.

Rifling through my shockingly empty file, Mr Rosenqvist then tries another tactic. “What subjects do you most enjoy in school?” He tries to disguise the flinch as he spots my grade point average.

I think about this for a while, tugging at a loose thread on the cushioned metal chair I’m perched on. “Not math because I’m not a sociopath.”

He laughs his merry Swedish laugh.

“Or science. See above.”

Another endearing chuckle.

As a feminist I feel immediately guilty because everyone is trying to encourage girls into STEM subjects now, but to be honest I’m not dedicated enough to the Vagenda to force myself to become a computer programmer. Sometimes you have to pick your battles.

The thing is, I know exactly what career I’d like to pursue, but I’m kinda scared to vocalize it. Most career counselors are interested in one thing and one thing only: getting you into college. Schools are rated higher according to the percentage of alumni who go on to get a college education, and thus career guidance is dished out with this in mind. If the Ivy Leagues don’t teach it, it’s not worth doing. And, believe it or not, the Ivy Leagues do not teach comedy.

Plus, the chances of success in my dream job are not high. Especially for a girl like me.

Rosenqvist continues his gentle coaxing. “What about English?”

Nodding noncommittally, I say, “I like English, especially the creative writing components. And drama.” Before I can talk myself out of it, I add, “Sometimes I write and perform sketches with my friends. You know, just for fun. It’s not serious or anything.” Judging by the tingling heat in my cheeks, I’ve flushed bright red.

But despite my pathetic trailing off, he loves this development. His little blond-gray mustache jumps around his face like a ferret stuck in a combustion engine.

“FANTASTIC! FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS, MISS O’NEILL!” [Told you.]

So now, despite the fact that it’s not exactly a reliable career path, I have a backpack stuffed full of information on improvization troupes and drama school and theaters that accept script submissions. I’m actually pretty grateful to Rosenqvist for not immediately dismissing my unconventional career ambitions, as so many teachers have before.

He even told me about his friend who does reasonably priced headshots for high-school students. Granted, this sounds incredibly dodgy, but I am giving him the benefit of the doubt here because I would be quite upset to discover Mr Rosenqvist was earning commission by referring his students to a pedophilic photographer as a side hustle.

5.04 p.m.

On Mr Rosenqvist’s jolly recommendation, I find myself voluntarily staying behind after school to talk to Mrs Crannon, our drama teacher, about my career. Like, I am actually spending more time on campus than is absolutely necessary. Of my own free will. This is clear, unequivocal evidence that mind control is real, and that my lovely, albeit shouty, Scandinavian career advisor is in fact some sort of telepathic Dark Lord. It’s the only explanation. Well, not the only explanation. For those who do not believe in the supernatural, it is of course possible that Rosenqvist performed some sort of lobotomy on me during our session.

[For all my cynicism and wit, I do actually genuinely care about writing. But, as much as I would love to be, I’m not clever in the traditional bookish way – more in the “watches a lot of movies” and “is very talented at taking the piss out of everything” way. Which means academia is not exactly my preferred environment, due to the lack of emphasis on movies, and the general dissuasion of piss-taking. It’s almost like teachers don’t want to be told their subject of expertise is a cruel and unusual punishment for being born. Weird.]

Anyway, Mrs Crannon’s office is up a random back staircase behind the theater. I traipse up there once the final bell has rung and all other sound-of-mind students have evacuated the premises. I’m armed with a notepad, a sample script, and a metric crap-ton of peanut butter cups, since I assume talking to teachers in your spare time is much like getting a tattoo – you have to keep your blood sugar consistently high in order to survive the pain without passing out.

Mrs Crannon is a lovely woman. She dresses in purple glasses and Birkenstocks and crazy tunics, and veers toward the eccentric side of the personality scale. And she always gives me great parts in school plays because I’m loud enough that the tech department doesn’t need to supply a microphone. I’m currently playing Daisy in The Great Gatsby, for example, despite not being elegant or glamorous in the slightest.

I’ve always liked Mrs Crannon, but in a Stockholm Syndrome sort of way. I mean, do any of us really like our teachers? These are the important philosophical questions, people.

When I walk in, she’s sitting behind a desk piled high with playbooks, coffee mugs and a massive beige computer from the nineties [good old budget cuts]. The whole room smells of dusty stage costumes and stale hairspray. My favorite smell in the world.

“Izzy! It’s lovely to see you outside of rehearsals for once.”

She ushers me in and I take a seat on quite literally the most uncomfortable plastic chair I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. It is the Iron Maiden of the chair world. I’m not exaggerating.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to give off the pleasant expression of someone who is not in severe physical discomfort at the hands of a chair-come-torture-device. “I brought peanut butter cups to compensate for the fact I’m keeping you from getting home to Mr Crannon.”

“Actually, I have a Mrs Crannon.” She grins, waggling her left hand at me. Her engagement ring has a Dwayne Johnson of a diamond on it, and an elaborate wedding band sits next to it. “I’m gay. And married. Which, as a combination, is apparently difficult for a lot of the population to comprehend.”

“Oh! Awesome. But let me get this straight.” [Or should it be “let me get this gay”? Honestly, what a minefield.] “You’re both called Mrs Crannon? Does that not get confusing?”

She laughs, cracking heartily into the packet of peanut butter cups I’ve plonked in front of her. “Yes, in hindsight we probably should’ve kept our own names. But I had to do something to keep my traditional Catholic parents happy.”

I grin. “Aren’t you tempted to write some sort of farcical sketch about two wives with the exact same name?”

Mrs Crannon smiles warmly. “Which leads us nicely onto your writing. Mr Rosenqvist told me you’ve been writing your own scripts? That’s great! Tell me more about that.” She leans back in her chair [a delightful padded malarkey, you’ll be pleased to know, if you’re at all concerned about the well-being of my drama teacher’s backside].

Suddenly I feel a little embarrassed, mainly because I can tell I’m expected to hold a normal adulty conversation at this point, not one that’s peppered with inappropriate gags and self-deprecating humor. And I’ve sort of forgotten how to do that.

Mumbling idiotically about Nora Ephron, I reach into my satchel, which is decorated with an assortment of pins and badges to give the illusion that I am halfway cool, and pull out the sample screenplay I brought along. It’s a feature-length film I wrote over the summer. The logline [i.e. a one-sentence pitch] is this: a broke male sex worker falls for a career-obsessed client with commitment issues. Basically, it’s an updated Pretty Woman that challenges gender stereotypes while also telling an impressive array of sex jokes. [Be honest. You would so see this movie.]

“You’ve already written an entire screenplay?” Mrs Crannon gapes at me, clapping her hands together like a performing monkey. “Izzy, that’s fantastic! So many aspiring screenwriters struggle to even finish one script, and they’re professionals who’ve been to film school. When I was a working theater director I used to despair of writers who seemed incapable of seeing an idea through to the end. You should be very proud of yourself. Writing ‘fade out’ is quite the accomplishment.”

“Really?”

“Really!” She takes the script from me, examining the professional formatting and neatly typed title page. [My best friend Danny pirated the proper software for me on account of my severe brokeness. Don’t tell the internet police. Or, you know, the actual police.] “I’d love to take it home with me to read. Can I?”

This show of unbelievable support catches me way off guard. “You’d do that? Spend your own free time reading my work?”

“Of course I would!” She crams another peanut butter cup in her mouth, tossing the paper in the overflowing trash can behind her. It’s full of empty candy wrappers and soda cans. Obviously she is just as nutrition-conscious as me, which is precisely not at all. “I know how talented you are through working with you on school plays. You have me in stitches with your clever ad libs and witty improv.”

I blush fiercely. Again. “Thank you. It irritates the living hell out of most people.”

“Well, most people aren’t budding comic writers in the making. Have you given much thought to what you’d like to do after leaving school? College? Internships? If you wanted to do both, USC is incredible for screenwriting – Spielberg is an alum – and you could intern during spring break and summer vacation while you’re in LA. Best of both worlds.”

I fidget with the zipper on the fake leather jacket I picked up at a thrift store last fall. This is the part I dread: coming clean about my financial situation. For the second time this afternoon. It shouldn’t be a big deal, and in day-to-day life it doesn’t bother me that much, but now that it’s actually having an impact on my future decisions, it’s kind of uncomfortable to discuss.

But like I say, Mrs Crannon is good people. So I tell her the truth. “Actually, I’m not sure I can afford college. I figured I’d just get a job here to support me and my grandma, and write in my spare time. Film a few shorts if I can scrape together the cash.”

She frowns. The sound of her computer putting itself to sleep whirs through the quiet room. Even technology has zero interest in school after the final bell. “Have you looked into loans? For college, I mean.” Figures that’d be her next question.

“Kind of. But the idea of being in that much debt scares the crap out of me. Especially with no parents to fall back on.”

She rolls up the purple sleeves of her wild tunic, revealing a set of black rosary beads triple tied around her wrist. Another peanut butter cup bites the dust. She’s plowing through them with such velocity I can only be impressed. If consuming chocolate was an Olympic sport, Crannon would be on the podium for sure. She’s practically Simone Biles at this point.

“I get it,” she says, in a way that entirely suggests she doesn’t get it at all. “I do. But you have to think of it as an investment. In yourself, in your future. It’s so cliché, and I know you’ll have already heard it all with Rosenqvist, but you’re young, you’re bright, you’re ambitious. You have to go for it.”

I nod, but I feel a little deflated. It always leaves me feeling kinda empty when people preach “follow your dreams” to those with “do what you gotta do” kind of lives, even though I know their hearts are in the right place. Maybe being reckless and risk-taking is an option for them, but for me it just isn’t.

Mrs Crannon senses the shift in mood, even though I try my best to hide it from her. Showing vulnerability is about as appealing to me as sticking my face into a bucket of mealworms. But she picks up on it nonetheless.

Wiping a smear of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, she says, “I’ll help you in whatever way I can, Izzy. Dig out old contacts, keep an eye out for paid internships, recommend some places to submit your work to while you’re still a high-school student. USC would be great, but traditional college education isn’t the only way into the industry.” She smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

When I leave twenty minutes later, stuffed full of Reese’s and silently praying Mrs Crannon actually enjoys my screenplay after all that hyperbolic encouragement, I realize that I don’t just like her in a Stockholm Syndrome way. I like her in a human way.

So I do have a heart. Who knew?

7.58 p.m.

“And so, it transpires, I do in fact possess an organ of the cardiovascular variety,” I finish, triumphant.

I’m chilling at the diner with Ajita and Danny, my two best friends in the world. We have a mutual love of nachos and making fun of everything.

Martha’s Diner is super old school, with neon signs and jukeboxes and booths and checkered tiles. It’s massively overpriced and you have to take out a small mortgage to afford a burger, but their fries have been cooked at least eighteen times and are thus the most delicious substance on earth. Honestly, you should’ve seen the hype all over town when Martha’s opened. Largely from those people who post Marilyn Monroe quotes on social media and go on about how much they wish they were born in the 1950s. Like, calm down. We still have milkshakes and racism.

Incidentally, Martha’s is also where my grandmother Betty begrudgingly moonlights as a pancake chef. I mean, it’s not exactly moonlighting when it’s her only job. But it sounds more glamorous if you say it that way. In reality she works twelve-hour shifts on bunion-riddled feet and is in almost constant pain because of it, but there’s just no way she can afford to retire. That’s why I can’t go to college. Not just because of the tuition fees, but because I need to stay in my hometown and work my damn ass off to give her the rest she deserves after so many years of hard graft. It’s my turn to support her for once.

Anyway, I’ve just filled my pals in on my chat with Mrs Crannon, and explained how I’m not as dead in the soul department as previously thought.

“Interesting hypothesis, but I reject it unequivocally,” Ajita replies, tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear and slurping her candy apple milkshake. The henna on her hands is beginning to fade after her cousin’s wedding last month. “I mean, it’s pretty off-brand for you to care about people. In fact, short of an alien parasite feasting on your brain, I’m not convinced you have the capacity to like more than three individuals at any given time, and those slots are already filled by me, Danny and Betty.”

“Valid point,” I concede. Smelling burnt pancake batter, I peer past the server station into the massive chrome kitchen, trying to see if Betty’s knocking around. There’s no sign of her. She’s probably swigging from her hip flask out back while telling dirty jokes to the naive dishwasher. [To clarify, the dishwasher is a person. Not an appliance. My grandma may be nuts, but even she doesn’t engage kitchenware in conversation.]

“That’s cool of Crannon to read your script, though,” Danny says, stirring his salted-caramel banana milkshake with three jumbo straws. He’s wearing a grubby Pokémon T-shirt I got him for his twelfth birthday, which still fits due to his scarily low BMI. “She didn’t have to do that.”

I nod enthusiastically. “Right? And she was so complimentary. She even likes it when I spontaneously ad lib during rehearsals. I did attempt to show some self-awareness and reference the fact it renders most people homicidal, but she was adamant. She genuinely likes my banter.”

“Clearly the woman needs to be sectioned under the mental health act,” Ajita points out helpfully. I flick a blob of whipped cream at her face. It lands on her nose and she licks it off with her freakishly long tongue. She’s Nepali and about three feet tall, but her tongue is like that of a St Bernard. If I spilled my entire milkshake on the floor, for example, she could just vacuum it right up with her tongue without even bending down. It’s truly remarkable.

“Well, I think Izzy’s funny,” Danny mumbles, disappearing under his unruly platform of matted hair.

Aghast, Ajita and I exchange looks. Danny has literally never complimented me at any point in his life. Even when I was five years old and my parents had just died, ours was a friendship built on good-natured antagonism.

“To look at?” Ajita suggests, mentally flailing for an explanation.

“Shut up,” he says, not looking at either of us. “I’ll go pay for these milkshakes.”

And then he slides out of the booth and walks up to the cash register, where a large-of-breast freshman greets him with as much enthusiasm as she can muster for minimum wage.

“What on earth was that about?” I whisper to Ajita, too shocked to crack a joke. “He thinks I’m funny ? What’s next – he thinks I’m also a fundamentally decent human being?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” she says hastily. “But wait, he’s paying for the milkshakes? Danny. Buying us things. Why? Has he been hustling us this whole time? Is he the Secret Millionaire? I think the last thing he bought me was a box of tampons, and that was just his pass-agg way of telling me I was overreacting during an argument.”

Having forked over the moollah, Danny walks back across to the booth, tucking his wallet back into his jeans pocket and looking rather pleased with himself. The Pikachu on his shirt smirks obnoxiously as he almost collides with a waitress carrying three club sandwiches. She shoots him a dirty look, but his gaze is fixed so intently on me that he barely notices. Then he smiles this weird, bashful smile I’ve never seen before. Smiles. Danny. I mean, really.

What, pray tell, the fuck?

Wednesday 14 September

7.41 a.m.

The universe is weird. My parents were perfectly healthy and happy when their car was hit by a drunk truck driver [and obviously the truck too, not just the driver himself – that probably would’ve ended differently]. Boom, dead in an instant. But my grandmother, Betty, the woman who raised me from that day forth, is repeatedly told by doctors that she’s going to die soon, on account of her significant BMI. And yet she’s still kicking ass and taking names.

Anyway, even though the doctor repeatedly tells her she has to cut down on fat/sugar/carbs/basically everything fun, Betty makes French toast for breakfast this morning. She’s absolutely incredible at it, due to making delicious batter-based goods 807 times a day at the diner. Our tiny kitchen, full of ancient fittings so retro they’re now back in vogue, smells of sweet cinnamon and maple bacon. The old radio is playing a tacky jingle-based advertisement in the corner.

“What’s on at school today, kid?” Betty practically whistles, ignoring the fact I’m feeding Dumbledore under the table. [Dumbledore is our dachshund, by the way. I’m not hiding the ghost of the world’s most powerful wizard in my kitchen.]

“Oh, the usual. Feigning interest in the periodic table. Pretending to know what a tectonic plate is. Trying and failing to be excused from gym class for the thousandth time this semester.” I stir sugar into the two cups of coffee perched on the batter-splattered counter [try saying that five times without giving yourself a tongue injury].

This is our morning routine: she makes breakfast, I make coffee, and we chat inanely about our upcoming days. It’s been this way as long as I can remember.

“Would you like me to write a note?” she asks. “I’ll explain how your parents just died and you’re having a hard time.”

I snort. “Considering that was thirteen years ago, I’m not so sure they’ll buy it.”

“Besides,” I continue, “a couple of teachers have actually been pretty cool about my career potential lately. That’s kinda motivating me to show up to class a little more often, even if it’s just to show them I care about my future.”

We sit down at our miniature wooden table, tucking into stacks of French toast which slightly resemble the leaning tower of Pisa. She listens intently as I tell her all about my meeting with Mr Rosenqvist yesterday, and about how delightfully Swedish he is, and also about his excitement re my sketches, which I have categorically told Betty not to watch and yet she does anyway. Then I brief her about the subsequent awesome session with Mrs Crannon, and about how the enthusiasm from them both has made me feel slightly more optimistic about my strange brand of social commentary combined with dozens of dirty jokes per page.

“They’re right to be excited, kiddo,” she agrees. “You’re hilarious. But how come you’ve never mentioned this screenplay of yours?”

“I guess I was just embarrassed,” I admit. “Like, what does some random teenager from the middle of nowhere know about writing movies? I feel like a fraud.”

I almost confide in her about my fears of sticking out like a sore thumb in New York or Hollywood, if I ever make it that far, but I don’t want her to feel bad or anything. She knows deep down I don’t care about our lack of money, and it’s not like I blame her for our predicament. But if she knew it was a big obstacle in my career path, she’d only end up feeling guilty. And that’s the last thing in the world I want.

“If your mom were here, she’d say . . .” Betty trails off, blinking fiercely. She almost never manages to finish a sentence about my mom. As predicted, she fixes a neutral expression back onto her face, and I let it slide. “You shouldn’t feel like a fraud. Everyone starts somewhere, right?”

Right. But for most successful people, somewhere isn’t here.

“Maybe we could look at buying you another camera,” Betty suggests, slurping her milky coffee through a straw. “I’ve been working so many doubles at the diner lately that I’m not actually behind on rent for once. You may notice, for example, that the bacon we’re currently consuming is actually within its use-by date. We are practically living in the lap of luxury here. So I’m sure I could scrape together the cents for a secondhand DSLR and a lens or two. You know, if you want.”

The suggestion sends a pang through my chest. Earlier this year, when I’d begun to realize how much I wanted to make it as a comedian, Betty bought me a nice camera and a light box so I could start up a YouTube channel. I filmed a couple videos, and I loved it. People responded pretty well too. One went vaguely viral. But it was a long, cold winter that stretched all the way into early April, and Martha’s was so quiet there wasn’t enough work for Betty. I ended up having to pawn the camera to cover our gas bill. It sucked, but you do what you have to do.

“Nah, it’s all right,” I say to Betty. “I’m just gonna focus on scripts for a while. All you need for that is a working computer, and if worst comes to worst I can always use the library.” I smile gratefully. “But thank you. I promise I’ll pay you back when I sell out Madison Square Garden with my standup special.”

We chat about my weird brand of comedy for a while longer – I get my wildly inappropriate sense of humor from her. She also tells me about how back when she was a young woman, it was considered unattractive for a woman to tell dirty jokes or do ridiculous impressions of political figures. And how that made her want to do it even more.

Every time I catch myself moping about my general lack of parents, or our dire financial situation, I just remind myself how lucky I am to be raised by such an incredible human who’s always taught me how to laugh, no matter what’s going wrong in my life.

I love my grandma. Especially when watching her feed crispy bacon to a chubby wiener dog and singing her own special renditions of popular nursery rhymes. Today it’s: “Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn’t know where to find them, largely because Little Bo Peep is fucking irresponsible and should not be in charge of livestock.” It’s tough cramming all those extra syllables into the last two lines, but she really makes it work.

8.16 a.m.

Danny meets me at the gates of my housing community so we can walk to school together, as we’ve done every weekday for a decade. I decide to forget all about the weirdness of last night in the diner and write it off as a strange anomaly that will most likely never be repeated.

“Morning,” he chirps, like a cockatoo or something similar, I don’t know. Like most people with better things to do, I’m not that clued up on bird species. And then – THEN! – he hands me a paper coffee cup with steam billowing out the top. “Picked you up a mocha.”

He doesn’t have one for himself. Only for me.

And just like that, any attempt to overlook his sudden and deeply disturbing personality transplant goes out the window.

“Oh. Um, thanks.” As I take the cup from him, my fingertips brush his, and he leaps back so far it’s like I’ve driven an electrode into his groin. His satchel plummets to the ground, and it takes him roughly ninety-eight minutes to pick it back up again, that’s how hard he’s fumbling.

“Don’t mention it,” he grins. As he stands back up, I catch a whiff of new aftershave on the breeze. Another bashful smile before he turns away.

Sorry, but WTF ? Danny and I have been friends since forever, and I’ve never seen him like this before. And we’ve been through a lot together. Especially right after my parents died. While the court was deciding who to grant my custody to, I spent a lot of time over at his house, since his mom is my godmother and all. We played outside in his family’s sprinklers, running around in just our underwear and spraying each other with water from the hosepipes. I remember liking it because nobody could tell I was crying almost constantly.

For a while we all thought I’d end up living with them, since the government had concerns over Betty’s ill health. Let the record show that I’m eternally grateful they chose her instead of the Wells. I mean, they’re amazing people, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t even imagine being with anyone but Betty.

All I’m saying is that if anyone’s gonna pick up on Danny being weird, it’s me. And he’s definitely being weird.

Regardless, the rest of the walk is fairly uneventful. We chat about the geography homework we both struggled to complete without slipping into a comalike state. We discuss plans for tonight – torn between filming a skit or binge-watching Monty Python for the gazillionth time – and speculate about what movies will garner the most Academy Award nominations in a few months’ time.

He’s forgotten to pick up a cardboard sleeve for the coffee and it burns into my palm as we walk, making it impossible to forget. As usual, we meet up with Ajita halfway to school, and she eyes the coffee like it’s a grenade with the pin pulled out. Neither of us address it, but I know she’s thinking exactly what I am:

What’s going on with our best friend?

10.24 a.m.

Geography is, as suspected, a snoozefest of epic proportions. I think if you offered me $500,000 right this second to tell you what it was about, I couldn’t, and that is saying a lot because for half a million dollars I could both go to college and pay to have Donald Trump assassinated. [Apparently this is an illegal thing to say, so it’s important to clarify: I AM JOKING. In fact, it is fair to assume that any legally dubious sentences at any point in this entire manuscript are jokes. I’m not sure if this gets me off the hook or not, but I’m hoping so because otherwise I’m almost certainly going to jail, where I will rot forever because I do not have the patience for a Shawshank-style escape. In fact, without Netflix it’s perfectly possible my general will to live would just evaporate within the week.]

At some point when Mr Richardson is droning on about, well, drones, I make eye contact with Carson Manning, who’s sitting in the next row. He’s a professional class clown so I instantly know I am in trouble because my ability to resist laughter is non-existent.

Carson smirks and holds up his pad of paper, revealing a ballpoint-pen doodle scribbled in the margin of his sparse notes. Immediately I suspect the drawing to be a penis because teenage boys love nothing more than sketching their own genitals, but I’m pleasantly surprised to see a charming caricature of Mr Richardson. Doodle Richardson has giant jowls and a tattoo of an alpaca on his arm. This is funny not because our geography teacher actually has such a tattoo, but because he reminds us at least once every thirty seconds about the time he went trekking in Peru and climbed Machu Picchu.

As expected, I snort with ugly laughter, but Mr Richardson is too busy reminiscing about the alpaca who stole his protein bar to scold me.

Carson looks genuinely pleased with my seal of approval and smiles broadly, tiny dimples setting into his smooth brown skin. The black shirt he’s wearing is tight around his arms and shoulders – he’s the star player on the varsity basketball team and is in tremendous shape – and his blue beanie hat is slightly lopsided.

Even though we haven’t talked much, I feel like I already know Carson. Like, as a person. Is that weird? We have a ton in common – we’ll both do anything for a laugh, and if the rumors are anything to go by, his family isn’t exactly rolling in cash either. In fact, I think I might remember seeing him at the soup kitchen a few years back, when Betty had the shingles and couldn’t work for a bit. [That was a dark time for our dental hygiene. When you’re super broke, toothpaste is the first luxury item to go. Ajita blessedly snuck her tube into school with her so I could do damage control before first period.]

So yeah, Carson Manning. He’s good people. And not exactly terrible to look at.

Interesting development.

11.58 a.m.

On the way to our last period of the morning, Danny, Ajita and I stop by my locker to grab a textbook I dumped there last week and haven’t looked at since. The halls are pretty busy with people shoving their way to different classes, and the general squeak of sneakers on linoleum echoes around.

We reach my locker, and I’m barely paying attention as I enter my combination since I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell’s up with my lifelong pal. But as soon as I open it, something soft and dark red tumbles out and hits the deck. Baffled, I reach down to scoop it up off the floor. It’s a sweater I’ve never seen before, though immediately recognize the embroidered logo on the front. Gryffindor. My Hogwarts house.

“What the hell?” I murmur. “Who put this there? Have I got the wrong locker?”

Then I see the bow ribbon gift tag lying next to my sneakers on the floor. It’s a gift.

Only two people other than me know my locker combination: Danny and Ajita.

Danny shifts his feet and stares at the ground.

Ajita puts two and two together almost as quickly as I do. “Hey, Danny,” she says, a mischievous grin on her face. “Remember that time in fourth grade when you got so excited over the new Harry Potter movie that you vomited all over yourself ?”

Instead of retorting with a quick-fire clap-back like he usually would, Danny goes all weird and bumbly, muttering some solid curse words that’d definitely get him and his entire family thrown out of their church.

Frowning, Ajita nudges his shoulder. “Come on, I was only kidding. Well, I wasn’t because you actually did that. But there’s no need to drop so many f-bombs.”

Danny looks homicidal. He just huffily folds his arms and stares at his feet. Jeez. Where’s his sense of humor gone?

1.25 p.m.

It’s Danny’s turn for a careers session with Rosenqvist this lunchtime, so while he’s off justifying his plan to become a hotshot surgeon, despite his mediocre GPA, Ajita and I take the opportunity to talk through his erratic behavior of late.

[Okay, so now that I’m turning this into a book I know I’m supposed to describe everything in great detail in order for my readers to be able to visualize the scene, but really, it’s a school cafeteria – you all know what they look like and, if you don’t, I really don’t think it’s on me to educate you. It’s loud and plastic and smells like old microwaved cheese.]

Ajita bites into her veggie hot dog and studies me intently. “I have to say it, dude. And I know it’ll make you cringe, and I know you’ll disagree vehemently on account of your fundamental distrust in my judgment, but I think it’s fairly obvious what’s happening here.”

“It is?” My own meat-filled hot dog is slathered with enough hot mustard to kill a small horse. My nostrils sting fierily.

“The guy’s blatantly harboring a newfound crush on you. It’s thrown him way off guard since he’s known you for, like, a million years, but now he’s developing The Feels and is unclear how to proceed.”

I mull this over. “So he just keeps buying me an assortment of beverages and novelty sweaters, and complimenting personality traits he’s previously expressed extreme disgust at, all in the hope that I will somehow fall in love with him in return?”

The sweater sits in my lap like a warm cat, but I feel guilty every time I look at it. Danny and I used to watch Harry Potter movies all the time, whenever I stayed over at his house. Ajita didn’t arrive on the friendship scene until middle school, and in those early days it was just Danny and me against the world. And Harry Potter was our thing. We escaped to Hogwarts whenever we could.

“Look, I never said he was particularly subtle with his tactics,” Ajita says through a mouthful of hot dog. Pieces of bun spray everywhere as she talks. It’s delightful. I wish I’d brought some sort of umbrella or shield-type object. “I just think he’s in trouble in the romance department.”

Before I can express my complete disgust and horror at the situation, an extraordinarily tall girl I don’t recognize plonks her tray down next to Ajita and smiles familiarly. She’s got insanely curly auburn hair and freckled white cheeks.

“Hey, Ajita,” she says cheerily. “Hey, Izzy.”

Pardon me?

“Iz, this is Carlie,” Ajita says, suddenly staring intently at the ravaged remains of her hot dog. I can only assume this ashamed expression translates as: I am so sorry, dearest Izzy, for having people in my life you do not know about, for I understand how rude and inappropriate this is considering we’re meant to be best friends, and I can only endeavor to be a better pal in future, one who keeps you abreast of any and all new friendship developments as and when they unfold, lest I be condemned to an eternity in geography class a.k.a. hell.

You know, something like that.

But really, WTF ? Ajita and I inform each other of every single minor thing that ever happens to us, including but not limited to: bowel movements, disappointing meals, new and freakishly long hairs we find on our bodies. So it’s utterly implausible that she knows mysterious tall and pretty people and just forgets to mention it to me.

[On closer inspection, it is possible I have friend jealousy.]

“Hi, Carlie,” I finally reply, once I’ve gotten over the unspeakable betrayal of the situation.

She smiles, all straight white teeth and naturally pink lips. “Nice to finally meet you.”

FINALLY????

I repeat. WTF ?

“So, Ajita,” she says, spearing some lettuce on her fork and crunching into it loudly. Seriously, she is eating a salad. I’m not kidding. An actual salad. I was not aware this was a thing people did in real life. “Are you looking forward to tennis trials later?”

I absolutely die laughing at this, to the point where I am so hysterical I fear a little bit of fart might slip out.

Both Ajita and Carlie stare at me as though I’m having some kind of seizure. Without, you know, making sure I’m not in any immediate physical danger. All I’m saying is they’re not the sort of people you want around in a potential medical emergency.

Once I finally wipe my tears away, I splutter, “Ajita? Sports? Tennis?? You must be new here.”

“Actually, I am new here,” Carlie replies, popping a cherry tomato in her mouth. A fucking cherry tomato! Can you even imagine!

Ajita clears her throat. “Erm, Iz, I actually . . . I thought I might go and try out. I think I might quite enjoy tennis. Serena Williams makes it look like an excellent thing to do.” A sheepish smile. “Carlie’s the new captain.”

And then they exchange the strangest moment. It’s like I’m not even there, nor is the rest of the cafeteria. They just look straight at each other. [This might not sound weird on the face of it, but think about it. How often do you actually do nothing but LOOK at the person next to you without saying anything? It’s unnecessarily intense for most scenarios.]

I swallow the last mouthful of hot dog and resign myself to the fact my best friend has been replaced by someone who likes sports, of all things, and that I am but a mere distant memory thanks to the sudden arrival of a Victoria’s Secret model into our lives, and that Ajita undoubtedly has absolutely no interest in me or my existence now that she has a new best friend to collude with.

Both of my best friends are behaving way out of character. I always thought I’d know if the alien apocalypse began with those closest to me, but now I’m not so sure.

It really has been a WTF ? kind of day.

3.46 p.m.

I feel a little jittery all afternoon, due to the seismic shifts taking place in my beloved friendship tripod.

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.

What if she’s not just a friend?

How have I never considered this before? Yeah, we’ve gossiped about guys for God knows how long, but looking back . . . is it always just my drama we’re analyzing? Does she ever discuss guys she likes? I’m actually not sure she ever has – at least not in a romantic way. I wrack my mind for the last crush she told me about, but I come up empty. I always thought she was a virgin just because she was waiting for the right guy, but what if there is no right guy?

God, I’m a self-involved mess of a friend. I mean, I’m never going to be a detective, but my lack of observational skills is truly astounding, especially in the context of something so significant in my best friend’s world. What else have I missed?

If Ajita is gay, what’s she going through right now? How long has she known? Is she terrified to come out because of what her family and friends will think? What I’ll think? Of course I would be nothing but proud of her, and happy that she’s embracing her sexuality, and I hope she knows that. But still, it can’t be easy having to guess how people will react. To gauge responses before they even happen.

All I want is to be there for her, but I don’t know how best to do that. I keep thinking about what I would want if the situations were reversed. I’d probably wish she would sit me down and be like, dude, I know what’s going on and it’s fine, I still love you, okay? I’ll keep this a secret for as long as you need me to.

But no matter how close we are, Ajita and I are different people, and I can’t treat her the way I’d want to be treated – I have to treat her how she wants to be treated. It’s an important distinction. What’s best for one person is another person’s worst nightmare. And right now it seems like she’d rather keep this all quiet while she figures it out. You know, if there’s even anything to figure out. I might be reading too much into it, as I have a tendency to do.

Riddle me this, dear reader. How does one ask one’s best friend if they’re gay when said best friend clearly isn’t ready for one to know?

2.45 p.m.

I’m writing this post in incognito mode from computing class because I am a fearless rebel who cannot be tamed. Usually I would wait until I got home and was safely in my cardboard-box-sized bedroom with a small mountain of peanut butter cups, but this is a legitimate emergency.

Spoke to Danny at lunch. It’s true. He’s in love with me. Which is catastrophic on a number of levels. The conversation went like this:

Me: Dude, what’s going on? You’ve been so weird lately. Danny: What? No.

Me: Danny.

Danny: It just bugs me when you and Ajita gossip about guys all the time.

Me: Ajita and I have gossiped about guys since the age of eleven. It’s never bothered you before.

Danny: *long silence while blushing*

Me: *reciprocates long silence because of aversion to conflict* Danny: Well, it bothers me now.

Me: Why?

Danny: I don’t know.

Now, I know you may think this doesn’t sound like your average declaration of love, and yes, while I was typing out the exchange I began to wonder whether I’d misunderstood the whole situation, and perhaps I am simply an incredible narcissist, but I’m sticking to my guns. He’s in love with me. Let’s examine the evidence.

Article A: When I confronted him about being weird, he replied defensively at the speed of light. Which means he pre-empted the question. Which means he knows he’s being weird. And then when I applied the tiniest little bit more pressure, he folded like a poker player with a pair of twos. Trust me, I am fluent in Danny. This means he is hiding something.

Article B: He blushed. Danny has never blushed in his life. In fact due to his immense paleness, I have kind of been operating under the assumption that his blood is colorless, like IV fluid.

Article C: He said, “I don’t know.” Let me tell you, Danny is the most opinionated son of a preacher man on the planet. Possibly in our entire solar system. So for him to utter the words “I don’t know” is utterly implausible. Of course he knows. He just doesn’t want to say it.

I’m not sure how I feel about this development. I think at the moment I’m mainly sad because anything that jeopardizes our friendship is not okay, and everyone knows unrequited love is the cancer of friendship circles. And I do not even a little bit love him back. I don’t think. I mean, I love him, like an annoying cousin or particularly needy hamster, but I am not in love with him. I don’t think.

Or maybe I am in love with Danny? Maybe I’m just missing the signs. Maybe the fact he often makes me feel queasy when he burps the national anthem is not a symptom of disgust, but deeply rooted infatuation. Maybe the fact we’re so comfortable around each other, to the extent where I often FaceTime him from the toilet, is actually a sign we’re soulmates. It’s not exactly how I imagined my first great romance would unfold, but is it really realistic to expect an epic Notebook-style love story in this day and age?

How doth one know that one doth be in love? [I’m unconvinced by the accuracy of my “doth” usage in this sentence, but am leaving it in for authenticity.]

9.16 p.m.

It’s quarter past nine on a Friday night, and instead of headbanging at a gig and/or participating in recreational drug use, I’m chatting to Betty in the living room over a mug of hot cocoa. Rock and roll.

Our living room is the size of your average garden shed. The walls are covered in that weird textured wallpaper most commonly associated with old folks’ homes. We found the velvet sofa on the street, had it examined for termites, and then promptly covered it with blankets and cushions from a thrift store. My grandma’s child benefits and Martha’s wages don’t quite stretch to IKEA, which Mr Rosenqvist would probably be horrified to hear on account of his proud Swedish ancestry.

We also have one of those old TV sets, fatter than it is tall, without cable. Honestly, the battle I had to go through to get Betty to have Wi-Fi installed. Like Vietnam but with more waterboarding.

We’re both piled on the velvet sofa in our sweatpants, and her wrinkly feet are in my lap as I give her a much-needed foot rub while she knits. This is her first night off in ten days, and I can tell she’s feeling it. She groans as I bury my thumb in the pressure points caused by her bunions. For the thousandth time, I wish it was me working so hard instead of her. But when I got in from school, I rang around all the places I’d dumped my résumé, and none of them showed any interest in hiring me. Not even Martha’s.

Once I’ve moved onto painting Betty’s toenails a vivid shade of fuchsia I tell her about the Danny situation, and she doesn’t even have the common decency to act surprised. Even Dumbledore also looks at me like, “Duh, it’s been graffitied on the kid’s face since the start of summer; now give me one of those peanut butter cups or I’ll avada kedavra your ass.” She asks me how I feel about it, and I reiterate the thing about unrequited love being the cancer of friendship circles, and how maybe I am actually in love with Danny, but I’ve been mistaking it for a mild stomach flu. At this she is mortified.

“Izzy O’Neill, you are absolutely not in love with Danny Wells.”

“No, I didn’t think I was.” I wipe a rogue smudge of nail polish from her skin with a cotton bud. “How do you know?”

“Do you want to kiss his face with your face?”

“No.”

“Do you want to marry him and grow old with him and help him tie his shoes when his arthritis gets the better of him?” Her knitting needles click together at the speed of light, which makes it sound like there’s a cicada chorus occurring in our living room.

“Not even a little bit. The thought is vaguely horrifying.”

“Do you want to let him enter you?”

“Gross. No.”

Apparently this is all the evidence she requires to deliver her final verdict: Danny’s love is unrequited. She then proceeds to give a long anecdotal monologue on how she’s always liked Danny and how this is not a surprising development, which I am going to paraphrase for you here:

“You and Danny have always been close pals, especially in the beginning, when it was just the two of you. Ever since you brought Ajita home in the third week of sixth grade, cramming on this sofa with giddy excitement over your first play date, I knew you kids had something special. He’s an only child, so he struggled a bit when he first had to share you, but he soon got over it. You all bounced off each other. Always cracking jokes, inventing games and acting out elaborate stage shows with no solid plot arc whatsoever. Danny doted on you even then, but you always kept him at arm’s length. He’s always been infatuated with you – I think he just finally worked that out for himself this summer. Poor kid.”

“Well,” I say. “Shit.”

“Shit indeed.” She tsks at a dropped stitch in the scarf she’s knitting, examining the damage between her thumb and forefinger. “Hey, has he talked to you much about his parents lately? Danny, I mean.”

I frown, swiveling the lid back onto the nail polish and admiring my handiwork on her toes. They look vaguely less horrific. “No, I don’t think so. How come? Everything okay with them?”

She shrugs. “Word at the community center is that their marriage is on the rocks. Could just be small-town gossip, but who knows?” As she talks, Betty ditches the knitting needles and rubs her temples with her thumbs, round and round in circular motions. At first I think she’s trying to summon the Holy Spirit, but judging by her pained expression, she’s not feeling so great.

“Another tension headache?” I ask.

“It’s those damn strip lights in the kitchen at work,” she grumbles. “Staring at fluorescent tubes sixty hours a week would give anyone a migraine.”

There’s a weird internet phenomenon, born around the same time as BuzzFeed, glorifying sassy older women who work until they’re a hundred years old. Look at them! Throwing shade at snarky regulars and serving day-old coffee grounds to their ruthless managers! So hilarious and inspiring! But this is the truth. More and more vulnerable old people can’t afford to retire, and so they keep working at grueling service jobs because they simply have to. It’s a matter of survival. They work through sore feet and headaches and bone-deep exhaustion, illness and injury and grief. It’s sick.

Anyway, after the pep talk with Betty my general sadness over the Danny situation has made way for crushing guilt. What am I supposed to do now? [I am asking this purely rhetorically. I almost never follow the advice of others due to my insane stubbornness.]

I would love to be brave enough to take matters into my own hands, like a soldier who proudly charges to the front line and faces enemy troops head-on. But alas I am instead going to hide out in my soggy trench until the problem passes, or I’m brutally murdered by a rogue grenade. Either way I am fundamentally a coward and not the kind of person you want on your side in a battle zone. [There have been a lot of war metaphors in this post, which I think is a beautiful representation of my emotional turmoil and deep inner conflict. Imagery and whatnot. What a poet I am. Like T S Eliot but with better boobs.]

Unreasonable though it may be, I feel a bit cross with Danny for messing up a perfectly good friendship, even though I logically know it’s not his fault.

Is it mine? Is my raw sexuality, infectious personality and awe-inspiring modesty sending out the wrong message?

11.59 p.m.

Update: just looked at myself in the mirror. My blonde hair is more “terrifying scarecrow” than “glossy shampoo commercial” and I have raccoon eyes from three days worth of mascara and eyeliner gradually building up and soaking into my skin. The bra I’m wearing doesn’t fit properly, on account of me never having any money, so I have a slight case of quadruple-boob going on. My thrifted Hooters T-shirt [shut up, I bought it ironically] has cocoa stains all down the front, and also a patch of Dumbledore drool shaped like Australia.

It might not be the raw sexuality thing.

Saturday 17 September

1.30 p.m.

Party day! Danny and I are spending the afternoon trailing Ajita around every clothing store imaginable in search of the perfect outfit for tonight, both of us providing helpful and educational commentary on her selections. So far we have vetoed the sequined overalls [like a cabaret show vomited onto a hillbilly], the high-waisted mom jeans [she’s three feet tall and they come up to her nipples] and the distressed faux-vintage band tee [when challenged to name any song or album by Pink Floyd, she mumbled something about us being assholes, which is offensive yet accurate].

I’m super excited to wear my outfit for tonight – a gray silky shirt I’ve had for years and years, but I still feel like an absolute queen when I wear it. It’s an original Armani with these silver studs all around the collar, and it’s the only piece of designer clothing I own.

When I was fourteen and just starting to be painfully aware of how badly I dressed compared to everyone else, I found it on a weekend shopping trip with Ajita [I could never afford to actually buy anything, but I enjoyed hanging out with Ajita enough to tag along]. It was in Goodwill for $40, which is a lot of money for Goodwill, and I had nowhere near enough to afford it. I went home and begged Betty to loan me some cash, and she agreed to put aside a little money from her next paycheck to buy it for me. I spent every single night praying nobody else would buy it in the meantime. By the time we went back to get it, it had sold, and I was heartbroken.

But who’d bought it? Ajita, who had got it for my birthday. I honestly nearly cried when I tore open the carefully wrapped tissue paper and saw the silky gray material I’d fantasized over for so many weeks. I still only wear it on special occasions because I never want the magic to fade.

Anyway, back to our preparty preparation. The mall is absolutely packed, and I keep subconsciously hoping we’ll bump into Carson and Co. There’s a group of basketball dudes hanging out at the wishing fountain, laughing raucously at something on one of their phones, but Carson isn’t among them. In fact, on second glance, I’m not even sure they go to our school. By the time we finally sit down for hot pretzels, I’m pretty sure I’ve given myself repetitive strain injury in my neck.

I guess it’s a good thing we don’t see Carson since Danny might just expire in sheer fury if we did. Though to be fair to him, he’s acting pretty normal today. Making witty observations about dumb fashion trends and such. Long may it last, I say.

Still, thinking about what Betty told me about his parents, while Ajita’s ordering our cream sodas and pretzels, I nudge him on the shoulder. He’s doing anything he can not to look at me, staring up at the fake palm trees which shade us from the strong September sun currently beaming through the mall’s vast skylight.

“Hey, everything okay at home?” I say, quietly enough so the table of snooty-faced soccer moms next to us don’t hear, but loud enough that it’s not weird or conspiratorial.

Regardless of my volume policing, he immediately tenses. “Why wouldn’t it be?” He sweeps stray salt granules off the table with his hoodie sleeve, then rubs at a dried condensation ring with his thumb.

Message received. “No reason. Forget I asked.”

The plan for tonight is to get ready at Ajita’s, as her house is a stupidly beautiful mansion and also just around the corner from Baxter’s place. Her parents are super-rich neurosurgeon geniuses, and fully expect Ajita to follow in their footsteps, which is hilarious because Ajita has flunked every biology class we’ve taken over the last two years. Not because she’s dumb [she isn’t], but because Danny and I are dreadful human beings who lead her astray on a daily basis, like annoying parrots sitting on her shoulder and chirping in her ear about how much more fun it is to perform a silent film for our classmates than it is to learn about plant-cell structure.

Besides, I have it on good authority that in the real world, nobody will ever question you on the function of the mitochondria [THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL! See, I know things] or the vacuole [nah, I got nothing]. By good authority I obviously mean my grandma.

[Man, you really just cannot predict where my tangents are going to take you next! From fashion advice to cell biology. What a narrative rollercoaster. I really am incredibly versatile and insightful.]

Then, armed with our crates of beer [Capri-Sun], we’ll get a lift to Baxter’s empty house at like seven thirty this evening. The party starts at eight, and I know it is borderline tragic to arrive so early, but you remember how I told you I need to know everyone’s drama and business? Yeah, I have FOMO when I miss a significant portion of a social event. Ajita does too. So we just sit in a corner watching everyone and eating popcorn, like Big Brother but more intrusive.

6.24 p.m.

Writing this from Ajita’s ensuite bathroom, because DANNYYYY.

About five minutes ago, after I’d dragged a brush through my scarecrow hair and done my makeup to the best of my ability [smoky charcoal eyes and nude lipstick if you’re interested] I pulled my party attire out of my duffel bag and started to get changed in front of Ajita and Danny, as I have a hundred million times before. Seriously, they have both seen me in so many different stages of undress that they could probably do a pretty accurate life drawing of my naked body, with freckle location accuracy down to a fraction of a millimetre. Since I’m not body conscious, and because we’ve all known each other for so long, I’ve never felt weird getting changed in front of them. It just wasn’t a thing. Before tonight.

Ajita’s sitting at her vanity table, trying and failing to get fake eyelashes to stay on her face, and has accidentally glued one eye shut as a result, while Danny’s sitting on the edge of her bed and flipping through his phone. Honestly, he’s barely even paying attention to either me or Ajita. I kinda get the feeling he’d rather be playing video games with Prajesh, but Ajita’s athletics prodigy of a brother is away at some sadistic training camp in another state.

So then I whip my tee off and I’m just standing in jeans and a bra, as I have a hundred million times before, and before I can put my fancy Armani shirt on, Danny groans, covers his eyes emphatically with his hands and says, “Jesus, Iz, do you have to do that here?”

Ajita’s glued eye pings open in shock. “What are you on about, dude? You’ve seen her shirtless before. Hell, you saw me shirtless about ten seconds ago. What’s the big deal?”

He drops his hands into his lap and stares at his grubby fingernails, cheeks burning as fuchsia as Betty’s nail polish. But before he has to reply, I save his awkward ass.

“S’all right,” I say quickly. “I’ll go next door.”

He shoots me a grateful look that tells me everything I need to know.

Shit. We’re in trouble.

10.53 p.m.

Update from the front line: Danny is off chatting up one of the cheerleaders, who looks like Michelle Obama’s younger sister, but he keeps glancing over at me to make sure I’m witnessing his superb flirtatious finesse. I just nod encouragingly for lack of anything better to do, trying to ignore the fact that to the untrained eye I look like a creepy uncle lurking on the edge of the dance floor and supporting his lecherous nephew’s efforts to get laid for the first time.

Ajita and I are chilling on a lime-green sofa in the living room. The house is rammed with sweaty teenage bodies, which are completely incongruous with the immaculate decor. The lighting is low and the music is loud, and everyone’s drinking beer out of plastic cups, spilling it all over the wooden floorboards. That’s gonna stink in the morning.

My best friend, bless her heart, is completely unperturbed by the fact I’m updating my blog while at a party. At this point in our friendship she’s pretty used to me tapping furiously on my phone’s touch screen as she chugs her beer and observes the teenage drama unfolding in full flow around us.

Baxter’s house is actually super nice, probably because his mom launched this tech start-up a couple years back and it’s really taken off. They used to live in a low-income housing community like mine, with metal bars over the windows to prevent break-ins, but now they’re firmly in the fancy part of town, where every mansion has at least three cars in the driveway. One of which is usually a Range Rover, let’s be real.

Inside, the house is like something out of an interiors magazine, with bold printed wallpaper, metallic sculptures and glass coffee tables. They’ve mixed it with that industrial chic look that’s so big now, all exposed brickwork and factory-style lighting. I’ll give it to them, it looks pretty cool. And thanks to my fancy shirt I don’t feel as out of place as I usually do.

“Fancy a game of beer pong?” I ask Ajita, who’s curled into the corner of the sofa with her shoes kicked off, hugging a black-and-white chevron-print cushion. She’s pretty buzzed after just two beers, on account of her severe tinyness.

“Nah, that requires moving,” she practically yawns. She’s a sleepy drunk. We haven’t seen either Carson or Carlie yet, but it’s possible they’re in another room. Judging by my best pal’s apathy toward the concept of physical activity, I guess we shall never know.

“Good point, well made,” I concede. “In that case, can I get you another bottle?”

“Now you’re talkin’.” She winks at me like some sort of gangster. I mean, gangsters probably don’t wink at each other all that much. But you know what I mean.

Oh God, Vaughan just arrived with his oily entourage. His hair is slicked back and his Abercrombie shirt is way too tight, and he has a swastika tattooed on his exposed chest. [I made that last bit up as I have a tendency to do.]

And now he’s scanning the room, probably scoping me out like those birds that hover in the air above their prey until they’re ready to strike. I don’t really know what kind of bird this is, but I swear I saw it on some nature documentary, or in real life, or on one of the rare occasions I was paying attention in class. It’s hard to distinguish at this point. Anyway, the analogy made perfect sense when I started typing, and I’ve committed now so I’ll stick to it.

I’m a worm. Or something. A drunk little worm trying to wriggle away from its gross predator.

BRB, off to dig a hole in the dirt and stay there until he goes away.

11.48 p.m.

Yeah I slept with Vaughan.

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