Читать книгу The Exact Opposite of Okay - Laura Steven - Страница 9
Оглавление7.41 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.]
