A Girl Called Shameless Page 2

  “Izzy!” she exclaims, breathless with excitement. “This was so, so fun. Thank you so much for letting me be in a sketch!” Her makeup still looks flawless; pillar-box red is so her color.

  “Dude, you’re so welcome,” I say. “You were awesome. Like, was this really the first time you’ve ever acted? Or are you actually in a world-famous improv troupe and just wanted to hustle us?” I mean it too. Meg’s got a natural knack for nuance and didn’t overact at any point, which a lot of beginners do. I’m totally writing her a bigger part in the next sketch. With Ajita’s blessing of course.

  Speaking of the devil, Ajita re-enters the room from the top of the stairs, clutching half a dozen cans of soda awkwardly to her chest. She tiptoes down the stairs one at a time, like she’s sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack and trying not to wake her parents, and looks more terrified of dropping the soda cans than if they were live grenades. Reaching the middle of the room five decades later, she lays most of them down on the sofa like newborn infants, then tosses one to me. I catch it and hand it to Meg, then catch the subsequent can she hurls my way. We both crack them open simultaneously with an aggressive puh-tsshhhhh, i.e. the most satisfying sound in the world. [With the possible exception of bubble wrap and/or sexual moans. Not that the two are in any way related. Or, you know, they might be. I don’t know your fetishes.]

  Ajita taps the lid of her own can with purple-painted nails. “What’re you guys talking about? My impeccable camera skills? Which, BTW, are literally of an Emmy standard at this point.”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  “Are we really just going to skip over Ajita saying BTW out loud?” Meg snorts, shooting Ajita a playful look. “We all know how inaccurate her spoken text slang can be.”

  I freeze for a second. Will this rub Ajita the wrong way? I mean, she didn’t even seem to want Meg here in the first place. But I need not have worried.

  “Whatever,” Ajita says, swigging her grape soda. “I still maintain that LMAO should be pronounced luh-mao, like a dish at a Chinese restaurant. Yes, good evening, waiter, I’ll have the pork luh-mao with a side of egg-fried rice, please. That kind of thing.”

  Meg giggles so hard her shoulders start to shake, and Ajita looks extremely pleased with herself, licking grape soda off her lips with her freakishly long tongue, which has the potential to look seductive and yet actually just looks like a slippery pink snake is climbing out of her mouth and ravishing her face.

  Tuesday 3 January

  8.25 a.m.

  Waiting for Ajita at our usual halfway-to-school meeting point is borderline life-threatening, on account of the fact it’s colder than the dark side of the moon. I don’t even know if the dark side of the moon is particularly cold, but I’ve always got standoffish vibes from the moon in general, so let’s just assume its temperature is appropriately frosty.

  When she eventually arrives, Ajita is all wrapped up in that Rory-Gilmore-meets-Paddington-Bear duffel coat of hers. Without even saying hello, she greets me with an eloquent, “What the fuck is even the point of it being this fucking cold if it’s not going to fucking snow?”

  “Who knows?” I reply. “I have a feeling the moon is to blame.”

  She thrusts a paper cup of coffee into my mittened hand. I smile gratefully and take a sip of scalding peppermint mocha. Because really, is it even winter if you don’t add obnoxious flavorings to your favorite caffeiney beverage?

  She readjusts her wooly hat and takes a swig from her own cup as we start dragging our heels in the direction of Edgewood. “Dude, if I haven’t said it before, your beef with the moon is not normal.”

  “Yes, Ajita, you have said it before. And I feel like, as a vegetarian, you shouldn’t take beef’s name in vain. By the way, did you know the plural of beef is ‘beeves’? I learned that in the thesaurus Betty got me.”

  At this point Ajita’s phone buzzes, and she smiles as she reads a text. And if I didn’t know any better, I could swear she’s tilting the screen away from me so I can’t see who she’s texting. I pray to the peanut butter cup gods that it’s not Carlie, the wannabe Victoria’s Secret model she crushed on last semester. For one thing, the girl voluntarily ate salads of her own free will, which is how I immediately knew she was an ax murderer in disguise. For another, she bitched about Ajita behind her back, and I ended up pouring cold tomato soup over her perfectly groomed head in the middle of the cafeteria. So there’s that.

  Ajita and I chatter our usual nonsense for a quarter of a mile or so, but I can tell she’s feeling a little weird too. So I decide to vocalize my own apprehensions. [How thesaurusy is that sentence?]

  “Hey. It’s kinda weird how we graduate from high school this year, right?” I say nonchalantly, staring at my feet. My thrift-store Doc Martens – dark red with black laces – are hella scuffed round the edges.

  “Right,” she agrees. “And that this is the last time we’ll ever meet up after winter break to remark on the passage of time.”

  School is weird. For so many years it feels infinite, like you’ll never be anything other than a high-schooler. It’s so intrinsic to your identity, and while you can imagine what you might do beyond it, it mostly feels like it’ll never happen. And then senior year hits, and suddenly everything you do is the last. The last first day back after summer. The last New Year’s Eve as a schoolkid. And, someday pretty soon, the last peppermint mocha on the walk to Edgewood. It’s exhilarating, but also terrifying. Because school is all we’ve ever known.

  I decide Ajita will not appreciate my lyrical ruminations on the circle of life, so instead I just say, “So. What bitchy things are we going to do today?”

  Since we started the Bitches Bite Back website a couple months ago, word has slowly started to spread about what we’re doing. Which is shouting, mainly. Shouting about all the things that make us angry, and inspiring other teenage girls to do the same. A whole bunch of shouting. As well as a roster of feminist sketches, we now have a handful of weekly contributors, who write articles and personal essays on an all manner of feminist topics, and our daily hits are now in the high hundreds rather than the low, well, zeroes. We’re actually heading to Martha’s Diner tonight to have an informal meeting about the tech side of things, which Meg is way savvier about than Ajita and me, who mainly project-manage the shouting. [Is that an official job title? Project Manager (Shouting Division)? It should be.]

  10.26 a.m.

  There’s one reason I am happy to be back in school: Carson Manning.

  Even though we’ve been texting and video-calling a ton, we haven’t seen each other in person at all over the holidays. He’s been working like a madman, doing extra shifts at the pizza place to help his mom cover Christmas expenses. His mom’s douchebag of a partner left them in the lurch a few months back, and since Carson is the oldest the onus has fallen on him to pick up the slack and bring in some extra income.

  From what I can gather his mom would love to go to work and provide for the kids, but since there are so many of them, the cost of childcare would far outweigh whatever she earned salary-wise. A common catch-22.

  So yeah, Carson has been working double shifts most days, and spending whatever limited free time he has with his family, enjoying the holidays as best he can. Which I totally get. But selfishly I’m still super excited to see him this morning.

  We haven’t even exchanged gifts yet. We set a ten-dollar limit on account of our severe brokeness, but I think I knocked it out of the park nonetheless.

  I mean, I think I did. No matter how well you think you’ve nailed someone’s gift, the moments before you actually hand it over are hardcore nerve-wracking. And you suddenly think, oh my God, I took it too far, they’re going to think I’m a crazy stalker, this is too much, it’s too thoughtful, please can a giant seagull just swoop overhead, nosedive onto my face, and carry me away in its beak. Or something.

  Since we don’t have first or second period together, we’ve arranged to meet by my locker for a smooch and a gift-giving ceremony. And I’m kind of . . . nervous? Well, it’s more like anticipation. Either way, the butterflies are real. Except butterflies makes it sound cute, whereas in reality it feels like my insides are being squashed through a colander and made into pasta sauce. Anyone for some fettucine al intestino?

  The hallways are even more hubbuby than normal, with tons of other reunions and gossip sessions taking place. I wave goodbye to Ajita, take a drink at the water fountain, rub a stubborn smear of dirt off my Doc Martens, and try to steady myself for seeing Carson again. Honestly, why am I so nervous? He’s my boyfriend. He’s into me. That won’t have changed in the last three weeks. Will it?

  Jeez. I was never this insecure pre-scandal.

  I’m rummaging around in my locker, looking for a peanut butter cup I know I left here before the holidays, when two arms snake round my waist from behind. “Hey, you.”

  And just like that the butterflies melt away, joining my intestines in pasta sauce heaven. [Another strange sentence. I’m not even sure context helps us here.]

  I twist round in his arms, and our faces end up startlingly close together. Not that I’m complaining. Because his face is my second favorite face. [Ajita would literally flay me alive if I in any way suggested hers did not occupy the number-one spot.]

  He kisses me softly on the lips, smiling as he does, so it’s really more of a bumping together of grinning mouths. A tooth clash, if you will. He smells of acrylic paint and fresh air, like he always does, and his head isn’t as freshly shaven as usual, so there’s a short layer of black fuzz everywhere. I’m very into it.

  “Hey,” I murmur in what I hope is a seductive voice, but in reality I probably just sound baked. “Long time no see.”

  “It’s been what, a decade?” h
e asks, and he’s grinning so wide, and it makes me really happy that the sight of my face and the sound of my weird stoner voice is enough to make him do that.

  “At least two, I’d say.” I take a deep breath and then add, “So I got you something!”

  Except he says the exact same thing at the exact same time, like they do in movies, and it’s all so cringeworthy but I just do. Not. Care. Because all those cheesy romance tropes I used to take the piss out of? Turns out they’re pretty great.

  “You first,” Carson says, ever the gentleman. [Or probably just because he wanted to receive his gift first, to judge whether or not the one he got me was better. I see your game, Carson Manning.]

  “Okay, hang on a sec.” I reluctantly wriggle free of his half-hug and rummage around in my locker. My hands hit pay dirt. “Found it!” Triumphantly I emerge with the rogue peanut butter cup I’d been hunting down before he arrived.

  He gasps extravagantly and claps his hands to his cheeks. “Your last peanut butter cup? I know you’re into me and all, man, but . . . you really like me that much?”

  I scoff. “Absolutely not.” I quickly unwrap the cup in under 0.2 seconds, seasoned professional that I am, and shove the entire thing in my mouth before he can protest.

  Then, mouth full of claggy peanut butter, I bring out the actual gift, and the butterflies return with a vengeance. The gift is wrapped in tinfoil, because a) do you even know how expensive wrapping paper is? and b) tinfoil saves you money on Sellotape, and c) your gift looks like a spaceship. So it’s a win all round.

  He snorts, actually snorts with laughter, and pulls his gift out of his backpack. And wouldn’t you know, it’s also wrapped in tinfoil. Romance, Gen Z style. We’re broke, woke, and unusually innovative when it comes to gift-wrapping solutions.

  Plus our presents are also almost exactly the same size and shape. Like. What.

  As he unravels the tinfoil on his present my chest pounds. It’s the moment of truth. Is he going to think I’m the ultimate weirdo? Or is he going to be charmed by my lunacy?

  The tinfoil drops to the floor, and he squints as he tries to read the handwritten Post-it note I’ve stuck on the front of his gift in explanation. To be fair, since I type basically everything, my handwriting is more akin to ancient hieroglyphics than the Latin alphabet, so it does take him some time to decipher.

  What I’ve attempted to write: “To share with Colbie and Cyra”.

  Colbie and Cyra are his youngest brother and sister – they’re five and three respectively.

  Carefully he peels the Post-it note off the cover of the handmade picture book I’ve made him, and the moment he reads the words on the front cover, he collapses into a fit of laughter.

  Where do you hide a poo in a zoo?

  by Izzy O’Neill and Carson Manning

  “Man, that’s hilarious,” he cackles, shaking his head in astonishment.

  I had the idea last time I visited Carson’s house before the holidays. Even though there are ten kids living there, and it must be crazy difficult to keep them all fed and watered and clothed, Carson’s mom Annaliese has curated the most awesome collection of kids’ books.

  Arranged by age group on the bookshelves in the living room, she’s picked up funny picture books for her youngest, magic realism and middle-grade fantasy for the primary-school kids, a ton of sci-fi for the older teens. She’s even got well-worn book box sets of both Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter.

  And honestly, it made me so emotional to see it. Because I never had that. Betty did an incredible job raising me, don’t get me wrong. I’ll never stop being grateful to her for all the sacrifices she made just to make sure I had a good life. But a mini library in my house? I can’t even imagine how cool that would have been.

  When I spoke to Annaliese about it, her face lit up. She told me about how a lot of the books were hers from when she was a kid – all the Enid Blyton originals, all the Roald Dahl classics, the full Chronicles of Narnia – and how, over the years, she’s always tried to pick up one book a month from a thrift store. No matter how broke she was, she could always find a quarter somewhere to bring home a new book, even if it meant she went without dinner that night.

  Isn’t that the most amazing thing you’ve ever heard in your life?

  So while I was agonizing over what I could possibly get Carson for under ten dollars [and also the fact that I didn’t even have ten dollars], I thought . . . why not write a kids’ book for him to share with his siblings?

  I bought a landscape A4 notebook with a hard cover and blank pages, did some word art on the cover – as best I could with my non-artistic abilities – and then wrote all the text throughout the notebook. Due to my abysmal handwriting, it took me days to write it all out in neat block capitals with a black sharpie, but, honestly, it looks pretty cool.

  Each page is told from the perspective of a different zoo animal who’s done a poo and wants to hide it inside their cage. So it’s kind of educational, because kids learn what every different zoo animal’s poo looks like [because this is the kind of important wisdom the education system neglects to impart], and also interactive, because the kid gets to help the animal find the best place to hide its poo according to its surroundings.

  [I know. My brain is weird.]

  “I thought you could do the artwork for it,” I say, gesturing to the blank spaces beneath the text I’ve written. “Since I have the sketching ability of a drunk toddler. I mean, I could probably stretch to painting the assorted poo variations, but when it comes to the actual animals and their environments I might be a little challenged.”

  Again he shakes his head, and he actually looks a little emotional. He wraps me up in one of his trademark bear hugs, and squeezes me real tight, and all the painstaking hours of dreaming up different voices [and poos] for fictional animals are suddenly worth it.

  “I love it,” he whispers in my ear, and for a second my heart flips, because I think he said something else, but then he adds, “And my mom’ll love it too.” Pulling away slightly, he kisses me tenderly on the cheek and says, “You’re the best. How am I supposed to match that?”

  He takes a deep breath almost exactly like the one I took before presenting him with the book, and hands over his own tinfoil-wrapped efforts. A wave of excitement hits, but also confusion. This gift isn’t just similar in size and shape to mine – it’s identical.

  Frowning in confusion, I peel away the foil to reveal the back of the exact same notebook I bought Carson, except this one is portrait instead of landscape. I flip it over to see the front, and gasp.

  Carson has painted over the original plain cover with his own artwork, and OH. MY. GOD.

  It’s like a collage, except every single component has been hand-painted by him. There’s the Hollywood hills in the background, an old school movie theater, palm trees, a bucket of popcorn, a ticket stub with the title of my movie on it, a film reel, a director’s chair . . . and me.

  I’m right in the center of the painting, clutching a script to my chest. I have huge movie star sunglasses on, but my hair is still the same unruly blonde mess it is right now. The stompy dark red Doc Martens are on my feet, but I’m wearing a sundress in the LA heat. In the drawing I’m smiling from ear to ear, like I am right now, and he’s even matched my slightly wonky front teeth to perfection. But I don’t look as terrifying as I often think I do; I look beautiful. The wild hair and crooked teeth just make me look even more so.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I murmur, completely blown away by the effort he’s gone to.

  “Do you like it?” he asks, looking shy for probably the first time in his life. “It’s for all your screenwriting notes. For when you inevitably fly to LA to meet a ton of hotshot Hollywood producers about your script.” A funny kind of smile. “Hopefully it’ll make it harder for you to forget me, right?”

  “Like I could ever forget you!” I say, with enough force that he knows I mean it despite the jesting tone. I look back down at the notebook, at the broad, colorful brushstrokes and vivid detail. “I love it, Carson. Really.”