A Girl Called Shameless. Laura Steven

maybe I just have a thing for benches at this point.

       9.14 p.m.

      With Betty not around to crow about water bills I take a longer, hotter shower than usual, before spending the night the way I planned to: editing my screenplay. I mean, right after I finish writing this blog post. And checking social media. And making hot cocoa. The scandal changed many things about me, but not my talent for procrastination.

      Finally, after completing the most pointless and unnecessary of tasks, I curl up in my tiny single bed and get to work, throwing my hair up into a messy bun. Instagram girls somehow make messy buns look like the sexiest thing on this earth but I assure you mine just makes me look like I’m wearing a swimming cap, which is not my dream aesthetic. [No offense if you’re reading this, Michael Phelps. Which I don’t know why you would be, but still.]

Friday 6 January

       9.51 a.m.

      Since I stayed up half the night manically whizzing through script edits – writing in a new character and removing another entirely – I’m glad our first class of the day is drama. It’s the only thing I’m remotely good at academically, and we never have homework because Mrs Crannon is one of those blessed “learn-by-doing” advocates. So I can coast by pretty easily on zero winks of sleep.

      We’re studying the script of Guys and Dolls in prep for our midterm exams. Unfortunately studying theater is not just about goofing off on stage and attempting Jazz-era Brooklyn accents. We actually have to write essays on things like narrative arc, which if you ask me is incredibly unreasonable, although as an aspiring a screenwriter it’s probably a useful exercise. So we’re sitting in a circle in Mrs Crannon’s classroom and doing a read-through from the playbook before we start analyzing and breaking everything down.

      I’ve been cast as Miss Adelaide, one of the two female leads, while Ajita is a Nepali Sarah Brown, because Mrs Crannon is not one of those absurd people who use “historical accuracy” to justify their racism. She’s also cast a Chinese-American girl called Sharon in the famously white male role of Lieutenant Brannigan. This decision angered Danny greatly, as he’s been relegated to an ensemble part. He’s still stewing about it now. In fact, if he stews for much longer, he’s in real danger of becoming a casserole.

      Mrs Crannon has dashed backstage to grab a stack of fur coats to help us get into character, and also because the radiators are broken so the classroom temperature is currently subzero. When she left she told us to start the read-through without her, but of course, as a roomful of lazy/horny teenagers, this is not the course of action we ultimately take, instead opting to chat among ourselves on topics of our choice. For instance, I’m chatting to Ajita about the possibility of lip-syncing my singing parts, because although Miss Adelaide is an alto role, I still cannot hit the high notes without sounding like a meerkat with a softball bat shoved up its ass. Right when I’m doing my very best meerkat-with-a-softball-bat-shoved-up-its-ass impression, much to Ajita’s delight and merriment, Danny chooses this precise moment to come over to us.

      Ajita’s euphoric expression takes on a vaguely murderous vibe as she watches him approach, but still the useless shrew does not think to warn me about the incoming douchebag. So I’m still howling “aaaaayyeeeeeee-yeeeeee-yaaaaaaaaahhhhh” when he taps me on the shoulder.

      “Hey, Iz,” he says as woodenly as, I don’t know, a didgeridoo.

      My skin bristles at the use of my old nickname. Shouldn’t he have lost nickname privileges when he systematically ruined my life?

      “Daniel,” I say coolly to illustrate the point in my patented passive aggressive manner.

      He’s wearing that ancient Pokémon T-shirt I got once him. It’s been washed so many times that the Pikachu’s face is vaguely haunting. “You didn’t reply to my text.”

      “Didn’t I?” I reply, milder than a chicken korma, even though the mere sight of him is enough to send me into a rage-induced coma. [Does that rhyme? Should I abandon screenwriting to pen profound and poignant poetry? Rupi Kaur makes it look very easy.]

      “Uh, no.” Danny scratches a tiny scab on his upper arm, and the top layer comes away. He winces as poppy-red blood blooms in its place. GOOD. BLEED, DOUCHEBAG. [I did warn you about the rage.] “Anyway, just wanted to say that I’m here. You know. If you need anything. Which you probably don’t. But, uh, yeah.”

      “She’s fine,” Ajita butts in. “Carson and I have her back. Anything else?”

      At the mention of Carson’s name Danny’s benign demeanor is shattered. He stands up straighter and injects some venom into his voice. “Right. Fine. Sorry for wasting your time then.” And he flounces away again. I’m trying to think of something funny to say about flouncing, but I’m tired as hell. Maybe one day I’ll stop hating Danny as much as I do right now, but that moment seems very far in the future indeed.

      “You know, sometimes I think I might miss the guy,” I mutter to Ajita, who’s staring viciously at Danny’s back as he walks away. “But then I remember his personality and think better of it.”

       12.59 p.m.

      Holy guacamole and for the love of nachos! We’re grabbing lunch in the cafeteria when all three of our phones ping with an extremely exciting email notification at the same time. I immediately drop mine into the bowl of soup in front of me.

      We got a meeting with Ted Vaughan’s office! A political staffer is going to sit down with us next week to discuss our concerns. Gahhhhh! We genuinely did not think this would happen. I’m literally already nervous.

      Part of me is glad we’re not meeting with Vaughan himself. After everything he’s done since the photo emerged of me banging his son on a garden bench – all the high-and-mighty speeches about family values and degenerate youths – I don’t think I’d be able to resist launching across his desk and tearing out his esophagus with my bare teeth.

      Anyway, I’m distracted from the nerves somewhat by the rescue mission we must now perform to recover my phone from its oniony fate. Ajita fishes it out the bowl with her bare hands and I rinse it off in my cup of water, which is admittedly not the wisest move but you remember the thing about me not being the sharpest erection in the shed/brothel?

      Thankfully Meg produces a bag of dried rice from her purse, and we shove my phone into it for the foreseeable future. When I enquire as to why on earth Meg was carrying said bag of rice around with her to begin with she merely replies: “I’ve been friends with you for, what, three months now? And this is the fourth time you’ve dropped your phone in soup.”

      She has a point.

       2.04 p.m.

      Phone now successfully resuscitated, we’re leaving geography class when Carson crops up behind me and squeezes my shoulders. I jump a little, like I’ve received a mild electric shock, but soon relax when I see it’s him. [For some reason I’m more easily startled since the sex scandal. I have no idea why, but it’s like I’m constantly just a tiny bit on edge.]

      He’s wearing his hyperactive puppy expression in full force, and opens our conversation with, “So is it just me, or is Mr Richardson even more Peru-obsessed than usual?” [Context: our geography teacher once trekked Machu Picchu, and not a single class goes by without some kind of reference to his journey of a lifetime. Like, if anyone can find a way to relate glacier formations to the Temple of the Sun, it’s him.]

      “Do you think we should tell him it’s highly offensive for a white man to dress as an Incan emperor?” I ask. Not that he’s done this yet, so attached is he to his staple uniform of plaid shirts and beige chinos, but give it time.

      Carson laughs his smooth, easy laugh. “You all set for diner training tonight?”

      “Think so,” I say, just