The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl

by Barry Lyga

  I sure could use it, though. In English, Lisa Carter is wearing a skirt, but she keeps her legs primly crossed, as if she knows. And maybe she does. My eyes dart to Cal, who's ignoring me, staring instead at his book. Maybe Lisa knows. Maybe everyone knows. Maybe they've known all along and the conspiracy of silence is just to make me complacent until they decide the time is ripe to really bust me open.

  I find my Panty Algorithm notes. It's a code I invented; no one knows what it means. But looking at it now, it seems suddenly, hugely obvious. As if anyone looking at it could tell instantly that I've spent the better part of my sophomore year English class exploring Lisa Carter's inviting crotch with my eyes. I tear the sheet out and fold it up, then quietly tear it into strips.

  "Why would he do that?" Mrs. Hanscomb asks as I come back to earth. "Does anyone know? Does anyone have any idea why he would destroy himself with drugs and alcohol?" No one says anything. "Come on, everyone. He was enormously talented, a brilliant, innovative writer and poet. Why would he—oh, good, yes?" This last because I've raised my hand before I even know what I'm going to say.

  "The question isn't why he did it," I say. "The question is why not do it?" Every eye is focused on me. I look down at my desk and the pile of scraps on it, all that remains of the Panty Algorithm experiment. "He didn't really have any friends. He never had money. His own family couldn't stand him. He washed out of West Point, and he was a great writer, but in his own time no one appreciated it. No one would publish him. So it's a miracle he didn't die sooner. Face it: No one cared about him or his work until he was dead."

  When class ends, Mrs. Hanscomb calls me over to her desk. "I just wanted to thank you for your comments," she says, smiling. "You always have something interesting to say. I love the way you play devil's advocate. You really get your classmates thinking."

  This has got to be a joke.

  I am truly, completely alone, a fact driven home to me in gym. Mitchell Frampton's lip has healed, but otherwise nothing else has changed, including the precise spot he's chosen to hit me. When I lift my eyes to the bleachers, there's no one there. Kyra's gone, and I know what hell really is. I guess I always knew.

  Hell is being alone.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  TERRORISTS HAVE TAKEN OVER South Brook High School. They—

  No. Screw it. Who am I kidding? Terrorists are never going to take over friggin' South Brook High School. More's the pity.

  So it's me. It's just me.

  And I walk through the front doors like Keanu, long black trench concealing a pistol and a shotgun that I filched from the step-fascist's collection. The List is rolling through my head like a credit reel, and I'm taking them all down, all of them, precise and perfect in my aim. I wheel around, exploding jocks and tormentors and I—

  And I—

  And I wake up on the bus. Someone's been flicking my ear-lobe and there's some paper in my hair, which I brush out, to titters and laughter from the anonymous masses. My hand goes to my pocket—nothing. I forgot. I left the bullet at home.

  God, I'm exhausted. That dream ... That dream was way out of line.

  Schemata. It's my revenge. It's my way out. I'll start out with this one and move on, and I'll win awards and accolades, and I'll have the revenge of never having to think about these people ever again for the rest of my life.

  At home, I blow through my homework first, then move on to Schemata. I'm so close to having this ready for Bendis that it hurts.

  Tap the hard drive case. Feel the comfort of the bullet leaking through.

  But while I'm working on pages and adding in cool Photoshop effects, I find that my mind keeps drifting. Sometimes I can't use the computer to draw; it's just not organic enough for sketches and light work. It's something like automatic drawing, I suppose—where you just let the right brain take over entirely and let the pencil do what it wants.

  I lie back on my bed with a sketchpad and a soft pencil. I start out with a thin parenthesis of a curve, growing slightly thicker at its terminus. Then some feathering along the length of the curve, giving it dimension and weight.

  It's starting to look like someone's back, as seen in profile. I frown and shut down the analytical part of my brain and give my hand free rein. Shadows start to gather on the paper. Then a "C," heavier at the bottom. Almost graceful.

  It's definitely someone's back. Definitely a profile. A woman. But not Courteney. My pencil strokes out the line of her shoulder, lengthens her arm out, bends her elbow so that it comes up to partly conceal, partly distort the visible breast. It's a study; I should be using charcoal.

  But I'm not really thinking now. I'm an observer. When it's really coming—whether it's art or story or both—that's what it's like. It's like watching someone else do the creating, watching other hands and hearts at work. And it's easythat way. It feels great. It's not like work at all. It just happens, and I blink and it's been hours and it's done. And it's perfect.

  Like this. Like this sketch.

  Yeah, it's Kyra. No doubt about it. A profile, which is weird because I never saw her naked from the side, but I know—the way an artist knows—that I got it right. From the sweep of her neck to the arch of her back to the way her body goes slightly concave just under her ribs before swelling to rise. She holds her arms crossed in front of her, obscuring her breasts, making herself slightly folded.

  Her neck is perfect, vanishing into a morass of sketch lines and vague forms. How much time have I spent gazing at her face, and I can't even draw it?

  And then, as if I've successfully completed some bizarre, ancient summoning ritual, the phone rings.

  "It doesn't work," Kyra says.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I'M TOO STUNNED BY THE SOUND of her voice to respond. Wasn't it just yesterday that we screamed at each other and she stormed out of here? I find myself looking down at the sketchpad. Kyra, naked. Kyra, on the phone. I shiver. Does she somehow know? I didn't mean anything by it. It's just a sketch. It's just art.

  "I thought you were pissed at me."

  "I am. Look, it doesn't work."

  "What doesn't work?"

  "I'm reading those script pages you gave me. It doesn't work. The scene where she uses her powers on her husband and sees his fantasies."

  "OK." I try to remember the scene she's talking about. "Look, can we talk about Schemata later? I wanted to say I'm—"

  "There's nothing else to talk about. I got your e-mail apology already. I don't give a shit if you're sorry. I'm trying to make this graphic novel better, do you understand? And I'm telling you that the scene doesn't work. You've got her seeing that her husband has these fantasies and she runs off crying, all horrified that he has these thoughts in his head, and it's just bullshit, man. It's complete bullshit."

  On the sketchpad, the lines and scratches that should be Kyra's head start swimming.

  "I don't understand what you're talking about."

  "It's like you can't imagine that she could deal with it."

  "So, what, she kicks him in the nads instead of crying?" In spite of myself, I'm getting into this.

  "No, you idiot." Not said playfully. It's like she really thinks I'm an idiot. "She deals with it. Why the hell does her reaction have to be emotional? Why does she have to break down or bust his balls? Why can't she just figure it out? Why can't she realize she's turned on by it? Or realize that her fantasies would be just as tough for him to see?"

  Courteney's fantasies? Courteney doesn't have fantasies. What's going on here?

  "Kyra, help me out here." I turn the sketchpad over—it's too distracting to look at. "What happened yesterday? Why didn't you e-mail me back? You had me thinking you hated me."

  "Stop talking about that!" she yells. "God, you're so wrapped up in your own pathetic little fantasies that you can't even see what's going on in front of your face! This is a terrific graphic novel, but it has a problem and I'm trying to help you fix it! Do you understand that?"

  "No. Why are you hel
ping me if you don't like me?"

  "I'm not helping you! I'm helping the story. God! You get ... You get, like, ninety-nine percent of it. I never knew a guy who ... It just drives me friggin' crazy that you don't get that last one percent."

  "So tell me."

  "After you came so far on your own? Are you nuts? And besides—I hate you. Fix the scene."

  She hangs up. I stare at the phone, trying to figure out what just happened with one part of my brain while the other part parses what Kyra said. She's right, I guess. It's such a cliché to have Courteney freak out. There's got to be something else she can do, something deeper and subtler.

  I'm about to *69 Kyra when Mom shouts down from upstairs. I trudge on up out of the dungeon to find her and the step-fascist watching something romantic on TV—I can tell by the way the step-fascist is zoning out.

  "When is this convention thing?" she asks.

  "Saturday. Like I told you last month."

  "I was afraid of that. Look, I can't take you."

  What? Is this some kind of joke?

  "It's this baby shower this weekend. That's all. I have to go to it."

  This is a joke. Some bizarre, messed-up joke. I look over at the step-fascist, who's actually paying attention, watching to see if I blow up, no doubt.

  "Mom..."

  "I know. Look, I can take you next time."

  "Next time doesn't matter." I say it through clenched teeth, using all my willpower to keep from shouting. This can't be happening to me. God, a day ago it wouldn't have mattered; Kyra could have taken me.

  "I have to go to this shower."

  "Mom..."

  "Don't start, OK?" Her voice goes hard. I see how she's rehearsed this in her mind: She breaks the news with contrition in her voice, offers to make it up to me, and I'm just supposed to swallow it. I'm just supposed to swallow raw sewage and pretend it's Evian because she says so.

  "Mom, I have to go. I have to."

  "There will be other conventions."

  Which is true, but what are the odds Bendis will be there? And there won't be another convention around here for a year at the earliest. "Mom, you promised. You said you'd take me."

  "I didn't know they were going to throw this shower for me. Look, these are the people I work with. I didn't even think they liked me. This is important."

  That's it. That is it. "So what?" My voice jumps up, cracks. "So what? This is just a small thing, Mom. You can take me down in the morning and pick me up—"

  She crosses the line from I Am A Patient Mother to Why Did I Have This Kid? "I am not driving all the way down there, then back here, then down there again, and then back here."

  "It's only, like, an hour, Mom!"

  "Yes, which is four hours after all the up and back! And that's without traffic, maybe. " She winces and holds her stomach tighter, and I wish it would just explode already. "I'm not even supposed to be driving that much."

  "I can't believe this! I can't believe you're doing this to me!" Bendis is slipping away. He's going to be an hour away from me and I won't see him. All my work, all my efforts, for nothing.

  "It's not about you," she says, tired.

  "It isn't? You mean it's someone else you're not taking to the convention?"

  "I don't like the tone in your voice."

  Tough titty, Kyra's voice says, deep inside. "God, Mom! This is the one thing I need! I never ask you for anything. This is the most important thing in my life. "

  "You always exaggerate. Trust me, you'll be lucky if this ends up being the most important thing in your life."

  It's not an exaggeration. I may lie, but I don't exaggerate.

  She sighs and turns back to the TV. It's over because she's the adult and she says it's over. She has the power. Or so she thinks.

  I go nuclear. Full-on ICBM assault. Every missile in my arsenal.

  "I'll call Dad," I tell her, dumping every last ounce of spite I possess into my voice. "I'll call Dad and he'll come pick me up and take me to the show."

  She spins around much faster than a pregnant woman should be able to, her eyes blazing, her face twisted into a mask of horror. "You will not call your father, do you understand me?"

  "You can't stop me!"

  "I do not want your father here. Do you understand me? I do not want your father in this house! I will not allow it!"

  Mom's got a pathological thing about Dad even looking at the house. He's never even driven down this street before. When I visit him, we meet on "neutral ground" at a bank parking lot halfway between here and Dad's house. I think of it as "getting furloughed" when going to Dad's and "back to solitary" when coming back, but I don't tell Mom that.

  "You can't stop me," I tell her. "I'll walk up to the intersection and he can pick me up there. You can't do anything about that." And I cross my arms over my chest, triumphant over the seething, hormonal she-creature in front of me. Trump that, Mom.

  "Don't you dare call your father," she hisses.

  I stare at her, then I turn on my heel and walk away.

  "Don't walk away from me! Come back here!"

  Yeah, right. Chase after me, fatso.

  The gamble pays off. Her yells follow me down the stairs and into my room, then are cut off when I close the door. She's not coming after me.

  I sit at my desk for a while, staring at the telephone. I just need to pick it up and call Dad. That's all I need to do.

  I reach out for it, but my hand is shaking. It's not the idea of defying my mother. That's not it.

  It's just that ... It's just that it's "out of sight, out of mind," like I told Kyra. It doesn't just apply to my friends from my old neighborhood. It used to be that when I saw Dad for my one weekend a month or over the summer, he'd set his time around me. I was the most important person in the world. When I first had to move to Brookdale, I used to call Dad all the time. Just to talk about ... anything. Anything at all. It was an excuse to talk to him because I never saw him, and Mom was always either miserable or angry or off being a newlywed with the step-fascist.

  I would tell him about school, or about comic books I'd read, or something I'd seen on the Internet. But after a little while, even though I was talking to him ... It didn't seem like he was talking back much. He sounded distracted. Like someone clicking a remote while the TV's on "mute," which, now that I think about it, he may have been doing. A lot of "Mm-hmm" and "uh-huh. Sure" from his end. And I can remember telling him about how I met Cal, how we were going to do a comic book website together (this was a while ago; never happened), and I finished and I waited for Dad's reaction, and there was silence until he said, "OK, well. All right. That all sounds good. Anything else?"

  I stopped calling him after that. It just didn't make sense anymore.

  And then my weekends and vacations became Xbox and fast food between his dates, and...

  So I snatch my hand away from the phone. The joke's on me, Mom. You get your way. I won't call him. Not because you don't want it, but because I guess I'm afraid that...

  "This weekend? Oh, I wish I could. Really. I have something I have to do. Some errands. I'm sorry. "

  "Saturday? I'd love to. Oh, no, wait. There's something else. "

  I hit *69 on the phone, but it's blocked. Right. Kyra's dad works for the phone company. And I never got her phone number.

  I stare at the computer, but I don't know why. There's no point to working on Schemata. I can't go to the convention. I can't meet Bendis.

  My official bedtime rolls around, and as if by instinct I put the plastic up over my door and return to the computer. Maybe ... Maybe Bendis will be at another convention soon. Not one as close by, but one that I could get to somehow. I can look into that. That's an idea, right?

  No e-mail from Cal or Kyra. No instant messages. No nothing. It's like I'm persona non grata on the Internet.

  I lay my hand flat on the hard drive case. I imagine the bullet's cool, brassy comfort floating up from within.

  There's a knock at my door that
shocks me away from the hard drive. I say, "Come in" before I realize that it's past midnight, turning in my chair just as the door opens, tearing down my plastic sheet and wrecking any future hopes of staying up late. Mom will not take kindly to this deception.

  But it isn't Mom who walks in. It's the step-fascist.

  My jaw tightens as he enters. There's no reason for him to be here. None. The basement is neutral ground, but this room and the shower are my sovereign territory. I'm angry and a little bit afraid, too. I don't want to hear him lecture me about how I shouldn't have mouthed off to Mom. It's none of his business. I'm not his kid. I want to tell him off and let loose all the venom in me, but he's bigger than I am. And he's not like my dad; I get the impression this guy wouldn't think twice about smacking around a kid who talked back to him.

  He looks around my room for just a second, taking in the plastic sheet, which now clings to the door by scraps of tape. I think there's the hint of a grin. He's got a rolled-up paper in his hand.

  "You left this upstairs," he says, holding it out to me. I grab it like a wary stray grabbing a snack from an untrustworthy hand.

  He looks at the plastic again and shakes his head. "I don't get you," he says.

  I don't care. I bite my tongue and unroll the paper. It's a Schemata page, of course, an older version of a page where Courteney (who really does look way too much like Dina) is sitting in her car in a parking lot, crying, the memory of a student's abuse still fresh in her mind. Damn, Kyra's right. She cries too much.

  "I mean, me and your mom've been together for six years now and I still don't get you."

  This doesn't bother me in the least. I stare at the page, waiting for him to go away.

  "I never got into all this school stuff." I look up. He's leaning against the doorjamb, studying my room as if seeing it for the first time, as if it's some amazing, ancient archaeological site he's discovered. "Never seen anyone read as much as you.

  Christ, it's like your goddamn nose is attached to a book or something. I don't get it. Makes no sense."