The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl

by Barry Lyga

  The door opens and two guys walk in, punching each other in the shoulder and talking about some girl in an Elektra costume. Heading straight for the urinals, they don't even look at me, but I feel like I've been caught red-handed. I've been found out as a crying loser, hiding in the bathroom. I wipe my face with some paper towels, then wash my hands in scalding hot water because public bathrooms are just about the grossest places you can imagine.

  I check my watch as I leave the bathroom—after spending an hour in line and then talking to Bendis, it's close to three. I have hours to wait for Tony.

  Bendis said to go to an editor. I kill another hour or so wandering the convention floor, but every publisher booth I walk by is packed, busy, and I can't tell who's an editor and who isn't. And they all look like they have too much to do. Why would they want to look at my pages, anyway? Why should they be different from anyone else?

  "Hey."

  I look around. Me?

  "Hey, when do you see him?"

  Still looking around. It's packed in here. I can't even—

  God.

  Kyra.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  MY HEART DOESN'T EXACTLY SOAR at the sight of her, but something happens in my chest, some kind of strange, electric hiccup, like when I suddenly remember good news.

  Surprise, surprise, she's all in black. Not so much wearing black as swaddled in it—a black poncho that looks like you could make a parachute out of it, along with black leggings and the ever-present black boots. Her arms are bare, poking out at angles from under the poncho as she plants her fists on her hips.

  "Well?" she asks again. "When do you see him?"

  I can't focus on anything but the way her lips—curves of coal—move as she speaks. The photo-negative smiley face hangs on a thread around her neck. "See who?"

  "Bendis, you moron."

  "He's—I—" How do I tell her this? And why? What the hell is she even doing here? "I can't hear you," I lie, stalling for time. We're in the middle of an aisle, with people shoving and pushing and shouting all around us, so she rolls her eyes and grabs my wrist hard enough to hurt, then drags me off to a quiet spot near the bathroom.

  "When do you see Bendis?" Her voice and her eyes tell me that she's tired of asking.

  "Why are you here? I thought you were pissed at me."

  "What makes you think I'm here for you?" She runs a hand through her hair, which is brushed entirely to the left, so that it falls over one eye and half her face. "Maybe I'm here to see someone."

  I run through the list of creators in my head. "Nah. There's no one here you want to see that badly."

  "You're right. And I'm more than pissed at you." She pokes me in the chest. "But I love your graphic novel and I want to be here when history happens. So when do you see him? He's got a long line. I saw it already."

  "Yeah. I know. I saw him already."

  "You did?" Her eyes shine and she leans toward me, and suddenly all I can think about is the other night, in my room, when she took off her bra. I don't know how to think or talk anymore. What's wrong with me?

  "I saw him," I hear myself say. "He turned it down." And now we can talk, she and I. We can work out whatever's going on—

  "He what?" She jumps back from me, her face twisted in anger. "He rejected it?"

  "Hold on. He didn't really reject it. He didn't even see it."

  She shakes her head; she looks like someone just slapped her across the face for no reason. "Didn't see it? He didn't even look at it?"

  "He said he—"

  "What kind of dickhead is he?"

  "He's not a—"

  "I mean, what kind of a complete idiotic dickhead is he? Not to even look at it? What a dick!"

  Now, here's the weird part: All of a sudden, I don't care about Schemata. I don't care about Bendis. All I care about is the utterly stricken look on Kyra's face, the way she's flushing just slightly pink (I don't think even a full rage could color her cheeks much more than that), the way her eyes dart around like she's looking for an enemy. I just want her to calm down, to breathe regularly again, to stop saying "murder" with her body language.

  I reach out for her hand. "Kyra, let's go to—"

  "Back off!" she hisses, smacking my hand away. "Don't touch me, you freak."

  "I thought—"

  "You still don't get it. Fine. I don't give a shit. I'm not here for you, dumb-ass. I'm here for that." She points at the portfolio. "I'm here because it's better than you. And I can't believe that asshole doesn't get it."

  She spins on a heel and takes off. I don't even stop to think about it—I follow right after her. "Kyra! Hey, Kyra! Come on!"

  She ignores me, but the older teens and adults in the crowd find it funny. I hear a couple of How cutes and some Lookit 'er go!s and one guy nudges me as I push past him and says, "Are ya sure you wanna catch her, kid?" to the laughter of those around him. Me, I just keep my focus on Kyra. The black clothes makes it easy—just follow the dark bead shoving its way through a sea of comic-book-fan-flesh.

  After a minute I notice that she's headed out of the dealer zone and into the publisher zone. She weaves past a small press table, ignoring the guy who tries to hand her a mini-comic. I'm on her tail; I know where she's headed.

  "Hey, Bendis!" she shouts, and the noise level is too high for him to hear her, thank God.

  "Kyra!" I'm closer to her than she is to Bendis. I know she can hear me, but she's ignoring me like she ignored Mini-comic Man. "Kyra!"

  "Bendis!" she shouts again, this time closer to him. People start to turn her way, some jumping out of the way of the ghostly girl in black who moves with fury.

  "Dickhead!" she bellows. "You stupid dickhead!"

  "Kyra! Oh my God!" I scream. I can't believe it. I can't believe it!

  Bendis looks up, turning from the comic he's signing. Kyra hurls a battery of expletives at him—in the aisles, some of the fanboys laugh, some turn away, and parents clap hands over their kids' ears.

  "Kyra, don't do this!" I beg her. If I could get to her, I'd put my hand over her mouth.

  "You stupid piece of shit!" Kyra rants, and Bendis, who at first was grinning like he thought this was some kind of prank, is now changing his tune. Kyra's facing away from me, so I don't know what her expression is, but something on it has told Bendis that this isn't a joke.

  "Look, can you keep it down?" He starts off calm, smiling comfortingly. But he doesn't know Kyra.

  "Keep what down, asshole?" She's at the table now, and I'm almost there with her. Just a few more seconds. "Keep what down? I'm supposed to just let you be a dick? You don't know genius when you see it? You don't know quality when you see it?"

  The crowd at Bendis's table can't decide which way to move: get in closer to see the action, or back the hell away from the lunatic chick in black? The subsequent shoving and foot-shuffling keeps me away from Kyra for a few more precious seconds.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Bendis says, still sitting, trying to keep things calm.

  But it's like Kyra can't hear him. "What does it take to get your attention? What does someone have to do? What does it take?"

  I break through the crowd and make eye contact with Bendis for just a second as I reach out to grab Kyra's arm, but it's too late.

  "What does it take?" she screams. "Does it take this?" And she grabs the hem of her poncho and hikes it up over her head, and even from behind I can tell that she's not wearing anything underneath.

  So, yeah, that's it. My life's over.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  THERE'S A HEARTBEAT'S WORTH OF SILENCE from the crowd, and then a chaos of reactions—laughter, applause, some whistles, some cheers. Bendis is up and out of his chair in a half-second, holding his hands out like someone trying to ward off a monster in a horror movie.

  "Yeah, that's it!" he says. "That's it! I'm outta here!" And he backs up, almost falls over his chair, then turns and darts away through the booths.

  Kyra drops the poncho
back into place. "Yeah, you saw that, didn't you?" Her voice cracks as she screams after him. "You got a good goddamn look at that, didn't you? Got an eyeful, right? Right?"

  Me? I'm just standing there. It's like the world's a blur of color and motion, just spinning and churning around me. The line for signatures at Bendis's booth starts to grumble as one. Someone says, "Dude, I don't think he's coming back."

  The chunk of Kyra's naked back that I saw tunnels through my brain. Smooth and sleek and colorless. Taut skin over bone. I saw the bumps of her spine at the small of her back. They're sketched in my mind now.

  "It was her!" someone says. "That girl."

  I realize that I'm standing next to Kyra and people are pointing at us as a big black guy wearing a blue jacket with a walkie-talkie presses through the crowd. He's wearing a badge that says "Security" and a mean, mean look on his face.

  I can't believe it. I'm going to get arrested. She got me arrested!

  Kyra grabs my hand and pulls. Next thing I know, we're squirting through the crowd, ducking under people's arms, squeezing between bodies. I'm damp with sweat—my own and some sponged off smelly fans. My portfolio keeps getting caught in the crowd and I pull at it, tugging, worrying about damaging the pages inside, but they're copies and I can always make more.

  My wrist slips free from Kyra, but I keep pushing onward, following the outrage she leaves in her wake. She's stomping on feet, shoving grown men—at one point, I hear her shout, "Hands off, you goddamn mutant!"

  I keep up a steady stream of excuse mes and I'm sorrys as I cut through after her. I lose sight of her, then emerge from the crowd near the door to the lobby.

  Kyra's walking through the lobby. Her convention badge is on the floor near me. I pick it up and run after her. "Kyra! Hey! Wait!"

  She doesn't slow down at all. I chase her outside, where she's stopped by a trash can. Her hands are shaking as she tries to light a cigarette.

  "What the hell was that all about? What were you thinking? "

  "Leave me alone." She can't get the lighter and the end of the cigarette to meet up.

  "You can't—"

  "Get out of my face." Her voice is rising. People start to look in our direction.

  "Not so loud," I tell her.

  "Don't tell me what to do!" her voice goes higher and louder.

  "Please, not in public. Don't make a s—"

  "Don't tell me what to do! You stay the hell away from me!" She clenches her hands into fists, crushing the cigarette. "Get off my back!"

  "Please, please, not so loud. Let's go inside and—"

  "Shut up!" she shrieks, her face a screwed-up, twisted mass of rage, and then my face hurts suddenly, and I realize that she hit me. Not a slap, not really—she whaled at me. I felt the knuckles and everything. It almost knocked me over.

  "What the hell are you doing? "

  But she's gone, a whirl of black fabric vanishing up the street.

  A guy in his twenties, walking by with a woman the same age, says, "Nice technique, kid," and laughs. I force myself to stand my ground, tamping down the anger burning in my gut. Because otherwise I'd launch myself at the guy and he'd kill me. But if sheer anger could kill on its own, he would have exploded, and there'd be nothing left of him but blood and memories.

  The show is still going on. I go back into the hotel, but I can't bring myself to go back inside the convention room. Everyone saw me with Kyra. They know who I am. They know I chased Bendis away.

  I can't go home without my ride, and I don't want to call Tony for a favor, so I sit in the lobby, away from the smells and the heat and the noise and the possibility of arrest. Bendis signed the inside front cover of my Scriptbook: "Keep at it, you'll make it!" with a little cartoony doodle of himself giving a thumbs-up.

  Unreal. Unbelievable. Is that supposed to make me feel better? I don't want a pat on the back—I want to publish my graphic novel! I'm not some little kid who's drawn the family dog with crayons. I've spent every waking moment on this thing. I've done research.

  An hour later, the show closes for the day. Everyone filters out, and soon I'm one of the only people in the lobby. I'm ready to walk up a couple of blocks and wait for Tony when I see Bendis out of the corner of my eye. He's pacing, jittery, like he's filled with nervous energy.

  From nowhere, four other people approach him. He laughs and shakes some hands, gives a couple of them hugs. I recognize the guy who writes Flash, the artist who draws Ultimate Iron Man, the writer who brought back Phoenix after Grant Morrison killed her. They all stand around laughing.

  It's like in school. It's just like school.

  "—won't believe what happened today—" Bendis says.

  "The girl?" someone else says. "I heard about that."

  "Crazy. Crazy shit."

  "Like one of your books."

  "Like one ofyour books, maybe!" And they all laugh.

  "—grab something to eat?" Bendis again.

  "Not the same place as last night," someone answers.

  "God, no. That place was—"

  "—good seafood— "

  "Sure, but what about a steak or—"

  "—don't care as long as it's not here! " They all laugh. They laugh.

  Friends, standing together in the lobby. Friends who get to do whatever they want.

  I hate them.

  That's it; I hate them all.

  Bendis is on The List.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  TONY DOESN'T SAY ANYTHING the whole way home, which is good because I think I'd probably jump out of the truck into traffic if I had to talk. I stare straight ahead through the windshield, trying to decide if it's me or him. Me or Bendis. I don't know. I can't figure it out. Maybe Schemata's no good. Maybe it sucks and he just didn't want to tell me.

  But Kyra liked it. Kyra liked it enough to go ballistic and flash Bendis.

  But Kyra doesn't like me.

  But...

  I don't know. I don't know.

  We get home and I charge into the house and downstairs. I don't know and I don't care anymore. I was supposed to win today. I was supposed to have my way for once, just for once in my life. I did everything right. I did a great story and I brought it to the perfect person and I got nothing for it. And now I have to go back to school and look at everyone and be a failure and stay that way.

  I throw the portfolio across the room.

  I want to kill them all. No, better yet, I want to die. No, even better than that: I want to kill them and then die. I thought high school was the end of it, the end of the bullshit cliques and the groups and kewl kids. But it's not. It's just the beginning. It's just the beginning and it only gets worse from here. College won't be any better and after college won't be any better and I might as well finish it. Finish it now. There's no point. I'll always be a loser. I'll never have friends, real friends, friends I can keep. No one will ever care. My mother will have her baby and my father will get married someday and it'll be like I was never here, and that's better for them all, it's better for them that I go now, that I leave now, it's easier that way because I'll never be anythingand I'll never be anyone and I'll always be a virgin and I'll never kiss a girl even and who can blame them, I'm just a skinny, ugly freak and I don't blame them, I don't blame a single one of them.

  I'm crying by now, not little tears that make quiet trails—big, angry tears, sobs that other people could hear if anyone else were downstairs.

  I need my bullet.

  I need it.

  I look for it. Where did I leave it? On the desk. Hard drive case. That's right. But it's not in there. I toss aside the keyboard, scrounge around behind the monitor. I move the printer, look inside it. Nothing. Down on my hands and knees, snorting down tears and snot, too occupied to cry now, looking under the desk, back where it meets the wall, did it fall behind...?

  No. It's gone. Where the hell is my bullet?

  When was the last time I saw it? Jeez, it's been ... Yesterday I was busy all day at school and I was s
o stressed about getting ready for the conference I didn't even take it anywhere with me. Which is weird because normally when I'm stressed I need it, but I've needed it less since I met—

  And wait a sec. Thursday ... Thursday I had the migraine, but I didn't have it on me then, either.

  Wednesday was so busy and I was trying to figure out—

  So, where

  —what was going on with Kyra—

  So, where do you

  What?

  So, where do you keep

  What? Where do I keep ... Where do I keep my bullet?

  The phone rings.

  In the hard drive case, but it's not—

  My mom yells for me.

  I'm sitting on the floor, half under my desk, trying to remember what I did with it, trying to remember—

  She yells again.

  "What?" I scream it. I'm humming with adrenaline. A half-second ago, I was ready to ... I don't know what. Kill someone? Would I have done that? Where would I have gotten a gun, even if I could find the bullet?

  "Telephone!" my mom bellows back.

  You're kidding. I grab the phone. "Hello?"

  From the other end: "Guess who?"

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  I SWALLOW HARD. My heart's pounding and my breath is coming too fast. I lean against my desk as my body slowly comes down from whatever pumped-up high it was on. Mom hangs up the extension.

  "Hey," I say. "Hey. How, uh, how are you?" Casual and cool, that's me.

  "I had a really lousy day."

  I can't help it—I laugh. Not too loud and not too long, but I laugh anyway.

  "You think that's funny? "

  "No! No, not at all. It's just that my day sucked, too."

  "Want to talk about it?" Cal asks.

  And I do. But not with him. Not now. I've never told him about Schemata, never revealed that part of myself. I will, but I'm not ready just yet.

  "No. Not now. What happened to you?"

  He sighs, heavy and sad through the phone line. "It's about the playoffs."