The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl

by Barry Lyga

  I glide down the hill like I'm in a dream. I want to run to her, to scream her name as I go. She's not dead. She's not doing anything stupid. She's just here, just being Kyra.

  But I make myself play it cool. I stroll when I don't feel like strolling, taking my time. By the time I get to her, she's got to know I'm there, but she doesn't even look up. She just keeps drifting back and forth, her eyes down, watching the furrows her boots have carved into the dirt under the swings.

  I sit in the swing next to her. She's rubbing her hands together, and every now and then I catch a brassy glimpse of a shell casing reflecting the sunlight.

  We're quiet for a few moments, as I start to match her pace and rhythm. My heart is throbbing.

  "Kyra?"

  "Shut up." It's not a snarl. Not a growl. It's a plea. It's the closest thing to "please" I've ever heard from her.

  "I know you stole my bullet." Stupid. Stupid way to start. I need to tell her ... I need to tell her ... I'm not even sure what I need to tell her! It's all messed up. I want to do stupid, tender things. I want to get off the swing and put my arms around her and make her stop moving, just make her stop, make her rest.

  "It's OK that you took it. As long as you—" As long as you don't use it. But I can't say that. I don't want to put the thought in her head. The thought or the bullet. "As long as you really need it. I mean, I know how it can help. It's like a security blanket, I guess. And I know you need that. I think you need help—"

  "Oh, yeah?" she stops swinging, and I plant my feet, shocking myself to a halt in order to make eye contact with her as she looks over at me. "Yeah? When did you become the goddamn expert? Did the Fantastic Four explain it you? Did Spider-Man help you come to that conclusion?"

  She's back to a growl again. Old Kyra. Classic Kyra. My usual defenses rise up like a force field and I'm ready to bash back, but I stamp them down with mental boots the size of clown shoes. This isn't the time for it. This isn't like a comic book crossover, Fanboy vs. Goth Girl. This is real life. This is ... this is Schemata. This is defining and organizing experiences.

  "No one told me anything, Kyra. I figured this one out on my own. Well, almost. I had a little help from you. From the things you've said to me. And a lot of it's true, and a lot of it's bull, but it's all there, and it's all important, even the bull. You made some things possible for me, so I want to make some things possible for you. But you need help, Kyra. You really do. You need—"

  She jumps out of the swing and throws her arms out, one still tightly clenching the bullet. "What I really need is for people to stop telling me what I need! OK? Do you get that? Ever since my stupid mother went off and died, all I've gotten is people telling me what I need. You and my dad and my grandparents and my stupid goddamn therapist. And I'm sick of it, OK? I'm sick of it!"

  Before I can say anything, before I can move or think, she collapses to the ground, as if someone underground grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her down. I jump from my swing, miraculously not getting caught up in the chains, and drop to my knees next to her. I'm thinking overdose. I'm thinking stroke. I'm thinking heart attack.

  But it's nothing so dramatic. It's just tears.

  She's weeping, and her eyes have gone red, and for the first time I get a hint of the true color of her face as tracks of tears bleed through the white makeup she wears. She's so pale underneath that it's almost like she doesn't even need the makeup at all.

  In movies and books, the hero takes the woman in his arms. He holds her and comforts her. He says the right thing and he makes it all work out.

  But this isn't a movie or a book. And worst of all, I'm not a hero. So I just kneel next to her on the ground as her body shakes and jerks, as the tears run down her cheeks. I don't know what to say or do. I just want to touch her, to feel her, to know that she's real, that I'm real. To find the exact, precise right things to say that will make it all stop and make it all go forward.

  I want to tell her what happened the other night. How I lived the geek dream and made out with Dina Jurgens, but the whole time I could only think of her. And I don't even know what that means, but I know it has to mean something, and isn't that a good enough place to start?

  "Kyra..."

  "What?" She looks at me and her eyes widen, and I wonder why, until I realize that I'm crying, too. Crying in front of someone else. A tear dangles from my jaw, and I swipe at it.

  "Kyra, I don't know what to ... Look, the other night, something happened. I went to a party and Dina was there, and it's gonna sound crazy, but I ended up sorta kissing her, but the whole time I was thinking about you. And I know that you told me not to fall in love with you and I honestly don't think I am, but don't you think that—"

  She groans and leans away from me. "God, what is with you?" She sniffs and wipes at her face, smearing her makeup and the tear lines. "Can't you get it? I thought you were different, but you're not."

  "I am. I swear."

  "No." She reaches out as if to touch me, and my skin burns where I anticipate her, but then she pulls back. "No. You've got this great story, this terrific story, but it's not enough."

  "Then tell me what is enough."

  "What the hell is it? What do you want from me? You want me to stop hiding my tits? You want me to wear tight sweaters so you can check 'em out? You want me to be normal? Is that what you want?"

  I have trouble swallowing. Trouble forming words with my lips. "No. I want—"

  "You want me to jerk you off so you can think of Dina while I do it?"

  "No!" It's like being slapped. It's worse than being slapped. "No. I wouldn't do that."

  "Yes, you would. You would. Because she's perfect. She's perfect and I'm broken. Just a broken piece of—" Her body hitches as she suppresses a sob, and she looks down at the leather bands on her wrists. "Broken..." It's a whisper.

  "Everything's broken, Kyra. Everything." I lean in close.

  She looks up, looks right at me, our faces inches apart. "You want to kiss me, don't you? I can tell. You want to kiss me, but you're not allowed."

  Black-smudged lips. Lips kissed by ink.

  "Go away," she whispers, and stands up.

  "I'm trying to help you." I scramble to my feet, the moment lost. So close. "I'm just trying to help."

  "I don't need your help, fanboy."

  "You need someone's help, and I'm the only one around you haven't managed to scare off."

  "Bite me. Here." She flips the bullet into the air and I reach out for it as my lower gut explodes in pain and a familiar agony. I swallow the air, claw for breath, and collapse to the ground. She got me right between the legs while I was distracted by the bullet. I'm down to my knees again, ready to throw up.

  "You think crying solves anything?" Kyra hisses, leaning over me. "I cried and my dad cried and we all cried when my mom died, and you think it solved anything at all?"

  Her dad ... I need to tell her that I called him ... But my mouth only makes croaking sounds.

  "You think Tinkerbell comes back? You think Jean Grey comes back as Phoenix? You think any of that stupid shit they've been cramming in your head since you could sit up straight is true? Do you?

  "Welcome to the real world, fanboy."

  And she's gone.

  Chapter Sixty

  AFTER A LONG, LONG TIME, I feel like I can stand up again. My crotch is on fire and my gut is filled with lead, but I can move. Walking helps a little bit, and I'm a bit peeved to find that the insipid mantra of gym teachers everywhere—"Walk it off!"—actually seems to be good advice.

  Back up the hill, the buses are just arriving. Perfect timing. I look around for Kyra and one of her cars, but of course that's a pipe dream.

  As I get on the bus, someone nudges me from behind and I feel the rage flare and my fists tighten. I start to talk myself down as I slide into my seat. The guy who pushed me sees my face and the sneering expression he's wearing melts away. I sorta, kinda recognize him. From gym class.

  "Oh, sorry, man,"
he says. "Sorry. Didn't know it was ... Didn't mean to push you."

  I don't say anything in reply, and he hurries past like I'm exhaling anthrax.

  At home, I drop my books on my bedroom floor. This whole place is alien to me. It's like an environment from a special effects movie. Nothing's real. Not the computer, where I "met" Kyra. Not the bed, where she lay and read parts of Schemata. Not the chair she sat in. Not the hard drive case that she ransacked...

  I put the bullet back in its hiding place, then wallow in the sense of unreality for a while. I imagine this is what it feels like to be high. You can see the world, but it's like you're not a part of it. I guess I see the attraction for some people.

  The problem, of course, is that you can't sustain it forever. You have to come back down at some point. You have to come back down and deal with it.

  I turn on the computer. From upstairs, the front door opens and Mom comes in, shouts "Hi!" to me, and lumbers her pregnant self across the floor.

  I'm not supposed to use the Internet that much until everyone's gone to bed. We just have the one phone line, and I'm not supposed to hog it. But I have to know. I just have to send her an e-mail and see if she's OK.

  Turns out, it's not necessary. As soon as I log on, my e-mail icon pops up. My inbox has one message. From Promethea387.

  I hate you. You told my dad everything. I hate you and I never want to see you again.

  Attached is a crappy JPEG from her cell phone—Kyra flipping me off.

  Which, I guess as I slump in my chair, is better than the alternative. Better than no message at all and a headline buried in the paper tomorrow, right?

  Right?

  I look at the JPEG again, ignoring the finger thrust into the foreground. I can make out her lips, twisted into a grimace, in the background.

  If she really hated me, if she never wanted to see me again, would she have even bothered to send an e-mail? Somehow I doubt it.

  Whether she wants to think so or not, she's in my life now. And someday—not today, but someday soon—she'll even be ready to hear from me again. She went away once before—or tried to, at least. She marched out of here, angry and yelling, and I thought that was it, but she popped up again and again. She went; she came back.

  Like Cal.

  Like my dad, maybe?

  I don't know. But I know I'm starting up a new List. The old one's still active, still tallying up the people who need a good smack. But the new one is for the people like me. The people who need help.

  After a while, I make my way upstairs to make something for dinner. Mom's sitting at the kitchen table, looking over bills. I make a sandwich and contemplate swiping some of Tony's chips. To my surprise, though, there aren't any of his preferred ruffle-cuts in there. Just a bag of BBQ flavor, my favorite.

  "Whose chips?" I ask.

  Mom looks up wearily. "Sweetie, I don't know. Tony bought all of that. You'll have to ask him." She says it in the tone of someone who figures I won't bother.

  I take out my wallet and look inside. I forgot: I tucked Tony's twenty in there after meeting Bendis. I felt so lousy that I never ate anything that day.

  I put the twenty in the pantry next to the chips and sit down at the table. Mom makes a weird hiccuping sound and clutches her belly. Fetal Mia Hamm in action again.

  "How was school today?" Mom asks, studying the bills.

  "Fine."

  "Anything exciting?"

  "Not really."

  "Well, they can't all be exciting, can they?"

  "Guess not."

  So, here's the thing: It looks like I'm back to square one, back to the status quo ante. But I'm not. There's Cal again, and Kyra, whether she likes it or not. And Tony. Who would have thought? And Dina, to some degree. And even Bendis. Everything seems like same old, same old, but there are new parameters now. They're all caught up and I'm caught up, all of us connected, drawn together, connected, even though the connections are tenuous and almost invisible. They're still there. They're still there.

  I don't get it. Not yet. But jeez, I'm a kid. Give me some time.

  What I do know for sure, though, is that everything that's happened—for good and for bad—will inform Schemata. That's what art is about, reflecting the world, reflecting experiences. I've been to a party. I've kissed a girl. I've been rejected. I've been kicked in the balls. There are new kinds of people for Courteney to meet. New fears to see. New dreams.

  I can't wait to make them all come alive.

  I finish my sandwich, get up, and put my dish in the sink. "Keep at it, you'll make it!" Bendis wrote in my book. And you know what? He's right. Time to go back downstairs and work on Schemata. I think I'll e-mail some of it to Cal tonight, get his opinion.

  Mom groans as I walk past her.

  "Baby really kicking a lot?" I ask.

  She gives me a rueful smile as she nods. That's the look. That's the one Dina couldn't do.

  "Hey, Mom?"

  She's back to the bills. "Hmm?"

  "Can I feel?"

  There are three things in this world that I want more than anything. I've told you the first two, but I'll never tell you the third.

  * * *

  Acknowledgments

  SO, LET'S TRY TO BE EFFICIENT ABOUT THIS...

  In roughly chronological order, thanks to

  •Paul Levitz, whose writing I devoured at an early age and who was the first writer I associated with a specific style and quality;

  • Tom Perrotta, who sat me down in his office at Yale and told me to embrace my reading of comic books, as they made my writing stand out;

  • Sandra McDonald and Maria V. Snyder, fellow trench warriors who were always ready to listen to my woes;

  • Jeff Dillon, for inspiring Fanboy's drawing methods and style;

  • the original readers of the first draft, who made me understand I was onto something: Valery Brown, Penny Foster, Cheryl Guy, Bonnie Kreamer, Pam Lichty, Blair Reid, Louise Robinson, Laurie Walters, and Tim Whitney;

  • Kuo-Yu Liang, for helping me to understand the publishing world from the inside out, and always offering the kind of tough advice writers need;

  • my agent, Kathy Anderson, who loved the original manuscript enough to tell me everything that was wrong with it ... and then let me fix it on my own;

  • my editor, Margaret Raymo, who made this whole process go more smoothly than I'd ever dared dream;

  • the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Children's Books—including Kim Biggs, Lisa DiSarro, Linda Magram, Alan Smagler, Sheila Smallwood, Alison Kerr Miller, and Karen Walsh—for their enthusiasm, generosity, and time; and...

  • last, but certainly not least (and out of chronological order), a big, huge thanks to Robin Rand, who read the manuscript at every stage of its development (sometimes page by page as I finished them) and responded with helpful advice, endless energy, and boundless optimism. This book absolutely would not exist if she hadn't chained me to my computer and forced me to finish it by dint of her sheer willpower and stubbornness. Thanks, Robin.

  * * *