by Barry Lyga
There are some candles lighting the room, but that's it.
Most everyone ignores me. They all know I've been in the loony bin for six months. Word got out. Only Simone and Jecca knew which loony bin, though, because even though I know almost everyone here, Simone and Jecca are the only ones I would actually call friends.
Jecca squeals and jumps up to hug me. Simone slips me a pack of cigarettes. Bless her.
I get this weird minute where I can't talk. It's like I'm totally overwhelmed. I realize: This is the first time in six months I've been with a friend. Six months of nothing but doctors and nurses and whacked-out mental patients and visits from Roger. I talked to Jecca and Simone on the phone a little bit, but that was it.
"You're back," Jecca whispers, still hugging me.
"Yeah." It's the only thing I can manage to say right now. How do you talk to normal people?
"Let her breathe," Simone says, prying us apart. She gives me one of those little one-armed hugs and then pushes a guy off the sofa so that we can sit down.
"What took you so long?" Sim whispers.
"I had to walk."
Sim frowns. "I'll take you home later."
I hate that I have to bum a ride from her. I should have my license by now. I should have a car—my own car, not a stolen one—by now.
The air's thick and sweet with pot. A bong is being passed around. The guy Simone pushed moves that slow way stoned people move. The word is languid, I think.
It's weird because I figured I would have all of this shit to talk about when I finally saw Sim and Jecca again, but now that I'm here, I don't want to talk. I don't want to think. I'm really glad that the party is "quiet." It's like everyone just sits around and gets mellow and stays quiet. And you have to turn off your cell and shit to come in and it's pretty cool to be in the dark and the quiet for a while. You can talk—you just have to talk quiet.
So we all just sit here and smoke and relax and it's cool. The chatter's low. No one's talking about anything that matters.
But then someone passes the bong to me and I take a hit and it's not a cigarette, but it's great, really. God, it's been so effing long.
My lungs go all orgasmic with it and I hold my breath so long that I think maybe I've figured out how to never breathe again, how to survive without exhaling. God, would that be cool or what? That's what it feels like, like I don't need air anymore, not as long as I have the sweet smoke in my lungs.
And then my eyes start to spark. That's the only way to describe it—they spark. I start to see little bursts of color. I close my eyes and they're still there and I exhale, letting all the smoke out in a cloud. The whole room's a cloud.
God, this is what I needed. I needed to be with some friends and just ease my way back into the real world after being in the hospital for so long. Now I can go back to school tomorrow. Honestly. I can. I really can.
Simone giggles at nothing and takes a hit and passes the bong along.
Bong along. Heh.
"What's so funny?" Simone asks.
I didn't realize I actually laughed.
Across the circle, Jecca waves to me, slowly, languidly. She's totally blissed out. Her parents travel a lot and she has these great mellow parties for the goths in Brookdale and canters-town, even Finn's Crossing. No one's allowed to eff with any of her parents stuff, but that's cool because we're all just here to get away from the rest of the world anyway.
And then it's time for hide-and-seek.
The hide-and-seek we play isn't totally like the old kid game: You get all stoned out of your mind first, and then you go hide and someone has to find you, and it's awesome because you're just blitzed unbelievably.
Last time I played was months ago, before I met Fanboy even. I was the seeker and everyone scattered while I sat with my eyes closed, counting to a hundred. And when I opened my eyes, it was like the rest of the world had just vanished, just gone away.
And I loved it.
I mean, I knew deep down that the world was still there. That I wasn't alone in the house, that there were, like, twenty kids hiding just around the corners and up the stairs and all that. But the illusion of complete aloneness was there and that's all I cared about at that moment—the illusion. It worked for me. I didn't question it.
So I had counted to one hundred and I was sitting there on the sofa all by myself and I was supposed to get up and go seeking, but instead I just sat there. Just sat there, slightly stoned, completely alone in the dark. I didn't think about anything, didn't want anything, didn't really even feel anything. I just absorbed the solace and the solitariness of it all.
And did nothing.
I don't know how long I sat there. Could have been five minutes. Could have been five hours. Time stopped meaning anything.
Eventually, people started to get antsy and move. I didn't care. I just sat there as they slowly began to drift back into the living room.
"What the hell, Kyra?"
"You suck at this."
I ignored them.
"You're supposed to come looking for us."
"Leave her alone. She's totally stoned out."
Still ignored them. Grasped for just one last moment of peace, of alone. Clung to it. Wouldn't let go. Couldn't let go. Can't let go.
Six
SO NEEDLESS TO SAY, THIS TIME no one says I should be the one to seek. Which is fine by me.
I don't know what's happening to me. The whole time I was in the hospital, all I wanted was to get out and be with my friends. And now suddenly all I can think about is being alone. Maybe it's the pot. Maybe it's just, like, culture shock. I don't know.
Some guy I've never seen before closes his eyes and starts to count. Everyone steals away, sneaking off into the darkness to hide. I creep away to the kitchen. The pantry is a big walk-in, and there's a spot under a shelf where I can tuck myself in if I lie down. Since no one is allowed to turn on lights, if I stay very still you can't see me even if you walk into the pantry.
After a minute or two, I start to drift off, buoyed by the pot and the silence. It's all peaceful until I start to think about Fanboy. I feel really bad for him, like he needs someone to touch him and hold him maybe, someone to—
The pantry door creaks open just a bit.
I lie perfectly still, my heart hammering.
"Kyra?" It's Jecca, whispering.
"Yeah."
She slips in and closes the door. Then she's next to me, lying next to me, the heat of her radiating to me, her breath a hush between us.
Her hand finds my face. I'm holding my breath for some reason. I let it out against her fingertips as she leans in, following her hand in the dark, and her lips touch mine.
Seven
THIS HAPPENS SOMETIMES. WITH JECCA. It doesn't really go any further than kissing, which is no big deal, right?
Jecca makes a little noise down deep in her chest. I've been holding her out. I open my mouth and she sighs her relief between my lips and I realize that I sort of feel sorry for lesbians. I mean real lesbians, the genuine article. The women who truly feel love and passion for other women. Because it's like everyone is doing it these days. It's like their very sexuality, the core of their beings, has become a ... a fad, something they throw into soap operas to up the ratings, or something girls do to turn their boyfriends on. It's like it's been made meaningless.
I mean, I don't love Jecca or anything. And she doesn't love me. It's not like we're gay. Because we're not.
I don't think.
This just happens, is all.
She kisses me. I kiss her back. It's no big deal.
Except it does feel good. It does feel nice. When it happens ... sometimes when it happens, I can forget things. Big things. Little things. All kinds of things. Her lips are really soft; her tongue's soft, too. Sometimes she licks my neck or nibbles my ear, and that's great.
I guess some people would call this "experimentation," but that's not it because experimentation is, like, indicating that you would do
something full-time after trying it out. And I don't think I'm a lesbian or anything. I like boys. I know this because when I fantasize, I think about boys all the time.
But I also think about Jecca. Not other girls. Just Jecca.
This is just ... God, it's just comforting. And safe. And I never feel comfortable or safe, so these times with Jecca, when this happens, it's like a vacation for me, like being sent away again, only this time being sent away somewhere I want to go, somewhere I like.
It's looking for a touch, warmth, connection, heat, anything.
"What's wrong?" she whispers, which is weird because she usually doesn't say anything.
"Nothing." And I lean up a little bit to kiss her. I've been thinking the whole time. Stressing. And she could tell. So I shut off my brain for a little while and just let the safety and the comfort take over.
Eight
LATER. I'M STILL STONED. SO STONED. And smoking my way through my first pack of cigarettes in months. God, it feels good! I lick my lips and imagine I can taste Jecca's lipstick, which I can't, but I imagine it, which is just as good.
I'm in the kitchen, giggling with Simone as she tries to open a bag of potato chips.
"I think I need scissors," she says, pronouncing the c so that it comes out "skissors," which for some reason makes us both convulse with laughter until we're giggling right there on the kitchen floor.
"Skissors," she says again.
"Suh-gar!" I say, spying the sugar bowl on the counter.
"Skissors!"
"Suh-gar!"
"Va-guy-na!"
I snort laughter. "No, it has to start with an s."I don't know why, but it's funnier that way.
She licks her lips and tries the bag again. She gets it open without making it explode all over the place.
"She-mata!" she says, holding out a handful of chips.
I stare at her. The chips are wavering right in front of me and my gut is telling me to eat them so fast that she doesn't even know they're gone, but my brain is thinking, What did she just say?
"Huh?"
"Chips!" she says, and giggles because chips is a funny word, especially when you say it like Simone does when she's stoned.
"No, what did you say before?"
She shoves some of the chips into her mouth. "Skissors!"
"No, not that."
"Suh-gar!"
"That was me."
"She-mata! Like the comic book."
"It's Schemata," I tell her automatically, pronouncing it correctly, but at the same time, I'm trying to think ten million things at once. How does Simone know about Schemata?How does she know anything at all? Did I tell her? I don't think I did. I don't think I ever mentioned it to her.
Simone isn't paying any attention to me—she wanders off with her bag of chips, leaving me in the kitchen by myself. I feel like the world's spinning around me and like my brain is spinning, too, but in the opposite direction, and it makes me all dizzy and crazy. Did I tell her about Schemata? What did I tell her? When did I tell her?
Holy crap. How could I tell her about something like that and not remember it? Am I totally losing my mind?
And goddammit, now I don't feel stoned anymore. I'm totally straight now, totally sober, totally pissed, and I wish Jecca was here in the kitchen, because I need someone to kiss me, someone to kiss me and not to talk, never to talk.
Dear Neil,
So, here I am, back home, writing to you for the first time from somewhere other than the hospital.
In case you're interested, my first day back home sucked bigtime.
I had a fight with my dad, which is nothing new, but still. It's never fun. And I went to a party and got high and made out with someone, which confuses me every time it happens. And then someone said something that really just ... It just didn't make any sense.
I'm babbling. Wow, babbling with a keyboard! Babbling with a keyboard in a letter to Neil Gaiman!
Then again, it's not like the letters I wrote to you in the hospital made much sense, either, I bet. I bet if I looked at them now, I would be like, What the hell were you talking about, Kyra? But I wrote them and they're done and I'm not going to look back.
That's my new thing, Neil: Not looking back. I'm going to try to look ahead. Like, I'm going to forgive Fanboy and I'm go ing to try to be his friend again. That's a good thing. That's what adults call "a step in the right direction."
It's not always easy for me. And I think that's what pisses me off more than anything else. People say, "Behave!" and "Don't do bad things!" and "Be nice!" as if those things are easy, as if they're simple. But they're not, Neil. They just aren't. The world is a really, really shitty place, so doing those good things, those nice things, isn't always easy.
And sometimes you have to be mean. Or angry. Sometimes that's the only way to get something done or explain something to someone. And sometimes it just feels good and right and—more important—honest. Isn't honesty important? Doesn't honesty matter?
OK, it's really late and I'm really tired and I think I'm still a little bit stoned, so I'm going to bed now.
Nine
THERE'S A LOUD BEEPING SOUND filling the universe, waking me up. I lie in bed for a minute, wondering what the hell the sound is before I realize it's my alarm clock.
God, how weird. I haven't woken up to an alarm in forever. I'm in my own room. Not the hospital. My own room. Strange.
Last night is already fading ... I have the real world to deal with now.
God, it's November. I can't believe it. I missed the end of my sophomore year and the beginning of my junior year. All because my dad freaked out.
As if he can hear me thinking, Roger taps on my door. I want to yell out, Eff off, Roger! (I want to do that a lot! All the time!) Instead, I don't say anything. His taps become more insistent and he finally gives up being nice and says, "Kyra, I'm counting to three and then I'm opening the door!"
By the time he comes in, I'm at my closet, picking out my clothes for my big ole triumphant return to South Brook High. Ha.
"Didn't you hear me?" he asks.
"I'm thinking," I tell him.
"What's there to think about? It's all black."
This is true. My closet is like a refugee shelter for black clothes.
"What do you want?" I ask him.
"Your teachers all know what you've been going through," he says. "They'll be sympathetic. Like last time."
I just keep staring at the closet. I want to say, Eff off, Roger! Again. Because "last time"—back in middle school, when I tried to kill myself—sucked bigtime. Everyone treated me like a freak when I came back to school. Besides, how can my teachers know what I've been "going through" when I'm not even a hundred percent sure?
Here's the thing about parents—about adults in general, really: They think they're In Charge. They think they Rule the World.
But in reality they're just as clueless and effed up as everyone else. The world is just a gigantic effing wave, a tsunami, and it washes away all of us—kid, parent, student, teacher—alike.
That's the world. That's a fact, OK?
"Did you hear me?" he asks.
I sigh out a "yes" like it's the longest word in the world. "Can I get a shower now?"
The bathroom is another weird place for me. My own bathroom. My own stuff. No one messing with it. No one pounding on the door to come in.
I left the cap open on my hair gel while I was gone, so it all dried out. No spikes for me today.
No hair dye, either. Did I run out before I went away, or did Roger pitch it while I was gone? Roger probably pitched it. He never liked my black hair.
I don't have many options, so I just take the top and back and tie it into a stub, leaving the long bangs to hang down. Not bad. My bangs are not normal bangs. They're awesome.
Roger sees me on my way out the door and says, "Can't you get that out of your eyes?" He means my Bangs of Doom.
And I think, Uh, no, dumb-ass. Because then people could see m
e.
And he says, "people can't even see you."
Duh.
And he says, "You know, Kyra, the world isn't so bad when you can actually see it."
Gag.
Ten
I HATE THE BUS. ANYONE WHO'S SANE should hate the bus. Ugh.
I have no friends on the bus, so I have time to think. I start thinking about Fanboy and that makes me remember Simone last night, talking about Schemata. Was that real? Did I just imagine it? I don't do pot a lot—maybe a couple of times a year—so maybe the whole thing was in my imagination. Maybe that's it.
Maybe.
I look at the schedule they sent me. Gross—I have Miss Powell for English. I hate Miss Powell. I had her for English freshman year, with Simone. Miss Powell sucks for many, many reasons. I can't believe this.
The bus stops at South Brook High, and for the first time my stomach does a weird little lurchy, hiccupy type thing.
Chill, Kyra. This is no big deal. It's just school.
I go inside and head for the office. That's where I'm supposed to "report" today. To Assistant Principal Roland J. Sperling, known far and wide (especially wide) as the Spermling. One of my favorite adults to eff with.
And once I'm there, I crack my first smile of the day. Because the Spermling isn't alone in his office—he's got Miss Channing, the secretary, there with him. Probably because the last time I was in his office alone with him, I walked out crying and with my shirt untucked so that everyone would think he molested me. Sucker.
The Spermling harrumphs and is nearly strangled by his own fat and tells me where my new homeroom is and how he's aware of my "issues" and how if I have any trouble I should feel free to come see him...
