Goth Girl Rising

by Barry Lyga

  "No. Before, it was a lowercase f. Because it was just describing you. But now I've decided it's your name."

  I figure that should bug him, but he just shrugs while he munches on a french fry. "Whatever. I hate my real name anyway, so that's cool I guess."

  He is just way too relaxed these days. It sort of pisses me off, but it'll make it that much sweeter when I nail him.

  "Aren't you going to eat?" he asks.

  "School food's gross."

  "You could bring something."

  "Not hungry."

  "OK."

  And then there's silence for a little while, "a little while" being equal to the amount of time it takes for him to eat half a hamburger and drink most of his milk.

  And all I can think is this:

  It's strange to sit and talk to a boy who's seen your boobs.

  Boobs

  BREASTS. MAMMARIES. GAZONGAS. MELONS. SWEATER KITTIES. Knockers. Hooters. Jugs.

  Tits.

  I'm sort of tired of them. I saw a movie on TV once—I think it was on Lifetime; it was probably Lifetime—about this woman who had breast cancer and they just chopped'em off. "Modified radical double mastectomy," they called it. And the whole movie was about this chick boo-hooing how she didn't have boobs anymore and learning how to still be a woman without them and all that shit.

  And I remember thinking, Who the eff cares? Take mine! Just take 'em!

  Because things would be a lot easier, you know? Those things—these things—are just like effing eyeball magnets and I hate that. It's bad enough when the boys at school look (and then probably go home and jerk off—ewww). But it really creeps me out when men look. Don't they have better shit to do than fantasize about being an effing pedophile? I'm sixteen! And I've been carrying these goddamn things around forever and I hate them.

  I know I'm supposed to say, "Oh, they're the center of my womanhood!" and all that shit, but that's just stupid. I've got a uterus and I pee sitting down—I don't need much more womanhood than that. If I woke up tomorrow and they were gone, I wouldn't miss them at all. At least then every time I talked to a boy, I wouldn't have to watch his eyes drift down. And at least if someone liked me, I would know they like me, not the couple pounds of boob fat stuffed into my bra.

  But here's the thing. I have to admit this:

  Boobs = power.

  Don't blame me. I didn't come up with this. And it's very twisted and convoluted, because it's not a simple kind of power. It's like in those stories where people make a deal with the devil and get screwed in the end. That's what boob power is like. Because you can use that power, but it turns around and attacks you. Because using that power will get you what you want, but at the same time it's giving guys what they want ... which is your boobs. And that's giving up a piece of your soul.

  If boobs are power, then big, young ones are a lot of power. But that power is kind of like money. Once you use it, it's gone. Like, have you ever noticed that once an actress takes off her top in Playboy or something, she usually becomes less popular? It's just like how guys slaver over these girls and then once they get them into bed, they lose interest. This happens to Simone all the time, and she doesn't get it and it drives me crazy that she doesn't get it. She lusts after some guy and she gets him into bed, and maybe she gets him into bed a couple more times after that ("Because I'm gooooood," she says all the time, prac tically purring), but then it happens: The guy loses interest and Simone mopes around until she finds another guy that'll screw her.

  So she got what she wanted—she used her power—but she lost it right away. It's complicated.

  When you're a woman, your body is this mystery. It's this secret. And the tighter you hold on to that, the more badly people want a piece of it. And you can use that to your advantage or you can throw it away, but you can't do both. Not really. You can be Miss Powell and try to have it both ways, but guys will only go for that for so long. Eventually they'll get tired of waiting to see the goodies and decide you're a tease, and then they just totally dismiss you and file you away.

  Now, when I flashed Bendis (oh, the Great and Powerful Brian Michael Bendis, Lord of Superhero Geeks!) at that comic book convention ... I was showing him my power. I was completely in control of that moment. Everyone within eyesight of my chest was completely under my spell. I owned them. I gave them something they wanted, and it was totally within my power to take it away, too.

  And I felt sort of ashamed later. Like a hypocrite. But I have to admit ... for the first time ever, I sort of understood Simone because—wow—it was an effing rush!

  It's like everyone spazzes out and says boobs are, like, taboo or something, but they're not. Because you can see almost everything at the beach or in an underwear ad. What's taboo are nipples. And really, only girls nipples.

  And that's just effing stupid. I mean, that's just moronic times ten billion! You get all these people getting into trouble and all these dumb boys and men going all gaga over, like, a lit tle circle of skin. That's it. How stupid is that? Who comes up with this shit?

  And it's like, you can walk down the street and see chicks without bras and their nipples are practically poking through their shirts, so it's not like the nipples are even taboo. It's just seeing them naked. It's just so stupid! There ought to be a National Nipple Day, when everyone walks around with their nipples hanging out but everything else covered. Like with little slots cut out of our shirts so that just the nipples show. And all sorts of people would lose their shit over it, but they would also have to see how stupid it is, how it's just a little bitty bit of skin, right?

  Now, for me...

  For me, it's like this: When my dad noticed my boobs, that's when I knew they had to go away for good.

  It's not like he's ever touched me or anything. Because he hasn't. And it's not like he checks me out or anything because, like, gross, OK—he's my dad and I know there are sick effers out there who like to check out their own daughters and sometimes even do worse shit than that, but that's not my dad, OK?

  It's just that he noticed them.

  I was thirteen. And I had this really awful growth spurt or something I guess and Mom had been dead awhile already and I just sort of never talked to Roger about girl stuff because he's a guy and Mom already told me everything about my period ("Stop complaining...") and birth control and sex and all that shit back when I was younger, so it was no big deal.

  But one day I put on this shirt and it was too small and that was stupid, but I had to do laundry and I was just hanging around the house, so who cares, right? And I went out into the living room and Roger was watching TV and he kind of looked up at me...

  And there was this look.

  I don't know how to...

  No, wait—I do know how to describe it. I do.

  It was this look of Holy shit. My little girl has grown up.

  It was like a combination of What the hell are those? along with a shock of recognition and this wave of embarrassment. Like he couldn't figure out what the hell the things on my chest were and then he did figure it out and then he wished he hadn't.

  And I just wanted to die. I felt like I'd flashed him or something. Like I was some skank who was so effing desperate that she was trying to, like, score with her own dad.

  I went back to my room and I stared at myself in the mirror and that was when I realized it: As long as these stupid things were hanging off my chest, no boy would ever look me in the eye. No boy would ever talk to me like I was a person. I would just be a pair of tits. If even my own father noticed them, then every effing boy on the planet would be staring at them, right?

  I had to make them go away.

  So I did.

  Forty

  "SO, UH ..." FANBOY SAYS.

  I blink and come back to the present. Fanboy's been toying with his food, sort of half eating and half mumbling nonsense while I was spaced out. But now he's cleared his throat like he's ready to take the plunge into an actual, you know, conversation.

 
It's like that one time we spent together, that really awesome day. (I hate to admit it was awesome ... but it was.) I took him to my favorite spot, a little dried-out pond hidden back in the woods in my neighborhood. It's my favorite spot because it's quiet and peaceful and it's also a perfect reminder of how stupid people are: They drained this beautiful pond because they were afraid of mosquitoes and, like, West Nile virus or something. And they justified it by saying that they would build a park there, but of course they didn't, so they just ruined this perfect little pond for no good reason.

  I took him there one day and we just hung out and I told him how Mom had died and how I tried to kill myself that one time and I think maybe he wanted to kiss me or something and on that day—on that day—I think I probably would have let him.

  He was all nervous, though, and it was sweet and cute and not annoying at all. And now he seems all nervous again, and it's like I know what he's going to say before he says it:

  "What was it like?"

  I make him work for it: "What do you mean?"

  He waits so long to respond that I figure he's chickened out. "In the, uh, the hospital."

  I remind myself not to be angry at him, or not to show my anger, at least. He could have written to me or something. And even if he was afraid of running into Roger or getting his name picked off an envelope, he could have at least sent me a lousy e-mail!

  "It was fine. No big deal. I can be in the hospital all day and all night. It's nothing." I grin at him because he likes the grin, but inside I'm seething. I wouldn't have been in the hospital if not for him. It's all his fault. He's the one who called Roger and told him I had the bullet. And that set Roger off on a paranoia trip and that made Roger realize that Daddy Couldn't Handle Her, so he just shipped me off.

  "But I bet ... I bet..." he stammers, "...it was probably a little bit scary. Right?"

  I don't say anything. He's right. It was scary. But I'm not about to tell him that.

  Simone and Jecca were cool about me being away, being in the hospital. But they didn't really get it. They didn't get how freaked out I was. They just thought it sucked and it was a bummer, and it did suck and it was a bummer, but it was more than just that. It was also terrifying. Being so powerless. Knowing that all it takes is Roger picking up the phone and calling a judge and there I am—locked up. Powerless. DCHH and there's nothing I can do.

  "I was worried about you," he goes on. "I mean, no one knew anything. And I thought about you all summer, and..." He shakes his head. "Anyway, then the new school year started and you still weren't here and—"

  "Whatever, Fanboy." I wave it off, but my stomach's gone tight. I don't want to think about it. About being away. "Somehow you managed to survive without me. Good for you."

  "Well, I had to. You weren't talking to me. You were pretty pissed at me. You sent me that picture on your cell..."

  Flipping him off. Yeah, I remember.

  "And then," he goes on, "I just didn't hear from you..."

  "It's done with. Over. Move on. New topic. I'm bored."

  "Oh. OK. Well, uh ... uh, I'm still working on Schemata..."

  "I noticed."

  He brightens and smiles. "Yeah, it's pretty cool, isn't it?"

  I'm trying to be nice to him, but if I'm too nice, he'll get suspicious. "Sure, if you've totally given up."

  His eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean. You had all these dreams. You were going to show it to Bendis. You were going to get Marvel to publish it or something. And instead you decided to publish it in Literary Paws. You were supposed to be worshiped by the world, but you settled for being worshiped by effing Brookdale. Hell, not even Brookdale—just South Brook."

  He thinks about that for all of half a second. "I did show it to Bendis, but ... Look, Kyra, it's more complicated than that."

  "Sure it is."

  "I still want to get it published as one big graphic novel. But—"

  "You're going about it all wrong, then."

  "Wait, just ... hang on. Look. It was Cal's idea..."

  Of course it was. Effing Cal. The super-black superstud. More powerful than a stereotype. Leaps tall clichés in a single bound.

  "He looked at what I had and he thought it was really cool and he had this idea to put it in Literary Paws so that I could, you know, get feedback, right? And then I could make it even better so that I could send it to Image or maybe Top Shelf—"

  And I start laughing. "Top Shelf? What the hell do you know about Top Shelf, Fanboy?"

  He stops for a second. And then he does something that really pisses me off—he keeps talking.

  "I know plenty. I did my research. I'm not an idiot, Kyra."

  He's not supposed to talk back! I shoot him down; he shuts up. That's how it works.

  "I did all kinds of research. Cal and Mr. Tollin and Mrs. Grant helped me. Image and Top Shelf and maybe even..."

  I kinda tune him out. I can't believe this. He just went on without me. He just kept working on it. With Cal. After everything I told him about women and stuff. He just moved on.

  "...and since it's been in the magazine, I've been getting great feedback—"

  "Feedback? From these jackasses? Why do you care what they think? They're not your audience."

  "But they're an audience. It's like having a bunch of editors working on it for free. They've already found all kinds of things. Stuff I never thought of before. Like, you remember the scene where Courteney goes to her student's house? The thing with the mom?"

  I remember Courteney looking like a certain senior hottie, I want to tell him. But I just nod. "Yeah, I remember it."

  "Well, someone pointed out to me that it would make more sense if the mom was afraid of the same thing as the daughter—the father dying in Iraq. Because then you would have these overlapping visions, right? And it would be this cool contrast between these two women, both afraid of the same thing, but in different ways. It works much better now than it did before."

  "OK."

  "I'm serious, Kyra. It really does."

  "I said OK! Sheesh!"

  He grins. "This is great. This is really cool. I'm so glad you're back."

  The bell rings for next period. Damn! I didn't accomplish anything I wanted to accomplish. I need to get my hands on those original pages so that I can show them to Michelle Jurgens.

  He gets up with his tray, but just as he turns to go, he stops and answers my prayers: "Hey, Kyra? Want to come over to my house after school? I can show you some of the new stuff."

  Sweet.

  Forty-one

  I CATCH UP TO SIMONE BETWEEN CLASSES. "Hey, I can't go to the mall with you after school. I have to do something else."

  Fortunately, she doesn't ask me what, because I don't feel like explaining.

  Jecca has history with me at the end of the day. She kicks it old school and passes me a note: "Why won't you talk to me?"

  I pass it back: "I talked to you this morning!" All innocent-like.

  She passes it back: "So you're not pissed at me?"

  I want to pass it back to her, but Mr. Bachman has stopped writing on the board and is looking at the class now, so I can't. I just shove it in my purse and then stuff my purse back into my messenger bag. Jecca keeps stealing looks at me, though, and I feel bad, so I shake my head at her.

  When school's over, I meet Fanboy by the lunchroom doors that lead outside. He saunters up to me like he's a stud or something, his backpack over one shoulder, jingling a key ring. "You ready? You want to follow me?"

  I stare for a second. Oh, shit—he thinks I have a car. I try to remember what I told him about my cars, but it was months ago and it all kind of bleeds together with shit from the hospital.

  "I'll ride with you," I tell him.

  "OK." He doesn't seem surprised. Did he figure out I was stealing cars?

  When we get to his car, satisfaction and guilt hit me at the same time: I was right about which car was his. I put the fake Dina note on the
right car. So why do I feel bad about leaving the note in the first place?

  We get in. "This is weird," he says. He hands me something from the center console. It's the note. I pretend to study it like it's the first time as he starts the car and pulls out. "That was under my wiper this morning. isn't that strange?"

  I pretend to be an idiot. "D.J.? Who's D.J.? And what did you do to him?" I say "him" on purpose.

  "I don't think it's a guy. The handwriting looks like a girl's. don't you think?"

  I printed it pretty carefully, but, yeah, I guess it does look sort of girly.

  "I guess." I'm getting a little nervous here. What if he knows? What if he's messing with me? I get out my cigarettes and lighter.

  "Hey, no smoking. Sorry. My mom would spaz."

  I make a big deal out of putting away my stuff and then I totally change the topic from the note: "Are you sure it's OK for me to come home with you?" I remember his mom was like a total psycho about that stuff.

  "Yeah, it's OK. It's weird—once the baby came, Mom got kinda mellow." He grins at me and I can't stand it—he's so cute when he does that, I almost forget that I hate him. "I gotta take advantage of it while I can."

  I turn away to look out the window. Anything to avoid looking at him. "So, she had the baby, huh?" Ugh. Stupid, Kyra. Ofcourse she had the baby! She was, like, a million months pregnant when I met her, and that was six months ago.

  "Yeah. And she decided not to go back to work and it's like all of a sudden she's much calmer, even though Betta keeps her up a lot."

  "Betta?" What kind of a name is that?

  "Well, her name's Elizabeth, but somehow we just ended up calling her Betta. I think Tony started it. Here."

  He fishes around for his wallet. I can't believe he's actually taking a hand off the wheel—he's been driving so carefully that I could fall asleep. It's like the driving equivalent of that stuff in turkey that makes you sleepy.

  He flips open his wallet and holds it out to me. I take it. There's a little wallet-size picture of a baby there.