Goth Girl Rising

by Barry Lyga

  At some point, it stopped being a game. At some point—and this is the weird part—I started feeling sorry for Katherine. Which makes no sense, because I made her up, but there you go. I don't know what to say about that. I started feeling bad for her. She had a really shitty life, you know? Much worse than mine, because in addition to her mom dying of lung cancer, she had all this other shit to deal with, too.

  In a way, I guess that made me feel better about what I was going through. It made things more tolerable, at least.

  I told Dr. Kennedy about Katherine. He sort of did this little half frown thing that he would do sometimes. He said, "Do you hear Katherine speak to you?"

  Now, if it had been anyone but Dr. Kennedy asking me that question, I totally would have said, "Oh, God, yes! She talks to me all the time! In fact, she's talking to me right now, and she's telling me that your beard conceals a microphone that you're using to broadcast my words to a crashed UFO under the Chrysler building in New York."

  But it was Dr. Kennedy and he was the least assholish person in my world. So I said, "God, doc, how effing nuts do you think I am?"

  He laughed. "Not all that effing nuts, Kyra. Just a little effing nuts."

  Which was fine with me, because that sounded about right.

  "She doesn't talk to me. She's just this ... I don't know. She's like this extra part of me. Where I dump shit I don't want to deal with."

  He nodded. "I get that. But you talk to other people about her. As if she were real."

  "Well, yeah. But it's not like I think she's real. I know I'm lying when I do it."

  "Why do you do it, though?"

  "To get people off my back."

  "Does it work?"

  I shrugged. "Sometimes."

  He sighed. "Well, I'd rather you not resort to lying to get around these issues. You really need to confront them head-on."

  "My way is more fun."

  "Oh, there's no doubt of that," he said, laughing some more. "I'm sure it is. But it's not really helping you, long term."

  Long term was a big, uh, term in Dr. Kennedy's office. He was all about long term. He was always telling me that I had to learn to distinguish between short-term and long-term benefits, that I could just blow someone off and that would solve my problem in the short term, but it would only make things worse in the long term.

  I knew he was right. I just wasn't sure I cared.

  I mean...

  Look, the suicide option is always in the back of mind, OK? It's sort of like Katherine used to be—an escape route. A back door out of this crazy place, where "this crazy place" = "life." Walking up to Death and introducing myself to her.

  And if you're gonna leave the show early, do you really need to worry about the long-term effects of your actions?

  I never told Dr. Kennedy that particular theory. It's the only thing—the only thing, I swear to God—that I ever kept from him.

  "You need to develop some ... well, some healthier coping strategies."

  I knew he was right. Assuming I decided not to check out of the Life Hotel early, I was going to have to figure some shit out. "Yeah, I know. But it's not like I even use her that much anymore."

  "You used her quite a bit with this boy you told me about. The artist. Fanboy."

  I giggled. It was a serious time and a serious topic and a serious session, but I always giggled hearing "Fanboy" come out Dr. Kennedy's highly educated, grown-up mouth.

  He was used to it. He sighed. "I wouldn't have to call him that if you would tell me his name."

  "His name isn't important. What's important is what he is. See?"

  "I do. Kyra..." He leaned forward. There was a big-ass desk in his office, but most of the time we sat in chairs across from each other. "I want to send you home. Do you think you're ready for that?"

  That was a tough one. Was I ready? I mean, I never wanted to go into the hospital in the first place. It wasn't my fault Daddy Couldn't Handle Her. It was Daddy's fault. But I have to admit—even though ninety-nine percent of the hospital was a complete effing waste, Dr. Kennedy wasn't. Dr. Kennedy was the only therapist I'd ever met who even came close to getting me ... and believe me, I've had plenty of therapists to compare him to.

  "I guess I'm ready..."

  "But what?"

  "I didn't say 'but' anything."

  "I could tell. I could hear it in your voice, Kyra. That diploma on the wall isn't for shits and giggles. I'm actually minimally competent at my job."

  I took a deep breath. Confessing things has never been my strong suit. Especially when they make me look weak. But I had no choice.

  "Look ... I'm fine with leaving. I mean, I hate this place, right? That's pretty effing obvious. I hate the orderlies and the patients and the psycho bitch roommate and I really hate Group and God knows I abso-effing-lutely loathe the nurses."

  "Is there a point in here somewhere?"

  "I don't hate you!" I blurted out, and then felt embarrassed and small and young.

  "Believe me, I know exactly how exalted a position that is to be in. Believe me."

  He waited. I guess I was hoping he would just get it and say what I wanted to hear, but I was going to have to do it. I think he knew what I wanted—he just wanted to make me say it. He was like that.

  "I was just, uh, wondering ... See, my normal therapist—"

  "Ms. Webber."

  "Yeah. Her. See, I don't like her at all. And I do like you."

  He waited. He didn't move a muscle.

  "So I guess ... I guess I was wondering ... See, the court ... The judge says that I have to see a therapist. Because of these." I held up my scarred wrists. "So I was wondering if maybe ... if maybe you could be my therapist. Out there. In the real world."

  There. It was out. God, I hated needing someone, asking someone for help.

  So weak.

  "Well," he said, "I figured this was coming. I don't usually take on clients outside of the hospital, but I do make exceptions for certain cases. So why don't I talk to the judge and Ms. Webber and we'll see what we can do, OK?"

  I nodded and that was that.

  A couple of days later—just a few days ago now—I was released. Dr. Kennedy took over from the orderly and pushed my wheelchair to the door himself. I hated the stupid wheelchair policy, but Kennedy made it sort of fun.

  Just before we got to the front door, he stopped. I could see Roger through the big glass double doors, waiting by the car. Kennedy waved to Roger and gave him the "hang on a minute" finger.

  "So, Kyra. You ready for this?"

  I nodded, even though I was worried. "I just want to feel normal. Out there. Does that ever happen?"

  "For most people? Nah. No one ever feels normal. Some are less abnormal than others, is all. Look. I have another patient. Good kid. Little older than you. He went through a lot of ... a lot of bad stuff when he was younger. He's got a lot of resentment and anger built up. A lot like you. He expresses it differently, but the two of you are very similar, OK? And he's getting better. Bit by bit. Day by day. I see it. I've been seeing him for five years now, and it's been a long, slow, painful process, but it does work. The road does lead somewhere." He looked down at me in my wheelchair. "Got it?"

  I nodded. I felt very much like a little girl just then.

  "Now get the hell out of my hospital. I have legitimately sick people to take care of. I'll see you for our first session in the real world in two weeks."

  I was up and heading to the door when he called out to me. "Hey, Kyra."

  I turned.

  "Do me a favor, will you? See if you can leave Katherine in here."

  Just like Dr. Kennedy to blow my mind in the last five seconds of my stay.

  Sixty-four

  "KATHERINE'S NOT GOING TO THE PARTY, either," I tell Jecca and Sim. "Sorry."

  "Party pooper" floats in from the back seat.

  "I have a shitload of work to do."

  "Yeah, you have a lot of catching up to do," Simone admits. Sure. Let t
hem think I mean schoolwork when what I really mean is the next step in the Downfall of Fanboy.

  They drop me of fat home with a couple of hours to go before Roger gets there, which means unfettered access to the scanner. I won't have him standing over my shoulder, asking questions like, "When will you be done?" and "Why are you scanning all of these comic books?" and "Is that a drawing of a naked woman? What the hell, Kyra?"

  I make a sandwich and grab a bottle of water, then settle in at Roger's desk with a stack of Schemata: Version 2 (the Public Edition) and Version 1 (the Secret Dina Jurgens Edition).

  I find the panels in the originals where Courteney looks the most like Dina. They're usually close-ups of her face, which is fine. I scan them in, along with the same panels from the Literary Paws version. When you put the two next to each other, you can tell that the same guy had drawn them. Perfect.

  Unfortunately, there aren't any naked shots of Dina herself. Fanboy didn't give me any of those pages. Maybe they never existed. Maybe he just never got to those scenes before he changed how he drew Courteney. Or maybe he's not quite as clueless as I think he is; maybe he figured it wouldn't be all that smart to give me naked drawings of Dina Jurgens.

  But it doesn't matter. Because the boy just can't help himself. There are plenty of full-body shots of Courteney/Dina where she's drawn very sexy, a total wet dream. So I scan those in, along with the new version that doesn't look at all like Dina. And then I scan in the naked shots that will be showing up in the next Literary Paws because I figure I'll show the matching artwork first and then show the naked images and say something like, "Now use your imagination. Who is this really supposed to be?"

  I'm almost tingling, I'm so happy.

  I burn it all to a CD and then delete everything from Roger's computer. I am a ninja at the fine art of Covering My Tracks.

  Back in my room, it's time to kick ass. I plop down at my computer and load up the CD.

  Sitting on my desk, right next to my keyboard, is a little reminder card I've had for a week now. It reads:

  * * *

  You Have An Appointment

  With: Kennedy

  When: 11/25, 4p

  Where: B-dale ofc. (340B Iseman)

  Referral Needed? □

  * * *

  I push it around on my desk a little bit. What would Kennedy think of this? That's a stupid question. God, that's a really stupid question. I know exactly what he would say.

  Are you sure you want to act out like this, Kyra? Think about it. What did this boy ever do to you?

  He forgot about me, is what he did. I reached out to him. He was getting beat up in gym and I reached out to him. I never reach out to people. But I did that for him. And I helped him with his comic book. I taught him things. I told him the truth.

  The truth? Really?

  I told him the truth about the things that matter, OK? About women and girls. About the way the world treats people like him and me.

  Like the two of you?

  Outcasts, OK? People no one gives a shit about. I told him how to deal. I told him to be strong and to push through all the bullshit. I told him all of that. All of that. And then he...

  He betrayed you.

  No.

  He called your father. Told him about the bullet...

  That was ... Yeah, I was pissed at first, but he was just trying to help. I get it. We talked about that in therapy and I get that.

  So, what, then? What horrible sin did he commit?

  He forgot about me! God, aren't you listening to me? He never called while I was away. Simone and Jecca called me. They got the hospital number from Roger and they called. They sent me letters and packages and stuff over the summer. But from him? Nothing. Not even an e-mail or a text message. I thought maybe there would be letters at home when I got there. But no. Nothing. He forgot me. He went ahead and he became, like, cooler, and then he didn't need me anymore, so he just tossed me aside.

  Is that what you really think?

  Eff yeah.

  Are you sure?

  Stop asking me. Yes, I'm sure.

  Think about it, Kyra.

  I push the appointment slip aside. Great. I left Katherine behind in the hospital, but now I have Kennedy in my head to make up for it.

  I go through my messenger bag, dumping out most of the stuff in it. I plug my cell in to recharge and then go through my wallet until I find the business card I'm looking for:

  * * *

  Eugene Kennedy, Ph.D., M.D.

  Asst. Dir. of Mental Health Services

  Maryland Mental Health Unit

  Lowe County General Hospital

  * * *

  And his phone number and fax and shit. On the back, he wrote another phone number. The emergency number.

  If you feel like you're going to hurt yourself, I want you to call me. Anytime. I don't care if it's three in the morning on Christmas and you figure I'm busy playing Santa Claus. Call me. I'll answer.

  Is this an emergency?

  Nah.

  I'm not hurting myself. I'm hurting someone else.

  He would just tell me not to do it. He would tell me that hurting Fanboy will feel good in the short term, but won't do me any good in the long term. He would tell me that revenge isn't healthy.

  And you know what? He's right. But I think I'd rather have my revenge than be healthy.

  Sixty-five

  I AM NOT A COMPUTER WIZARD.

  At all.

  I thought this would be easy. I mean, on TV they just scan shit in and click-click-clickety-click with the mouse and shit moves around on screen. It takes, like, five seconds and they're done.

  Me? I spend, like, an hour just trying to figure out which program is the best one to use. None of the stuff that came with my computer seems to do what I want it to do, which is just to put two effing pictures next to each other with some text there, too. But the pictures never seem to be the same size, even though they're both the same size on the pages I scanned. So I download some more programs and try them and then mess around on the Web reading dumb-ass tutorials that are written for hard-core geeks who speak fluent Brainiac.

  Shit. I would tear my effing hair out, if I had any effing hair.

  There's a knock at my door. Shit! I've been working so long, Roger's home and I didn't even realize it.

  "Kyra?"

  "Yeah, come in."

  He opens the door and leans against the door frame, sort of half in and half out of my room. He nods at the computer and the papers and shit piled around it. "Homework?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good."

  See how easy a little lie makes your life?

  "I was thinking maybe pizza for dinner? Or I could run up to Hunan Palace if you want Chinese?"

  My Dad-dar kicks into overdrive. Roger is being way too nice.

  "I had something when I got home. I'm not hungry."

  "Oh."

  That was his cue to exit, stage right. But he's not going anywhere. He's giving me a variation of Sad, Tired—a hint of a little smile.

  "I was thinking, maybe ... maybe we could talk for a few minutes."

  Oh, shit. That's never good.

  "Would that be OK? And then you can get back to your homework."

  I look at the screen. I'm nowhere near as far along as I want to be. I want this done tonight. Now. "I'm really busy, Dad."

  The little smile goes big, but it's the kind of frozen smile adults give you when they're about to remind you that they're the ones in charge. "You'll have plenty of time to get caught up. We're overdue for a talk."

  "We talk a lot."

  "No. No, we don't. We yell a lot. We give each other crap a lot. But we don't talk."

  "Fine." I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. "Fine. Go ahead. Talk."

  He crosses his arms over his chest. I don't even think he realizes what he's doing.

  "Can you drop the attitude for just, say, five minutes? Can you do that, Kyra?"

  "God! I s
aid go ahead!"

  "That's what I mean. That. That attitude."

  "What attitude? Jesus. You said you wanted to talk. I said talk."

  He bangs the back of his head—lightly—against the door frame. "God. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?"

  "God, Dad! Are you gonna say something or are you just gonna bitch at me?"

  He takes a deep breath, which usually is a bad sign. I usually hear the words "You're grounded" after deep breaths.

  He comes into the room and sits down on my bed, leans over with his arms on his knees, and stares at the floor.

  I wait.

  I wait some more. He's the one who started this. I don't have anything to say. Let him talk.

  When he finally speaks, it's in a small, soft voice: "I don't know what to do, Kyra."

  "Fine. Get pizza."

  I expect him to give me crap for my sarcasm, but instead he just starts laughing his ass off. He falls back on my bed, laughing so hard, I think he might choke.

  OK, I have no idea how to react to that. I thought I had him figured out. This is new.

  He sits up, wiping his eyes. "Christ, Kyra. Christ. Sometimes you're just like her. Just like her. It kills me." He looks over at me, his face shiny with the tears he just rubbed into his skin. "Do you get that?"

  "I guess."

  "What you just said ... Back in college, I was freaking out over a test. I had a paper due and I had this test coming up, too, and I didn't know which one to work on. They were both important and I was freaking out because I couldn't figure out which one was more important, so I was wasting all this time stressing about it, which just made it even worse. And then your mom said, 'Let's get pizza'and I was like, 'Are you nuts? I don't have time for pizza!' And she said, 'You have time to stress. So stress with pizza.