Goth Girl Rising

by Barry Lyga

  If I were a guy, I'd totally do her.

  Jecca looks almost normal—hair still dyed black, but she's wearing it loose, not slicked or gelled. Black top, tight jeans, sneaks. She looks cute. If I were a guy, I don't know if I would do her, but I wouldn't not do her.

  She's also the only one of us smart enough to have a jacket.

  "I'm freezing my tits off," Sim says. "Let's get inside."

  "Gotta have 'em to lose em," Jecca says.

  "Someday..." Simone leads us to the door and we don't even knock because we can already hear the music and the talking inside.

  As soon as I step inside, I regret it. What the eff am I doing here? I hate this shit. I hate these kinds of parties. Am I that desperate to be out of the house? I mean, please—Roger's asleep by now. What's the big deal about being in the same house when he's asleep?

  I work up the guts to tell Sim to take me home, but she's already threading her away through the crowd, a slash of white in the dark. The house is lit only by a gigantic flat-screen TV, playing hip-hop videos, and some scattered lamps with weak bulbs. The whole place is a sea of bodies. I really don't want to plunge in.

  Jecca takes my hand. "Come on," she says. "Let's look around."

  I let her lead me. I see some other goths—Lauri and Troy and the rest. It's mostly juniors and seniors, but there are a few sophomores and even a couple of freshmen, mostly girls, and I want to warn them to get the hell out.

  My ass gets grabbed a couple of times as we push into the crowd. I bring my arms up to protect my boobs. My ass is one thing, but you touch my boobs and I'll kill you.

  We make it through the living room and down a hall of dancing bodies into the kitchen. A bag of chips has exploded-there are chips and chip fragments and chip dust everywhere. Jecca experiments with something red from a punch bowl.

  "Whoa. Oh. Oh, God. That's strong." She holds her cup out to me and I sip from it. Holy shit.

  Jecca downs the rest of it. I look around for something to put out the flames, but there's only beer and some bottles of booze. After a minute of looking, I find mixers and the remains of mixers—bottles of Coke and sour mix, a carton of OJ. I drink some of the OJ and pour a rum and Coke, minus the rum. Date rape victim, I've decided, is not going to be an item on my résumé.

  I look around, but Jecca's gone. Great. Sim can take care of herself—sort of—but I wanted to keep an eye on Jecca. Shit.

  I look around again. Maybe I missed her. It's a big kitchen and there are a lot of people in here.

  A girl pushes past me, sloshing me with her drink. "Sorry," she says.

  Yeah, right, whatever.

  "I said, 'sorry'!" she shouts, like I didn't hear her or something.

  "Yeah, OK," I tell her, planning my escape route out of the kitchen and back into the hell of the house.

  "I'm Leah," she says, and holds out her hand, like we're at a friggin cocktail party or something. Her eyes are glazed and she's unsteady, and she slurred her sorrys a little.

  I really don't want to shake her hand, but I go ahead and do it, just to make her go away.

  It doesn't work. "I'm a shophomore," she manages to say.

  Oh, God. Like I even care. "Yeah, that's great. Keep killing your brain cells and you might make it back to freshman by Christmas break."

  She laughs much harder than I deserve for that one. "You are shoooo funny!" She hiccups and her drink sloshes me again and she goes away.

  Before I can move, though, someone else comes plowing right through me, not even apologizing. It's some little skinny guy, fantastically ugly and covered in zits, and just to prove that all types come to these parties, he's actually got his backpack with him, and he's carrying it on his hip, like it's a baby or a basket of laundry. Weird. At least I was smart enough to leave my bag in the car.

  I can't help staring at him. He's just so ugly that he's almost good-looking. I decide his superhero name is Backpack Boy.

  I shake it off.

  Time to find Jecca. Shit. I wish I had my cell. I'm such an idiot.

  There are three ways out of the kitchen—the way I came in, a hallway that looks like it leads to bedrooms, and a door that goes outside to a deck, where people have gathered already, including Drunk Leah at one end and Backpack Boy lounging right near the door so that I can't see anything. I poke my head outside and try to lean around him so that I can look for Jecca. Someone pushes past me and "accidentally" brushes my boob. I kick him in the shin.

  "Hey! What the hell was that for?" He spins around and glares.

  "You know, asswipe. Keep moving." And then, as if to prove something (I don't know what), I whip off my scarf and show him my bald head. He shrugs and goes out onto the deck.

  Jecca's nowhere to be seen...

  "Hey, can you move?" I shove at Backpack Boy. "I'm looking for something."

  He cradles his backpack like it's filled with glass. "Sure. Sure. don't shove."

  I step outside and I finally get a lungful of air that doesn't taste like beer or sour mix. It's cold outside, but better than the body heat inside. Jecca's not out here, but I give myself a little break and just drink my Coke and breathe in the cold air. Backpack Boy stands off a few feet, still cradling his backpack. God, this world is just jam-packed with weird assholes, isn't it?

  Eventually I'm done with the Coke and the deck, so I go back into the kitchen. The idea of going down toward the bedrooms is frightening. I do not want to see what's going on in there.

  As I fight my way back to the living room, I can't help wondering: Is there a chance Fanboy is here? I mean, probably not. He's not the party hardy type. Still...

  He did tell me that he came to a party here just before summer break. Just before I went away. Yeah. This is where...

  This is where he made out with Dina Jurgens.

  It makes me angrier than it should. Why do I even care, other than that it's just stupid? He got to make out with what was, at the time, the hottest girl in the school. Good for him. Hooray. Let's throw a parade for the Geek Done Good. His whole life just took right off after that, didn't it? He made more friends, got his shit published, got people paying attention to him...

  And I went away. That was probably the best part for him. Who needed me after all that shit, right? Who'd need me after he got the chance to eff around with Dina Jurgens?

  I shove—shove hard—my way through the crowd in the hallway. People yell and complain and someone even throws a (mostly) empty cup at my head, but I don't care. I need to get mad, so I take it out on the crowd and push through until I emerge in the living room.

  Fanboy. It's always Fanboy. God, I have to stop thinking about him, just for a little while. So what if he made out with Dina? So what if he doesn't need me? Who cares? Why do I care?

  "Kyra! Hey, Kyra!"

  I don't recognize the voice at first, but as Cal makes his way over to me, I make the connection.

  "Holy shit," he says as he sidles up to me, "you should try out for the football team, girl! You broke through that crowd like"—and then he spits out some football crap that I have no way in the world of understanding—"know what I mean?"

  Not a chance.

  But if he's here, then maybe...

  "Hey, is, uh..." I don't want to seem too eager or too anything. "Is what's-his-face here?"

  "Nah. This really isn't his scene. I'm kinda surprised to see you here."

  "I came with some friends."

  "Cool. Cool." He drinks from a red cup and looks around the room. We just stand there for a while and then he says, "Hey, can I tell you something?"

  I hate when people do that. Because if you said no, would they really just forget all about it and walk away?

  I give it a shot: "No."

  He laughs. "God, you're funny! Anyway, no, really, look—I think it's so cool that you, you know, look out for him, you know? He's a great guy, but sometimes he needs someone to kick him in the butt a little bit. And he gets distracted so easily ... So thanks for doing that. An
d for—you know, last year—telling me about Schemata."

  Oh my God and then he does it—he totally puts an arm around me and hugs me.

  "What the hell are you drinking?" I ask him. Because that's the only explanation I can think of.

  He steps back and grins a big, broad grin filled with dazzling white teeth and for a half a second I understand why all the girls go weak in the knees for him. He passes his cup under my nose.

  "Nothin but Coke," he says. "I'm in season. Football."

  "So are half the people here."

  "I do my own thing. But, y'know, I don't judge ... Whoa."

  I follow his gaze. Simone—of course it would be Simone—is dancing on a table with another girl, one I don't recognize. All the guys are cheering and hollering. Every single one of them right now is imagining what it would be like to be with Simone, or with the other girl, or with both of them. Another Simone prediction about to come true—she is definitely getting laid tonight.

  Cal has disappeared. Good. I didn't feel like dealing with him anyway.

  I don't see Jecca anywhere in the living room. Great. I'm gonna have to brave the Dark Hallway of Sex and the Bedrooms of Death to look for her. Hopefully she isn't passed out and being gang-raped. Because that could totally happen in a place like this.

  If someone is hurting her, I'll kill him. That's all there is to it. Simone's different. Simone wants it. Simone deliberately puts herself in positions where guys get to take advantage of her and she usually doesn't regret it. Jecca's not like that. She's not a virgin, but she's not a slut, either, and I won't let people treat her like one.

  Then something hits me right there in the midst of the booze and the hollers and the grinding, even as I watch Drunk Leah stagger past me. It doesn't literally hit me like the cup a couple of minutes ago. It's just a thought. That I treat Jecca the same way I treated Fanboy. I never kissed Fanboy, but I understood him and I gave him courage and I pushed him. And with Jecca, I understand her and I try to help her make the right decisions.

  So, you know, eff everyone. All these people think I'm some terrible person because I smoke and I cuss and I'm sarcastic and there's shit I can't be bothered with, but you know what? I'm a good person. I take care of my friends.

  And then—as if that revelation makes me glow in the dark—Jecca suddenly appears, stumbling over to me. She's what we call Drunk Enough. Like, it's not totally drunk, just Drunk Enough that you feel good and sometimes say and do stupid things. She flops to my side and wraps her arms around me.

  "Kyyyyyyrrrraaaa!" she says. "I love you, Kyyyyyyyrrrrra!"

  Drunk Enough.

  "Yeah, OK, Jecca." I'm just glad her clothes are still in order and she doesn't look like anyone's abused her.

  She lays her head on my shoulder and sighs a long sigh. We stand there for a million years.

  "Will you do me a favor?" she singsongs.

  "What?"

  She looks around quickly, then leans over to whisper in my ear. She's Drunk Enough, so she misjudges the distance and her lips brush against my ear—they're slick with lip gloss, and for a second I almost turn to intercept them with my own. But I don't.

  "Kiss me," she whispers, her lips flicking at my ear.

  Sixty-eight

  I'VE GOT A BOWLING BALL in my throat. It takes four tries to swallow it down. I've gone rigid and sweat starts to gather in my pits and along the back of my naked skull.

  "What did you say?" I whisper back. I know damn well what she said, but for some reason I have to pretend I didn't hear it. I have to give her a chance to back out.

  "Kiss me," she says, a tiny bit louder, almost groaning it in my ear.

  "Here? Right here?" We're surrounded by people. No one's really paying attention to us, but it's not like people are avoiding looking at us, either. If we kissed right now, someone would see. And point it out to other people and then everyone would see. Everyone would know.

  My stomach twists and turns. I can't tell if it's the idea of being seen or the idea of kissing her.

  "Yeah," she says, then suddenly pulls away from me. She pouts. "Come on, Kyra." She looks around quickly. "We have to hurry."

  "What?"

  She smiles at me. "Look. See?"

  She points. Brad—teh HOTTEST junior @ sb!!!—is standing with a group of guys at the other end of the room. They're all watching us. Brad tips his beer bottle in our direction, like he's saluting.

  "Come on, Kyra. He won't wait forever. Kiss me."

  "What the hell? What the hell are you talking about?"

  But I know. Even as I ask the question, I know.

  Still, Jecca's Drunk Enough, and she answers the question in a jumble of endless sentences without breathing:

  "It would be better if you still had hair, I think, and maybe if you wore something so your boobs were, I don't know, out there a little, but it's OK. It's OK. See, I was hanging out over there and I was totally trying to get Brad to pay attention to me, you know, and he was, like, not. Not paying attention. And they were all watching Sim and that sophomore girl and I was like, oh my God, this is my chance, and I said that I could do more than that. They're not even really touching each other, right, and I saw you and I said—"

  Don't say it, Jecca. Please. Don't say it.

  "—that I would go kiss a girl and Brad finally paid attention to me! He paid attention, Kyra!" She's still smiling and there are tears in her eyes and she drinks from a nearly empty beer bottle. "I've liked him, like, all year. Since the summer. And I never thought he'd notice me, but he noticed me when I said that, so come on. Kiss me."

  I am...

  I am

  so

  angry

  at her in this moment. So angry that I could put my hands around her throat and squeeze, squeeze so hard that her eyes bug out and then pop out, squeeze until she chokes, her tongue going all swollen and hanging out of her mouth, squeeze until her head actually comes off.

  The room spins and swims around me. All I hear is a high-pitched whine. I'm still sweating, but now I'm somehow cold, too.

  I think I'm gonna pass out.

  That would be so weak. That would be so weak.

  I focus on that. It would be weak to pass out. I focus on it and it doesn't happen.

  "Come on, Kyra. He's still watching." She leans toward me, and oh, God—those lips. I've always loved leaning up into those lips, feeling them against mine, then the soft, wet moment when they part, and her tongue...

  I take a step back from her.

  "Come on, Kyra!" She glares at me. "I told you. I told you, like, a million times. How much I liked him. I e-mailed you. I told you. I didn't tell you on the phone because you never know who's listening at the hospital, but I sent you those e-mails all summer long about how much I liked him. And, like, you never answered me, but that's OK because I know you were away and stuff, but come on, Kyra. You know. You know."

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. First time I heard about this shit was a couple of days ago."

  "What the hell's wrong with you? What's the big deal? We do it all the time."

  "But..." I don't know how to explain it to her. No, wait, that's a lie. I do know how to explain it to her. Here's the thing—what Jecca and I do ... it's for us. Whatever it is, whatever it means or doesn't mean, it's for us. It's about us. It's not to show off. Or to turn on some jack-ass Ryan Seacrest look-alike.

  I step back some more. I'm disgusted. I can't do it. I won't do it.

  But if I have to explain it to her ... then I guess it didn't mean anything at all. I guess it was all just bullshit, like everything is bullshit.

  I don't know which is worse: the idea that Jecca doesn't take it seriously, or that she does and is willing to cheapen it and use it anyway.

  "I have to go," I tell her. "I have to go."

  "No, wait."

  But I've already turned. I'm already going. Her fingers brush my back, trying to grab my shirt and pull me back, but I keep pushing forward through
the crowd. I bump against Cal and Drunk Leah and Backpack Boy and other people, but I don't care. I'm out of here. I'm gone. I can't stay here anymore. It was stupid to come in the first place. What was I thinking?

  I finally get through to the front hallway and then I get the door open and I'm outside, like being born after labor. It's cold outside, but I don't care. The cold feels good. My sweat could freeze and I could die from the shock, but I don't care.

  What is wrong with me? Why is it that everyone I ... uh, everyone I care about, you know, betrays me? My mom. My dad. Fanboy. Jecca.

  I always thought it was them. I thought it had to be them. It couldn't be me, right? But maybe it is. Maybe it's been me all along.

  And if that's the case...

  If that's the case, then maybe I don't belong. Maybe I'll never belong.

  If that's the case, then maybe I should just check out of this world after all. Maybe in that case, there's no reason for me to stick around.

  There's certainly no reason for me to stick around here.

  Sixty-nine

  I GRAB MY BAG FROM SIMONE'S CAR. There's no way I'm going back in there to ask her to give me a ride home. No way. She would want to know why. Besides, she's not Drunk Enough. She's drunk.

  It's too risky to try to steal one of the many, many cars parked here. Some people are milling around outside, even though it's cold, and I could get caught way too easily.

  So I sling the bag over my shoulder and I start to walk.

  I walk up the street Vesentine lives on. It connects to another residential street, like a plus sign. I stand at the intersection and try to remember—did we turn on to Vesentine's street or just go straight?