by Barry Lyga
"Why? Why? I'll tell you why. Because ... because you forgot me!" Rage. It's back. Thank God. I almost didn't know how to live with myself without it. Being all lachrymose. Anger is better. Anger is always better than sadness.
"I was gone for six months, Fanboy. Six months! And you never called. You never wrote to me. You didn't send me a single e-mail or a text message or anything. It's like I didn't exist. And I come back and you're this whole different person. You have new friends and shit and it's like I never existed and you just went ahead and tossed me on the trash heap and forgot all about me and went off and did your own shit. So that's why. That's why, all right?"
I'm sort of breathing hard by the time I've got it all out. It feels good to let it all out. Finally.
He stares at me like I've slapped him, which I could have, which I should have. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe I could stand up and smack him right now.
"I called," he says, his voice low and small. "A lot. Your dad wouldn't talk to me."
And that stops me cold. Because the whole time I was in the hospital, I would ask Roger, "Has anyone called for me?" And he would say no. Well, he gave Simone and Jecca my number at the hospital, but other than that...
"I don't believe you," I tell him, but I'm not sure.
"I called and said I was your friend and he wouldn't tell me where you were. Because I couldn't tell him who I was. I thought he'd recognize my voice from the bullet thing."
The tears start to come back. My vision blurs. Shit! Why? Why are they here? He's lying. I don't believe him.
Or do my tears know something I don't know?
"And I e-mailed you every single day. Every day you were gone. You never answered."
And that is total bullshit because when I came back from the hospital, the first thing I did was check my e-mail and there was nothing from him at all. Not a single e-mail for six months. So there.
I'm about to give him an entire boatload of shit for lying to me when his mom comes out carrying the baby and says, "All right, guys, let's get going."
Out of Purgatory. Into hell, no doubt.
Seventy-six
SHE MAKES HIM SIT IN the back, to keep an eye on the baby. Which means I get to sit up front with Fanboy's mom, who does not look at me with anything remotely resembling kindness or pity.
So I stare straight ahead at the dark roads of Brookdale and try not to think of how many blood vessels Roger is going to bust when I tell him what happened to me. Because Roger the Cop has my name and shit, so I really can't avoid this anymore.
Crap.
To take my mind off it, I think about Fanboy's lies, which makes me angrier and, therefore, better.
E-mailed me every day. Yeah, right. What a load of bullshit.
I had no e-mails from him. None. Does he think I'm stupid?
If he does, he's not the only one. Jecca must think I'm stupid, too. Telling me she e-mailed me about Brad all summer long when she never did.
Wow. Two people think I'm stupid! And not just a little bit stupid, either. Really, hugely stupid. Because you would have to be an enormous moron to miss all those e-mails. If they really e-mailed me all the time, there would be so many e-mails that you'd have to be blind to miss them.
Wait.
Wait a second.
Does Jecca even know Fanboy? Do they know each other at all?
Because it would be really stupid for them to both use the same lie. And Fanboy is actually a really good liar, so he wouldn't screw up like that.
So, no. They can't know each other. It's not like they planned this or something.
But then ... Hang on...
So if they didn't plan it, then it's just a coincidence? It's just a coincidence that they both decided to tell the exact same lie?
Does that make sense?
No. Not really.
Jecca ... Jecca kept insisting that she'd sent me e-mails about Brad over the summer ... She really didn't sound like she was lying. With Fanboy I can't always tell, but Jecca, she's not the world's greatest liar. I can usually tell with her. I can—
It hits me like a truck on the highway: Roger. Roger wiped my e-mail account while I was gone.
He tiptoed through my account, deleting anything he thought would upset me...
("Someone has to protect you from yourself. From all the crap out in the world." That's what he said to me when I came home from the hospital.)
Leaving some spam and some boring, innocent stuff so I wouldn't get suspicious.
I don't know why, but I get it. He went into my computer and screwed around with my files and erased my e-mails!
Goddamn!
That means that...
That means that maybe Fanboy did e-mail me every day.
Maybe he was telling the truth.
Oh, shit.
What...
What does that mean?
Every day.
Who e-mails someone every day for six months? When they never get a single response?
God, this is seriously messing with my head! I was ... I was going to destroy him. The stuff I did already was bad enough, but then ... The flyers. The posters. The website.
My stomach goes all lurchy, like I'm on a boat on a rough sea. God. If I had actually done that...
I would have wrecked him. I would have ruined him for the rest of high school. I would have destroyed not just him, but also Schemata. No one would have taken it seriously after that.
And I would have done it for no reason.
Because he didn't forget me.
Oh, God.
He didn't forget me.
Seventy-seven
WE PULL INTO MY NEIGHBORHOOD and I hear my own voice—low and croaky and sick-tell Mrs. Marchetti which house is mine.
She pulls alongside the curb by the driveway. This is the part where I get out of the car, but I don't want to. It's not just that it's warm in the car. It's that once I get out of the car and go inside, I'm probably going to end up right back in a hospital for another million months because Roger will overreact again. And I'll never be able to tell Fanboy...
Tell him...
How sorry...
"Hey, Mom?" he says from the back seat. "Can we have a couple of minutes?"
It's like the boy can read my mind.
"Betta's still wide awake," he says quickly, "so maybe you could drive around a little more until she falls asleep?"
She twists to look back at the baby. "Yeah. Yeah, OK. But..." She faces front again, takes a deep breath, then turns to me. "You need to understand something, Kyra. I'm not leaving here tonight until I see your father in that doorway. You understand? You're not sneaking into the house and trying to avoid this. I need to know that your father sees you tonight and knows what happened."
The usual Kyra stuff bubbles up in my throat and fills my mouth. But instead I just say, "I understand."
Fanboy and I get out of the car and she drives off.
So.
Here we stand at the foot of my driveway in the freezing cold.
"I really wrote to you every—"
"I know you did," I tell him. "I know. My dad must have wiped stuff from my computer, I think."
He just nods, like that makes all the sense in the world.
"That asshole." God, I still can't believe it! "That effing asshole. Who does he think he is?"
"He's your dad."
"So? That doesn't give him the right to—"
"I'm not saying it gives him any rights. I'm saying..." He stops and sighs, the sigh a dissolving cloud on the cold November night.
"Look, let me tell you a story, OK?"
"You're always telling me stories, Fanboy."
"Well, what can I say? That's, like, the only thing I'm halfway good at in this world, you know?" He grins, and I want to fling myself at him and kiss that grin, but I hold back.
"Anyway, when Betta was born, my mom had all of these toys and things, right? Stuff you buy for babies. And I really ... When we brought her home from t
he hospital, I was like, you know, she's not that bad. I mean, I was really dreading her being born..."
"I remember."
"Yeah, but I was wrong. Because I love her. I really do. So when we got her home, I wanted to do something for her. So I was in my room and I looked around and I rummaged through my closet and I found ... Man, this is weird ... I found my old teddy bear. I couldn't believe I still had it. It was in a box way in the back. And I said to my mom, 'Can I give her this?'
"And my mom sort of laughed. Because, see, when I was real little, she gave me that teddy bear. And it turns out that it was her teddy bear, when she was a kid. And I was like four when she gave it to me. I don't even remember. But apparently she gave it to me and she was like, 'This was Mommy's when Mommy was little. And I saved it all these years to give it to you.
"And, like, I said, 'I don't remember any of this, but Mom says that I started to cry. And she couldn't figure out why. And apparently I said to her, 'I don't ever want to have kids! And when she asked me why, I said, 'Because I don't want to have to give away my stuffed animals!'"
I wait for a punch line, but he just stands there, grinning at me like he's revealed something amazing.
"I, uh, think I missed the point of that story, Fanboy."
"Look, Kyra. Look. Here's the thing. She was doing something nice for me, right? She couldn't know that in my little four-year-old brain, I would somehow twist it into something bad, right?"
"So?" This has got nothing to do with me and Roger and deleted e-mails.
"So, the point is this: Parents screw up no matter what. If you fix one thing, you just screw up another one, is all. Even if your dad had let those e-mails go through, he would have messed up something else. Or maybe one of those e-mails would have said something that would have hurt you even worse than never getting all of the other ones. That's just the way it is, you know? You can never know for sure. They never know. You're the one who told me adults were idiots, remember?"
Yeah. Yeah, I remember. "They're idiots. They're just grownup kids with more money who listen to shitty music..." That's what I told him.
"They don't know what the hell they're doing. They're just trying." He shrugs. "That's just the way it is."
"What, you're saying I should forgive him? For violating my privacy? For making me think that ... people forgot about me while I was gone?"
"Forgive? I don't know. understand, maybe."
We both start shivering at the same time, which makes us laugh, which makes us a little warmer.
"I think we're both gonna be blue soon," he says.
"That's fine. If I freeze to death out here, I don't have to confront my dad."
He nods like he knows. But he's never really been in trouble. So he can't know.
"My mom should be back soon..."
"Right. Look..." God. Look, Kyra, you just need to do this, OK? Just get it all out. After Roger finds out you were arrested, you might never see him again, for all you know. So say it.
"I'm the one who spread the rumors that you were gay."
He just laughs. "Wow, you really were pissed at me, huh?"
"Aren't you angry?"
"Nah. Like that's so terrible? Besides, I don't care what other people think. isn't that what you taught me? And I'm not a complete idiot. I sort of figured that out. I mean, it was a hell of a coincidence—you come back to school and then all this weird stuff starts happening to me."
"I don't get it. If you knew I was doing all of that, if you knew, then why are you even here? Why were you nice to me? Why are you still my friend?"
"Jeez, Kyra. I know that you ... Look, when my parents got divorced, I went through a lot, OK? Not saying it was the same thing as your mom dying, but I went through a lot. I mean, for a while there I thought I was going nuts. Even worse than when you met me. So I mean, I know that you're having a tough time. And I want to help you. Because I like you. And because ... I don't know. I guess I feel guilty. About calling your dad last year. And getting you sent away to the hospital."
"That was my dad's decision. Not yours."
"Yeah, but..." He sighs. "I don't know. I feel bad about it. So, I figured I'd make it up to you. Somehow."
And wow. Wow. This is so much better than him lending me his hat.
"What the hell happened to you while I was gone?" I ask, but not in a tough way. In a totally admiring way.
"What do you mean?"
"You're different. More confident. It's like you're a grownup or something. What happened?"
He stares at me like I've just asked him to perform brain surgery on me. Then, slowly, he smiles, and it's this open, honest smile that just kills me. It's this smile that says, Hey, right now? This very moment? This is a great moment. This is a really awesome moment.
"You happened, Kyra."
"I was away—"
"No. You weren't. Because I kept thinking about you. All the time."
And yes. Yes, this is definitely better than his hat.
Seventy-eight
IT'S A GREAT MOMENT. ONE OF the greatest in my life, and I feel like it might get even better, but then I hear a car and see headlights, and Mrs. Marchetti's SUV comes down the street.
He hears it, too. "Let me walk you to the door," he says.
He doesn't grab my hand or anything. He just walks up the driveway with me. I feel like, as long as he's next to me, maybe I can handle this. Maybe I can.
I take off his hat and hold it out to him, but he shakes his head. "Keep it for now. For the next time you decide to escape when it's, like, absolute zero out."
It makes me way, way too happy to put his hat back on my head. Even through the scarf, I can feel it on my bald dome and it's so nice and so cool to have something of his touching me like that.
His mom stops at the foot of the driveway and waits there, watching. I don't have my keys. I'll have to ring the doorbell. Roger will get up. He'll stumble out of bed. Put on a robe. The porch lights will come on and then the door will open and then I'll have to take my medicine.
We stand there at the front door. "Want me to ring the bell?" he asks.
"No. That's OK." But I can't move my arm. I can't raise my hand to do it. It's not that I'm afraid of Roger or of what will follow. It's just that I don't want now to end. I don't want now to become then. I want it to staynow forever. Even though it's so damn cold.
"Here." He takes my hand, and it's not cold out anymore. "We'll do it together." And he lifts my hand to the button. Yes. I can do it. We can do it together.
"Wait." I pull my hand away from the button, gripping his hand tighter. "Wait."
He tosses a worried glance down the driveway. "What?"
"One thing, first. You have to tell me something."
"What?"
"The third thing. Your third thing."
He pulls out of my grasp and goes all ... withdrawn. I feel like he's running away from me even though he's standing still.
So I reach out and grab him. Grab the hand that held mine just a second ago. "Come on."
"Kyra. No."
"Why not?"
He looks away. Looks at the sky. Looks at the road. Anything but me. "I told you. I told you before. If I tell, I'll ... I'll never get it."
"That's not true. That's not ... That's like superstition. Magic bullshit. Just tell me. I won't tell anyone else. I promise."
He shakes his head.
"Please," I say. I've said the word to him before, but never like this. Never the way it was supposed to be said. Asking for something. Not being sarcastic. It's the first time I've said it to him for real.
"Please," I say again, and it's easier the second time.
He sighs and leans into me, our hands still touching, now the fingers intertwining like they were meant to, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He puts his lips close to my ear, so close I want to turn my head just a little bit, just enough to feel them. But I stay still and I let him whisper it to me. The third thing.
Then he pulls back a little bit and looks at me like he expects me to laugh. Or to snort. And a little while ago maybe I would have. But not now.
Because you know what? It makes perfect sense. It really does.
"Me, too," I tell him. "Me, too."
He grins at me. "You ready?"
Not really. But all good things must come to an end.
But...
I want...
Oh, just do it, Kyra. Give him a kiss. He's dying for it. You're dying for it. Just lean in so that we're as close as before...
No. No. I want it andhe wants it, but not now. Maybe another time. When there's less going on. When his mother isn't watching.
"I'm ready," I tell him, and I'm surprised that it's the truth.
Together, we reach out for the doorbell, our hands tight. I unfurl my index finger and he unfurls his and we both push the button. Through the door, I hear the muted chime.
"Thanks," I tell him.
"Thanks to you, too," he says, then lets go of my hand and stands there for just a second—hug her? kiss her? no, not yet—and starts to walk down the drive.
He's halfway down when I call out to him in a loud whisper.
"What?" he asks, turning around.
"Hey. So, uh, I know that you hate 'Donnie'and all that, but I was thinking ... Maybe it would be cool if I called you Donald. Or just Don."
He chuckles. "I don't know. I was kinda getting used to Fanboy."
I flip him the bird, but I'm smiling. "In that case, I'm definitely switching to Don."
He laughs and goes to the car and I hear footsteps inside and the outside lights come on and I turn to the door and steel myself to take my medicine.
The Last Time I Saw Her
the room the room the room is rosevomit because
roger left roses and
mom threw up before i came in
perfect timing
("Honey?" she said
In that clouded, confused way.)
cancer had eaten a path to her brain
