by Barry Lyga
And me? Shocking though it may be, I'm a virgin (no, it's true), but—God bless the Internet, cable TV, and convenience store clerks who don't ask for ID—I've seen enough to know that I want to see more.
A part of me wonders if Lisa knows. If she's some kind of exhibitionist. Is there a particular brand of kink that involves flashing the town geek?
A ball of cold lead forms in my throat and then drops down into my gut. Worse yet, is there a game that calls for getting the town geek hot and bothered with flashes of the Promised Land, then letting a bunch of Neanderthals in letter jackets pound the living crap out of him? That sounds more likely than anything else.
I shiver just once before regaining control of myself. My hand automatically goes into my pocket, where the bullet waits with its almost narcotic touch.
Mrs. Hanscomb is droning on and on about Poe, about opium, about alcohol, about MEL-an-choly, and Lisa Carter coughs, shifts in her seat, lets her legs open just a little bit more. More than ever before.
I look, but I'm not happy about it.
Chapter Six
ON THE WAY TO GYM CLASS, Cal catches up to me. There are no jocks around, so he's safe to pull out a comic he found on eBay. It got to his house yesterday.
"How much?" I ask, looking at it. It's an old Swamp Thing comic, flimsy and stapled. I've got the collected editions, nice bound softcovers that contain multiple issues, and I think my dad has the originals, like this one, in his collection.
"A bunch," he says, sighing. "Too much. Fifty bucks. But I couldn't resist. I love that Alan Moore stuff."
"Dude, you can get the trade paperback for, like, fifteen bucks, and it's got all four parts, not just this one." I want to wave it in his face, but I'm mindful that he just laid down five Hamiltons for this sucker.
"Yeah, yeah, I know." He shrugs as if to say, Whaddayawantfromme? Cal's a serious collector, a total nut for first editions and Mint conditions. Me, I just like the stories. with one exception, I don't care if they're printed on toilet paper and bound with bubblegum.
"But this is how it first came out," he goes on. "This is how people like your dad first saw it and read it. Not all at once in some big collected edition with an introduction and stuff. They saw it one at a time, each month, waiting each month for the next installment. This is like..." He takes it back from me, opening it carefully, not wanting to crinkle the paper at the spine where the staples hold the whole thing together. "This is like an historical document."
"No, it's not." Cal is great. Cal's smart. This is Cal at his best, when we're talking. Even when I disagree with him. I can't believe he wastes so much of his time on the football field and all of that nonsense. "It's not an historical document," I tell him. "It's just a comic book. It's the story that matters."
"Yeah?" He grins the grin of someone who knows me way too well. "What about Giant-Size X-Men #1? In Mint condition?"
He's got me there. "Come on, Cal. That's different. You know it. You know—"
"Look." He holds the comic open for me. At the end of the story there's a page of tight, small text. "Letters page," he says with a note of triumph. "Back then, they used to publish letters in the back of each issue. From readers. And the editors and writers would answer them."
"So? Like I've never read an old comic before. I know that."
"So, they don't reprint the letters pages when they do the collected editions. All of that stuff is just gone, man. But when you go back and read them, you get to see how people reacted when the comic came out. You get to see what the fans were thinking while the story was developing. You get insight from the editor about what was going on. It's a window into the creative process."
His eyes are shining as he says this, and it's a damn shame that, over Cal's shoulder, I see Vesentine and a few other guys heading toward us. My heart's actually racing. This is the kind of conversation I love to have. And Cal loves it, too. But any second now, he's going to have to put that comic book into his locker and, like a Durlan or a Skrull, he'll change.
"Yeah, it's a window," I tell him, and start to turn away.
"Hey. Where are you going?"
"Gym," I remind him, then cut down the hall before I bear witness once again to the transformation of Cool Cal, Comic Book Guy and Friend into Distant Cal, He of the Unfortunate Friendships and Letter Jacket.
It's the first time, I realize, I've ever turned away from him . Preemptive. Half of a really good friend, I guess, is better than no friend at all.
Chapter Seven
GYM CLASS. HOSTAGES. There's a duct access hatch in the weight room. I dodge a hail of bullets ... A dozen or more jock idiots are cut down right away...
The ball glances off my hip, which is fine. I don't mind being the first out. Just head for the Dead Zone and hope the game lasts awhile. The longer the game lasts, the longer I can spend taking advantage of the free time. The hostage scenario is fine, but pointless—I need to spend more time thinking about Schemata, working on that.
Mitchell Frampton lumbers over. I can't believe this is an accident. He must have done this on purpose. He leers at me as he comes close. His bottom lip is still cracked. I look away from him, pretending to watch the game.
"Hey," he says.
Just ignore him. That's all I need to do: ignore him.
"Hey."
"What?" Watching the game. As if I care. Scanning the gym. Mr. Burger and Mr. Kaltenbach in a corner, laughing, occasionally watching the ball as it darts from one player to another, paying no mind to the losers in the Dead Zone.
"Look at me when I talk. What're ya, rude?"
So I turn to look at him and just then he punches me in the shoulder. My head jerks with shock and it's whiplash and my eyes widen in the sudden pain and I don't say anything.
He giggles. "Just wanted to see the look on yer face." And again. Same spot. Pounding me. Punching. My fingers itch and curl. I want to gouge his eyes out. I want to bite into his throat. I want to rake furrows into his stupid, doughy face.
You'll get in trouble.
Just ignore him.
I want to grab that bottom lip and rip it in half, right down the center where it's split already, let it gush, tear his face in two, right down to the bone.
Instead, I just stand there. I go away into my own little world. But before I do, I see someone up on the bleachers again, a black blur with a white blur stuck into it, as if a solid black figure has been mashed in the face with a thumb dipped in white paint.
In the locker room, I find a spot with as few people as possible and change as quickly as possible. We're supposed to take showers, but I didn't work up a sweat, so I'll be skipping that specific ritual of humiliation, thank you very much.
A guy next to me sees the massive bruise on my arm. "God, what a wuss! You got bruised from playing dodge ball? "
I look at him, and I realize that I don't know him. I don't even recognize him from walking through the halls or assemblies. I couldn't tell you what grade he's in or what classes he takes. So why does he even bother? Why does he even bother being mean to me?
Chapter Eight
HOMEWORK IS "THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM," ten trigonometry problems, a chapter of bio, and an essay on William Jennings Bryan. I've read the Poe before, the trig's a cakewalk, and the bio goes down on the bus. At least I'm done with gym for the week. And maybe next week they'll finally have the sod put down on the field outside so we won't be playing dodge ball anymore. If we are, I'll have to take the unprecedented step of trying to stay in the game. Just long enough that I won't be alone with Frampton in the Dead Zone. He wouldn't hit me while other people are standing right there, would he?
Then again, who ever thought he'd hit me at all? A teacher could look over and see at any moment, but he just doesn't care. or doesn't think. one or the other or both. Who knows how Cro-Magnon brains work? And really, given that it's gym class, I guess it isn't that much of a risk for him. After all, Mr. Burger's the one who, last year, yelled at me when I dropped a fly ball
during baseball. Bad enough I can't play the damn game to begin with, but now I have to get noise from the teachers, too? So regardless of what's really happening, what would Burger choose to see—some big lug punching that useless wuss. "Eh, fine. It'll toughen the little pussy up."
I can see that.
Mom's not home when the bus drops me off. I make a sandwich and steal some of the step-fascist's potato chips. He's picky about his potato chips—he only likes the ruffle-cut kind, so I'm not supposed to eat them, but I swipe some whenever I can. I take a Coke to go with it all and head down to my room.
The step-fascist himself is toiling over one of his many hunting rifles, which is disassembled on the workbench. I can smell gun oil and Budweiser. Alcohol and firearms. Good combination. He doesn't even grunt an acknowledgment of my presence, which is fine—I don't want to have to break out my Human-to-Monosyllable Dictionary. I make sure to lock my bedroom door.
So, William Jennings Bryan. Come on, people, give me a challenge. Cross of gold. Populism. Blah, blah, blah. I knock out ten pages on early-twentieth-century American politics, then scale back to six because Mr. Bachman doesn't appreciate my in-depth analyses, nor does he necessarily have the ability to understand them. (I happened to see his lesson plans once—they'd been downloaded from some website. only the best and brightest at South Brook High.)
I IM Cal, but he reminds me that he's got lacrosse practice. Talk l8r he tells me, then signs off.
I spend a little time on the Web, checking the prices of a new Mac and eBay's latest on Giant-Size X-Men. Apple's offering a free printer with the computer, which is great. Now only if they'd offer a free computer with the computer. Ten different people are offering the comic on eBay, each auction at different stages, all but one out of my reach. That last one is only a day old, though, so the price will skyrocket later. I put in a bid anyway, just in case. With millions of people bidding on millions of things all over the world, all day long, there's gotta be a chance that someone will screw up and overlook a particular auction, right?
Then, the big event: I check on the details of the comic book convention that will be held next weekend. It's an hour away, down in the heart of the city, but it's the only convention anywhere near Brookdale (defining "near" to mean "any distance that does not require a plane, train, or bus"). It's the first year for this particular convention. I've been following it online, from website to website, message board to message board as the organizers talked and chatted about their plans, beginning with the germ of an idea last winter, now grown into something that is almost a convention. Something that, soon, will be a convention. Comic book retailers from around the country. Representatives from publishers big and small. Freebies. Guys who publish their own stuff, hawking their wares. Artists and writers and editors—people who are just names in a credit box or on a website or in a Wizard article. They'll be here. Just an hour away.
But that's not why I care. What I care about is Bendis. Bendis will be there.
I check the website every day, sometimes twice a day. His name is still at the top of the list on the page titled "Guests!"
GUESTS!
Meet an array of astonishing artists, writers, and
other creators! Including:
Brian Michael Bendis: Writer of New Avengers, House of
M, Ultimate Spider-Man, Powers, and many, many more!
Multiple Eisner Award winner!
There's more, but I don't care. Bendis.
There's a little blurb at the bottom of the "Guests!" page that says, "All guests presence are tentative." (I didn't write that. I'm just quoting bad grammar.) "Convention not responsible for travel delays, etc. All guests subject to change."
So I check. Every day. To make sure. Certain that there'll be a message on the site one day that says, "We regret to inform you that Brian Michael Bendis will be unable to attend..." Because that's how things usually work out for me. But so far, so good.
My daily Bendis-panic quelled, I scrounge around for the pages of Schemata that I printed out the other day. Pages 1-10 are in a stack on my desk. Pages 15-21 are in the printer. I find page 23 under my bed. Don't know how it got there.
I could just print out the missing pages, but I made some notes on them before, so I go on the hunt. upstairs in the family room, Mom—who managed to come home silently while I was absorbed with the Web—and the step-fascist are sitting up, watching something on TV. There's a sheaf of papers on the coffee table. My pages. I remember now: I looked them over while watching TV up here the other day.
The step-fascist's superhearing picks up the thunderous roar of my stocking feet on shag, and he offers up a look of annoyance. I play my part and ignore it completely as I lean in to take the papers.
"You're in the way," Mom complains.
I grab the papers, which are, I see too late, under a plate, a plate that makes an almost musical clatter-clang when I pull the papers out like a magician with a tablecloth.
"Shhh!"
Yeah, yeah. I riffle through the sheaf quickly to make sure I have everything I need. There are food crumbs and a coffee stain on one page, and I can swear I smell beer. But that could just be the ever-present eau d' Bud.
"Do you have to stand there making that noise? We're trying to watch a movie."
I want to give Mom and her stupid pregnant stomach a glare, but there's no point. I back out of the room and head downstairs.
The pages are pretty gross. For all I know, the step-fascist had his feet on them. As I walk through the basement back to my room, I forget about the beer smell when a new one hits me: gun oil.
I look around. No one. Nothing. I'm alone in the basement. The lights are out, the only illumination coming from my bedroom door, partly open, spilling out a wedge of light for me to follow. The furnace, the water heater, the big workbench—they're blocky, shadowy things in the dark. It's like the basement in the old house. Dad's coat.
I stand here in the basement now, even though it's a different basement, even though I'm older. Not to prove to anyone in particular that I can, but just to prove it to myself. I stand here and I breathe in the smell of gun oil, and I realize that no one is moving upstairs, the whole world is still, just me and the dark.
Bravery proven, I duck into my room before the monsters can get me.
Chapter Nine
I USED TO SLEEP. Or I tried, at least. I used to lie in bed for hours, the lights out, watching the digits on my clock change ever so slowly. I would play games to make myself not stare at the clock. I would make myself promise not to look for five minutes, to close my eyes and try to sleep for five minutes. After five minutes I would look, only to find that two minutes had passed.
Stories filled and swelled my mind as I tried to sleep. Characters introduced themselves, told me their histories, then went off in search of tales to inhabit, and I always found a good one. Then I would get caught up in perfecting the narrative, developing the story flow, dictating dialogue in my head, and I would be up, and up, and up forever, the minutes running fast when I was writing in my mind, crawling when I closed my eyes.
There's just no point to sleeping. Not if you simply can't fall asleep, anyway. So I stay up instead. Mom will sometimes check to make sure I'm in bed—she performs this maternal duty by looking into the basement to see that there's no light shining underneath my door. I used to put a towel there to block the light, but apparently in a dark basement, you can still see light limning the entire door in the tiny space between the jamb and the door. So now I have a black sheet of plastic that I hang over the door and weight at the floor so that no light can escape.
So I can stay up as late as I want. And I do. I write the stories for real, and sometime between three and four I take down the plastic, climb into bed, and read until my eyelids and my hands drop at the same time.
This is my ritual. This is how I do it. And Mom would never understand, so what she doesn't know won't hurt her.
Tonight, though, I'm not at the computer. I'm just
curled up in bed, my fist a tight knot. I can feel the bullet but I can't see it, which is safe. I have to be careful with it. My fingers are pressed close together, completely concealing the bullet. I can take it anywhere. No one can tell. No one knows what I have in my hand.
It's just a bullet. Not a gun. I think of an old saying: "Guns don't kill people. Bullets kill people."
Usually, when I'm not carrying it around in my pocket, I keep the bullet hidden in an old hard drive case on my desk. Mom would never look in there for anything, so it's a good hiding place. Stick it in there every night, retrieve it every morning. But right now I keep it clutched in one hand while I flip through the pages of Schemata, organizing them with my free hand. The bullet is comforting. Like the baby blanket I threw out a few years ago. Like an old teddy bear.
I page through Schemata, revising in my mind as I go along. Soon I'll get up and go to the computer to make corrections, but I'll need both hands for that, and for now I just—
My computer beeps at me. It's the instant message sound.
I dive out of bed, launching myself at the computer. Once everyone's in bed I'm allowed to leave the dial-up connection on, and I forgot to turn down the volume! I hit the "Accept" button before the computer can chime again, then quickly turn the volume all the way down to "Mute" as the message window unfolds onto my screen. I sit in my chair, my own breath suddenly loud, wondering if somehow Mom heard the chime, if she was lurking near the stairs, or if the sound carried through the vents somehow ...
Nothing.
In my rush, I dropped the bullet. It's lying on the floor. I pick it up and put it next to my keyboard, then check the time. Almost midnight. Must have been a long lacrosse practice—Cal's up pretty late to be IM-ing me.