by Barry Lyga
The List scrolls through my mind. Death and/or dismemberment keeps my spirits up some nights, true, but at the end of the day I just want these people to go away and leave me alone. Preferably after acknowledging that they treated me like dirt and shouldn't have. But for all I know, the minivan people up ahead never even spit in my general direction. They're clueless, but that's not a capital offense.
"Dead is a pretty long way to go, Kyra. Come on. You don't really want to kill people, do you?"
She chews on her bottom lip for a second, then grins. Ring tilt. "I got it."
"Got what?"
She tightens her grip on the wheel again and the car lurches into another lane. The engine growls louder, which I didn't think was possible. The minivan starts to come into view alongside us.
"What are you doing?" Has she seen too many cop shows? You can't try to knock a minivan off the road with a car this small!
"Gonna get in front of them. Hit the brakes. Let them nail us."
"Are you insane?" I spin around to look at her, but she's intent on the road.
"Like I said—we have air bags. Don't worry about it. It'll mess up her car, and her insurance will have to pay for it since she hit us. "
"Kyra!" I don't know what scares me more—that she's going to do this, or that she's thought it out so well.
"What?" she asks, annoyed, turning to me at last.
"You can't just do this!"
"I can do whatever ... ah, shit!"
"What?" I look over my shoulder, out the window. The minivan has dropped behind us, slowing, its turn signal blinking.
"Shit!" Kyra yells again, then slams on the brakes and yanks the wheel, sending us careening into the other lane. My stomach doesn't get the memo and stays six to ten feet behind us as we skid over the tarmac. The minivan's nowhere in sight, already turned off. "Damn it! Lost 'em!"
"Thank God," I moan as Kyra settles back into the flow of traffic. Horns blare all around us, as if we somehow couldn't be aware of the automotive acrobatics we just performed, but Kyra just rolls down her window and blithely flips off all and sundry.
"I can't believe you were going to do that."
Kyra chuckles as she lights up a cigarette. She leaves the window down and holds the cigarette outside when not dragging on it. "You know what your problem is? You have no guts."
"No kidding."
"You agreed with that pretty fast." Plume of smoke out the window.
"I was joking. Didn't you call me a noble Indian or something?"
"Yeah, I'm having trouble reconciling your apparent fearlessness and gutlessness."
"There's a difference between fearless and stupid. You know that, right?"
She shrugs. "If you say so." She arches an eyebrow at me, favors me with a ring-tilt grin, and goes back to her cigarette.
I check my seat belt, just to be sure.
Chapter Twenty-One
GET THIS: MOM'S PISSED.
My watch and the dashboard clock on Kyra's sister's ex-boyfriend's car agree that it's no more than five past nine, but when I walk through the front door, Mom starts screaming at me before she even comes into view from the "family" room. I almost jump out of my skin. Thank God Kyra just dropped me off and didn't actually come in—this would be mortifying.
"Where have you been?" Mom demands, rolling into the foyer from the kitchen threshold, her pregnant belly suddenly aggressive, like a tank or something. "You said eight o'clock and I want to know where you've been!"
I just stand there, shocked into silence. She's glaring at me, her eyes flashing, her jaw set. She's really, really pissed off! I can't believe it. I didn't do anything. I mean, imagine if she knew what Kyra almost did!
"I was—I was out." I should have let Kyra ram that minivan. Then Mom would be sorry. She'd be picking me up at the hospital. She'd be sorry.
"I know that. Where were you? You were supposed to be home at eight. You're an hour late."
I half expect her to break into some sort of rap. Eight, late, don't hesitate. Something.
"We lost track of time," I lie, which is the easy way out.
"Oh, did you? You lost track of time, huh? Why? What were you doing that you lost track of time?"
And then she shouts—actually shouts, her face all red, her neck straining—so loud that I know they can hear her up the block: "ANSWER ME!"
But I've got nothing. I wasn't doing anything. "Mom, we weren't doing anything. We were just hanging out."
"Hanging out? For nine hours? Hanging out?"
What the hell has gotten into her? "Mom, I'm sorry I'm late, but"— I didn't think you even heard me when I said eight, and I was lying anyway —"I mean, I just forgot to look at my watch, is all."
"Because you were with your little friend, right? Doing what? Where?"
Oh, God. I see it now. "Mom, we weren't ... We really ... We didn't do anything." God, how the hell do I tell my mother I didn't have sex?
"Oh? What do you mean by that?"
"I mean whatever you think I mean. God, Mom!" I'm not. I am not going to tell my pregnant mother that I didn't have sex. I mean, what the hell? What is this? Not everyone's a freakin' animal like she is. Not everyone can't control themselves.
"This is how it's going to be now?" she asks. "This is what you've decided? It's not bad enough that you lock yourself in your room all the time and don't talk to anyone, but now you're going to do this to me, too?"
What?
"This is the example you're going to set for your little sister?"
"It's not going to be my sister!" It's out before I even realize it. "It's going to be my half sister, OK?" Will you get it straight?
I want to go on. Will you get it straight that it's halfbecause Dad had nothing to do with this, and it drives me nuts when she calls it my sister.
I made a mistake before. I thought she was mad. But she wasn't. Now she's mad. Her eyes bug out. "I am so TIRED of that! This is not about YOU! This baby is coming whether you want it or not, so GET USED TO IT!"
I don't want it! I don't! I grit my teeth instead and stare at her.
"You are going to have to GET USED TO IT! Your father and I are NOT getting back together. And I don't care HOW unhappy you are, it is NOT going to change a thing!"
She's gonna shout herself into a miscarriage, and for a minute I'm terrified. I'm absolutely terrified that something's going to rupture or break or explode or whatever, and there's going to be blood on the floor and 911 and I'm going to get blamed for killing my half sister before she's even born.
"Now WHAT WERE YOU DOING ALL DAY?"
I realize that I'm shaking. I'm afraid to open my mouth, afraid to speak, so we just stare at each other.
"Go to your room," she says finally, calming down.
"What?"
"I said 'Go to your room.' You're grounded."
"For what?"
"Go!" I start to head for the stairs, but then she stops me. "But first go get your stuff from the family room. You left more of your pages lying all over the place."
So suddenly I'm one of the trolls in The Three Billy Goats Gruff, banished to the dark, dank spot under the bridge, all because I came home an hour late the one time I bothered to go out at all. The one time I spent the day with a friend, my mother—the same woman who is constantly telling me to make friends—punishes me for doing exactly what she's been hounding me to do for years.
There are a million—a billion—things to say, but none of them wants to come out. I just stand there in mute, stupid rage and disbelief. How can I argue with someone who has so completely abandoned even the pretense of consistency and logic? Do pregnancy hormones cause brain damage? And is it contagious—because that could explain the step-fascist.
Under her watchful, angry eyes, I go upstairs and find some pages from Schemata in the family room, partly hidden under a newspaper. The step-fascist is watching TV—professional wrestling. Two guys dressed like bad superheroes pretend to pound the crap out of each other while the crowd ro
ars approval. He doesn't look at me and I don't look at him as I gather my papers and head out. Then downstairs, into the dungeon.
But the dungeon's OK. I don't mind the dungeon. Grounding me is sort of like telling a pedophile he has to hang around a nursery school. I've got the phone and my computer in my room: What else do I need?
I pop open the hard drive case and there's the bullet, a little brassy star. I somehow forgot to take it with me today. Funny how I didn't really miss it when I was with Kyra.
I lie on my bed and smooth out the Schemata pages before me, looking for bad continuity and goofy balloon placement. The whole time, I roll the bullet between my palms. Such a small thing. A little bit of metal and some powder. That's all it is. That's all it takes.
After a while, I hear footsteps overhead—bedtime. The steps don't stop where they should, though—they continue to the staircase, then come down.
Crap. I tuck the bullet into my pocket. I don't need this.
A moment later, there's a knock at my door. I consider pretending to be asleep, but my light's on and she's seen that, I'm sure.
"Come in."
Mom waddles in. She gives a little sigh as she glances around the room, taking in the chaotic piles of books and paper, and I can see her decision to say nothing about the mess as it flits across her face.
"I need to talk to you," she says.
Tell me you're leaving him, I think. Tell me you guys are getting a divorce. You know how to do it. You practiced with Dad.
She pulls over my computer chair and lowers herself into it. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I lost my temper. Hormones..." She smiles, but I'm not buying.
"I didn't do anything," I tell her.
"I was your age once. I know what ... I know the feelings that you can get. I'm not so old that I don't remember."
Oh, thank God for the self-control that descends from nowhere and enables me to keep myself from staring pointedly at her belly and saying, "Obviously." And did she actually say, "I was your age once"? Is there a script somewhere for parents? Can I just read it instead of listening to it?
"I know that you have all of these feelings inside and that you want to—"
"Mom!" I can't take it. "Mom, I swear to God that I didn't do anything. We just hung out and talked. I swear. OK?"
She shakes her head. "This is the first girlfriend you've ever had—"
"Jeez, Mom! She's not my girlfriend! She's just a friend!" Now she cocks her head. "Is there something you want to tell me? I mean, you've never seemed interested in girls, and I want you to know that you can tell me anything. I might get angry, but I won't stay angry, and I'll always—"
"I'm not gay!" I can't believe this! "I'm not gay and I didn't do anything tonight. We just lost track of time. God, Mom, have I ever done anything stupid before? Have I ever screwed up? Have I ever lied?" No fair with that last one—I lie all the time, but she doesn't know that. And it's not like I lie about important stuff.
She watches me. I feel desperate and stupid. I wish my dad were here. He would understand. He would laugh and say, "Miggy, don't worry about it." That's what he called Mom—Miggy. Some nickname from college. I miss hearing it.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" she asks, as if the fate of the world hangs in the balance.
I try to match her gravity. "Yes, Mom."
"And you promise me you'll always be careful?"
"I promise to stop having unprotected sex with Haitian immigrants and intravenous drug users," I tell her, just as serious.
In spite of herself, she laughs, then "Oofs" as she levers herself out of the chair.
"How long am I grounded?"
"You're not grounded. I shouldn't have done that."
Like it makes a difference. I spend most of my time in my room anyway.
"Don't stay up too late."
"It's the weekend."
"I know it's the weekend. But you need your sleep."
Hmm. I watch her leave, closing the door behind her, then listen to her on the steps. Does she know I haven't been sleeping? What trail could I be leaving?
Nah, I'm covered.
Once I hear her shut the bedroom door upstairs, I give them an hour or so to fall asleep, then I commandeer the telephone to log on. An e-mail from Cal, which reminds me that I was supposed to call him today and forgot. I type one-handed, the bullet back between my fingers. I send some IMs out into cyberspace, but Cal's not online right now.
Quick Bendis check, and all's right with the world: Comic book creator extraordinaire Brian Michael Bendis is still slated to appear at the comic book convention one week from today. I chew on my bottom lip, fiddling with the bullet. Schemata. I need to have more of it ready by then. One week. Less, really, because the show starts Saturday morning. Six days.
And six nights, fortunately.
After a while, the IM screen pops up with a new message. I accept.
Promethea387: Today was great, wasn't it?
Despite the shouting match and almost getting grounded? I toss the bullet up in the air and catch it.
Xian Walker76: Yes. It was.
Chapter Twenty-Two
DINA JURGENS CRAWLS TO ME. I don't know why she's crawling, but that's OK. She stops before me, kneeling, gazing up at me. I put a hand on her head, feeling the softness of her blond hair. It's warm, so warm. She smiles at me.
"You're my hero," she says, only it isn't her voice—it's Kyra's. "You're a noble Indian warrior."
I stare at my fingers, intertwined in her hair. They don't look like mine. They're strong and rough. Calloused. Veiny. Almost muscular, but that's impossible because there are no muscles in the fingers, just tendons. But these are strong hands. Kirby hands, all out of proportion and drastic. Gripping Dina while she talks in Kyra's voice, and I suddenly have an insight. I realize something very important and very fundamental about Powers, which is Bendis's best comic book series. I've never seen anyone mention this on a message board or in a review. It's so important, so central to the conceit of the entire series that I can't believe no one's ever realized it before. When I tell him this, he'll recognize a kindred spirit right away. He'll—
I wake up, my bedroom still lit, the bullet clutched in one sweaty, tight, very ordinary hand. I'm breathing fast and I'm alone, of course, with Dina nowhere to be seen.
I can't remember the essential thing about Powers, the thing that seemed so important in my dream. It's lost along with whatever else I had or almost had while asleep.
I check the convention website. I'm not sure if any of the guests are ones that Kyra would want to meet, but I copy the list anyway, deleting anyone who works for DC or Marvel or Image, then e-mail her the edited roster. I hope she wants to come. Not like a date or anything. It would just be good to have her there, with me and with Cal. It's weird: I haven't told Cal about Kyra yet. He doesn't know that she likes comics or that she likes hanging out with me, or anything like that. Why is that? Am I afraid that she'll be like every other girl I've ever known and be more interested in Cal than in me?
Nah. I don't see that. Not that I'm anything to write home about, but she seems to like me for who I am, as unlikely as that may be. Her contempt for the Jock Jerks matches my own, maybe even surpasses it, and I don't think that Cal's ability to quote chapter and verse from the works of Moore and Gaiman will necessarily give Kyra cause to cut him any slack.
But she's got the list now. So we'll see. No hard drive tonight; I go back to sleep, one fist jammed under my pillow, the bullet tight within.
Chapter Twenty-Three
IN THE MORNING, MOM YELLS for me to answer the phone as I step out of the shower. The step-fascist is puttering around his workshop, accomplishing nothing that I can tell, and for a moment I panic that he's looking for a missing bullet. But he just putters.
Back in my bedroom, I close the door, drop my towel, and grab the phone.
"Got it, Mom. Hey, Cal."
I hear Mom hang up, then: "Wrong, fanboy."
"Ky
ra! Hey!" I figured it would be Cal—he's the only one who ever calls (except for Dad, but Mom's voice always gets icy when he calls, and she always says, "It's your father, " as if she can't believe he has the gall). I suddenly realize that I'm naked, which shouldn't bother me since it's the phone, but for some reason it does.
"How's it hanging?" Kyra asks, and now I think I'm blushing. It's just an expression, but jeez!
"Hold on a sec," I tell her, then grab my robe and put it on. "OK, I'm back."
"So, what's up?"
"Nothing. Hey, how did you get my number?"
"Phone book. You know, it's one of those books without pictures?"
"Hilarious."
"So what are we doing today?"
I think back to last night and Mom yelling, then the conversation that followed. Not sure which was worse. "Well..."
"Did you get in trouble last night?"
"No, not really.
"You're lying."
"Yeah, I am." Why is it so easy to tell the truth to her? More important, why is it so tough to lie?
"I'm sorry." She sounds sincere, too. "Look, we'll take it easy on your mom, OK?"
I almost say, "Good," because I really need to work on Schemata, in preparation for Bendis this weekend. But on the other hand, it would be great to see Kyra again. "Did you get my e-mail?"
"Yeah."
Emptiness on the line between us. Is this it? Do I make this an official date by asking her to go with me? And why am I even thinking this way? This is Kyra . Kyra, who smokes and curses and drives too fast (and illegally). I don't want to date her. Even when she shows up in my dreams, she's wearing Dina's body.
She's still waiting. Waiting for me to ask her to go to the convention with me? Waiting for what? She's just sarcastic enough to laugh if I do.
I settle on neutral ground: "Think you might go?"
She lets out a heavy sigh, a really heavy sigh that almost has weight over the phone. I can't tell if she's disappointed or sad. But then I realize that she was probably just exhaling cigarette smoke. "Don't know. Not many people there for me to see."