Chaotic Good

by Whitney Gardner

  also by whitney gardner

  You’re Welcome, Universe

  Fake Blood

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text and interior illustrations copyright © 2018 by Whitney Gardner

  Cover art and chapter number illustrations copyright © 2018 by Kyle Hilton

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! GetUnderlined.com

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 9781524720803 (trade) — ISBN 9781524720810 (lib. bdg.) — ebook ISBN 9781524720827

  The illustrations were created digitally.

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Whitney Gardner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: The Girl Section.

  Chapter 2: Girl at Work.

  Chapter 3: Return of the Girl.

  Chapter 4: The Girl’s Got Talent.

  Chapter 5: A Girl and a Game.

  Chapter 6: That Girl Glows in the Dark.

  Chapter 7: Girl Crush.

  Chapter 8: A Girl and a Boy.

  Chapter 9: Kiss the Girl.

  Chapter 10: Girl Friends and Boy Friends.

  Chapter 11: Boy Meets Girl.

  Chapter 12: The Grandest Girl.

  Chapter 13: More Than Just a Girl.

  Acknowledgments

  For all the geek girls, feminist killjoys, and nasty women

  “Your boyfriend won’t like that one.” He smiles at me through his patchy, barely grown-in beard, leaning against the wall of shelved comic books. I hang my head. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. I knew I wouldn’t be welcome. With a jerk of his neck, he flicks his greasy brown bangs out of his eyes. He looks me over, his arms folded tightly in front of his puffed-out chest. He hovers close by, waiting for my response, dying for me to acknowledge him, not taking silence for an answer. His name spelled out inside a bat-signal pin: BRODY.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, not daring to look directly at his face. I knew better; I knew better and I came into the shop anyway. I read the reviews online: five stars from the guys, two stars from the girls. I don’t need his advice; I don’t need a debate. Right now I need inspiration. And this guy’s killin’ my vibe.

  “It’s super girly. He probably won’t like it. When’s his birthday?”

  “I—I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s, you know, for me.” Dingbat. My fingers squeak against the cover of the latest The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl, holding on tight. I’m kicking myself for painting my nails sparkly pink and curling the rat’s nest out of my hair this morning. I brace myself for what’s coming next. All I wanted was a few new cosplay ideas without having to pass the geek-girl quiz.

  “Oh! No wonder!” Brody laughs, and his expression softens. “You should check out the girl section.”

  “The…girl section?” I scowl, feeling my dark brown eyes turn black.

  “No worries, tiger. You’ll love it.” He ushers me, hand on my back, toward one narrow shelf in the corner. I step away from his touch as soon as I can, but I can still feel his phantom palm resting there. The shelf is in disarray, with a few pastel-covered graphic novels and some very kawaii manga.

  “Here you go,” he lilts, eyes lighting up his pallid face. “All your comics lined up just for you. That way you don’t need to get lost in the big-boy stuff.” Another patron snorts from the board game section. This is humiliating. I’m trying not to flush, not to show a reaction. I can’t let him know he’s getting to me, but I don’t think it’s working. What year am I in? What kind of backwater wasteland is this? I swallow hard.

  “Welp, I am a big boy, so, if you don’t mind.” I sidestep him on my way out of the “girl section.” I try to stomp my feet as I go, but I’m wearing ballet flats, so I hardly make a sound. Brody’s black leather boots echo through the shop as he follows me. Why is he following me? Leave me alone.

  “Big boy in a pink dress, huh?” Why, oh why, did I wear the doughnut dress today?

  “Yep.” I try to sound preoccupied as I flip through an old issue of X-Men, looking for Jubilee. I’ve been dying to replicate that yellow coat of hers.

  “So you like X-Men?” Brody stands over me, reeking of arrogance and body spray.

  “Sure.”

  “Gen X, First Class, ’92? What’re we talkin’ here?” He combs through the comics, pretending to help. I don’t want to answer him, but the way he reaches over my head is a little intimidating. Maybe if I answer, he’ll leave me alone.

  “Whichever one Jubilee is in.”

  “Jubilee? Jesus.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces.

  “Jubilee is awesome.”

  “Jubes is the worst X-Men of all time. The worst. Worse than Dazzler.”

  “Who?” Crap. And with that one little word, I know I’ve screwed up. One little word out of my big mouth and I’ve sealed my fate. Again. Why should it matter if I know who Dazzler is? How am I supposed to learn without buying the comics first? I pivot over to the next shelf and cough, hoping he didn’t hear me.

  “I knew it! I knew you didn’t know anything about X-Men. What are you really looking for? Attention? A boyfriend?”

  “I’m looking for comics!” I snap at him. My black hair flies in front of my face. I brush it away. I try to channel Liv, who would know exactly what to say. She would put him in his place. “Is my girl cash not worth as much as your boy bucks?” I feel myself shrinking; he laughs at me while I try to remove the gold ballet flat from my stupid mouth. “Who said I have to be an expert to like something, or to shop here?” I wave the comics in his grinning face, trying to distract from the awkwardness. I’m a thousand percent done. I wish I were She-Hulk. I’d have smashed him and the entire “girl section” to bits by now.

  “You don’t have to get all snippy. Just hoping you can explain,” he starts, “why you’re buying comics if you don’t even read them.” Brody doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even look annoyed. He talks to me like I’m six years old. Like he knows better. He doesn’t.

  “Excuse you—I read comics. I love comics,” I say under my breath. I’m scared to raise my voice despite how angry I am. From now on I’ll be doing all my shopping online, that’s for sure.

  “But you don’t even know who—”

  “I know enough. Okay?” I snap. “I know all their costumes by heart, and one day I’ll be making—”

  “Costumes?! That’s what you’re into, their outfits? Oh God…you’re not one of those cosplay chicks, are you?” Brody reels back, face scrunched up as if he caught a whiff of something more rotten than his body spray. He looks me over again from my shoes to my shoulders, not bothering to look me in the
eyes, disgusted. Every second I stand here is excruciating. I wish I had never come in. I should have waited to go back to Portland. I should have saved up to buy an iPad so I’d never have to leave the house to buy a comic again. I can’t bring myself to say anything else. There’s nothing I can actually say. Nothing that would make a difference. I’m ready to run—screw inspiration—when the staff door bangs open. Another employee stands in the doorway, balancing six boxes in his dark brown arms. Great, now he’s got backup.

  “Ayo, Brody! New Dark Horse shipment came in,” he says, nodding toward the back room. Brody takes his cue and leaves us with one last laugh.

  “Come on, I’ll ring you up.” I follow without questioning, keeping my eyes focused on his red Vans and rolled-up cuffs.

  “Oh! Nice choice. Let’s kick some butts and eat some nuts!” he chants while typing into the staff computer. I nearly choke on the spearmint gum I’m chewing.

  “What?!”

  “You’ll see.” He smiles. He’s younger than Brody, with a short golden-bleached Afro. His name tag only says WHY. “It’s one of my faves.”

  “Yeah? You shop in the girl section?” I growl back at him under my breath. Just ring me up so I can get out of here. The attention is getting to me. I start peeling the polish off my nails; the glittery flakes fall to the ground.

  “Ugh. He brought that up? I’ve been trying to talk him out of that girl section since I started here—it’s hella annoying.” Embarrassed, Why pushes his red frames up onto the bridge of his nose. The lenses are covered in so many fingerprints and smudges I’m surprised he can see me at all.

  “Sure.”

  “No, really. I know it’s stupid, right? But his uncle owns the shop. Brody pretty much acts like he runs the place.”

  “Good for him.” I hand Why my debit card, no receipt, and rush to the door.

  “Hey, wait! Do you want to enter a raffle? It’s for—”

  “No thanks!” I cut him off, and get the hell out of there.

  * * *

  Atomix Comix is the only decent place left to buy comics in Eugene after Vanishing Planet vanished. Apparently, they went under without the extra income from selling board games, toys, and knickknacks. I never even got a chance to shop there. Now I’m stuck buying comics from grody Brody and the He-Man Woman-Haters Club.

  I squint into the summer sun. The main drag is all washed out and white as my eyes adjust to the light. I try not to think about Liv getting to work at Books with Pictures this summer. How she’d never have her comics-cred questioned because she works behind the counter. Liv gets to be on the inside. I wonder if she kept the Lightning cosplay I made her. After all, it was her idea to dress as Final Fantasy characters. And yeah, I don’t know who any of them are, but I liked the designs. I had no idea I was going to get called out. Not like that, anyway.

  I need thread. I need buttons. Hot glue. Sequins. Armature wire. A new thimble for my ever-growing collection. I list out all the things I’ll buy at the craft store to soothe my sore ego. I wish it were a longer walk; I don’t want to taint the one place I like in this town with the bad vibes from down the street. The bells on the door at Kozy Corner jingle quietly as I step into the shop. The air is heady with the smell of dust and fake flowers.

  I’m home. I pace the aisles, tracing my fingers along stacks of folded fabric. My mind races through the possibilities. This vinyl could be Black Canary’s corset, and that intricate weblike brocade could be the lining for Spider-Gwen’s hood.

  And then I spot it. A summer-night-blue fabric, a blue the deepest depths of the oceans, an almost-black blue that practically glows under the shine of the fluorescent lights overhead. This bolt of midnight-blue satin calls to me, crammed in the wrong spot between some yellow and green felt.

  “Who put you here?” I ask the satin as I pull it out. I feel like fainting from just the sight of its cerulean perfection. I want to spray it with bleach and create a pattern of nebulas and galaxies. Hand-paint in stars, wire it up using fiber-optic strands so it twinkles, and, damn, what a gown it would be.

  I would wear it to the premiere of my first summer blockbuster. And everyone would know that’s Cameron Birch; she’s the girl who designed the costumes. I fabricated them too, but I forgive their ignorance this time because I’m too busy posing with Chris Pratt for the press. I’ll buy five yards of it.

  “Don’t you just look lovely today?” Dotty with the lilac-gray hair sighs as she rings me up.

  “Thanks.” I hope when I’m her age, great-grandma age, I look as cool as Dotty. She dresses sharp, severe. Slick black capes and pounds of pearls and baubles. I’ve never seen her wear the same pair of earrings twice.

  “All pink and poofy and perfect.” She kisses her thumb, her own personal gesture of approval.

  “Sure.”

  “What’s wrong? You’ve got a face like a wet weekend.” She folds the satin carefully before slipping it into the plastic bag.

  “Maybe too pink,” I tell her as she swipes my debit card. I look over my pink doughnut-printed dress, the one I spent last weekend sewing after a serious bout of homesickness. I never liked the doughnuts at Voodoo Doughnut, but I loved seeing tourists with their pink boxes. I even sewed on little beads that look like sprinkles. Now I wish I had made something more normal. Maybe I should just start buying clothes at the mall again.

  “No such thing as too pink.” Dotty hands me my fabric while the printer screeches out my receipt.

  “Thanks, Dot. See you round, I’m sure.”

  * * *

  Dotty has style, but she’s wrong. Pink is out. Pink is the new puke green. Get it out of here; get it away from me. At home, my closet is stuffed with fabric and costumes and all my super-girly clothes that I made and used to love. Now I need a major wardrobe overhaul. It doesn’t matter how much I love Liberty of London prints—they’re too floral, too feminine. I push aside my Zelda-from-Wind-Waker cosplay, the one that took fifty hours of work, and hang up the bag of faultless blue fabric next to it.

  Zelda, of course, is way too pink. It doesn’t matter how hard I worked to embroider the skirt. No more crowns, opera gloves, or princesses. I should have made Tetra’s costume instead. Even if it would have been tragically simplistic, she’s a pirate captain, a boss. I try to forget about how she turns into a princess halfway through the game, robbed of her ship and freedom. I fling the comics, still in their plastic bag, onto my bed. I belly-flop on top of them, haunted by that Brody guy and his ugly, beardy face.

  I check my phone. Usually I’d have fifty notifications from Jen and Liv. When I lived in Portland, we could barely go a half hour without being in contact. Not so much lately. Not from them. Maybe it’s the move. Though it’s hard to blame the miles when their names, their faces, are right underneath my thumbs, only a text away. I love this picture of us, winning best group cosplay at Seattle Comic Con. It feels like we hopped on the train, suitcases bursting with costumes, years ago. But it was just this fall. I post the picture on my feed and tag them. Miss you guise!!! with a bunch of smiles and stars and hearts. I toss my phone aside. I don’t want to know how long it’ll take them to reply.

  “Cameron’s having a bad day, huh?” Cooper’s voice enters my room before he does. He can tell when I’m in a funk without even seeing me.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask, even though I already know.

  “Trying out that Wandering Goat coffee place with James and Krista.”

  “How do you have friends already? We just got here.”

  “Work friends, and, you know, asking people to hang out. You have to ask, Snip. You can’t just wait around inside all day hoping.”

  “Oh, hello, fellow teen-person. Would you like to perhaps do this thing called ‘hanging out’? Like that?”

  “No. Not like that.”

  “And I did leave the house, thank you very much. That�
��s what I’m so pissed about.”

  “What happened?” Cooper asks. I consider not telling him. It feels like a superficial problem, something that comes along with the territory of being a girl. Cooper leans against the door frame, his posture soft and understanding. I can’t help but spill it.

  “Why did I have to be the girl twin?” My words are muffled by my quilt.

  “Like I know? As if it even matters, you wouldn’t have been spared all that much heartache if you were me—that’s for sure. So, let’s hear it. What exactly is it you’re mad about?” Cooper sits on the end of my bed and fishes out the comics from under me; I flip over to watch him. He looks just like me, black hair and brown eyes, pink cheeks under tawny skin.

  “You’re gonna have to drive us up to Portland next week. I can’t go back to Atomix. The place is a nightmare bro fest.”

  “Um, no. I’m not. Not unless you have a way to pay for gas.”

  “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t miss Portland.”

  “I don’t miss our cramped-as-all-get-out apartment. I don’t miss sharing a room with your messy ass. And I don’t miss waiting four hours for Thai food,” Coop says while flipping through one of the issues. “Squirrel Girl, huh? How’re you gonna make that tail?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “How much time do you want? Thirty or the full minute?” He pries his phone out of his skinny jeans.

  “It’s gonna take way more than—”

  “Thirty seconds, then. Go.” He taps the screen and holds it up. The timer starts ticking down. I get thirty seconds to mope about what happened, then I have to move on. Or at least let it go for the time being. We both have the tendency to be overly dramatic, so we put this system in place last year after the “free coffee punch card” debate dragged out for three full weeks. With seventeen seconds left, I start in.