by Barry Lyga
This time I wouldn't screw it up. This time I knew how to do it right, Fanboy, and this time you wouldn't be able to call me a wannabe.
But I turned my wrist up and my hand was closed and I had to open my fist, I just had to, and I saw the bullet lying there, a perfect little dull spot of brass.
Not with the knife, I thought. Not like that. Been there, done that. Do it with the bullet this time. With his bullet. That'll teach him. That'll show him.
So I put the knife away. I put it away and I stood up and went back to bed. I slept with the bullet clutched in my hand and I thought, I'll find a gun. I'll find a gun and do it that way and I'll win.
Sixteen
SO, YEAH, THAT'S WHAT I thought that night as I drifted off to sleep. Obviously, I didn't do it, because I'm still here, six months later.
I don't know what happened or what changed in my sleep, but by the time I woke up the next day, I wasn't suicidal anymore. Angry, yes. Still, I ... It was weird. As angry as I was at Fanboy, as much as I hated him, I still cared about Schemata. So I called him that night and I told him what was wrong with it, and I thought that was going to be it, but...
God! Eff him! Eff him!
I tried to help him. I was his partner. I was giving him advice and shit and then I went away and he just forgot about me and went on with his life and now whenever I think about him, my gut feels wrong and my head hurts and my breath doesn't come out right.
It takes a while, but eventually all my hot rage burns out and goes cold. which is better. when you're hot, you're not thinking clearly. You just sort of lash out and do stupid shit.
But when your anger goes all cold ... That's when you can think straight. when you can plan and execute.
I've made up my mind. I've decided.
I'm going to destroy him.
Ah. I feel better already.
Seventeen
I TOSS AND TURN ALL NIGHT and wake up with my head pounding from thinking too much and sleeping too little. That's bad enough. But I also want to wear a skirt to school today and that's when I realize that Roger has taken away my razor.
Please.
He's in the kitchen, making coffee. "Roger. I need my razor." I'm standing there in a ratty old bathrobe, and my boobs would be spilling out of the damn thing if I wasn't holding it closed really tight.
He doesn't even look at me. "Sorry."
"'Sorry? What does that mean?"
"I can't let you have it."
I'm trying to imagine how someone could kill herself with a Schick Silk Effects. You'd leave a nice, smooth corpse.
"I have to shave my legs. And my pits." Ugh. I effing hate having to even sayit to him! It's none of his business.
"I'm sorry, Kyra."
"What the eff am I supposed to do, Roger? Walk around like Bigfoot or something?" And this is the worst part of it all—that suddenly I give a flying eff what people think about my appearance. Why can't I wear a skirt without shaving my legs? I mean, why should I care if I have hairy legs or armpits or whatever? But I guess I do. And that bugs the shit out of me.
"Hang on." He disappears into the garage for a second, where we keep all kinds of shit. Then he comes back with a container of Nair. "Here."
I take it and start to walk off. "No thank-you?" he asks.
Bite me, I want to say. Somehow, I restrain myself. "I want a razor."
"I'll get you an electric one, how about that?"
It's better than nothing, I guess. I go off to de-hair myself. The Nair smells and burns. That's it—I'd rather go hairy than use this stuff again.
Before I go out to the bus, Roger stops me. He's at the mirror in the hallway, tying his tie.
"Are you going to behave today?"
"Sure. Why not? Might be interesting."
"If you can get through to Thanksgiving break without getting kicked out again, maybe we can take you to get your driver's license."
Oh, damn. Here we go. Roger likes to hold that over me. He has no idea how much driving I actually do. or did. I haven't been behind the wheel since before I went away.
"OK." I keep it short and to the point.
And then he does something really disgusting: He brushes my Bangs of Doom out of the way and plants a kiss right on my forehead. Gross. I'm gonna get zits there now.
"I want you to think before you do or say anything, OK? Just try to behave. I know it's tough, Kyra. I swear, I know that. I know you don't think I do, but I do. OK?"
Yeah, right, whatever. I nod my Bangs of Doom back into place. God, do I love my Bangs of Doom.
Phase One
SCHOOL. MIRACLE OF MIRACLES, I'VE MADE it to third period— Miss Powell, ugh—without any trouble or incidents. Mostly, people leave me alone. My teachers don't seem to want to talk to me. I was tutored in the hospital a little bit, so I'm not too far behind, and they just pretend I've always been sitting there.
I tune everything out. Especially Miss Powell, who's talking about "metaphor" the way people on TV talk about personal lubricant.
There was some preliminary "Hey, Kyra!" stuff from, like, the ten people I can stand at this place and that's it. Basically, I've spent the day doodling in my notebook, thinking of ways to destroy Fanboy.
Because he totally deserves it.
Best part of it is this: We don't have any classes together. We don't hang in the same circles. He doesn't even know I'm back, and if I keep my head down, he won't know.
Until it's too late.
My plan is pretty simple. Fanboy has a big ole hard-on for Dina Jurgens, right? Dina's gone now, off to college somewhere, but her sister, Michelle, is still around. They're what my mom used to call "Irish twins"—there's only, like, eleven months between them. So Michelle's a senior now.
I wonder how she would feel knowing that Fanboy based the main character in his comic book on her big sister? Especially with all those scenes of Courteney in her lingerie and shit. All those fantasies. All the sex stuff that's coming up.
I know what's coming up because I read most of the script and saw a whole crapload of the artwork. Stuff that hasn't been serialized in Literary Paws yet.
If I had a sister, I would be pretty grossed out that some guy was fantasizing all kinds of sex stuff about her. And even if that didn't gross me out, I would definitely be grossed out that he was writing it all down and drawing it all and then publishing it for the world to see.
And even if Michelle doesn't care about that, here's the thing: It's a secret. Fanboy was really embarrassed when I pointed out that Courteney looked like Dina. I mean, obviously he was embarrassed—he changed the way she looks! So if he was all embarrassed by me knowing, he'll be embarrassed to death when Michelle knows. And tells Dina. And the rest of the world.
So at lunch, I skip the cafeteria. I asked around a little bit in homeroom and found out that Michelle's involved in the senior play. Which means she'll be spending lunch in the auditorium, working on sets or something.
There's a bunch of drama nerds and some popular kids like Michelle in there. The senior play is where people who wouldn't normally hang out together end up hanging out, I guess, because they're all talking and joking.
God, I hate Michelle Jurgens. I hate her sister, too. I hate effing blond bimbos who flaunt their giant boobs. I mean, yeah, I'm well endowed in the boob department, but I have the decency to keep them under wraps, all praise the minimizer. Michelle just lets them jut out there for everyone to see. I hate it.
But I swallow the hatred. I make myself smile and I walk right up to her. She's wearing a sweater that hugs her boobs and has a v-neck, so you can see, like, an effing Grand Canyon of Cleavage. And tight jeans and boots and her hair up in a ponytail because she's supposedly, you know, Hard at Work.
I wait. I linger for a few seconds until the people around her start to turn away, and then I say, "Hey, Michelle?"
She turns around and smiles at me like we're old friends, and God I hate that phony shit. She doesn't know me. Why is she smiling at me like th
at?
"What's up?" she asks. "You with the stage crew?"
"Uh, no. I wanted to talk to you for a second."
Not even a flicker in the smile or in her eyes. You'd think she was genuinely happy to see me.
"I need to show you something."
"OK." And she says it like the word can bounce. Ugh.
We go off into a corner of the auditorium and I pull out the page of Schemata that I printed from the website. It shows Courteney getting up in the morning, basically, and she's all disheveled and—I guess—sexy. I hold the page out to her.
And now the smile falters, just a little. She looks at the page. "Yeah?"
I wave it at her, urging her to take it. She takes a step back like I'm a strange dog or something. "Look, I don't know what you re—"
"Look at it!" I tell her. "Look at her!"
"I don't know what you're after. I mean, I guess I've seen this in the lit mag, but it's just a—"
"Don't you see it? can't you tell?"
Michelle's smile goes all nervous. She's trying to be polite, but she wants to get the hell away from me, I can tell. "I don't know what you want me to say," she says at last.
Shit. Goddammit.
He changed Courteney too much. The art. The resemblance. She doesn't recognize her own sister. It's obvious to me because I know. Because I saw the original art. And it's no good if I tell her. She needs to notice it on her own. It's more shocking that way. And when she's shocked, when she sees how Fanboy lusts after her sister, she'll spread the word and Fanboy will be a laughingstock.
At least, that's the plan.
"Never mind," I tell her, lowering my head so that I can only partly see her through the Bangs of Doom.
Shit.
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
Eighteen
SIMONE AND I BLOW OFF study hall, which, like, isn't even a challenge anymore. We go hang out in the teachers'bathroom on the second floor near the English department. The plumbing's been busted for months, Sim says, so it's supposed to be locked up and off-limits, but I figured out how to pick the lock. I'm good like that.
So we just kick back and light up and chill.
She hands me a fresh pack, the cellophane still intact. "Here. I know your dad's making it tough for you to get cigs."
"Thanks." I go to put it in my messenger bag, moving things around to hide the pack in case anyone decides to look inside for some reason.
Simone grabs my wrist, stopping me. "Hey, what's that?"
With her free hand, she plucks the Schemata page out of my bag. "I didn't know you were so into this. I shoulda guessed. You like that comic book stuff."
"I don't really like it." I snatch the page back from her and feel guilty even for saying it, because it's not just that it's a lie. Lies are fine. I tell lies all the time and don't feel guilty about them in the slightest. What bothers me now is that I'm telling a lie about something important. About Schemata. About art.
"Then why are you carrying it around?"
"I used to hang out with the guy who does it." I blurt out the truth before I can think of a lie.
Simone's eyes go wide. "Are you serious? You know him?"
"Used to," I clarify.
"How do you know him?" It kills me that she even cares. A few months ago, no one knew who Fanboy was, and if they did know they sure as hell didn't care that they knew. Now he's some kind of high school celebrity or some shit like that.
"I was friends with him for a little while," I tell her.
"He's kinda cute," Simone says. "In a geeky way."
And that's when it hits me. I know exactly what to do. Exactly how to get to him.
"He's gay," I tell her. "I was in his bedroom alone with him and he didn't make a move."
Simone arches an eyebrow and snorts smoke through her nose. She thinks it makes her look sophisticated. And it sort of does. (Not that I'd ever tell her that.)
"Really?" She doesn't believe me. "Just because he didn't make a move on you?"
"Yeah, he told me himself."
"No way. Are you making this shit up?"
"Way. He has, like, some boyfriend that he has sex with and everything."
"Wow. Like, oral or anal? Because oral's no big deal. I mean, I do that all the time."
I don't want to hear about Simone's sexual exploits. I love Simone to the end of time and she's like totally my best friend, but the thing is, I have to be honest: Simone is a Big Freakin' Ho. I wish she weren't, but she is. It was bad enough when she would call me after every milestone or every "event." Eventually, though, it got to the point where she was making out with every guy in sight, so even she got bored with calling me all the time.
"It's really not a big deal," she goes on, "having that thing in your mouth."
Oh, God. I wish I could, like, turn off my ears or something. I don't want to hear about this.
"Right."
"But I have to admit, most of the time I'd rather just have sex with them instead. It's much better."
Sexual philosophy courtesy of Simone. Thank you, God. Just what I needed.
"So he didn't make a move at all?"
Good. Back on safe ground. Back to lies.
"Yeah. I mean, he..." Hmm. Do I tell her I had my shirt open? And my bra? or does that make me sound like a slut?
Oh, hell, who am I kidding? This is Simone I'm talking to. She's probably gotten laid twice since homeroom.
"I wasn't sure," I tell her, editing reality a little bit, "and I wanted to find out, so I showed him my boobs."
Simone's eyebrows jump. "Yeah?" It's like she's pleased. Like I'm a show dog she's been training and I finally figured out how to jump through the ring of fire. Because, you know, everyone should be as easy as Simone.
"I had my shirt open and my bra off and he didn't do anything." Which is kinda true. He actually moved toward me, but I cut him off. Simone doesn't need to know that, though.
All Simone needs to know is this: Fanboy is gay. The new hotshot artist, the school's new hero, is gay. That's all she needs to know.
Because Fanboy's a horny little piece of shit. I know that. And nothing will kill him like everyone thinking he's gay. He'll argue and protest and the more he does, the more people will believe it.
But that's not enough.
I need to do more.
Dear Neil,
An entire day at school without being called down to the Spermling's office. I even went to most of my classes. That's got to be a record or something, right?
But that's not why I'm writing. I want to know: Why does it have to be so complicated when it comes to guys and girls and sex and all of that?
In A Game of You, you sort of try to explain the differences between boys and girls, the different ways they think and react. I spent a lot of time reading that particular part of Sandman, over and over again.
And I just want to know why it has to be so hard.
Why do people like Simone feel like they have to sleep around in order to get what they want? And why do people give a shit about things like other people's virginity? Simone is always telling me just to go and get laid. Why should she care? Why does it matter to her?
Why does any of it matter to anyone? I mean, I'm going to make people think that Fanboy is gay, and that will be great because it'll embarrass him and make no girls want to go out with him, but, really, why should anyone care in the first place? And am I only wondering that because I'm also wondering what people would think if they knew that Jecca and I had kissed a bunch of times? And why do I even care that other people care?
But people do care, so it's like you have to keep all this shit straight ... This person slept with this person and this person blew this person and this guy tried to screw this girl, but he couldn't get it up or he only lasted five seconds or this girl made out with this gu
y and her best friend found out and they got in a fight because the best friend liked the guy and on and on and on. God! It's such a pain in the ass! Why do we have to care? Why do we have to keep track? Why does any of it matter?
In a way, I feel sorry for boys. They're weak. You show them boobs or a butt and they just fall apart.
But I feel sorry for girls, too. Because girls get screwed, even when they're not naked with a guy. Everyone hates girls—even other girls. I mean, "girl" is like an insult, you know? "That's so girly." "Stop being a girl." "You're like a little girl."
Hey, you know what? I was a little girl once and I kicked ass. I was awesome.
But no. It's all ... It's like this story my dad told me once. There was this football coach and his team was losing the game at halftime and he made his team sit in the locker room and wait and they all sat around and were waiting for him to come in and yell at them, but he didn't show up, so they just sat there and waited and waited and then—at, like, the last minute—the coach just pokes his head into the locker room and says, "Oh, I'm sorry, ladies—I was looking for the Notre Dame football team." And it pissed them off so much, they went out and won the game.
Because, like, the worst effing thing in the world—the worst thing in the world, the thing that enrages you and pumps you up—is being called a girl?
Really?
And even other girls do it. They get sucked into it. They say they're strong—Miss Powell, my English teacher, does it all the time—but they're not. They go ahead and they watch the stupid movies and TV shows, like the ones where the guy kisses the girl and she resists, but then she gives in. Because, oh, yeah, sure, like if we don't want to kiss you it can't possibly be because we don't want to—it's got to be because we just didn't know how great a kisser you are. Well, if I don't want your tongue down my throat, you're not going to change my mind by trying to put it in there anyway.