Goth Girl Rising (3 page)

So I had counted to one hundred and I was sitting there on the sofa all by myself and I was supposed to get up and go seeking, but instead I just sat there. Just sat there, slightly stoned, completely alone in the dark. I didn't think about anything, didn't want anything, didn't really even
feel
anything. I just absorbed the solace and the solitariness of it all.

And did nothing.

I don't know how long I sat there. Could have been five minutes. Could have been five hours. Time stopped meaning anything.

Eventually, people started to get antsy and move. I didn't care. I just sat there as they slowly began to drift back into the living room.

"What the hell, Kyra?"

"You suck at this."

I ignored them.

"You're supposed to come looking for us."

"Leave her alone. She's totally stoned out."

Still ignored them. Grasped for just one last moment of peace, of alone. Clung to it. Wouldn't let go. Couldn't let go. Can't let go.

S
O NEEDLESS TO SAY, THIS TIME
no one says I should be the one to seek. Which is fine by me.

I don't know what's happening to me. The whole time I was in the hospital, all I wanted was to get out and be with my friends. And now suddenly all I can think about is being alone. Maybe it's the pot. Maybe it's just, like, culture shock. I don't know.

Some guy I've never seen before closes his eyes and starts to count. Everyone steals away, sneaking off into the darkness to hide. I creep away to the kitchen. The pantry is a big walk-in, and there's a spot under a shelf where I can tuck myself in if I lie down. Since no one is allowed to turn on lights, if I stay very still you can't see me even if you walk into the pantry.

After a minute or two, I start to drift off, buoyed by the pot and the silence. It's all peaceful until I start to think about Fanboy. I feel really bad for him, like he needs someone to touch him and hold him maybe, someone to—

The pantry door creaks open just a bit.

I lie perfectly still, my heart hammering.

"Kyra?" It's Jecca, whispering.

"Yeah."

She slips in and closes the door. Then she's next to me, lying next to me, the heat of her radiating to me, her breath a hush between us.

Her hand finds my face. I'm holding my breath for some reason. I let it out against her fingertips as she leans in, following her hand in the dark, and her lips touch mine.

T
HIS HAPPENS SOMETIMES
. W
ITH
J
ECCA
. It doesn't really go any further than kissing, which is no big deal, right?

Jecca makes a little noise down deep in her chest. I've been holding her out. I open my mouth and she sighs her relief between my lips and I realize that I sort of feel sorry for lesbians. I mean real lesbians, the genuine article. The women who truly feel love and passion for other women. Because it's like
everyone
is doing it these days. It's like their very sexuality, the core of their beings, has become a ... a
fad,
something they throw into soap operas to up the ratings, or something girls do to turn their boyfriends on. It's like it's been made meaningless.

I mean, I don't love Jecca or anything. And she doesn't love me. It's not like we're gay. Because we're not.

I don't think.

This just happens, is all.

She kisses me. I kiss her back. It's no big deal.

Except it does feel good. It does feel nice. When it happens ... sometimes when it happens, I can forget things. Big things. Little things. All kinds of things. Her lips are really soft; her tongue's soft, too. Sometimes she licks my neck or nibbles my ear, and that's great.

I guess some people would call this "experimentation," but that's not it because experimentation is, like, indicating that you would do something full-time after trying it out. And I don't think I'm a lesbian or anything. I like boys. I know this because when I fantasize, I think about boys all the time.

But I also think about Jecca. Not other girls. Just Jecca.

This is just ... God, it's just comforting. And safe. And I
never
feel comfortable or safe, so these times with Jecca, when this happens, it's like a vacation for me, like being sent away again, only this time being sent away somewhere I
want
to go, somewhere I like.

It's looking for a touch, warmth, connection, heat, anything.

"What's wrong?" she whispers, which is weird because she usually doesn't say anything.

"Nothing." And I lean up a little bit to kiss her. I've been thinking the whole time. Stressing. And she could tell. So I shut off my brain for a little while and just let the safety and the comfort take over.

L
ATER
. I'
M STILL STONED
.
S
O
STONED
. And smoking my way through my first pack of cigarettes in
months.
God, it feels good! I lick my lips and imagine I can taste Jecca's lipstick, which I can't, but I imagine it, which is just as good.

I'm in the kitchen, giggling with Simone as she tries to open a bag of potato chips.

"I think I need scissors," she says, pronouncing the
c
so that it comes out "skissors," which for some reason makes us both convulse with laughter until we're giggling right there on the kitchen floor.

"Skissors," she says again.

"Suh-gar!" I say, spying the sugar bowl on the counter.

"Skissors!"

"Suh-gar!"

"Va-
guy
-na!"

I snort laughter. "No, it has to start with an
s
."I don't know why, but it's funnier that way.

She licks her lips and tries the bag again. She gets it open without making it explode all over the place.

"She-mata!" she says, holding out a handful of chips.

I stare at her. The chips are wavering right in front of me and my gut is telling me to eat them so fast that she doesn't even know they're gone, but my brain is thinking,
What did she just say?

"Huh?"

"Chips!" she says, and giggles because
chips
is a funny word, especially when you say it like Simone does when she's stoned.

"No, what did you say before?"

She shoves some of the chips into her mouth. "Skissors!"

"No, not that."

"Suh-gar!"

"That was me."

"She-mata! Like the comic book."

"It's
Schemata,
" I tell her automatically, pronouncing it correctly, but at the same time, I'm trying to think ten million things at once. How does Simone know about
Schemata?How
does she know anything at all? Did I tell her? I don't
think
I did. I don't think I ever mentioned it to her.

Simone isn't paying any attention to me—she wanders off with her bag of chips, leaving me in the kitchen by myself. I feel like the world's spinning around me and like my brain is spinning, too, but in the opposite direction, and it makes me all dizzy and crazy.
Did
I tell her about
Schemata?
What did I tell her?
When
did I tell her?

Holy crap. How could I tell her about something like
that
and not remember it? Am I totally losing my mind?

And goddammit, now I don't feel stoned anymore. I'm totally straight now, totally sober, totally pissed, and I wish Jecca was here in the kitchen, because I need someone to kiss me, someone to kiss me and not to talk, never to talk.

So, here I am, back home, writing to you for the first time from somewhere other than the hospital.

In case you're interested, my first day back home sucked bigtime.

I had a fight with my dad, which is nothing new, but still. It's never fun. And I went to a party and got high and made out with someone, which confuses me every time it happens. And then someone said something that really just ... It just didn't make any sense.

I'm babbling. Wow, babbling with a keyboard! Babbling with a keyboard in a letter to Neil Gaiman!

Then again, it's not like the letters I wrote to you in the hospital made much sense, either, I bet. I bet if I looked at them now, I would be like,
What the hell were you talking about, Kyra?
But I wrote them and they're done and I'm not going to look back.

That's my new thing, Neil: Not looking back. I'm going to try to look ahead. Like, I'm going to forgive Fanboy and I'm go ing to try to be his friend again. That's a good thing. That's what adults call "a step in the right direction."

It's not always easy for me. And I think that's what pisses me off more than anything else. People say, "Behave!" and "Don't do bad things!" and "Be nice!" as if those things are easy, as if they're simple. But they're not, Neil. They just aren't. The world is a really, really shitty place, so doing those good things, those nice things, isn't always easy.

And sometimes you have to be mean. Or angry. Sometimes that's the only way to get something done or explain something to someone. And sometimes it just feels good and right and—more important—
honest.
Isn't honesty important? Doesn't honesty matter?

OK, it's really late and I'm really tired and I think I'm still a little bit stoned, so I'm going to bed now.

T
HERE'S A LOUD BEEPING SOUND
filling the universe, waking me up. I lie in bed for a minute, wondering what the hell the sound is before I realize it's my alarm clock.

God, how weird. I haven't woken up to an alarm in
forever.
I'm in my own room. Not the hospital. My own room. Strange.

Last night is already fading ... I have the real world to deal with now.

God, it's November. I can't believe it. I missed the end of my sophomore year and the beginning of my junior year. All because my dad freaked out.

As if he can hear me thinking, Roger taps on my door. I want to yell out,
Eff off, Roger!
(I want to do that a
lot!
All the time!) Instead, I don't say anything. His taps become more insistent and he finally gives up being nice and says, "Kyra, I'm counting to three and then I'm opening the door!"

By the time he comes in, I'm at my closet, picking out my clothes for my big ole triumphant return to South Brook High. Ha.

"Didn't you hear me?" he asks.

"I'm thinking," I tell him.

"What's there to think about? It's all black."

This is true. My closet is like a refugee shelter for black clothes.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

"Your teachers all know what you've been going through," he says. "They'll be sympathetic. Like last time."

I just keep staring at the closet. I want to say,
Eff off, Roger!
Again. Because "last time"—back in middle school, when I tried to kill myself—sucked bigtime. Everyone treated me like a freak when I came back to school. Besides, how can my teachers know what I've been "going through" when
I'm
not even a hundred percent sure?

Here's the thing about parents—about adults in general, really: They think they're In Charge. They think they Rule the World.

But in reality they're just as clueless and effed up as everyone else. The world is just a gigantic effing wave, a
tsunami,
and it washes away all of us—kid, parent, student, teacher—alike.

That's the world. That's a
fact,
OK?

"Did you hear me?" he asks.

I sigh out a "yes" like it's the longest word in the world. "Can I get a shower now?"

The bathroom is another weird place for me. My own bathroom. My own stuff. No one messing with it. No one pounding on the door to come in.

I left the cap open on my hair gel while I was gone, so it all dried out. No spikes for me today.

No hair dye, either. Did I run out before I went away, or did Roger pitch it while I was gone? Roger probably pitched it. He never liked my black hair.

I don't have many options, so I just take the top and back and tie it into a stub, leaving the long bangs to hang down. Not bad. My bangs are not normal bangs. They're awesome.

Roger sees me on my way out the door and says, "Can't you get that out of your eyes?" He means my Bangs of Doom.

And I think,
Uh, no, dumb-ass. Because then people could
see
me.