The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (12 page)

"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.

D
INA
J
URGENS 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.

I
N THE MORNING
, M
OM 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."

"Kyra! 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."

I'm not going to beg her. I've got Cal to hang out with, and that'll be more fun anyway. We read most of the same comics, after all. And besides, once I meet Bendis, I don't know how things are going to go. I might have to ditch Cal to talk with Bendis.

"You still planning on going?" she asks, almost a little too casually.

"Yeah. I have to show Bendis—" And I stop, horrified with myself because I almost said it.

"Show Bendis?" In my mind's eye, I can see her suddenly leaning forward, wherever she is. Maybe in her bedroom, sitting on the floor with her back against her bed. She's got low lighting and posters of Morpheus and Death on her walls. Everything's black and gray. "Show Bendis what?"

"Nothing," I mumble, glancing guiltily at my desk and the pages of
Schemata
there. The computer screen shows page 24, where Courteney walks through a forest of screaming children.

"Show him what? Come on, tell me. What are you gonna show him? Come on."

"Nothing, OK? Jeez."

"You're lying. I can tell. I can tell when you're lying. Come on, what's the big deal? Just tell me. Did you draw something? I didn't know you were an artist. What did you draw? Spider-Man? Please tell me it's not Spider-Man."

"I didn't draw anything." Another lie, the evidence all around me in my room.

"Yes, you did. I knew it. I knew you wanted to be a comic book artist. I could just tell. You want to draw Spider-Man, right? Or Daredevil. Or Batman."

"Bendis doesn't write Batman." Change the subject.

"Whatever. You're Mr. Superhero, aren't you? You want to draw—"

"It's not about superheroes!" I yell into the phone, then freeze, wondering if anyone heard me, if the step-fascist heard from just beyond the door.

"Calm down, fanboy. Don't blow a gasket, OK?"

"He doesn't just do superheroes," I tell her. "He did crime comics and Eliot Ness stuff and a comic book about Hollywood and—"

"So what's yours, then? Come on, you can tell me. I swear to God I won't laugh. I promise."

I sit down on the bed and reach out for the bullet, still tucked under my pillow. I didn't need it before with Kyra, but now she's got me all worked up.

But I'm going to do it. I think I'm going to tell her. I don't think I can stop myself.

The bullet's a cool point in my fist, fading to body temperature.

Schemata.
It's the most important thing—

"I haven't even told Cal," I tell her.

She says nothing. I hear her exhale more smoke.

"OK," I tell her. "OK. I'll tell you some of it. But I can't stay on the phone too long—"

She squeals on the other end. "I'm coming over!"

M
OM'S "NO ONE IN THE HOUSE
" paranoia/psychosis is still intact and in full force, so we decide to head to the mall—talk and eat lunch and kill two birds with one stone. She picks me up in yet another car—a dinged-up little import.

"Do you have your own parking lot somewhere?" Look at me, tossing out one-liners! I feel giddy and ridiculous.

"Rein in the brain, fanboy. It's just a rental. The other one's in the shop."

I hop in. Mom's watching from the door. I make myself wave and smile, while saying to Kyra, "Get us out of here."

I assured Mom that I'll be home by six at the latest, giving myself plenty of time to eat and bum around and do nothing all day before I have to be home. Mom pretended to buy it—again, nothing else on the shelves, right?—and then gave me a handful of change that clangs embarrassingly in my pocket. I'm supposed to call her by five no matter what.

Once out of sight of the house, she's Danger Kyra again. Not quite flooring it, but definitely starting to revert back to the lunatic who first drove me. "Why do you live with your mom and not your dad? Sounds like your mom bugs the shit out of you."

If anyone else asked me, I would either tell them to shut up, or I would shut up myself and just not answer. I always
wanted
to live with Dad. He's less strict, for one thing. And there's no step-fascist there, either. Plus, he's the
good guy.
Mom
cheated
on him.

"She got custody," I tell her. Which sounds so
lame.
Sounds like I'm an object that can be passed around. It's pathetic, really.

"So some judge just tells you where you have to live?" She lights up a cigarette and drags on it aggressively, like she's sucking in anger and courage. "Man, that blows. Some
judge
..." She lets loose with a cloud of smoke that substitutes for words.

I don't remember a judge, though. It was eight or nine years ago, so I was still in elementary school. I don't know if they ever went to court. Did they just work it out between the two of them? I never thought about it. One day they just said I would be living with Mom and...

God, did my dad even
fight
for me? Did he even
ask
for me?

"You OK over there?" she asks, and I realize I've been staring out the window with my fists clenched.

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Yeah, I just ... You know, she
does
drive me crazy, but I see my dad once a month and on vacations, and..."

"That must be cool." She's not just saying it. She sounds like she means it, or at least hopes it's true.

"Yeah, he's ... he's got an Xbox." Ugh. That's so..."He's pretty busy, so even when I'm over there ... He goes on a lot of dates. He's out a lot." Which is Mom's fault. Because she left him. So that's why I spend so much time playing Xbox.

Right?

"Why did we stop?" I ask her. "Because we're here."

We're in a parking lot. Somehow we got to the mall and I wasn't even paying attention. Thank God.

It's a weird experience, walking through the mall with Kyra. I see other couples holding hands, but we're not. Because we're not a couple. Did I say "other" couples? What am I thinking? That's stupid.

I see kids from school and I ignore them, which is fine because they ignore me, too. Kyra moves through the crowds like she's a pissed-off movie star. She's so small and thin that it would be funny, but I can somehow see her throwing one of those sharp, bony shoulders into someone and knocking them down on pure adrenaline and attitude alone.

In the food court, I use Mom's change to buy a soda to go with my bad Chinese food. I'm trying to hold back some cash—I'm not sure if this is a date or not. Do I pay for Kyra's lunch, too?