The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (17 page)

"Just three? God, I want, like, a
million
things."

"You didn't listen to me. Not
just
three things—three things more than anything else."

"Oh. Like the top three?"

"Well..." I think about it. Not really. I don't know how to explain it. The three things that complete me? That would make life worth living? They both sound pathetic. "Sure. The top three."

She arches an eyebrow in that way she has. "And a new computer is one of them? Really?"

When she says it out loud like that, it does sound sort of pathetic. I mean, a new computer? Kids starving in Indonesia, and I'm jonesing for hardware? "It's not the computer itself. It's what it can mean. It means a better
Schemata.
Less time focusing on keeping the computer running and more time
creating.
Better work. Maybe a cool website to promote it. Maybe do some animation, just to get people's attention. Stuff like that."

She's nodding as I say it. "Yeah, I get that. So, what else?"

"It's stupid. You won't—"

She kicks me in the shin.

"Hey!"

"What did I tell you before? The more you don't tell me..."

"Fine. Fine. Jeez." I rub my shin. It didn't really hurt that much, but some part of me notices how she seems almost concerned at evidence of my pain. "I also want a copy of
Giant-Size X-Men
#1. In Mint condition."

She bursts into laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"That's
lame!
I'm sorry, fanboy, but even for a superhero geek—"

"I know. Look, I don't usually get into that stuff. I mean, Cal's the one who has this whole obsession with comics-as-historical documents." She looks bored when I bring up Cal. Or
is
it boredom? I don't know. "I just want to read the stories. But my dad's the one who got me into comics. He used to read X-Men and Spider-Man comics to me when I was a kid. And
Giant-Size X-Men
#1 is where it all started. That's where, like, the modern age of Marvel Comics started."

Kyra rolls her eyes. I can tell she's thinking,
Big friggin' deal.

"It's just that my dad never got that one. And it's really expensive. So Cal says—"

She cuts me off. "Yeah, yeah, he's not the only one who can see the obvious, fanboy. You're completing your dad's collection. Very sweet. Get my insulin, OK?"

It sounds really pathetic when she puts it like that. I shrug my shoulders.

"Oh, come on, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It actually
is
kinda sweet. It's OK."

I shrug again. "Whatever. Look, just look at the pages, OK?"

"Tell me the third thing."

I freeze.

"Come on. Tell me." She comes close and actually takes my hand. It's like static electricity; I flinch. I've never held hands with a girl before. This isn't even really holding hands, but it's enough.

"Hey." She misinterprets my flinch, tilts my face so that I have to look at her. "Tell me. It's OK. What is it, the Playboy Channel?"

"No, it's not ... There's no third thing. It's just two."

"You said three before."

"I misspoke."

"I don't think you
ever
misspeak."

I tear myself away from her eyes and her hand, stepping back, looking down. Those hazel eyes. Can't look in them and lie. It sucks.

I can't tell her, though. Not the third thing. I'll look too needy. It'll become a self-fulfilling prophecy or something like that.

"I can't tell anyone," I tell her finally, after a painful silence. I meet her eyes again. I'm not lying now. Not at all. "I can't tell." That's the truth. "If I do, I might never get it."

I don't think she realizes she's doing it—she flicks her tongue out to lap at the ring in the corner of her mouth. I gulp. I think it's just a reflex, but man!

"It's OK," she says after thinking about it. "Sometimes you need to hold on to one thing. You should never tell someone
everything,
after all."

Moment over. Safety preserved.

"Thanks for under—"

"Shh!" She's moved on already, now intent on the pages and settling into my chair. I hush, as directed, and sit on my bed, which isn't exactly made but isn't exactly unmade either. I vaguely remember yanking the covers up to the headboard this morning. So I sit there and after thirty seconds or thirty years (not sure which), I start to move, quietly gathering up copies of
Powers
and
Ultimate Fantastic Four
and some graphic novels from the floor, stacking them in a corner where Kyra won't see the capes and spandex suits on the covers.

"How long is it?" she asks, never looking up. Her legs are crossed, the dangling foot jittery and hopping like it's on caffeine all by itself, the rest of her almost preternaturally still, except when she turns a page.

"So far? I'm a hundred pages into it. It'll be longer. I don't know how long, really. I'm just gonna write until it's finished, and that's that. I figure I need twenty really good pages to take with me on Saturday. I'm happy with about ten right now, so I have a lot to do between now and then."

"How are you going to show them to him?"

She's thinking presentation. Most people don't even think like that. But comics are visual. You can't just bring a stack of pages up to someone like Brian Michael Bendis and dump them in front of him and expect him to be wowed.

"I'm going to go to the copy shop and get them printed on the big laser printer there, at eleven by seventeen," I tell her. "Then I'll put them in this." I reach under my bed and pull out my portfolio. I bought it six months ago, when I saw that Bendis would be in town, when I decided that this was My Time. It's a creamy maroon leather, crackled, with a built-in handle that slides down into a hidden slot. It unzips on three sides to open like a book. I unzip it now and show her the clear poly inserts for artwork. I've customized it, using paint pens to detail the edges of the inserts (where the art won't be obscured), etching my name, phone number, and e-mail address like frosting on glass. There are twelve inserts, enough to hold my twenty pages if I put two in each insert, faces out. That leaves two inserts empty; the last one I filled with a bunch of flyers and postcards that I designed featuring the characters from
Schemata
and my contact information. The first one is already filled, too: I designed a huge mockup of the
Schemata
cover, influenced by something my dad showed me once: Sam Kieth's ad for the
Sandman
series. Kyra sees it and gasps. Of course.
Sandman
was Gaiman's big book. She must have seen the image somewhere Morpheus, god of sleep, emerging from the dark, only his face and right hand visible as he cups a handful of sand, as if offering it to the reader.

My cover shows Courteney in a similar pose, her face gazing at her own palm, which contains dancing multitudes: the dreams, fears, and secrets she's externalized with her power. At the top of the image is a stylized "SCHEMATA." Beneath: "a very graphic novel" followed by "by" and my name.

"Nice," she murmurs. "This is gonna look great. I can't wait to see the look on his face."

It takes me a second to catch her meaning. "You're coming?"

She nods, ring-grinning at me. "Yeah. I'll come. I want to see you walk this bad boy up to Bendis. I want to see that."

Wow.

Before I can say anything, I hear the front door open, rattling in its frame like it always does. I find myself holding my breath as Kyra leans over to put my pages on the desk. I can tell from the footsteps if it's the step-fascist or...

Mom calls out my name in a tone that has anger leashed just out of sight.

"Down here, Mom!"

"Whose car is that?"

She's a step away from losing it, I can tell. I've broken the cardinal rule in more ways than one. Not only did I invite someone to the house, but I did so without asking first, without checking ahead ... And by doing so, I put Mom in the position of either busting my chops and looking like a total bitch, or dealing with the stranger in her midst and hating every minute of it.

My name again. And: "I said, 'Whose car—?'"

I look at Kyra and consider trying to explain the car's provenance in shouts. Not worth it. "Kyra's," I shout back. Casually. Shouting casually. Tough to do.

Pause. I can
hear
Mom thinking from upstairs.
Is he screwing around under my roof, right under my
feet?
But wouldn't it be stupid to admit that it's her car in that case? And my son is many things, but not usually stupid.
That's what she's thinking.

"OK," she says, drawing it out into uncertainty, designed to make me think that she's
not
OK with it, that she'll be down soon enough.

"She's pregnant," I tell Kyra. "She doesn't like coming down the stairs so much."

"Whatever." She shrugs, bored now, and looks around. "So, where do you keep your ammo?"

"Shh!" I jump up and close the door to keep her big mouth from causing problems. "Jeez, what are you trying to do to me?"

"Just messing with you. It doesn't
look
like an armory in here."

"Right here," I tell her, taking the bullet from my pocket and slipping it into the old hard drive case. "God, you're the only person who knows about the, you know, about the bullet."

"OK, OK, don't get your jockstrap in a wad." She stands and stretches, going up on tiptoe like some inky ballerina. "What's this?" She grabs a pad of paper from my nightstand.

"My sketchpad. I just doodle and write down dialogue there sometimes."

She flips through the pages in her hands while I flip through them in my mind. Anything embarrassing? Anything stupid? I did some nudes once, just for the hell of it, just to see if I could. I think I threw that pad away, though.

"What's the deal with her name?"

"Huh?"

She turns the pad around to show me a pencil sketch of Courteney in three-quarter profile and repeats her question: "What's the deal with her name?"

"Courteney's name? I got it from Courteney Cox."

"No, I mean the whole ... It's like, Courteney Abbott Pierce DelVecchio. That doesn't even sound real. It's this WASP name and middle names with DelVecchio just crammed onto the back. Who has a name like that?"

"It's intentional."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's like..." It really
is
intentional. I've just never explained it before. "See, I'm trying to contrast upbringing and ... When we studied immigrants in history, there was all of this stuff about the people who were already here and how they looked down on people based on their names. It's like an upper-crust thing." I'm not explaining it well, I know, but she's watching me, intent, wanting to understand. Which is cool. "I'm playing with stereotypes. The idea is that she sort of married beneath her station."

"Like your mom?"

I stare at her. I never thought of that. The step-fascist's last name is Marchetti. In his own words, he's "a fourth-generation wop." He said that to me. He honestly did. Mom's parents claim they can trace their bloodline back to the Civil War. So did Dad's, for that matter.

Kyra grins because she can read my mind. I guess I would grin, too. She flops onto the bed and starts flipping more pages when there's a knock at my door.

I freeze. Mom calls my name. Kyra's on the bed. I want to tell her to get off the bed, but Mom would hear that and assume the worst. OK, no need to panic. She's on the bed, but I'm standing near the door. Six feet between us, easy. Act fast, so she doesn't think you've jumped up.

"Come in."

Mom opens the door and almost hits me with it. See, Mom? Standing right here. More than an arm's length away from the girl on the bed. The
clothed
girl. You're seeing this, right, Mom?

Yeah, she sees it. Her eyes narrow. Kyra looks up at her like Mom's a waitress and Kyra hasn't decided on her appetizer yet.

"I need to speak to you for a moment," Mom says to me, smiling with nothing like mirth.

I
N THE BASEMENT, NEAR THE STEP-FASCIST'S
workbench, I inhale gun oil and grease while Mom gets started.

"I cannot
believe
you did this—"

"Mom, please. Shhh."

"Do
not
tell me to be quiet.
I
am the parent. Did you
forget
that?"

"No." I look toward my room. Can't tell if anything's going on in there, or if Kyra can hear. I assume she can't because if she
could
hear, I think I would die of embarrassment. "I didn't forget. I was wrong, OK? I know that. But please please please yell at me later."

"You brought someone into this house without asking first," she goes on, as if I hadn't said a word. "You
know
how I feel about that. You
know.
"

Oh, yes, I know. "Mom, seriously. I am
way
sorry. And you can punish me or whatever, but please, just not now."

"And then you—" She stops, grimacing, clutching her belly. "Oh, God, that's a hard one. Ugh." She shakes her head. "Your sister thinks she's Mia Hamm."