The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (21 page)

I hit *69 on the phone, but it's blocked. Right. Kyra's dad works for the phone company. And I never got her phone number.

I stare at the computer, but I don't know why. There's no point to working on
Schemata.
I can't go to the convention. I can't meet Bendis.

My official bedtime rolls around, and as if by instinct I put the plastic up over my door and return to the computer. Maybe ... Maybe Bendis will be at another convention soon. Not one as close by, but one that I could get to somehow. I can look into that. That's an idea, right?

No e-mail from Cal or Kyra. No instant messages. No nothing. It's like I'm persona non grata on the Internet.

I lay my hand flat on the hard drive case. I imagine the bullet's cool, brassy comfort floating up from within.

There's a knock at my door that shocks me away from the hard drive. I say, "Come in" before I realize that it's past midnight, turning in my chair just as the door opens, tearing down my plastic sheet and wrecking any future hopes of staying up late. Mom will
not
take kindly to this deception.

But it isn't Mom who walks in. It's the step-fascist.

My jaw tightens as he enters. There's no reason for him to be here. None. The basement is neutral ground, but this room and the shower are my sovereign territory. I'm angry and a little bit afraid, too. I don't want to hear him lecture me about how I shouldn't have mouthed off to Mom. It's none of his business. I'm not his kid. I want to tell him off and let loose all the venom in me, but he's bigger than I am. And he's not like my dad; I get the impression this guy wouldn't think twice about smacking around a kid who talked back to him.

He looks around my room for just a second, taking in the plastic sheet, which now clings to the door by scraps of tape. I think there's the hint of a grin. He's got a rolled-up paper in his hand.

"You left this upstairs," he says, holding it out to me. I grab it like a wary stray grabbing a snack from an untrustworthy hand.

He looks at the plastic again and shakes his head. "I don't get you," he says.

I don't care.
I bite my tongue and unroll the paper. It's a
Schemata
page, of course, an older version of a page where Courteney (who really does look
way
too much like Dina) is sitting in her car in a parking lot, crying, the memory of a student's abuse still fresh in her mind. Damn, Kyra's right. She cries too much.

"I mean, me and your mom've been together for six years now and I still don't get you."

This doesn't bother me in the least. I stare at the page, waiting for him to go away.

"I never got into all this school stuff." I look up. He's leaning against the doorjamb, studying my room as if seeing it for the first time, as if it's some amazing, ancient archaeological site he's discovered. "Never seen
anyone
read as much as you.

Christ, it's like your goddamn nose is
attached
to a book or something. I don't get it. Makes no sense."

He sighs. "But I see you with these papers all over the place." He points to the one I'm holding. "You been leaving that stuff all over the house ever since I met you. I don't know anything about funny books, but I keep seein' this all around the place, so I look at it and like I said, I don't know anything, but to
me
it looks like you're getting better at it." He shrugs. "Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. Not the smartest guy in the world and haven't read one of these things since I was a little kid. But it looks like you're getting better. I don't know why you'd bother with all this, but I know that you work your ass off at it. You saw something you wanted and you worked your ass off for it." He nods. "And I respect that."

"So I'll take you to this whatever-it-is on Saturday."

A bullet to my brain. Electricity through my scrotum. A knife between the ribs. A crazed dog gnawing off my arm.
None
of these could surprise me any more at this moment.

"What did you say?" I ask him.

"What time does it start?" He knows I heard him the first time and he can't be bothered repeating himself.

"Ten. Line for tickets starts earlier—"

"OK. I got nothing else to do. God knows I ain't goin' near that baby shower. Make sure you set an alarm and be ready to go at seven. Get you there in plenty of time to get your tickets."

I just stare at him. Every mean, nasty, cold thing I've ever thought about him or said to him—though at the time they didn't feel mean, nasty, or cold—collides in my brain, fighting for space, laughing at me.

I respect that.
Respect. He said "respect."

"Thank you" is what you're supposed to say here. That much I know. But I can't make it come out. Because it's
him.
The guy who knocked up my mother. The guy who's so
wrong.
I can't make myself thank him.

Respect.
Respect.

"That's..." I can't say "thanks." I can't make myself. "That's great."

He nods and turns to go, then stops to look back at me.

"Y'know, you could be a little nicer to your mother these days."

In the past, when I would get angry at Mom and yell at her, he would yell at me on her behalf, saying stuff like, "Don't back-talk your mother!" and generally getting in my face. But this time's different. It's like he's asking me a favor instead.

"I know."

"I mean, you want to talk shit to me, I don't care. But she's your mom. She counts. And I don't like seeing her upset." He shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, "Listen or don't, I don't care."

"I'll try."

"She's the best thing to ever happen to me," he tells me, which I know is true, but it's weird to hear him say it. "Hell, she's the
only
good thing to ever happen to me. I don't know why she's with me."

"Neither do I." I wince. It just slipped out before I could stop it.

But he's not offended. He just thinks it over and then nods in agreement. "Well, whoever figures it out first, tell the other one, OK?"

"Deal."

W
HEN I'M NOT IN CLASS
, school's just an exercise in muscle memory: Go here, go there, hit the locker, grab the books, go somewhere else. The hallways are places to be tormented by the thousand indignities that high school gleefully visits upon the skinny and the weak. I get shoved, pushed, jostled aside, knocked into the wall, slammed against lockers, and pressed between dullard giants on a regular basis. I give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they're just in a hurry and/or utterly clueless. The first time, at least. After that, they go on The List. Where they belong.

Seeing Cal and hanging out with him is usually the high point of the average school day for me, but that hasn't been true since our argument about the lacrosse game. I see Kyra in the hall a bunch of times, but she doesn't look at me, instead keeping her eyes down, her books clutched tight to her chest, both arms folded across them. It's like she feels naked, and I flash back to my sketch. Was that a violation?
Is
it a violation? It's not like I, like I
drooled
over it all night or anything.

Classes whip by like movie montages. And then the film breaks and the theater goes dark because I see something I never thought I'd see.

Rounding a corner, hustling to Trig after lunch, I see Cal and Kyra standing together near one of the water fountains. Cal isn't doing his usual school-time routine with the poses and the physical attitude. He's just leaning against the wall, his backpack dangling off one shoulder. He's staring at Kyra very intently, as if she's revealing some kind of incredible secret, something too serious to greet with shock. Something that requires contemplation.

And Kyra ... She's still got her books pressed against her chest. She's got her hip cocked against the water fountain, but she's standing like a kid who's been caught joyriding in the family car. She doesn't even look at Cal—her eyes dart around, as if worried she'll be seen with him. I'm not close enough to hear them, but I can't help watching her lips move, trying to figure out what she's saying.

She doesn't see me. Neither of them sees me, which both surprises me and doesn't surprise me. I've always considered myself something of an invisible man at South Brook. Unless I do something to attract attention to myself, it's like I don't even exist for most of these people. But if any two people would notice me, it would be Kyra and Cal.
Especially
when they're together!

I hug the wall and let people pass by me, watching. A few seconds later, Cal nods, clearly says something like, "Thanks," and walks away, his hands jammed into his pockets.

Kyra fidgets.

I have to know what's going on. Her walkout. Her call last night. Now this.

I fight my way through the press of bodies to the water fountain. Kyra looks up, grimaces, and takes a step back, only to find herself trapped between me, the water fountain, and the endless tide of students.

"Move." Her eyes are hard.

"No. What's going on here? Why did you walk out the other day? And why did you call me if you say you don't like me anymore?"

"Did you fix that scene?"

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"Tough shit. That's
all
I want to talk about with you." She looks around for an opening to leave, but there's still no way to get away. "So move your ass so I can go."

"No. Not until you tell me what's going on."

"You want me to tell you everything, huh? You want me to tell you all my secrets? Why should I be honest with you when you're not honest?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." But I do.

"Yeah?" She tugs gently at the ring in the corner of her mouth, as if reassuring herself that it's there and that it would still hurt if she yanked it out. "You won't tell me your magical third thing. You didn't even tell your best friend that you were working on a graphic novel. You're a real open and honest guy."

Oh my God. "What did you tell Cal? What did you say to him? Did you tell him about
Schemata?
" That would be the worst thing
ever.
I've been working on it for years and I never said anything because I always figured I'd wait until it's done. I didn't want to show it to him unfinished and have him think it's lame. God, why did I even show it to Kyra?

"No, I didn't tell him about
Schemata.
I told him the truth."

"What do you mean?"

She leans in close. "I told him you're gay. And you've got a thing for him."

I want to scream "What?" at the top of my lungs, but nothing will come out. She has to be joking, right? This has to be a joke. But she's dead serious. "Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm not. Now get! Out! Of! My! Way!" Pushing me with each word, finally knocking me aside long enough to slip by and get away.

She didn't. She couldn't have.

Why would she?

And besides—I hate you.

Does she really hate me?

Women are complicated,
Mom said.

I feel like an invisible man no longer. I feel like the
extra
-visible man. Like everyone can't help but to look at me.

I
REACH FOR MY BULLET AND REALIZE
—in sick horror—that I don't have it with me. I forgot it. I
forgot
it. How could I
do
that? This isn't like yesterday, where I was rushing to get ready and just didn't have the time. This is
ridiculous.
How could I be so stupid? Especially now. Especially today, when I
need
it?

There's no Kyra, no Cal, no one. I'm alone. Alone in a school of two thousand people, but I have
Schemata
and Bendis in my brain, right? Isn't that what matters?

And then it happens. The world, the universe, everything, just slams into me.

Cal is in biology with me; he sits three rows up and a column over, so usually he'll toss a grin or an eye-roll my way every now and then. But throughout the entire class he hasn't so much as twisted his neck even slightly in my direction. I stare at the back of his head, willing him to turn to me, then realize that if he
did
turn, he'd see me mooning over him like a lovesick ... person who's lovesick. And that would be as bad as not getting the chance to talk to him at all.

Gay. She told him I was gay. Would he even believe that? Does it matter? If I
were
gay, I wouldn't care who knew, but I'm not.

It's the middle of biology, and that's when it starts; I can't tell if I'm glad—because I'll miss gym and Frampton's punching routine—or terrified because of the entirely different pain I'm about to endure.

I look down at my notes for a moment to make sure that I've connected two molecules correctly, and then I lose my eyesight.

It's not like in a movie, where everything goes black. There's a sudden patch of fuzziness that settles over my notebook, blotting all but the edges. It's like TV static when the cable goes out, only threaded with gold and red, shaped like some amorphous amoeba. At first I think there's something on my desk, and I swipe my hand at it, but my hand disappears as it passes into the patch.