The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (25 page)

"Wait a second. Wait a second." He holds up a hand to stop me. "The
monkey sex
issue? You
read
that?"

"Not when it first came out. I read the
Forever
trade paperback."
Forever!
That's the story!
Now
I remember.

"Wait. How
old
are you?"

What does that have to do with anything? "Fifteen." He looks at me skeptically, and I guess I don't blame him. I'm small for my age, and skinny, and if I've shaved I guess I look a lot younger. "No, really."

"Do your
parents
know you read this?" He waves the
Scriptbook
at me.

"I don't know." It's the truth. I have no idea. My parents don't care
what
I read. I read all
kinds
of stuff.

"Because this is..." He stops, as if unsure how to go on. "Look, I mean, I appreciate that you like my stuff—"

"It's more than
like.
You're my inspiration." That sounded gay.

"OK. But look,
Powers
is really written for adults. I mean, you could read
Ultimate Spidey
or—"

"I read that, too." Should I show him the one in my portfolio to prove it? "I read
everything
you write."

"That's great. I appreciate it. I mean that. But I don't want you to get in trouble with your parents for reading something that's—"

"My parents are cool with it."

"But you just said—"

"No, really, they let me read whatever I want."

We both stop. I feel like I've been arm-wrestling. This whole thing has gotten off-track.

My portfolio is resting on the table, partly unzipped. I tug the zippers down the rest of the way. "I'd really like to show you something," I tell him, forcing my voice not to tremble. Best to cut right to the chase.

Holding my
Scriptbook,
Bendis watches with a helpless expression on his face as I flatten the portfolio to reveal the first page, the cover mockup for
Schemata.

"What's this?" he asks. And before I can answer, he says, "I'm sorry, man. I really am. But I'm not doing portfolio reviews."

"I don't want you to review my portfolio. This isn't even my portfolio." Which we both recognize is sort of ridiculous because it's clearly
a
portfolio. "I mean, it's
in
a portfolio, obviously, but it's ... Let me show you." I flip the page, a little aggravated because I wanted him to be impressed by the cover, but maybe I was a little too slavish in my Sam Kieth impression. He'll like the interior pages better; they show my individual style.

"Seriously," he says. "I can't do a review. I mean, there's a line like you wouldn't be
lieve
..."

"I know. I stood in it."

"Well, then you understand. I have to get to everyone, you know? I have to be fair. A lot of these people traveled really far."

"But I just want you to look at my graphic novel."

He looks at me sadly. "I understand. I do. I wish I could spend more time with my fans, but—"

"I'm not a fan!" Ugh. That was wrong. "I mean, I'm not
just
a fan. I'm a creator. I'm a writer/artist. Like you. See?" I flip another page. Courteney shrinks from a student as the kid's overwhelming fear of Grandma dying of cancer comes alive in three dimensions, threatening the entire page, shaking the panel borders. It's a really great page.

"I get you, man. Look, you obviously put a lot of work into this stuff, OK?" He's barely looked at it. How can he tell? "I really don't want to rain on your parade, but I gotta be fair to
everyone
in the line. If I looked at this now, I wouldn't be able to spend any real time on it. I wouldn't be giving it the attention it deserves, you understand?"

Despite myself, I find my head nodding up and down. Yes. That makes sense. The solution is easy: I want him to be unfair and screw everyone else in the line.

"Your best bet—seriously, I'm not BS-ing you here—is to find one of the editors at one of the publishers' booths and see if he'll do a portfolio review."

"But it's not a—"

He holds up a hand again. "I know. That's just what it's called, OK?" He grins at me. "That make sense to you? That sound cool?"

No. No, it doesn't. He's supposed to read it. He's at least supposed to
read
it! He opens my
Scriptbook.
"I'm really flattered that my stuff has influenced you. I remember being fourteen, man. Frank Miller's
Daredevil.
God, I thought that was part of my
blood.
I would see it in my
sleep.
" He scribbles with the Sharpie, pauses, then scribbles again.

"I'm fifteen," I remind him.

"Right. I'm sorry. Did I say fourteen? It was still Miller's
Daredevil
for me." He hands over the
Scriptbook.
"It takes a few minutes for the ink to dry, so hold the book open like this until then, OK?"

What can I do? He's holding the book out to me. I take it.

"Don't forget your ... this." He points to the portfolio, still open to Courteney's moment of terror, on the table.

Is this it? Is it over? All my work, all my time, for
this?
What did I do wrong? I don't understand what I did wrong.

I gather up the portfolio.

"It was really nice to meet you," he says, and he seems serious and sincere. I want to shake his hand again, but both of my hands are filled.

Say something!
It sounds like Kyra's voice in my head. But I can't think of anything to say. And he's already looking over my shoulder, making eye contact with the person behind me.

I step out of line.

I've met Bendis.

I
'M CONFUSED
. M
Y HEAD'S BUZZING
with crowd noise and befuddlement. What happened? How did I botch it so badly? It was so simple: Shake his hand, introduce myself, make a connection, show him
Schemata.
And bang, that's it! Simple.

I don't get it. I'm the smartest kid in my school. How did I mess this up?

I'm numb as I head to the bathroom. I feel like something's going to happen and I don't want to be in public when it does. I struggle with the door, my hands occupied with the portfolio and the book. I shove the book into the portfolio, zip it up, and go into the bathroom, which is, thankfully, unoccupied.

I'm trembling as my stupid, ugly face floats into view in the mirror.

"What did you do?" I whisper. I'm snarling at myself. "What did you
do?
You didn't do anything right. Not a single thing. You messed up your one chance. You dumb, ugly piece of crap. No wonder no one wants to be your friend. No wonder everyone hates you." I'm starting to tear up. I wipe my eyes so hard that it hurts. "Don't cry. You little baby. Little momma's boy. Don't cry. It's your fault. It's your fault and no one else's."

The door opens and two guys walk in, punching each other in the shoulder and talking about some girl in an Elektra costume. Heading straight for the urinals, they don't even look at me, but I feel like I've been caught red-handed. I've been found out as a crying loser, hiding in the bathroom. I wipe my face with some paper towels, then wash my hands in scalding hot water because public bathrooms are just about the grossest places you can imagine.

I check my watch as I leave the bathroom—after spending an hour in line and then talking to Bendis, it's close to three. I have
hours
to wait for Tony.

Bendis said to go to an editor. I kill another hour or so wandering the convention floor, but every publisher booth I walk by is packed, busy, and I can't tell who's an editor and who isn't. And they all look like they have too much to do. Why would they want to look at my pages, anyway? Why should they be different from anyone else?

"Hey."

I look around. Me?

"Hey, when do you see him?"

Still looking around. It's packed in here. I can't even—

God.

Kyra.

M
Y HEART DOESN'T EXACTLY SOAR
at the sight of her, but
something
happens in my chest, some kind of strange, electric hiccup, like when I suddenly remember good news.

Surprise, surprise, she's all in black. Not so much
wearing
black as swaddled in it—a black poncho that looks like you could make a parachute out of it, along with black leggings and the ever-present black boots. Her arms are bare, poking out at angles from under the poncho as she plants her fists on her hips.

"Well?" she asks again. "When do you see him?"

I can't focus on anything but the way her lips—curves of coal—move as she speaks. The photo-negative smiley face hangs on a thread around her neck. "See who?"

"Bendis, you moron."

"He's—I—" How do I tell her this? And why? What the hell is she even doing here? "I can't hear you," I lie, stalling for time. We're in the middle of an aisle, with people shoving and pushing and shouting all around us, so she rolls her eyes and grabs my wrist hard enough to hurt, then drags me off to a quiet spot near the bathroom.

"When do you see Bendis?" Her voice and her eyes tell me that she's tired of asking.

"Why are you here? I thought you were pissed at me."

"What makes you think I'm here for you?" She runs a hand through her hair, which is brushed entirely to the left, so that it falls over one eye and half her face. "Maybe I'm here to see someone."

I run through the list of creators in my head. "Nah. There's no one here you want to see that badly."

"You're right. And I'm
more
than pissed at you." She pokes me in the chest. "But I
love
your graphic novel and I want to be here when history happens. So when do you see him? He's got a long line. I saw it already."

"Yeah. I know. I saw him already."

"You did?" Her eyes shine and she leans toward me, and suddenly all I can think about is the other night, in my room, when she took off her bra. I don't know how to think or talk anymore. What's wrong with me?

"I saw him," I hear myself say. "He turned it down." And now we can talk, she and I. We can work out whatever's going on—

"He
what?
" She jumps back from me, her face twisted in anger. "He
rejected
it?"

"Hold on. He didn't really reject it. He didn't even see it."

She shakes her head; she looks like someone just slapped her across the face for no reason. "Didn't
see
it? He didn't even
look
at it?"

"He said he—"

"What kind of dickhead
is
he?"

"He's not a—"

"I mean, what kind of a complete idiotic
dickhead
is he? Not to even look at it? What a dick!"

Now, here's the weird part: All of a sudden, I don't
care
about
Schemata.
I don't care about Bendis. All I care about is the utterly stricken look on Kyra's face, the way she's flushing just slightly pink (I don't think even a full rage could color her cheeks much more than that), the way her eyes dart around like she's looking for an enemy. I just want her to calm down, to breathe regularly again, to stop saying "murder" with her body language.

I reach out for her hand. "Kyra, let's go to—"

"Back off!" she hisses, smacking my hand away. "Don't touch me, you freak."

"I thought—"

"You still don't get it. Fine. I don't give a shit. I'm not here for
you,
dumb-ass. I'm here for
that
." She points at the portfolio. "I'm here because it's
better
than you. And I can't believe that asshole doesn't get it."

She spins on a heel and takes off. I don't even stop to think about it—I follow right after her. "Kyra! Hey, Kyra! Come on!"

She ignores me, but the older teens and adults in the crowd find it funny. I hear a couple of
How cutes
and some
Lookit 'er go
!s and one guy nudges me as I push past him and says, "Are ya
sure
you wanna catch her, kid?" to the laughter of those around him. Me, I just keep my focus on Kyra. The black clothes makes it easy—just follow the dark bead shoving its way through a sea of comic-book-fan-flesh.

After a minute I notice that she's headed out of the dealer zone and into the publisher zone. She weaves past a small press table, ignoring the guy who tries to hand her a mini-comic. I'm on her tail; I know where she's headed.

"Hey, Bendis!" she shouts, and the noise level is too high for him to hear her, thank God.

"Kyra!" I'm closer to her than she is to Bendis. I know she can hear me, but she's ignoring me like she ignored Mini-comic Man. "Kyra!"

"Bendis!" she shouts again, this time closer to him. People start to turn her way, some jumping out of the way of the ghostly girl in black who moves with fury.

"Dickhead!" she bellows. "You stupid dickhead!"

"Kyra! Oh my God!" I scream. I can't believe it. I can't believe it!