The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (32 page)

If I were Courteney, if I had had Courteney's powers, I would know everything. I'd be able to see Kyra's thoughts and dreams and I'd know for sure. But I'm not Courteney, so I just have to go with my gut.

I stop in the middle of the hall. There's fifteen minutes left in fourth period, so the corridors are like tombs. I'm all alone. I'm the only person in the world. And I don't know anything.

So where do I go when I don't know anything?

L
ESS THAN A MINUTE LATER
, I throw open the door to the media center. Mrs. Grant looks up from the circulation desk in surprise and calls out my name.

"This is very important!" I yell as I head for the computers. "Very important!"

I waste half a second of fantasy time imagining that I can hack into the school database and get Kyra's address and phone number, but after the lacrosse team fiasco they've probably got that sucker sealed off like a contaminated ward. Instead, I pull up an Internet phone directory and punch in "Sellers" for Brookdale. The hard drive cranks and churns. Mrs. Grant comes up behind me.

I don't even look up at her as the screen starts to fill in. "Mrs. Grant, I'm really sorry, but this is really important."

"What class are you supposed to be in? Why are you wearing your gym clothes?"

I like Mrs. Grant a lot. She's in charge of the books and computers, and those are in my Top Five Reasons Why I Go to School. But I just don't have time for this.

"It's a family emergency," I tell her, the lie sliding easily off my tongue as I scan the listings. "My mom's going into labor and I have to find my stepdad's work number."

"Oh. Oh!" She steps away, then comes back. "Isn't that on file at the office?"

May God forever
damn
librarians and their need to help! I'm trying to work here! "No," I tell her. "They never added it." I'm multi-tasking like I'm a dual-processor computer. I'm looking up the information, stacking lies for Mrs. Grant, and imagining Kyra calmly getting it right this time, spilling liquid garnets down that perfectly white skin. It would almost be art.

Mrs. Grant goes away, but I'm not sure how long she'll stay away. I've got twenty Sellerses on my screen, and a depressing "1, 2, 3" at the bottom of the page, indicating more pages with the same name. I don't know what her father's name is. How am I supposed to do this?

I stare at the screen. I need more information. I need an address or a first name. I have to do
something.
She could be lying dead somewhere, and it would be all my fault because maybe she found a gun after all and used my bullet...

An address. I need an address.

Wait a minute. I close my eyes. I remember last week, when Kyra and I drove around town. Just north of Brookdale ... to that new development, with the swampy pond that she hated so much.

How did she know about that place? How did she know the details?

"That's where she
lives,
" I murmur.

Mrs. Grant hates it when people touch the screens, but I can't help it—I put my index finger on the monitor and drag down, checking the street names. Halfway down the second page, I find "Sellers, R." on the same street that Kyra and I visited. I scribble down the phone number and then I'm off to the circulation desk.

"Mrs. Grant. Can I use your phone?"

She looks at me suspiciously, but not
too
suspiciously. As far as she knows, I'm a good kid. I like books and computers. And besides, I'm throwing out my most earnest and innocent face.

"Use the one in there," she says, pointing toward her office. "It's private. You have to push nine first."

"Thanks!" I dash into the office and tap out the number. Four rings later, a man's voice says, "Hello. You've reached the Sellers house. If you'd like to leave a message for Roger or
Kyra
, wait for the beep."

I wait for the beep and then I record some silence onto his answering machine. If someone's home, I could shout into the machine and maybe they'd hear me, but if
Kyra's
home, she might just accelerate her plans.

I hang up. This isn't working. I need to talk to Roger Sellers and I need to do it now.

OK, so what do I know? Dad's name is Roger. I've got an address. Roger. And he ... he...

My computer. Kyra thought my computer was ancient. And my Internet connection was dial-up, which she thought was bad because ... because...

Her dad works for the phone company. Bingo.

I call the phone company and get lost in a maze of phone trees and voice mailboxes. I stab the 0 button, which kicks me to a receptionist.

"I need to speak with Roger Sellers." God, what if he works in the field or something?

"Who's calling, please?"

"I need to talk to him. Now. Please."

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Sellers is in the conference room, miss." ugh. My voice is cracking. She thinks I'm a girl. "I can put you into his voice mail."

"No! This is important. I have to talk to him right now. It's about his daughter." I can almost hear her thinking from the other end. "His
younger
daughter."

There's nothing and then: "His what?"

"His younger daughter. Kyra. Not Katherine. Kyra."

"Hold on a second."

There's a click and then a voice tries to sell me DSL and call forwarding. I wait.

Another click, and a masculine voice: "Who is this?"

"Mr. Sellers? Mr. Roger Sellers?"

"Yes. Who the hell is this and what's wrong with my daughter?"

I don't know what to say. I've been so worried about calling him and finding him that I never thought of what to tell him. How do you tell someone that you think their kid might be trying to kill herself ... or might have done it already?

"I'm a friend of Kyra's. And I think she's in trouble."

"Kyra's
always
in trouble. If you're one of her friends, you're probably in trouble, too. Did she put you up to this? Did she tell you to prank me at work?"

"Mr. Sellers, please. I swear to God, I'm worried about her." I didn't realize
how
worried until just now, as tears start to flow. "Please. I think she's going to try to hurt herself." I bite my lip. "Again."

His voice goes angry and concerned at the same time. "Who
is
this? What do you know?"

"I just think she needs some help. She was at my house one day and I think she stole a bullet—"

"What?" He explodes. I don't blame him. "You gave my daughter a gun?"

"No! Not a gun! I didn't give her anything. She took it. A bullet. It was just a bullet that I carried around, and I think she took it." I take a deep breath. "But she asked me how to get a gun and I didn't tell her, but I think she took the bullet because she
wants
a gun. I don't know. I'm just really worried, Mr. Sellers. I'm just worried and I think that you or maybe your other daughter should be with her right now—"

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." I can almost picture him holding his hands up to stop me. "Wait. What did you just say?"

I don't even know. I'm babbling, rambling. I scroll back the conversation. "Maybe you should be with her. Or if you can't, maybe you could call her sister to—"

"Her sister."

"Yes. Her older sister. Katherine."

The line is silent. Have we been disconnected? My hand goes for the button pad to redial. "Her sister," he says again.

"Yes."

"Kyra doesn't
have
a sister. Who is this?"

She doesn't—? What?
What?

"Her..." I'm stumbling over my words now. I'm lost in language. "Her
sister.
" As if saying it again can make it real. "The one who was pregnant. The one with the cars." And before he can even reply, I make the connections and I feel like an idiot. How could I not have known? How could I have fallen for all that crap about her sister's car and her mother's car? I'm a moron.

From the other end of the phone comes anger and confusion: "What are you
talking
about? Look, I can see on my Caller ID that you're calling from Kyra's school, and I want to know who this is
right now—
"

I hang up in the middle of his threat. I'm shaking with adrenaline. I'm completely spastic, my teeth chattering as if in fear or cold.

When I finally calm myself down and leave the small office, Mrs. Grant looks up from the circulation desk. "Do you have to leave?"

It's like she's someone from a thousand years ago, asking me a question about ploughshares. "What?"

"Did you get in touch with your stepfather? Is your mother OK?"

Oh. Right. That's the problem with lies. Tell enough of them and you can get screwed if you lose track.

"It wasn't labor," I tell her after thinking about it. "False alarm."

"Oh. Is everything all right, though?"

I stand there and stare at her. I don't know. I really don't. So I shrug my shoulders and leave.

I
GO BACK TO GYM TO CHANGE
into my regular clothes. Burger and Kaltenbach seem very solicitous and interested in my welfare. I wonder if the Spermling told them I have pictures of them yukking it up while I was being hit by Frampton.

I can't bear the thought of sitting through my last two classes, but I don't have any way to get home, either. I feel like I should go tell someone else about Kyra, but ... what would be the point? I talked to her dad. What else can I do? I'm fifteen, for God's sake. What else am I supposed to do?

Cut class, I guess.

After all, it's been a day of firsts for me: first fight in school, first time sent to the office, first time threatening a school official. Why not compound it?

The day I met Kyra I wondered how she managed to sneak out of school. Well, mystery solved, and it's not exactly a Sherlock Holmes moment. You just leave, that's all.

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk like I've got purpose and a place to go (which, I guess, I do). No one even looks at me as I head down the hall and out the door. Just walk like you're supposed to be doing what you're doing and people's minds fill in the blanks for you. Lying without saying a word. A new high for me.

It'll take me a while to walk home, but I don't mind. I stand out in the parking lot for a moment, trying to figure out the right direction—I'm used to being in a bus or car, not hoofing it.

A car. Kyra's car.
Cars,
actually.

The first time I met her...

Home can wait. I'm going back to elementary school.

I cut around the high school, cross the access road, and head down the hill. It's too late in the afternoon for recess—the elementary school kids are all inside, but there's someone on the swing, drifting back and forth. From here, she's the same as the first time I saw her, a solid black figure with a white thumbprint for a face.

The swing squeaks. Her black boots have gone gray and brown with dust and dirt kicked up as she drags her feet to the rhythm of the swing.

I glide down the hill like I'm in a dream. I want to run to her, to scream her name as I go. She's not dead. She's not doing anything stupid. She's just here, just being Kyra.

But I make myself play it cool. I stroll when I don't feel like strolling, taking my time. By the time I get to her, she's got to know I'm there, but she doesn't even look up. She just keeps drifting back and forth, her eyes down, watching the furrows her boots have carved into the dirt under the swings.

I sit in the swing next to her. She's rubbing her hands together, and every now and then I catch a brassy glimpse of a shell casing reflecting the sunlight.

We're quiet for a few moments, as I start to match her pace and rhythm. My heart is throbbing.

"Kyra?"

"Shut up." It's not a snarl. Not a growl. It's a plea. It's the closest thing to "please" I've ever heard from her.

"I know you stole my bullet." Stupid. Stupid way to start. I need to tell her ... I need to tell her ... I'm not even
sure
what I need to tell her! It's all messed up. I want to do stupid, tender things. I want to get off the swing and put my arms around her and make her stop moving, just make her stop, make her rest.

"It's OK that you took it. As long as you—" As long as you don't use it. But I can't say that. I don't want to put the thought in her head. The thought
or
the bullet. "As long as you really need it. I mean, I know how it can help. It's like a security blanket, I guess. And I know you need that. I think you need help—"

"Oh, yeah?" she stops swinging, and I plant my feet, shocking myself to a halt in order to make eye contact with her as she looks over at me. "Yeah? When did you become the goddamn expert? Did the Fantastic Four explain it you? Did Spider-Man help you come to that conclusion?"

She's back to a growl again. Old Kyra. Classic Kyra. My usual defenses rise up like a force field and I'm ready to bash back, but I stamp them down with mental boots the size of clown shoes. This isn't the time for it. This isn't like a comic book crossover,
Fanboy vs. Goth Girl.
This is real life. This is ... this is
Schemata.
This is defining and organizing experiences.