Goth Girl Rising (14 page)

Gross.

Just...

Gross!

I had already starting hiding my own boobs by then, but I had been thinking just about
me
and
my
body. But then I started paying attention to the bodies
around
me, and how the girls all dressed up and the boys just didn't give a shit how they dressed, in baggy pants and gigantic-ass shirts ten sizes too big. And the girls spent a million years and a million dollars on
just
the right outfit.

And then it got even worse. Because I realized that girls were being told one thing with words but something else entirely with pictures and actions.

It's like, Miss Powell loved to say shit like, "Be strong, girls!" Any time we were reading something and the female character would do or say something stupid or old, she would shake her head and say, "That's the old way. Be strong, girls!"

And any time the female character would do or say something awesome, she would clap her hands and say, "That's what we like to see, right? Be strong, girls!"

But then she would drift over to the desk and clear her throat to make sure everyone was looking and then effing drape herself over the desk like she was a supermodel or something.

And when a male teacher or the principal or someone would come in, she would totally do all the slutty, flirty shit they talk about in magazines—touching her hair, toying with her necklace, touching them on the arm. Shit like that.

Simone thought it was awesome. She saw the same things I saw, but she didn't see the problem.

"It's power," she told me. "Guys are stronger, but we have sex appeal. It's our biceps and our lats and stuff. We use sex as our strength."

By that time—midway through freshman year—Simone had already slept with three guys and blown like half a dozen, and I don't even
know
how many handjobs she'd given.

"How is it power to let a guy come in your mouth?" I asked her.

She pulled a face. (I guess it could have been from my ques tion, but I like to think it was from the memory of the last time she'd swallowed some guy.)

"You just don't
get
it, Kyra."

"Yeah, I don't get how doing something gross makes you powerful."

"Jeez, Kyra! It's all about ... It's all about
control,
OK? When you're, y'know, going
down
on a guy, you're in control, OK? Like, if he's close, you can pull back and make him wait, you know? Or you can speed up and get him there. And it's totally up to you. You're in control of him."

"If you're so in control, then how come Billy Odenkirk doesn't talk to you?" Billy was a junior that Simone hooked up with at a party two weeks earlier. She went out back of the house and under the deck with him and gave him a blowjob. He didn't return the favor, but he was "really nice" according to Simone, "and even said thanks" when she was done.

Yeah. "Really nice." He hadn't even
looked
at her since then.

I knew I was hitting her where it hurt—she really liked Billy—but she deserved it.

"You're a bitch, you know that, Kyra?"

"You're a slut."

"
Vir
gin" That was the worst curse in Simone's vocabulary.

But even though we argued about shit like that
all the time,
I was still glad she was my friend. For one thing, we had a lot of fun together. We'd known each other for
ever,
and that means something.

For another thing, though, she was this great example of what
not
to be and what
not
to do. Because I've been watching Simone fall for the same shit over and over.

Holding her hand
four separate times
while she cried in a bathroom somewhere, waiting to see if the pregnancy test would turn blue or not. (It never did, proof positive that there are people in this world who are just immune to consequences.)

Cheering her up when yet
another
guy didn't call her back after promising he would.

Riding a bus into the city with her so that she could go to a clinic to get an STD test without her parents finding out because the guy lied and didn't put on a condom.

All of these things made me realize that while I liked Simone there was no way in hell I was going to be anything like her. I wasn't going to turn my life into an endless pursuit of A Guy.

And it went further than actually
doing
shit with a guy. Because I realized that every time we bat our eyelashes or let a guy bump our boob accidently-on-purpose or bend or twist just right so that a guy gets a glimpse of something special ... Every time we do these things, we are—metaphorically (how do you like that, Miss Powell?)—sucking a dick. Because we're doing what
they
want. We might think we're "empowered" or "using our sexuality," but the fact of the matter is this: Just like Billy Odenkirk coming in Simone's mouth (in her
mouth!
)and then saying "Thanks" and nothing more—ever, ever—once a guy gets (or
sees
) what he wants, he's done. It's over. He walks away, and if you think he's thinking about you at all after that, you're nuts.

It's a weakness. It's a weakness we have as girls. We've convinced ourselves that it's a strength...

No, wait. No. That's not right. We've
been convinced
that it's a strength. By women who've been there before us, who've used their bodies and now call it "strong" so that they don't feel weak or slutty. By men who, let's face it, have everything to gain from it.

I won't let myself be used or manipulated like Simone. I won't let myself be a hypocrite like Miss Powell.

I am for
me.

I am not weak.

For anyone.

A
FTER ALL THAT THINKING
, I have no idea what Miss Powell talked about during English. But I did learn that she's wearing bright orange underwear today, so that's nice.

Jecca grabs me on the way out the door. "I sent you a text."

"My phone's off."

"Are you pissed at me?"

Jecca's a little bit taller than I am. You don't notice it when you're lying down together, but it's just enough that I would have to stretch a tiny bit to kiss her right now. What would she do if I did that? If I just leaned over and up and kissed her right on the lips? Not even with tongue or anything, but just a kiss? What would she do?

It hits me—the momentary weakness. It's no good. I won't be weak.

"Kyra?"

"I have to get to lunch," I tell her. She has a later lunch period, so I've dodged this yet again.

Simone's at the goth table when I get to the lunchroom. I don't see Fanboy anywhere, so I go stand by her for a minute. Everyone reaches out to grab my head, like it's covered in diamonds, and I smack them all away.

So they appraise me from a safe distance, with lots of "What the
hell?
" I think it's the all-white as opposed to the lack of hair, but regardless: When the goths are saying "What the hell?" you can be pretty sure you've struck a nerve somewhere, which is cool.

"Why aren't you sitting down?" Simone asks.

That's when I see Fanboy heading to an empty table with his tray. "I promised him I'd eat with him." I point.

Lauri, this girl I barely know, whistles. "Score. He's cute."

Simone, bless her, jumps in with authority: "He's gay."

Lauri snorts. "Figures."

I go to Fanboy's table and sit down. He goes all grinny. "This is cool, Kyra."

"You use that word way too much."

"What? Kyra?"

"No, asswipe:
cool.
"

He laughs. "I know. I was just messing with you."

"Hey, look, Fanboy. There's a serious division of labor here:
I
am the messer.
You
are the messee."

"Still with the 'Fanboy stuff?" But he says it like it doesn't really bother him.

"Yeah. Not only that, but I've decided something. I've decided you're now Fanboy with a
capital F.
"

"Um, OK. I thought that's what I was before."

"No. Before, it was a lowercase
f.
Because it was just describing you. But now I've decided it's your
name.
"

I figure that should bug him, but he just shrugs while he munches on a french fry. "Whatever. I hate my real name anyway, so that's cool I guess."

He is just
way
too relaxed these days. It sort of pisses me off, but it'll make it that much sweeter when I nail him.

"Aren't you going to eat?" he asks.

"School food's gross."

"You could bring something."

"Not hungry."

"OK."

And then there's silence for a little while, "a little while" being equal to the amount of time it takes for him to eat half a hamburger and drink most of his milk.

And all I can think is this:

It's strange to sit and talk to a boy who's seen your boobs.

B
REASTS
. M
AMMARIES
. G
AZONGAS
. M
ELONS
. S
WEATER KITTIES
. Knockers. Hooters. Jugs.

Tits.

I'm sort of tired of them. I saw a movie on TV once—I think it was on Lifetime; it was probably Lifetime—about this woman who had breast cancer and they just chopped'em off. "Modified radical double mastectomy," they called it. And the whole movie was about this chick boo-hooing how she didn't have boobs anymore and learning how to still be a woman without them and all that shit.

And I remember thinking,
Who the eff cares? Take mine! Just take 'em!

Because things would be a lot easier, you know? Those things—
these
things—are just like effing eyeball magnets and I hate that. It's bad enough when the boys at school look (and then probably go home and jerk off—ewww). But it really creeps me out when
men
look. Don't they have better shit to do than fantasize about being an effing pedophile? I'm sixteen! And I've been carrying these goddamn things around for
ever
and I hate them.

I know I'm supposed to say, "Oh, they're the center of my womanhood!" and all that shit, but that's just stupid. I've got a uterus and I pee sitting down—I don't need much more womanhood than that. If I woke up tomorrow and they were gone, I wouldn't miss them at all. At least then every time I talked to a boy, I wouldn't have to watch his eyes drift down. And at least if someone liked me, I would know they like
me,
not the couple pounds of boob fat stuffed into my bra.

But here's the thing. I have to admit this:

Boobs = power.

Don't blame me. I didn't come up with this. And it's very twisted and convoluted, because it's not a simple kind of power. It's like in those stories where people make a deal with the devil and get screwed in the end. That's what boob power is like. Because you can use that power, but it turns around and attacks you. Because using that power will get you what you want, but at the same time it's giving guys what
they
want ... which is your boobs. And that's giving up a piece of your soul.

If boobs are power, then big, young ones are a
lot
of power. But that power is kind of like money. Once you use it, it's gone. Like, have you ever noticed that once an actress takes off her top in
Playboy
or something, she usually becomes
less
popular? It's just like how guys slaver over these girls and then once they get them into bed, they lose interest. This happens to Simone all the time, and she doesn't get it and it drives me
crazy
that she doesn't get it. She lusts after some guy and she gets him into bed, and maybe she gets him into bed a couple more times after that ("Because I'm gooooood," she says all the time, prac tically purring), but then it happens: The guy loses interest and Simone mopes around until she finds another guy that'll screw her.

So she got what she wanted—she used her power—but she lost it right away. It's complicated.

When you're a woman, your body is this mystery. It's this secret. And the tighter you hold on to that, the more badly people want a piece of it. And you can use that to your advantage or you can throw it away, but you can't do both. Not really. You can be Miss Powell and try to have it both ways, but guys will only go for that for so long. Eventually they'll get tired of waiting to see the goodies and decide you're a tease, and then they just totally dismiss you and file you away.

Now, when I flashed Bendis (oh, the Great and Powerful Brian Michael Bendis, Lord of Superhero Geeks!) at that comic book convention ... I was showing him my power. I was completely in control of that moment. Everyone within eyesight of my chest was completely under my spell. I
owned
them. I gave them something they wanted, and it was totally within my power to take it away, too.

And I felt sort of ashamed later. Like a hypocrite. But I have to admit ... for the first time ever, I sort of understood Simone because—wow—it was an effing rush!