Goth Girl Rising (15 page)

It's like everyone spazzes out and says boobs are, like, taboo or something, but they're not. Because you can see almost everything at the beach or in an underwear ad. What's taboo are
nipples.
And really, only girls nipples.

And that's just effing
stupid.
I mean, that's just moronic times ten billion! You get all these people getting into trouble and all these dumb boys and men going all gaga over, like, a lit tle circle of skin. That's it. How stupid is that? Who comes up with this shit?

And it's like, you can walk down the street and see chicks without bras and their nipples are practically poking through their shirts, so it's not like the nipples are even taboo. It's just seeing them naked. It's just so stupid! There ought to be a National Nipple Day, when everyone walks around with their nipples hanging out but everything else covered. Like with little slots cut out of our shirts so that just the nipples show. And all sorts of people would lose their shit over it, but they would also have to see how stupid it is, how it's just a little bitty bit of skin, right?

Now, for
me...

For me, it's like this: When my dad noticed my boobs, that's when I knew they had to go away for good.

It's not like he's ever touched me or anything. Because he hasn't. And it's not like he checks me out or anything because, like,
gross,
OK—he's my
dad
and I know there are sick effers out there who like to check out their own daughters and sometimes even do worse shit than that, but that's not my dad, OK?

It's just that he
noticed
them.

I was thirteen. And I had this really awful growth spurt or something I guess and Mom had been dead awhile already and I just sort of never talked to Roger about girl stuff because he's a guy and Mom already told me everything about my period ("Stop complaining...") and birth control and sex and all that shit back when I was younger, so it was no big deal.

But one day I put on this shirt and it was too small and that was stupid, but I had to do laundry and I was just hanging around the house, so who cares, right? And I went out into the living room and Roger was watching TV and he kind of looked up at me...

And there was this
look.

I don't know how to...

No, wait—I
do
know how to describe it. I do.

It was this look of
Holy shit. My little girl has grown up.

It was like a combination of
What the hell are
those? along with a shock of recognition and this wave of embarrassment. Like he couldn't figure out what the hell the things on my chest were and then he
did
figure it out and then he wished he hadn't.

And I just wanted to die. I felt like I'd flashed him or something. Like I was some skank who was so effing desperate that she was trying to, like, score with her own
dad.

I went back to my room and I stared at myself in the mirror and that was when I realized it: As long as these stupid things were hanging off my chest, no boy would ever look me in the eye. No boy would ever talk to me like I was a person. I would just be a pair of tits. If even my own
father
noticed them, then every effing boy on the planet would be staring at them, right?

I had to make them go away.

So I did.

"S
O, UH
..." F
ANBOY SAYS
.

I blink and come back to the present. Fanboy's been toying with his food, sort of half eating and half mumbling nonsense while I was spaced out. But now he's cleared his throat like he's ready to take the plunge into an actual, you know, conversation.

It's like that one time we spent together, that really awesome day. (I hate to admit it was awesome ... but it was.) I took him to my favorite spot, a little dried-out pond hidden back in the woods in my neighborhood. It's my favorite spot because it's quiet and peaceful and it's also a perfect reminder of how stupid people are: They drained this beautiful pond because they were afraid of mosquitoes and, like, West Nile virus or something. And they justified it by saying that they would build a park there, but of course they didn't, so they just ruined this perfect little pond for no good reason.

I took him there one day and we just hung out and I told him how Mom had died and how I tried to kill myself that one time and I think maybe he wanted to kiss me or something and on that day—on
that
day—I think I probably would have let him.

He was all nervous, though, and it was sweet and cute and not annoying at all. And now he seems all nervous again, and it's like I know what he's going to say before he says it:

"What was it like?"

I make him work for it: "What do you mean?"

He waits so long to respond that I figure he's chickened out. "In the, uh, the hospital."

I remind myself not to be angry at him, or not to
show
my anger, at least. He could have written to me or
something.
And even if he was afraid of running into Roger or getting his name picked off an envelope, he could have at least sent me a lousy e-mail!

"It was fine. No big deal. I can be in the hospital all day and all night. It's nothing." I grin at him because he likes the grin, but inside I'm seething. I wouldn't have
been
in the hospital if not for him. It's all
his
fault. He's the one who called Roger and told him I had the bullet. And that set Roger off on a paranoia trip and
that
made Roger realize that Daddy Couldn't Handle Her, so he just shipped me off.

"But I bet ... I bet..." he stammers, "...it was probably a little bit scary. Right?"

I don't say anything. He's right. It was scary. But I'm not about to tell him that.

Simone and Jecca were cool about me being away, being in the hospital. But they didn't really get it. They didn't get how freaked out I was. They just thought it sucked and it was a bummer, and it
did
suck and it
was
a bummer, but it was more than just that. It was also terrifying. Being so powerless. Knowing that all it takes is Roger picking up the phone and calling a judge and there I am—locked up. Powerless. DCHH and there's nothing I can do.

"I was worried about you," he goes on. "I mean, no one knew anything. And I thought about you all summer, and..." He shakes his head. "Anyway, then the new school year started and you
still
weren't here and—"

"Whatever, Fanboy." I wave it off, but my stomach's gone tight. I don't want to think about it. About being away. "Somehow you managed to survive without me. Good for you."

"Well, I had to. You weren't talking to me. You were pretty pissed at me. You sent me that picture on your cell..."

Flipping him off. Yeah, I remember.

"And then," he goes on, "I just didn't hear from you..."

"It's done with. Over. Move on. New topic. I'm bored."

"Oh. OK. Well, uh ... uh, I'm still working on
Schemata...
"

"I noticed."

He brightens and smiles. "Yeah, it's pretty cool, isn't it?"

I'm trying to be nice to him, but if I'm
too
nice, he'll get suspicious. "Sure, if you've totally given up."

His eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You had all these dreams. You were going to show it to Bendis. You were going to get Marvel to publish it or something. And instead you decided to publish it in
Literary Paws.
You were supposed to be worshiped by the world, but you settled for being worshiped by effing
Brookdale.
Hell, not even Brookdale—just South Brook."

He thinks about that for all of half a second. "I
did
show it to Bendis, but ... Look, Kyra, it's more complicated than that."

"Sure it is."

"I still want to get it published as one big graphic novel. But—"

"You're going about it all wrong, then."

"Wait, just ... hang on. Look. It was Cal's idea..."

Of course it was. Effing
Cal.
The super-black superstud. More powerful than a stereotype. Leaps tall clichés in a single bound.

"He looked at what I had and he thought it was really cool and he had this idea to put it in
Literary Paws
so that I could, you know, get feedback, right? And then I could make it even
better
so that I could send it to Image or maybe Top Shelf—"

And I start laughing. "Top Shelf? What the hell do you know about Top Shelf, Fanboy?"

He stops for a second. And then he does something that really pisses me off—he keeps talking.

"I know plenty. I did my research. I'm not an
idiot,
Kyra."

He's not supposed to talk back! I shoot him down; he shuts up. That's how it works.

"I did all kinds of research. Cal and Mr. Tollin and Mrs. Grant helped me. Image and Top Shelf and maybe even..."

I kinda tune him out. I can't believe this. He just went on without me. He just kept working on it. With
Cal.
After everything I told him about women and stuff. He just moved on.

"...and since it's been in the magazine, I've been getting great feedback—"

"Feedback? From these jackasses? Why do you care what they think? They're not your audience."

"But they're
an
audience. It's like having a bunch of editors working on it for free. They've already found all kinds of things. Stuff I never thought of before. Like, you remember the scene where Courteney goes to her student's house? The thing with the mom?"

I remember Courteney looking like a certain senior hottie,
I want to tell him. But I just nod. "Yeah, I remember it."

"Well, someone pointed out to me that it would make more sense if the mom was afraid of the same thing as the daughter—the father dying in Iraq. Because then you would have these overlapping visions, right? And it would be this cool contrast between these two women, both afraid of the same thing, but in different ways. It works
much
better now than it did before."

"OK."

"I'm serious, Kyra. It really does."

"I said OK! Sheesh!"

He grins. "This is great. This is really cool. I'm so glad you're back."

The bell rings for next period. Damn! I didn't accomplish anything I wanted to accomplish. I need to get my hands on those original pages so that I can show them to Michelle Jurgens.

He gets up with his tray, but just as he turns to go, he stops and answers my prayers: "Hey, Kyra? Want to come over to my house after school? I can show you some of the new stuff."

Sweet.

I
CATCH UP TO
S
IMONE BETWEEN CLASSES
. "Hey, I can't go to the mall with you after school. I have to do something else."

Fortunately, she doesn't ask me what, because I don't feel like explaining.

Jecca has history with me at the end of the day. She kicks it old school and passes me a note: "Why won't you talk to me?"

I pass it back: "I talked to you this morning!" All innocent-like.

She passes it back: "So you're not pissed at me?"

I want to pass it back to her, but Mr. Bachman has stopped writing on the board and is looking at the class now, so I can't. I just shove it in my purse and then stuff my purse back into my messenger bag. Jecca keeps stealing looks at me, though, and I feel bad, so I shake my head at her.

When school's over, I meet Fanboy by the lunchroom doors that lead outside. He saunters up to me like he's a stud or something, his backpack over one shoulder, jingling a key ring. "You ready? You want to follow me?"

I stare for a second. Oh, shit—he thinks I have a car. I try to remember what I told him about my cars, but it was months ago and it all kind of bleeds together with shit from the hospital.

"I'll ride with you," I tell him.

"OK." He doesn't seem surprised. Did he figure out I was stealing cars?

When we get to his car, satisfaction and guilt hit me at the same time: I was right about which car was his. I put the fake Dina note on the right car. So why do I feel bad about leaving the note in the first place?

We get in. "This is weird," he says. He hands me something from the center console. It's the note. I pretend to study it like it's the first time as he starts the car and pulls out. "That was under my wiper this morning. isn't that strange?"

I pretend to be an idiot. "D.J.? Who's D.J.? And what did you do to him?" I say "him" on purpose.

"I don't think it's a guy. The handwriting looks like a girl's. don't you think?"

I printed it pretty carefully, but, yeah, I guess it does look sort of girly.

"I guess." I'm getting a little nervous here. What if he knows? What if he's messing with me? I get out my cigarettes and lighter.

"Hey, no smoking. Sorry. My mom would spaz."

I make a big deal out of putting away my stuff and then I totally change the topic from the note: "Are you sure it's OK for me to come home with you?" I remember his mom was like a total psycho about that stuff.