The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl (23 page)

I can think of ten million things I'd rather do than eat homemade chili with them; I can think of at least
five
things I actually
have
to do tonight, but my stepfather gives me this look and I remember my promise to be nicer to Mom. Besides, I need one of them to drive me to the copy shop later, so I guess I should butter them up.

More than anything else, I hate being wrong. So believe me, it sucks when I sit down and make myself eat a bowl of the lousy, smelly chili ... and find myself liking it. I've been forced to eat this stuff on a semiregular basis for years now, but this is the first time I actually kinda like it. Before I realize it, I'm gobbling it down, scooping up the sauce with pita bread.

Across the table, my stepfather pauses long enough to say, "Best batch yet," his voice a bit gruff. I think he's happy.

Later, stuffed with chili and pita and cornbread (it's like I've become an entrée), I prepare to make my escape downstairs for an hour or so with the portfolio. But I see Mom struggling to get out of the chair, and I guess all that food and the late-night talk are having lingering effects because I hear myself saying, "I'll get the dishes, Mom."

Mom looks like someone slapped her, but in a good way. She eases back into her seat, and I take on the task of rebuilding what was once a kitchen. There are dirty dishes, utensils, and pots everywhere. Every surface is filthy. Cooking is not a clean operation, it seems.

I get everything into the dishwasher first, then start rearranging things and wiping up the messes—anthills of cinnamon, crushed cayenne pepper spills, bean detritus. My rag gets dirtier than what it's supposed to be cleaning, so I start to sweep off the counter with my hand. Mom gets up and goes to watch TV.

I keep at it, working out the final details of my presentation to Bendis in my head as I go. Finish up page 20. Rewrite some dialogue. Sweep up that pepper ... Rinse that rag. Print out a new copy of page 13...

Suddenly
he's
at my side, grabbing my wrist hard,
too
hard, and I want to scream. "Hey!" I settle for a sharp tone instead, praying that my voice won't choose now to crack. "Get off me!"

"Just trying to help. You don't want that in your eye."

I realize that I had been about to rub my eye with a finger that had just been close to the crushed cayenne. He's still holding my wrist, not so tight now, and my finger is an inch or so from my eye, which is already starting to water.

"Oh. Oh."

He releases my wrist and shrugs. He looks at me for a few seconds, then shrugs again and steps back.

I guess I should say "thanks." That's what I should do, really.

By the time I turn to apologize, though, he's joined Mom in front of the TV. Just as well. I suck at apologizing.

I
HAVE A PORTFOLIO THAT
I
'VE CUSTOMIZED
, filled with twenty pages of the best work I'm capable of producing right now. And that's all I need.

It's Saturday morning, seven o'clock. I'm not sure if I slept last night or not. I know I turned off the light; I know I crawled into bed. But I can't remember anything until the alarm went off a minute ago.

I shower and shave and generally primp as if I'm headed for a date with a Playmate. I don't know what people normally wear to a comic book convention, but I think of this as a job interview of sorts, so I put on decent slacks, my dress shoes, a white shirt, and a tie with Astro Boy on it, just to solidify my geek cred.

And the bullet? Well, other than some longing glances and the occasional reassuring tap of the fingers on the hard drive case last night, I've been bullet-free for a few days now. It's a good feeling; a
strong
feeling. I decide to leave it behind today. I have to be as cool as Bendis. You don't bring your baby blanket to a business meeting, right?

"What if something goes wrong?" Mom asks nervously. She would be pacing if she could, but her feet hurt all the time, so instead she's sitting on the sofa in the living room, tapping her fingernails against the arm.

"Like what?"

"Just
something.
"

"Nothin' ain't gonna happen." My stepfather comes into the room, yawning, mangling the English language, buttoning up his shirt.

"Mom, I'll be fine."

Her eyes flicker to the coffee table and the cell phone cradle there. I can tell that she wants to give me one of the cell phones, but the two of
them
have to have them in case she goes into labor or something.

"Do you have money to make a phone call?"

"Yes, Mom."

She grunts as her stomach moves on its own—my half-sister-to-be, getting in her morning calisthenics. "How much money?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Mom!" I plunge my hand into my pocket and bring out a handful of change. "Look. Fifty, eighty ... a buck twenty-seven. I can make four or five calls with that. And I have dollars I can break if I have to."

She finally relents, and I march off to grab my portfolio, check my tie, and head out into the big, bad world.

Or, at least the driveway.

"Get in." I need to find a new name for him. "Step-fascist" is so appropriate, but I just can't bring myself to use it anymore. "Dad" is obviously right out. Mom calls him "Tony," and I just don't see
that
happening, either. Fortunately, there's only three of us in the house at any given moment, so it's not like we need signs or nametags.

He gestures to the passenger side of his battered premillennium Ford pickup, built in 1993, I've been told; "the last year Ford made a truck worth a shit," as I've heard over and over again. It smells like black licorice inside. I hate getting into the truck because I'm short for my age and the thing sits up so high that it's like rock-climbing. I struggle with my portfolio, wary of dirt and road scum that might mess up my clothes, and try to find handholds all at the same time. Eventually, I manage to fling myself into the seat.

Tony (I guess that'll be it, for now at least) fires up the engine before I even have the door shut and my seat belt on. I notice he doesn't bother with his seat belt. With a roar, we're down the driveway, onto the road, into the future.

My glee abates quickly—within five minutes, he's pulled into the local Stop-n-Go to gas up and get a cup of coffee. "You want anything?" he asks. I think about it. Does he expect me to pay?

Better safe than sorry. "No, that's OK. I'm not hungry." But now that I think about it, I
am
hungry.

He shrugs. He's not going to push it. He gets his coffee and we're off again, and I realize that I've got an hour ahead of me with absolutely nothing to do except sit in uncomfortable silence. I'm a little terrified that he'll turn on the radio and play some of that terrible grunge crap he listens to, the stuff that's as old as the truck.

I spend the silence planning my angle of attack. Bendis will be signing copies of his comics. There will be a long line, with lots of fans and poseurs and annoying people clustered around, competing for his attention. He'll be easily distracted and he won't really have time to talk. So I need to think of something that will make him sit up and take notice immediately. Something that will forge an instant connection between us and communicate to him that I'm not Just Another Fan. I'm a Kindred Spirit. Something that will get him to spend the time to look at
Schemata.

Along with the
Schemata
pages, I've got some of Bendis's books in my portfolio: a copy of the first volume of
Ultimate Spider-Man
and a copy of
Fortune & Glory.
Each is radically different from the other, yet each shows off Bendis's talent in no uncertain fashion. Which is the best one to have him sign? Which one will make me stand out from the crowd?

I unzip the portfolio. Tony is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping the beat to some song in his head. Traffic's light. I stare at the two books, wondering.

Then I see it. The
third
book. I'd almost forgotten it was in there. Of course.

Of course.

T
HE CONVENTION IS BEING HELD
in a hotel near the business district, a couple of blocks from the baseball stadium. I can see a line from two blocks away as Tony inches through traffic. I check my watch. I have plenty of time, fortunately.

I chew on my bottom lip, wondering how best to phrase "Just let me out here." I don't mind the walk, and I would drop dead of embarrassment to be seen rappelling down out of this piece of junk.

The truck shudders and squeals as it sidles up to the curb. "OK to let you off here?" Tony asks.

I blink. I open my mouth to speak.

"Just easier to make a left at the next block. If I go all the way down to the hotel, I gotta go around another block and up a bunch of one-ways to get back to the highway. You mind?"

"No. That's cool." I fumble with the door, opening out to city air, now mingling with the black licorice.

"When should I pick you up?" he asks.

I'm halfway out the door, my feet about to hit the sidewalk, when I realize: He's going home. He spent an hour on the road to get me here, then he'll spend an hour getting home, just so that he can spend yet
another
hour to pick me up, and
another
hour getting me home...

The convention closes today at five-thirty. Figure I spend an hour or so talking to Bendis afterward..."Seven," I tell him, hopping down and landing neatly. I half expect him to snort and tell me he'll be back at noon, he's got better things to do than haul his ass up and back and up and back all day.

Instead he grunts an "OK," and I swing the door, which won't shut because he's leaned over to hold it open. "Hey. You OK for food?"

I didn't bring anything to eat because I didn't want to carry anything other than the portfolio. A backpack or something like that just doesn't scream professional artist and writer, you know? And the idea of putting food into my portfolio, where a single accident could ruin my work, or end up leaving some kind of smell ... No way.

"I've got a couple of bucks."

"That don't buy you nothing down here." He sighs and cocks his hip, lifting his butt so that he can get to the wallet in his rear pocket. Before I can say no, no, don't, please don't, he's handing me a twenty.

"Pick you up right here at seven." And then he's gone, merging with traffic, leaving me on the sidewalk with a crumpled twenty in my hand.

I feel vulnerable in the middle of the city with my tie and my leather portfolio and money visible in my hand. I don't want to take my wallet out, so I stuff the bill into my pocket and head for the hotel.

Walking those two blocks is like walking through the crowded hallways of South Brook High, only with greater ethnic diversity, strange smells belching from the subway system, and loud, raucous laughter that seems aggressive somehow. It's like there's a thousand anthems competing with a thousand dirges on the street.

But once I start to walk, it all falls away. The pulsating life of the streets, the fear, the aggression ... It becomes background noise. It's not personal. It's not directed at me. It just
is.
And that's OK. I don't feel threatened because no one knows me here. No one cares.

I see kids my age and some even younger, threading through the adults on the sidewalk, dodging cars, hopping buses, and I think of how great it would be to live here, where you can take a bus or the subway somewhere instead of needing someone to drive you.

The line of people waiting to get into the convention is like a homecoming. I stand there, quiet, listening. I hear debates about the pre- and post-Crisis versions of Krypton, Joss Whedon's
Astonishing X-Men,
the way Grant Morrison redefined the meaning of "mutant" in the Marvel universe before Bendis re-redefined it. And more. It's like being at the comic book store, only better: more people, different people,
new
people. I can't help smiling.

At last, I buy my badge and ticket and march through the hotel lobby. A hand-lettered sign points me to "The Banneker Ballroom," where the convention is roomed.

It's like hell and heaven combined. It's like a food fight without food. It's like home.
Real
home.

Thousands of bodies are packed into the ballroom, spilling into the hallways and jostling for position. There are two guys walking the perimeter of the room dressed as storm-troopers from
Star Wars,
and it's amazing how good they look. As they walk past me, blaster rifles resting on their shoulders, I want to say, "These aren't the droids you're looking for," but they're gone.

My dad would love it.
Cal
would love it.

Kyra would ... Who knows?

I just stand against the wall, taking it all in. There's an overweight guy sitting in the middle of the floor, thumbing through a comic book while people walk around him. I see a guy who looks like Neo, a girl who looks like Ranma's girl-type, a man dressed in a disconcertingly accurate Wonder Woman costume. But there's also a pack of kids who could have stepped off any elementary school bus, a man carrying a baby and a bag of comics, a guy in a suit. It's like the real world and geek world have collided.
Crisis on Disparate Earths.