Magic lipstick. Magic new outfit. I have powers. I look at him. He looks just as surprised as I am by what he's said.
"Thanks," I say while I shovel a spoonful of yogurt into my mouth. I don't know if he could hear me or understand me. Then I go out to the bus.
On the bus, people notice me. Well, they noticed me yesterday, too, but this time it's like they're really paying attention. I hate it and I like it at the same time. On the one hand, it's like, "Stop looking at me, you dickheads." And on the other hand, it's like, "Damn right you should look at me. This is what KICK-ASS looks like, you punks."
Is that why Simone dresses like a slut? I mean, beyond the fact that it totally advertises her availability. Does she love and hate the attention at the same time?
I pretend I'm reading my English book and that I'm totally unaware of everyone looking at me, and by the time we get to school, I've succeeded at ignoring them.
I head to the spot near the lunchroom where Simone will, hopefully, be waiting to join me in a morning cigarette so that I can give my lungs that sweet, sweet punishment they need before first bell rings.
But when I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
Simone's waiting for me.
Jecca's with her.
And they...
They're both wearing white.
Dear Neil,
Are you tired of the whole goth thing? You must be. I mean, people must think you're obsessed with it or something, so I imagine you get tired of it sometimes. It's like that scene in Brief Lives, where Delirium goes to a nightclub and thinks she sees her sister. And she goes to talk to her, but it turns out that the girl isn't Death; it's just some random goth chick who looks like Death. Was that your way of commenting on the whole goth trend? Were you trying to tell people that enough's enough and they should be themselves instead of trying to ape your character?
People think I'm a goth. But I'm not. I'm post-goth. I hang out with goths and they think they get me, but they really don't. But they're the closest thing I've got to people who do get me, so I stick with them.
See, goth was originally all about rebelling and being different. You'd be lucky to see two or three goths together at once. Now they're everywhere. There are, like, stores and stuff that cater to them. There's a website I found once that even does date matching for goths. Bakeries that make cakes with black icing...
It's all mainstream.
That's what I hate about this world: It takes everything unique and cool and interesting and makes it mainstream. There's an effing TV channel for everything. A website for everything. A section of the bookstore for everything.
I want to yell. I want to scream to the world: THIS IS NOT SOMETHING FOR YOU TO MARKET! THIS IS NOT SOMETHING FOR YOU TO SELL! THIS IS MY LIFE! THIS IS HOW I FEEL!
There's no room left to be an individual. Everyone's part of a group. And it sucks.
So I invented post-goth. I made it up on my own and I didn't really tell anyone about it. I just did it and I knew—deep down—that I was different from the rest of the kids with their black clothes and their eyeshadow and their pale, pale faces. People thought I was the same, but I knew the truth.
That's all I wanted. To be myself. To be an individual. And to be left the hell alone.
Fifty-two
"WHAT DO YOU THINK?" SIMONE ASKS, her voice bright and shiny. She and Jecca both pose like fashion models for me.
Simone's wearing white jeans that are so tight, I figure she can't possibly have room for underwear in there, but as she poses, her shirt lifts up and I can see the loop of a bright yellow thong encompassing her hip. She's got on short white boots and her shirt is so sheer that you can see every detail of her yellow bra right through it. She didn't go all the way—she still has her long black hair, but for the first time ever it's slicked back and tied in a ponytail and she's streaked it blond.
Jecca went about halfway. She's got on white sneaks and then black pants and then a top that's striped diagonally white and black. She went with white lipstick, though, so points for commitment there.
Simone holds out a pack of cigarettes. I'm frozen between taking one and staying, and freaking the hell out on them both.
My lungs win out—I take the cigarette and join them.
"Come on, what do you think?" Simone asks again, and Jecca nods and bobs next to her like a faithful puppy.
I think you're an effing bitch is what I think! I want to say. I think you've never had an original thought in your effing life and you just have to take what's mine, take my ideas, and then slut them up.
"The teachers are gonna bust you for being able to see through that shirt," I tell her instead.
She blows smoke. "Yeah, I know. I brought a jacket. It's white, too."
"Of course."
"We thought we would surprise you today," Jecca says.
I get a quick and intense flash of kissing her, our ElecTrick and white lips mashing together, leaving wet sky blue smudges on each other's faces.
God. Stop it.
Surprise me.
Hell.
"Well, it's a surprise."
They both grin. I can't stay angry at them.
Good thing I have someone else to be angry at.
Fifty-three
SIMONE DOESN'T EVEN MAKE IT to homeroom before a teacher yanks her out of the hallway and into a room and gives her a bunch of crap for her see-through shirt and look-at-my-tits yellow bra. She acts all innocent and shit and puts on her white jacket, which is actually really cute, so I kinda hate her for that.
After homeroom, I run into Fanboy in the hall. His eyes light up and for a second there I forget that I'm supposed to be pissed at him, but don't worry—I remember right away.
"Hey, I brought that stuff you wanted," he says. He goes digging in his backpack and comes out with a big envelope. He hands it over. "Just, uh, don't let anyone see that stuff, OK? I mean, it's the old pages, you know?"
Just then someone walks by and slaps Fanboy on the shoulder. "Hey, man!"
"Hey" Fanboy tosses back over his shoulder. Holy shit. An actual living human being just said hi to Fanboy. I can't believe it. We truly live in an age of wonder.
"You're a popular guy," I tell him.
He shrugs. "People like Schemata." We're both holding the envelope. I want to pull it from his hands and go running down the halls until I can find Michelle Jurgens. I picture myself running down the hall like a madwoman, a white and ElecTrick Sex blur, screaming, "I have naked drawings of Dina Jurgens! I have naked drawings of Dina Jurgens!"
"Anyway..." He releases the envelope. "Like I said, don't let anyone see this stuff. It's old and I don't want people to see, like, the work in progress, you know?"
"Oh, totally," I lie.
"Cool. Hey, you got a second?"
We're like five steps from my first-period class. "Sure."
He goes back into his backpack. "I meant to give you this yesterday, you know, at my house, but we got all distracted and stuff. So I brought it today. I bought it over the summer. I was at the store and I saw it and the guy told me about it and I thought of you and..."
Just when I think he's going to keep talking forever, he stops himself and pulls his hand out of his backpack. He holds out a comic book in a Mylar sleeve. It looks incredibly stupid—a superjerk is at the bottom, holding up some big block of stone that's crumbling all around him, which is, like, Superjerk Pose #108 or something. It has the mind-numbingly idiotic title Captain Atom. Right.
"You thought I might like it." Did his brain go on vacation while I was away?
"It's got Death in it. You know, Gaiman's Death. It's like the only time she appears outside of—"
"Right. Whatever."
"No, really, Kyra, I thought ... I don't know. I just thought you'd like it."
He's still holding it out to me. I think to myself, I don't care what you thought. And wanna know why? I'll tell you why. Because you didn't care what I thought, that's why. I went away and you didn't
call or anything and you didn't wait or anything. You just substituted Cal for me, like you were all, "Well, I don't have a chick, so I'll go for another token. What's the diff?" And then you just kept on with your comic and you didn't care that I was trying to help you, so why the eff should I care about you?
I already have the envelope. I have everything I need.
I want to yell at him. I want to make him feel all the hurt I've been feeling, or at least the chunk of it that he caused. How can he be so clueless?
But I need to pretend still. I need to pretend.
So I take the comic.
"Gee, thanks," I say with so much fake sweetness that I can't believe he swallows it, but he does. The bell rings, and as soon as he turns away, I shove the comic book all the way in the bottom of my messenger bag, not caring if it gets wrinkled or torn or whatever.
I go to my first class. I sit there and steam the whole time. I have the original Schemata art. I've already won. I can destroy him. I can destroy him so easily...
The thought makes my stomach all queasy and churny. Is this what victory feels like? I don't know. I've never really won before.
I think of that stupid comic book buried in my messenger bag. God, what the hell was he thinking? Captain Atom. What kind of stupid name is that? Does he know me at all? He deserves what I'm going to do to him. He totally deserves it.
In fact, I can't wait to get these pages home and do all my posters and Web pages and shit like that. I gotta start now, and fortunately Simone had that one good piece of advice last night.
I take a detour on the way to English. I don't learn anything in there anyway.
I duck into a bathroom. It's empty. Cool.
I call Fanboy's house on my cell. I know the trick you can use to block Caller ID. Sometimes it's cool to have a dad who works for the phone company.
After three rings, I start to panic. I guess I could just leave a message, but it would be better to actually talk to—
Someone picks up in the middle of the fourth ring. "Hello?"
Score! It's Fanboy's mom.
I clear my throat and try to make it a little deeper and slower, just in case she recognizes it. "Hello. Could I speak to..." I pretend I'm looking something up on a list and then say Fanboy's full name.
She hesitates. "He's ... he's not here right now. Can I, uh, take a message?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. This is confidential. I can't leave a message."
"Confid—"
I cut her off. "But if you could just ask him to call the clinic at Lowe County General Hospital for his test results, I'd appreciate it. Thank you."
Even though I'm tempted to stay on the line long enough to listen to her freak the hell out, I have to pretend I'm some kind of professional with a long list of patients to call, so I just hang up and laugh my ass off.
Simone and her movies rock.
Fifty-four
I MAKE IT INTO ENGLISH CLASS like maybe two minutes after the bell, which—for me—is pretty good. Miss Powell frowns and shakes her head and tells me to get into my seat. Like, duh. What did you think I was gonna do? Stand here at the door all day? Idiot.
Simone takes off her jacket, making a big show of it while managing to look totally clueless. Her yellow-bra boobs get pushed up and out as she arches her back, and every single boy in the room watches and drools a gallon of saliva. Yuck. What a showoff.
"Simone, put your jacket back on," Miss Powell says.
"I'm hot." Simone pouts and some guy says "No shit" under his breath and there's an undercurrent of laughter that Miss Powell ends with a sharp "Gentlemen!"
But Simone gets up again and gets her jacket, making a show of bending over to get it so that everyone can see her thong.
And then something really weird happens. or maybe it's not weird. Maybe it's always been this way and maybe it's just part of life and I've never noticed it before. But this time, I do notice.
While Simone puts on her jacket, Miss Powell hoists herself up on her desk, a move that makes her skirt hike up halfway to heaven. At the same time, she lets out a big sigh that gets everyone's attention and then she starts playing with this stone on her necklace so that her hand is right up in her cleavage going back and forth.
Every guy in the room blows a circuit. It's like, nubile little teen slut or hot older woman?
Did she do that on purpose? Did she even know she was doing it?
I guess I should be sort of grossed out that Miss Powell—an adult—is competing with a kid for the attention of a bunch of disgusting horny teenage boys. But I'm not. Instead, I just sit there and watch and think about it. Is this what women are reduced to? Is this how pathetic we are? That we have to compete for who's sexiest, who's hottest, no matter what? Even when you're competing for a bunch of boys who would eff a dog if it had boobs?
It makes me proud of myself. Proud that I don't play those bullshit games.
"OK, let's get started," Miss Powell says, but I already feel like I've learned a lot today.
Fifty-five
WHEN ENGLISH ENDS, I PACK UP my stuff and I'm almost out the door when Miss Powell says, "Kyra, do you have a sec?" all casual-like.
What the hell? I behaved in class today. Can she read my mind now?
"I'm sorry I was late—"
"That's not it." She smiles at me as kids leave all around me. Someone says, "Busted," real quiet, but I hear it. Someone else says, "The freak's in trouble."
Eff you.
I only have lunch after English, so it's not like I'm in a hurry, so I stand there and wait. Miss Powell does some stuff on her computer until everyone's gone, and then she asks me to close the door.
"Have a seat," she says, and points to a chair right in front of her desk.
Oh, shit. If she sits on her desk, right in front of me, and crosses those legs, I'm gonna scream.
We dodge the scream—she stays behind the desk.
"So, Kyra." She looks up at me and smiles.
"So."
And nothing.
"Uh, I'm really sorry I was late." I'm not, but I'm getting creeped out sitting here and I want to leave.
"That's not the ... Well, that is a problem. But that's not why I asked you to stay." She heaves out a big sigh. I figure I'm lucky that her cleavage doesn't overwhelm the power of the buttons on her shirt and send them flying. The buttons—heroically—hold.
"Kyra, how are you doing?"
What the eff?
"Excuse me?" Believe me—I rarely say that.
"I'm a little worried about you," she says. "I know you've been going through a rough time, and then this ... this radical change in your appearance. It's a signal, you know."
It's like she wants me to say something here, but I don't. I just press my ElecTrick Sexy lips together and imagine lightning buzzing there.
"I guess..." She sighs again. (This woman should get her lungs examined; I don't think she's breathing right. Maybe she has lung cancer. Would that be ironic?) "I'm just concerned, Kyra. And I'm thinking that maybe you could use, you know, a friend. Someone to talk to." She tilts her head to one side and smiles at me in what is, I think, supposed to be this way-reassuring manner.
So, I get it. She's one of Them: one of those adults who think kids need an adult who's "just like them" to talk to.
About a million mean, nasty things fly through my brain and only supreme willpower keeps me from saying all of them. I'm not going to let her get to me.
"I know there's a counselor here and everything," she goes on, "but she's kind of, well, old fashioned, you know? I was thinking maybe, I don't know, maybe just between us girls—"
Barf!
"—we could talk about things that are bothering you and, oh, I don't know, maybe figure out some things. Together."
Please, God, strike me dead right now.
She gets up. "It wasn't all that long ago that I was in your position, you know. I'm not that much older than you. I remember what it was like."
Oh, really? You rememb
er your mom coughing up her life in blood? You remember your clueless dad shoving you into an institution a couple of times?
Still keeping my lips pursed. This would be two days in a row I behaved at school. Almost a record for me. Keep it together, Kyra.
She comes around the desk. If she touches me, I'll freak.
"You've been through so much. I totally get it, OK? I totally get it. I just hate to see you doing all these ... I hate this self-hating, self-destructive behavior."
My hair. She's talking about my hair, for God's sake. Like being bald is dangerous or something. Christ, bitch, that's not self-destructive. That's self-affirming, OK? The scars on my wrists? Now, those are self-destructive. Buy an effing clue.
"I see so many girls ... so many young women, I mean ... and they're just..." She spreads her hands out to the sky, like she's praying for an answer. "They're just bombarded with all of these mixed messages from the world, from our society, you know?"
Holy shit. Are you serious? Is she really talking about this? Her?
But still I don't talk. I don't say anything. They can't give you shit or get you in trouble if you don't talk. And then she goes and she does it. She sits on her desk.
Crosses her legs. I have a front-row seat to her inner thighs for a second. How special for me.
"So, I was thinking," she goes on, "that we could just talk every now and then. If something's bothering you. You know. About life. Or school. Or home." She leans forward and grins at me with this shit-eating grin, like we're conspiring or something. "Or boys."
Don't do it, Kyra. Don't do it, Kyra. Don't do—
Ah, shit. I do it.
"All the boys want to eff you," I say, staring right in her eyes.