It was brushing your hair, Mom.
Do you remember? When I was a little girl, you would sit on the edge of the bed at night and I would get up on the bed on my knees behind you and brush your hair with the big paddle brush. Fifty strokes on the right, then fifty on the left. We would count them together.
I loved those times. When did we stop doing that?
I don't remember.
Why did we stop?
I don't know that, either.
But I remember this: I remember your hair falling out from the chemo. And I remember those memories of brushing your hair each night hitting me suddenly, powerfully, like bullets in my mind, in my soul, in my heart. I had forgotten about brushing your hair until suddenly there was no hair to brush anymore.
And then I wished for it to come back. I wished for me to be a little girl on her knees behind her mommy, brushing her hair and counting to fifty...
And then I hated you.
You were so sick. And I was growing up and I needed you, but you were dying. So I hated you. And I hated you even more when you died, when you left me, left me all alone. Yes, alone, because Dad wasn't even alive at that point. It's like he died when you died, and by the time he came back to life, it was too late.
Am I a terrible person for thinking these things? I don't know. I hope not. Because it feels good to finally write them down, to say them to you.
God, Dr. Kennedy is a genius.
I promised myself that I would be honest with you in this letter, so there are some things I need to tell you. Three things. Three things that I need to tell you more than anything.
First of all: There's this girl. Jecca. You remember Jecca. She used to come over to the house. She was just plain old Jessica back then. We started calling her Jecca after you died.
Anyway, for a little while there I thought maybe I was falling in love with her. But I wasn't. It wasn't that at all. Because in writing this letter, I realized where this whole thing with Jecca started, how it started.
It started with me brushing her hair.
We used to have math together. We sat in the back of the room, me behind her. And back then she wore her hair long and I would spend math period brushing her hair, counting to fifty in my head ... Sometimes she would forget her brush, so I would use my fingers, just combing through her hair, over and over, touching her hair, feeling how warm and soft it was.
Somehow that turned into more. I don't know how. It doesn't really matter anymore, because I finally get it. I was confused about Jecca because with her it was never about sex or even love. It was about need. About needing someone and wanting someone and wanting to be held, but knowing—deep down—that you were needing and wanting and being held by the wrong person. But still thinking that the substitute was good enough. Because the truth was too tough.
And for a while there, I thought that maybe I was using her as a substitute for you, but now I know that that's not true, that that's not what I was doing.
Which brings me to my second thing.
I want you to know: I'm going to try. I'm really going to try. I can't make any promises. I'm still Kyra. People still piss me off and you can bet I'm going to tell them when they do. But I'll try to watch my mouth. And I'll try to be nicer to Dad. Maybe I'll even start calling him Dad. (But maybe not—let's not get too carried away!)
I don't know if you know this or not, Mom, but I tried to kill myself a while back. And then a few months ago I had a bullet and I was gonna try to do it again, but I didn't.
It's not that I was trying to see you again. I'm not sure what it was anymore. It's weird, because just a day ago, I felt like I understood it. And now I feel like it's something that happened to another person, a long time ago, something I heard about from a friend of a friend.
So what changed in the meantime? Well, I know a little bit of what changed. But I think for the most part, I just realized some things.
Like, life isn't perfect. Hell, life is shit most of the time. But it's my life. I get to do what I want with it. And getting rid of it would be like throwing away an outfit just because you're not entirely sure you'll ever wear it. Why not just keep it, just in case? You never know what you might do with it. Just like my clothes. I could have thrown out all of those outfits that Grandma bought me, but I kept them, way in the back of the closet. I even wore the scarf. I could have thrown out all of my black clothes when I started wearing white. But I kept them. And now I'm going to wear them again. Because I've realized: I'm not just White, ElecTrick Sex Kyra. I'm also Black, Post-Goth Kyra. And maybe a bunch of other Kyras, too. Who knows?
And Ultimate Kyra? What about her?
Well, I figure Ultimate Kyra is all the Kyras.
That's what I figure, and maybe I'm right or maybe I'm wrong, but the only way to find out for sure is to keep going and keep looking and find out someday.
So some days I'll be one. And some days I'll be the other. And some days I'll try something new.
And sometimes I'll let my hair grow out. And sometimes I'll shave it off. People will wonder about me, but I don't care.
I don't care because...
Well, because of my third thing.
I've met a boy.
I know. I know you're worried. I remember when you sat me down and talked to me about sex. And you told me that I wasn't old enough for it yet, and I was curious, so I said, "When will I be old enough?" and you sort of sighed and you said, "Too soon. No matter when it is, it'll be too soon. But there's nothing I can do about that."
I never understood that. I don't know if I understand it now.
I'm not going to be like Simone and sleep with a guy just because I like him and I think it'll make him like me. That just cheapens what's really going on because he's the one. He's the guy Dr. Kennedy was talking about, the person who doesn't just appreciate what I do, but appreciates why I do it and how I do it.
When I shaved my head, he liked it. Simone and Jecca just went along with it.
Fanboy liked my new look. Sim and Jecca just used it for themselves.
And I've been thinking about what you told me, about how the opposite of love isn't hate. So if I hated Fanboy because I thought he'd forgotten me ... If I was able to be that angry at him, doesn't it mean I've cared about him all along?
I don't know how he feels about me. I mean, I think I have a pretty good idea, but I'm not a hundred percent sure and you can't assume things when it comes to stuff like this. But that's OK. I have time to work it out.
I always thought love made you weak, Mom. And I thought that love made everyone weak.
You know what? I was right. Love does make you weak. So there.
But...
Maybe it's OK to be weak or needy for one person. Maybe that's all right. Maybe I don't have to change for the whole world; just for him. Is that OK? I think it has to be. I don't think I can be different for everyone else. I don't think I can let them in or clue them in. But for him, maybe I can. Maybe that's what life is about—one person. Maybe it's about finding that one person. I don't know.
I don't know.
But I know this: I can't be alone anymore. I can't sit in the dark while other people fumble around in the quiet and the murk, trying to find me, trying to locate me, while I huddle in the pantry, hiding, hoping no one finds me, not opening my mouth, not speaking, waiting for Jecca to come along and make me warm and alive for a few minutes at a time.
I need to be out there.
Living.
Looking for my own life. My own kisses.
I need to open my mouth.
I need to be heard.
I need to live. You're gone, Mom.
I'm not.
Acknowledgments
THANKS, AS ALWAYS, TO EVERYONE at Houghton, especially Lisa DiSarro, Jenn Taber, Betsy Groban, Linda Magram, and Alison Kerr Miller, to say nothing of the poor folks in Design who had to format that one chat transcript ... round of applause, please.
Also to: Robin Brande, who read multip
le drafts; Alexandra Heyser, my secret (oops) teen girl connection, connoisseur of dirty tricks; Eric Lyga, who read the early draft; and Margaret Raymo, who believed in Kyra's voice ... and found the perfect cover photo.
Special thanks to Kathy Anderson, who believed in the book from the start and who loves Kyra almost as much as I do. when the website fanboyandgothgirl.com launched, it had blogs from Cal and Fanboy. Kathy insisted that there had to be something from Kyra as well, so I hit on the idea of some letters she could write to Neil Gaiman, a device that I was thrilled to be able to expand and exploit in this book.
Sincere thanks, too, to Officer Stacey Gaegler of the Hamp stead (Medical Doctor) Police Department, who answered my questions about arresting car thieves with patience and good humor. As always, anything I got right is her influence; anything I got wrong is my fault.
I have to offer deep, deep public thanks to Molly Krichten, whose influence on this book is quite impossible to overestimate. You have no idea. She might understand Kyra better than I do.
Last but certainly not least: My thanks to the legions of Fanboy and Goth Girl fans who deluged my e-mail inbox with requests for a sequel. This book was never part of the plan. I'm glad the plan changed and I hope you are, too.
Barry Lyga, Goth Girl Rising
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