He sighs. "But I see you with these papers all over the place." He points to the one I'm holding. "You been leaving that stuff all over the house ever since I met you. I don't know anything about funny books, but I keep seein' this all around the place, so I look at it and like I said, I don't know anything, but to me it looks like you're getting better at it." He shrugs. "Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. Not the smartest guy in the world and haven't read one of these things since I was a little kid. But it looks like you're getting better. I don't know why you'd bother with all this, but I know that you work your ass off at it. You saw something you wanted and you worked your ass off for it." He nods. "And I respect that."
"So I'll take you to this whatever-it-is on Saturday."
A bullet to my brain. Electricity through my scrotum. A knife between the ribs. A crazed dog gnawing off my arm. None of these could surprise me any more at this moment.
"What did you say?" I ask him.
"What time does it start?" He knows I heard him the first time and he can't be bothered repeating himself.
"Ten. Line for tickets starts earlier—"
"OK. I got nothing else to do. God knows I ain't goin' near that baby shower. Make sure you set an alarm and be ready to go at seven. Get you there in plenty of time to get your tickets."
I just stare at him. Every mean, nasty, cold thing I've ever thought about him or said to him—though at the time they didn't feel mean, nasty, or cold—collides in my brain, fighting for space, laughing at me.
I respect that. Respect. He said "respect."
"Thank you" is what you're supposed to say here. That much I know. But I can't make it come out. Because it's him. The guy who knocked up my mother. The guy who's so wrong. I can't make myself thank him.
Respect. Respect.
"That's..." I can't say "thanks." I can't make myself. "That's great."
He nods and turns to go, then stops to look back at me.
"Y'know, you could be a little nicer to your mother these days."
In the past, when I would get angry at Mom and yell at her, he would yell at me on her behalf, saying stuff like, "Don't back-talk your mother!" and generally getting in my face. But this time's different. It's like he's asking me a favor instead.
"I know."
"I mean, you want to talk shit to me, I don't care. But she's your mom. She counts. And I don't like seeing her upset." He shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, "Listen or don't, I don't care."
"I'll try."
"She's the best thing to ever happen to me," he tells me, which I know is true, but it's weird to hear him say it. "Hell, she's the only good thing to ever happen to me. I don't know why she's with me."
"Neither do I." I wince. It just slipped out before I could stop it.
But he's not offended. He just thinks it over and then nods in agreement. "Well, whoever figures it out first, tell the other one, OK?"
"Deal."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
WHEN I'M NOT IN CLASS, school's just an exercise in muscle memory: Go here, go there, hit the locker, grab the books, go somewhere else. The hallways are places to be tormented by the thousand indignities that high school gleefully visits upon the skinny and the weak. I get shoved, pushed, jostled aside, knocked into the wall, slammed against lockers, and pressed between dullard giants on a regular basis. I give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that they're just in a hurry and/or utterly clueless. The first time, at least. After that, they go on The List. Where they belong.
Seeing Cal and hanging out with him is usually the high point of the average school day for me, but that hasn't been true since our argument about the lacrosse game. I see Kyra in the hall a bunch of times, but she doesn't look at me, instead keeping her eyes down, her books clutched tight to her chest, both arms folded across them. It's like she feels naked, and I flash back to my sketch. Was that a violation? Is it a violation? It's not like I, like I drooled over it all night or anything.
Classes whip by like movie montages. And then the film breaks and the theater goes dark because I see something I never thought I'd see.
Rounding a corner, hustling to Trig after lunch, I see Cal and Kyra standing together near one of the water fountains. Cal isn't doing his usual school-time routine with the poses and the physical attitude. He's just leaning against the wall, his backpack dangling off one shoulder. He's staring at Kyra very intently, as if she's revealing some kind of incredible secret, something too serious to greet with shock. Something that requires contemplation.
And Kyra ... She's still got her books pressed against her chest. She's got her hip cocked against the water fountain, but she's standing like a kid who's been caught joyriding in the family car. She doesn't even look at Cal—her eyes dart around, as if worried she'll be seen with him. I'm not close enough to hear them, but I can't help watching her lips move, trying to figure out what she's saying.
She doesn't see me. Neither of them sees me, which both surprises me and doesn't surprise me. I've always considered myself something of an invisible man at South Brook. Unless I do something to attract attention to myself, it's like I don't even exist for most of these people. But if any two people would notice me, it would be Kyra and Cal. Especially when they're together!
I hug the wall and let people pass by me, watching. A few seconds later, Cal nods, clearly says something like, "Thanks," and walks away, his hands jammed into his pockets.
Kyra fidgets.
I have to know what's going on. Her walkout. Her call last night. Now this.
I fight my way through the press of bodies to the water fountain. Kyra looks up, grimaces, and takes a step back, only to find herself trapped between me, the water fountain, and the endless tide of students.
"Move." Her eyes are hard.
"No. What's going on here? Why did you walk out the other day? And why did you call me if you say you don't like me anymore?"
"Did you fix that scene?"
"I don't want to talk about that right now."
"Tough shit. That's all I want to talk about with you." She looks around for an opening to leave, but there's still no way to get away. "So move your ass so I can go."
"No. Not until you tell me what's going on."
"You want me to tell you everything, huh? You want me to tell you all my secrets? Why should I be honest with you when you're not honest?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." But I do.
"Yeah?" She tugs gently at the ring in the corner of her mouth, as if reassuring herself that it's there and that it would still hurt if she yanked it out. "You won't tell me your magical third thing. You didn't even tell your best friend that you were working on a graphic novel. You're a real open and honest guy."
Oh my God. "What did you tell Cal? What did you say to him? Did you tell him about Schemata?" That would be the worst thing ever. I've been working on it for years and I never said anything because I always figured I'd wait until it's done. I didn't want to show it to him unfinished and have him think it's lame. God, why did I even show it to Kyra?
"No, I didn't tell him about Schemata. I told him the truth."
"What do you mean?"
She leans in close. "I told him you're gay. And you've got a thing for him."
I want to scream "What?" at the top of my lungs, but nothing will come out. She has to be joking, right? This has to be a joke. But she's dead serious. "Tell me you're kidding."
"I'm not. Now get! Out! Of! My! Way!" Pushing me with each word, finally knocking me aside long enough to slip by and get away.
She didn't. She couldn't have.
Why would she?
And besides—I hate you.
Does she really hate me?
Women are complicated, Mom said.
I feel like an invisible man no longer. I feel like the extra -visible man. Like everyone can't help but to look at me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I REACH FOR MY BULLET AND REALIZE—in sick horror—that I don't have it
with me. I forgot it. I forgot it. How could I do that? This isn't like yesterday, where I was rushing to get ready and just didn't have the time. This is ridiculous. How could I be so stupid? Especially now. Especially today, when I need it?
There's no Kyra, no Cal, no one. I'm alone. Alone in a school of two thousand people, but I have Schemata and Bendis in my brain, right? Isn't that what matters?
And then it happens. The world, the universe, everything, just slams into me.
Cal is in biology with me; he sits three rows up and a column over, so usually he'll toss a grin or an eye-roll my way every now and then. But throughout the entire class he hasn't so much as twisted his neck even slightly in my direction. I stare at the back of his head, willing him to turn to me, then realize that if he did turn, he'd see me mooning over him like a lovesick ... person who's lovesick. And that would be as bad as not getting the chance to talk to him at all.
Gay. She told him I was gay. Would he even believe that? Does it matter? If I were gay, I wouldn't care who knew, but I'm not.
It's the middle of biology, and that's when it starts; I can't tell if I'm glad—because I'll miss gym and Frampton's punching routine—or terrified because of the entirely different pain I'm about to endure.
I look down at my notes for a moment to make sure that I've connected two molecules correctly, and then I lose my eyesight.
It's not like in a movie, where everything goes black. There's a sudden patch of fuzziness that settles over my notebook, blotting all but the edges. It's like TV static when the cable goes out, only threaded with gold and red, shaped like some amorphous amoeba. At first I think there's something on my desk, and I swipe my hand at it, but my hand disappears as it passes into the patch.
I tilt my head to one side. The patch moves, following my line of sight. I can barely make out things on the periphery of my vision. It's like the reverse of tunnel vision.
A migraine. A migraine's coming.
My stomach tightens. This is how it happens. I used to get these all the time, years ago, when my parents first got divorced. My doctor said they were stress and diet related. Mom wanted me to go into therapy, but they stopped coming as frequently and she forgot about them. Honestly, I forgot about them.
But now I remember. God, the pain. The pain comes later. First, the loss of vision. It's like a herald, like a vanguard, an advance scout. I lose my vision and my guts churn. Soon the patch of blindness will start to shrink, and even though I shouldn't I'll feel relief that I'm getting my sight back. But once the patch is gone—in the very instant that I can see again—that's when the pain will hit.
I breathe slowly, trying to forestall a panic attack. Looking down, I can see only the extreme edges of the pages of my notebook: a molecule of heme on one page, a molecule of chlorophyll on the other. Don't ask me why, but for some reason I notice that the only difference between them is that heme has iron in it, little "Fe" notations. So maybe that's why science-fiction aliens have green skin: They're missing iron in their blood, so they have chlorophyll instead, which means that Brainiac 5 and J'Onn J'Onzz can photosynthesize...
Oh, God, this is going to hurt so bad. Do I have any of my migraine medicine at home? I can't remember. It's probably expired by now anyway.
The patch of fuzzy light has contracted a bit. Just enough that I can see to stand and walk—carefully—to the front of the class, where Mrs. Reed is grading tests while we all copy molecular structures from the board. I avoid even glancing in Cal's general direction; my face is probably screwed up into something horrific.
"Is something wrong?" she asks.
"I think I need to go to the nurse's office," I tell her, keeping my voice low.
"What's wrong?"
I can't tell what she's thinking; I can't read the expression on her face because there's just a blotchy welt of static there.
"Please."
There are benefits to being a geek, a goody two-shoes, a guy who's never gotten in trouble: She lets me go without forcing me to launch into some sort of explanation. Halfway to the nurse's office, the patch shrinks further and I take advantage of my partially restored sight, almost breaking into a run.
I tell the nurse that I need to go home. Right now. She starts to ask questions and I gnaw on my lip in frustration, glaring at the slightly vapid expression on her face, and I realize I can see her face, and it hits, the pain, oh God, my head explodes no I wish it would explode because then the pain would stop because I'd be dead which is fine being dead is fine better than this my teeth come together hard and I groan and she looks at me like I've pulled a gun terrified and I throw my head back and I want to scream I hear her picking up the phone I want to scream into the world vomit the pain out through my eyes and my mouth and my nose and my ears there are spikes driven through my skull spikes with more spikes growing out of them and more spikes growing out of them like fractals ever growing into infinities of agony phone dialing she's talking to someone and she comes to me and her hands are on me and she sits me down and she's holding my hand and she strokes my forehead and I'm getting aroused I can't believe it my skull is rupturing from within like Krypton and it's stupid old Mrs. Hennessey and I'm getting turned on even though I'm dying just because something female is touching me and now I'm embarrassed on top of everything else—
"I can't give you anything. There's nothing in your file for medicine."
I don't care. Give me something. Give me an aspirin or a Tylenol or a goddamn Midol just put something in my body that has a chance in hell of dimming the bright, hard light of the sun that has blossomed inside my brain.
"Your mother is coming to pick you up, OK?"
Do the math. Do the math. Mom's office is in Lake Eliot. Fifteen minutes from Dad's house. And Dad's house is an hour from here. Do the math.
I can't. I can't do the math. My brain won't work. All I can think of is pain and arousal and Dina (thank God, Dina, yes, think of Dina) and Courteney and how aliens could have photosynthesizing blood, it could really work, it really could, maybe you could genetically engineer humans that way, too, and we could process our own food from sunlight and you'd save the world that way and I'm the first one to think of it and we'd all be green, a green world, green people, that would work, that's a great idea that's a—
I should remember it to tell Bendis.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
INFINITIES PASS. UNIVERSES EXPLODE from their Big Bangs, expand and cool over billions of years, contract into primal atoms, and explode again.
Mom picks me up. I'm on a cot in the nurse's office, curled into a fetal position on my side, rocking because movement seems to lessen the pain, though just a little bit.
In the passenger seat, I resist screaming when she starts the car, the rough growl of the engine like claws in my ears.
"This is just like you," she says. "I can't believe I had to drive all the way back here. You're getting back at me for not driving you on Saturday, aren't you? This is your way of getting back at me."
"I'm sorry, Mom, OK? I'm sorry?" I'm trying to talk through a brick that's been thrown through my head. My teeth hurt. I can't even think. I just keep playing back the bass line to an Eminem song in my head. I don't know. It just keeps thumping there. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I'm crying now because I am sorry and because it hurts so bad and crying should make her loosen up, right? But she just stares straight ahead and hits the gas and we go.
At home, when I miss the next-to-last stair on my way to the basement and stumble, fall, and slam into a wall, she decides this isn't pretend. I've got the Eminem song mixed up with something from Outkast and those green aliens seem pretty cool, and then a BIG wave of pain crashes over me and I whimper, whimper like a puppy that's been kicked over and over again and she helps me into my room and then my mother is taking off my belt and I don't want my mother to undress me and thank God she doesn't she just takes off my belt and my shoes and unsnaps my jeans then makes me lie back and pulls the covers over me and I curl up again like a baby
and rock rock rock back and forth because it feels a little better that way and I want to cry some more so I do I let it go in big wracking sobs that jerk my body and that actually feels better, the pain is more manageable until I stop crying—it comes back bigger and worse and angry, like how dare I stave it off even for ten seconds? How dare I? I was going to call Cal, really, really I was going to call him and try to explain about the lacrosse team and make us be friends again, but now it's all ruined how can I call him now how can I—
Mom puts a cool, wet washcloth on my forehead, which feels great and I start to breathe calmly and my heart slows and my body rests until a bead of water starts to run down my temple and it seems magnified a million times, like a boulder rolling down and I move to brush it away and the movement wrecks the rhythm I had going and I'm in agony again and I can't stop it and I don't know what happens next because I open my eyes and shut them immediately against the light and there are voices.
"Can't you give him something?"
It sounds like my grandmother. When did my grandmother get here?
"He used to have medicine for these."
"Don't you have something over-the-counter?"
"I can't find my Excedrin. I had a whole bottle that I never opened because of the baby."
"I'll go out for you."
Wham! Bam! Another wave of pain, a fresh dose of it, just to remind me, and I thrash on the bed, crying out, and a new voice, my stepfather's: "That's it. Call the ambulance. Take him to the emergency room."
"No..." I make myself say it. I force myself to form the words through the pain. "No hospital. Don't want hospital." Hospitals mean tests and doctors and beds and overnights and I need to be free, free on Saturday.
Someone puts something against my temple, the only part of my head they can reach, as I've turned to my side again. I feel and hear the scrape of ice cubes in a towel. My temple starts to burn with the cold. I want to die.
The lights go out. The ice burns until my skin goes numb, and then turns into a sharp, shifting weight.