Goth Girl Rising (28 page)

When I was "in character" as Katherine, I would stand really tall and straight. I would walk a little differently, too, sort of like the models we saw on TV.

It was cool and fun. Simone or Jecca would call the house and talk to me and sometimes they would say, "Hey, put Katherine on," and I would put the phone down and pretend to go get Katherine and then pick it up and totally channel this different person and have a whole new conversation.

Katherine was fearless. She did everything I was afraid to do. She tried out Simone's brother's skateboard (and when she scraped her knee, she didn't cry or anything). She climbed trees like a boy. She was awesome.

Eventually, she went away. Jecca and Simone lost interest in her, and I guess I did, too, but I never
forgot
her. Whenever I would run into something tough or hard to deal with, I would say to myself,
OK, just be Katherine for this.

Katherine died before my mom died. I guess I just stopped needing her. Or maybe I absorbed her into me. I don't know if it was suicide or homicide. I mean, I killed her, but she was me, so which one is it? I don't know.

And then—this part is where it gets a bit weird, but only a little bit—soon after Mom died, Katherine came back to life.

People were always asking me why I was so depressed or acting out and shit. And some of them knew about my mom and they still asked, like I was supposed to get over it right away. And some of them knew and just looked at me with pity.

That was bad enough, but then you had the people who didn't know about Mom, like new teachers and idiots at the grocery store or the mall. People who think it's their job in life to get into other people's business and be annoying like that. They were all in my face about, like "Why don't you smile?" or "What's wrong with you?" or "You'd be so pretty if you weren't frowning all the time."

So I had to tell them
something,
just to shut them the hell up, but I'll be damned if I was going to tell them the truth. Because who the hell are they to deserve the truth? What makes people think they have the right to impose on you, to tell you how to live your life, to tell you to cheer up and be happy and all that shit? Who the eff gave them the right?

And that's when Katherine came back to life. She rose from the grave and this time she was mean and angry. At first she was just my annoying older sister. But then I started giving her all these other problems: The asshole boyfriend. The pregnancy. The miscarriage. The depression. It turned into a sort of game—how bad could I make things for Katherine and still have people believe it?

At some point, it stopped being a game. At some point—and this is the weird part—I started feeling sorry for Katherine. Which makes
no
sense, because I made her up, but there you go. I don't know what to say about that. I started feeling bad for her. She had a really shitty life, you know? Much worse than mine, because in addition to her mom dying of lung cancer, she had all this other shit to deal with, too.

In a way, I guess that made me feel better about what I was going through. It made things more tolerable, at least.

I told Dr. Kennedy about Katherine. He sort of did this little half frown thing that he would do sometimes. He said, "Do you hear Katherine speak to you?"

Now, if it had been anyone
but
Dr. Kennedy asking me that question, I totally would have said, "Oh, God, yes! She talks to me
all the time!
In fact, she's talking to me right now, and she's telling me that your beard conceals a microphone that you're using to broadcast my words to a crashed UFO under the Chrysler building in New York."

But it was Dr. Kennedy and he was the least assholish person in my world. So I said, "God, doc, how effing nuts do you think I am?"

He laughed. "Not all that effing nuts, Kyra. Just a
little
effing nuts."

Which was fine with me, because that sounded about right.

"She doesn't talk to me. She's just this ... I don't know. She's like this extra part of me. Where I dump shit I don't want to deal with."

He nodded. "I get that. But you talk to other people about her. As if she were real."

"Well, yeah. But it's not like I
think
she's real. I know I'm lying when I do it."

"Why do you do it, though?"

"To get people off my back."

"Does it work?"

I shrugged. "Sometimes."

He sighed. "Well, I'd rather you not resort to lying to get around these issues. You really need to confront them head-on."

"My way is more fun."

"Oh, there's no doubt of that," he said, laughing some more. "I'm sure it is. But it's not really helping you, long term."

Long term
was a big, uh,
term
in Dr. Kennedy's office. He was all about long term. He was always telling me that I had to learn to distinguish between short-term and long-term benefits, that I could just blow someone off and that would solve my problem in the short term, but it would only make things worse in the long term.

I knew he was right. I just wasn't sure I cared.

I mean...

Look, the suicide option is always in the back of mind, OK? It's sort of like Katherine used to be—an escape route. A back door out of this crazy place, where "this crazy place" = "life." Walking up to Death and introducing myself to her.

And if you're gonna leave the show early, do you really need to worry about the long-term effects of your actions?

I never told Dr. Kennedy
that
particular theory. It's the only thing—the only thing, I swear to God—that I ever kept from him.

"You need to develop some ... well, some
healthier
coping strategies."

I knew he was right. Assuming I decided not to check out of the Life Hotel early, I was going to have to figure some shit out. "Yeah, I know. But it's not like I even use her that much anymore."

"You used her quite a bit with this boy you told me about. The artist. Fanboy."

I giggled. It was a serious time and a serious topic and a serious session, but I always giggled hearing "Fanboy" come out Dr. Kennedy's highly educated, grown-up mouth.

He was used to it. He sighed. "I wouldn't have to call him that if you would tell me his name."

"His name isn't important. What's important is what he is. See?"

"I do. Kyra..." He leaned forward. There was a big-ass desk in his office, but most of the time we sat in chairs across from each other. "I want to send you home. Do you think you're ready for that?"

That was a tough one. Was I ready? I mean, I never wanted to go into the hospital in the first place. It wasn't my fault Daddy Couldn't Handle Her. It was
Daddy's
fault. But I have to admit—even though ninety-nine percent of the hospital was a complete effing waste, Dr. Kennedy wasn't. Dr. Kennedy was the only therapist I'd ever met who even came close to getting me ... and believe me, I've had
plenty
of therapists to compare him to.

"I guess I'm ready..."

"But what?"

"I didn't say 'but' anything."

"I could tell. I could hear it in your voice, Kyra. That diploma on the wall isn't for shits and giggles. I'm actually minimally competent at my job."

I took a deep breath. Confessing things has never been my strong suit. Especially when they make me look weak. But I had no choice.

"Look ... I'm fine with leaving. I mean, I hate this place, right? That's pretty effing obvious. I hate the orderlies and the patients and the psycho bitch roommate and I
really
hate Group and God knows I abso-effing-lutely
loathe
the nurses."

"Is there a point in here somewhere?"

"I
don't
hate you!" I blurted out, and then felt embarrassed and small and young.

"Believe me, I know exactly how exalted a position that is to be in. Believe me."

He waited. I guess I was hoping he would just get it and say what I wanted to hear, but I was going to have to do it. I think he knew what I wanted—he just wanted to make me say it. He was like that.

"I was just, uh, wondering ... See, my normal therapist—"

"Ms. Webber."

"Yeah. Her. See, I don't like her at all. And I
do
like you."

He waited. He didn't move a muscle.

"So I guess ... I guess I was wondering ... See, the court ... The judge says that I
have
to see a therapist. Because of these." I held up my scarred wrists. "So I was wondering if maybe ... if maybe you could be my therapist. Out there. In the real world."

There. It was out. God, I hated
needing
someone,
asking
someone for help.

So weak.

"Well," he said, "I figured this was coming. I don't
usually
take on clients outside of the hospital, but I do make exceptions for certain cases. So why don't I talk to the judge and Ms. Webber and we'll see what we can do, OK?"

I nodded and that was that.

A couple of days later—just a few days ago now—I was released. Dr. Kennedy took over from the orderly and pushed my wheelchair to the door himself. I hated the stupid wheelchair policy, but Kennedy made it sort of fun.

Just before we got to the front door, he stopped. I could see Roger through the big glass double doors, waiting by the car. Kennedy waved to Roger and gave him the "hang on a minute" finger.

"So, Kyra. You ready for this?"

I nodded, even though I was worried. "I just want to feel normal. Out there. Does that ever happen?"

"For most people? Nah. No one ever feels normal. Some are less
ab
normal than others, is all. Look. I have another patient. Good kid. Little older than you. He went through a lot of ... a lot of bad stuff when he was younger. He's got a lot of resentment and anger built up. A lot like you. He expresses it differently, but the two of you are very similar, OK? And he's getting better. Bit by bit. Day by day. I see it. I've been seeing him for five years now, and it's been a long, slow, painful process, but it
does
work. The road
does
lead somewhere." He looked down at me in my wheelchair. "Got it?"

I nodded. I felt very much like a little girl just then.

"Now get the hell out of my hospital. I have legitimately sick people to take care of. I'll see you for our first session in the real world in two weeks."

I was up and heading to the door when he called out to me. "Hey, Kyra."

I turned.

"Do me a favor, will you? See if you can leave Katherine in
here.
"

Just like Dr. Kennedy to blow my mind in the last five seconds of my stay.

"K
ATHERINE'S NOT GOING TO THE PARTY
, either," I tell Jecca and Sim. "Sorry."

"Party pooper" floats in from the back seat.

"I have a shitload of work to do."

"Yeah, you have a lot of catching up to do," Simone admits. Sure. Let them think I mean schoolwork when what I
really
mean is the next step in the Downfall of Fanboy.

They drop me of fat home with a couple of hours to go before Roger gets there, which means unfettered access to the scanner. I won't have him standing over my shoulder, asking questions like, "When will you be done?" and "Why are you scanning all of these comic books?" and "Is that a drawing of a naked woman? What the hell, Kyra?"

I make a sandwich and grab a bottle of water, then settle in at Roger's desk with a stack of
Schemata:
Version 2 (the Public Edition) and Version 1 (the Secret Dina Jurgens Edition).

I find the panels in the originals where Courteney looks the most like Dina. They're usually close-ups of her face, which is fine. I scan them in, along with the same panels from the
Literary Paws
version. When you put the two next to each other, you can tell that the same guy had drawn them. Perfect.

Unfortunately, there aren't any naked shots of Dina herself. Fanboy didn't give me any of those pages. Maybe they never existed. Maybe he just never got to those scenes before he changed how he drew Courteney. Or maybe he's not quite as clueless as I think he is; maybe he figured it wouldn't be all that smart to give me naked drawings of Dina Jurgens.

But it doesn't matter. Because the boy just can't help himself. There are plenty of full-body shots of Courteney/Dina where she's drawn very sexy, a total wet dream. So I scan those in, along with the new version that doesn't look at all like Dina. And then I scan in the naked shots that will be showing up in the next
Literary Paws
because I figure I'll show the matching artwork first and then show the naked images and say something like, "Now use your imagination. Who is this
really
supposed to be?"

I'm almost
tingling,
I'm so happy.

I burn it all to a CD and then delete everything from Roger's computer. I am a ninja at the fine art of Covering My Tracks.

Back in my room, it's time to kick ass. I plop down at my computer and load up the CD.

Sitting on my desk, right next to my keyboard, is a little reminder card I've had for a week now. It reads: