Goth Girl Rising (29 page)

I push it around on my desk a little bit. What would Kennedy think of this? That's a stupid question. God, that's a
really
stupid question. I know exactly what he would say.

Are you sure you want to act out like this, Kyra? Think about it. What did this boy ever do to you?

He forgot about me, is what he did. I reached out to him. He was getting beat up in gym and I reached out to him. I never reach out to people. But I did that for him. And I helped him with his comic book. I taught him things. I told him the truth.

The truth? Really?

I told him the truth about the things that matter, OK? About women and girls. About the way the world treats people like him and me.

Like the two of you?

Outcasts, OK? People no one gives a shit about. I told him how to deal. I told him to be strong and to push through all the bullshit. I told him all of that. All of that. And then he...

He betrayed you.

No.

He called your father. Told him about the bullet...

That was ... Yeah, I was pissed at first, but he was just trying to help. I get it. We talked about that in therapy and I get that.

So, what, then? What horrible sin did he commit?

He forgot about me! God, aren't you listening to me? He never called while I was away. Simone and Jecca called me. They got the hospital number from Roger and they called. They sent me letters and packages and stuff over the summer. But from him? Nothing. Not even an e-mail or a text message. I thought maybe there would be letters at home when I got there. But no. Nothing. He forgot me. He went ahead and he became, like, cooler, and then he didn't need me anymore, so he just tossed me aside.

Is that what you really think?

Eff yeah.

Are you sure?

Stop asking me. Yes, I'm sure.

Think about it, Kyra.

I push the appointment slip aside. Great. I left Katherine behind in the hospital, but now I have Kennedy in my head to make up for it.

I go through my messenger bag, dumping out most of the stuff in it. I plug my cell in to recharge and then go through my wallet until I find the business card I'm looking for:

And his phone number and fax and shit. On the back, he wrote another phone number. The emergency number.

If you feel like you're going to hurt yourself, I want you to call me. Anytime. I don't care if it's three in the morning on Christmas and you figure I'm busy playing Santa Claus. Call me. I'll answer.

Is this an emergency?

Nah.

I'm not hurting myself. I'm hurting someone else.

He would just tell me not to do it. He would tell me that hurting Fanboy will feel good in the short term, but won't do me any good in the long term. He would tell me that revenge isn't healthy.

And you know what? He's right. But I think I'd rather have my revenge than be healthy.

I
AM NOT A COMPUTER WIZARD
.

At all.

I thought this would be easy. I mean, on TV they just scan shit in and
click-click-clickety-click
with the mouse and shit moves around on screen. It takes, like, five seconds and they're done.

Me? I spend, like, an hour just trying to figure out which program is the best one to use. None of the stuff that came with my computer seems to do what I want it to do, which is just to put two effing pictures next to each other with some text there, too. But the pictures never seem to be the same size, even though they're both the same size on the pages I scanned. So I download some more programs and try them and then mess around on the Web reading dumb-ass tutorials that are written for hard-core geeks who speak fluent Brainiac.

Shit. I would tear my effing hair out, if I
had
any effing hair.

There's a knock at my door. Shit! I've been working so long, Roger's home and I didn't even realize it.

"Kyra?"

"Yeah, come in."

He opens the door and leans against the door frame, sort of half in and half out of my room. He nods at the computer and the papers and shit piled around it. "Homework?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

See how easy a little lie makes your life?

"I was thinking maybe pizza for dinner? Or I could run up to Hunan Palace if you want Chinese?"

My Dad-dar kicks into overdrive. Roger is being
way
too nice.

"I had something when I got home. I'm not hungry."

"Oh."

That was his cue to exit, stage right. But he's not going anywhere. He's giving me a variation of Sad, Tired—a hint of a little smile.

"I was thinking, maybe ... maybe we could talk for a few minutes."

Oh, shit. That's never good.

"Would that be OK? And then you can get back to your homework."

I look at the screen. I'm nowhere
near
as far along as I want to be. I want this done tonight. Now. "I'm really busy, Dad."

The little smile goes big, but it's the kind of frozen smile adults give you when they're about to remind you that they're the ones in charge. "You'll have plenty of time to get caught up. We're overdue for a talk."

"We talk a lot."

"No. No, we don't. We yell a lot. We give each other crap a lot. But we don't talk."

"Fine." I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. "Fine. Go ahead. Talk."

He crosses
his
arms over
his
chest. I don't even think he realizes what he's doing.

"Can you drop the attitude for just, say, five minutes? Can you do that, Kyra?"

"God! I
said
go ahead!"

"That's what I mean. That. That attitude."

"
What
attitude? Jesus. You said you wanted to talk. I said talk."

He bangs the back of his head—lightly—against the door frame. "God. Why do you have to make everything so difficult?"

"God, Dad! Are you gonna
say
something or are you just gonna bitch at me?"

He takes a deep breath, which usually is a bad sign. I usually hear the words "You're grounded" after deep breaths.

He comes into the room and sits down on my bed, leans over with his arms on his knees, and stares at the floor.

I wait.

I wait some more. He's the one who started this. I don't have anything to say. Let
him
talk.

When he finally speaks, it's in a small, soft voice: "I don't know what to do, Kyra."

"Fine. Get pizza."

I expect him to give me crap for my sarcasm, but instead he just starts laughing his ass off. He falls back on my bed, laughing so hard, I think he might choke.

OK, I have no idea how to react to
that.
I thought I had him figured out. This is new.

He sits up, wiping his eyes. "Christ, Kyra. Christ. Sometimes you're just like her. Just like her. It kills me." He looks over at me, his face shiny with the tears he just rubbed into his skin. "Do you get that?"

"I guess."

"What you just said ... Back in college, I was freaking out over a test. I had a paper due and I had this test coming up, too, and I didn't know which one to work on. They were both important and I was freaking out because I couldn't figure out which one was
more
important, so I was wasting all this time stressing about it, which just made it even
worse.
And then your mom said, 'Let's get pizza'and I was like, 'Are you nuts? I don't have time for pizza!' And she said, 'You have time to stress. So stress with pizza.

"So we went and got pizza and by the time I was halfway through my second slice, I was already a lot calmer and I was able to figure out what to do."

"That's a nice story, Roger."

"Stop being so sarcastic. I'm trying to explain to you..." He leans forward again. "I miss her, too, Kyra."

"God, I
know
that! You tell me that all the time!"

"Well, maybe that's because I don't think you believe me. Or understand it. Do you know what it's like for me? You are so. Much. Like. Her. Do you know what that's like?"

I press my lips together real tight, so nothing can slip out.

"It's ... You look like her. Beautiful like her. Your voice ... It's hurts, Kyra. And I shouldn't take it out on you. I know that. I can't help it sometimes. I just can't. And I'm trying. I'm really trying. But it's tough. I don't have all the answers. I can't pretend that I have all the answers. And sometimes ... God. I see you do this stuff to yourself. To your body. The piercings..." He gestures around his face. "Poking holes in your beautiful face. It's like watching your mother get tortured. Shaving your head. Wearing all black. Or all white. Whatever. It's like I'm seeing it happen to you
and
to her. It's like adding insult to injury. don't you get that?"

Well, hell. What am I supposed to say to
that?
I touch the stud in my nose, then the little ring in my lip. "I like my piercings."

He groans. "I know that. I'm not saying—"

"No, you
don't
know that. You think it's just, like, acting out or something. But I like my piercings. They make me
me.
I got each one for a different reason. I remember what I was thinking and feeling each time. And every time I look at them or feel them or touch them, I remember those times."

He looks surprised. I probably do, too. I've never told him anything like that.

"OK," he says. "I get that. But it's still tough for me. To see you do these things to yourself. Because it's like watching your mom, but it's also you. My daughter. My little girl. So I'm seeing the two women I love most in this world ... I'm watching them fall apart. I'm watching them..." Tears spill down his face. "I'm watching
you
try to kill yourself. And watching
her
die. All over again."

"I'm not Mom. I'm
me.
"

"You don't understand. You're too young."

"Stop saying that! You
always
say that! I'm not a little kid. I was there, too, y'know. I watched her dying, too. You think you're the only one who gets this shit? Huh? You think you're the only one?"

"Some things you just can't understand until you're older—"

"Stop it!" I'm shrieking. "Just stop saying that! I'm sick of it! I was old enough to watch her
die,
OK? I'm old enough to make my own decisions and shave my head if I want to and wear what I want and look how I want, OK? Stop telling me I'm a goddamn child because I'm not. Not anymore."

"You
are
a child. You're
my
child. And you'll be my child when you're forty years old. You'll
never
not be my child."

I hate it when he says stuff like that. I turn away from him in my chair.

"I will never stop worrying about you. Even if Webber and Kennedy and a whole platoon of shrinks and judges tell me that you're the sanest person on the planet and you would never in a million years ever again dream of trying to hurt yourself. I will still worry, Kyra. Because I'm your dad and you're my child, like it or not. I would worry about you getting hit by a bus or getting your heart broken or getting ... getting cancer. That's how it is, and there's nothing you can do that will make me stop worrying about you or stop loving you."

I hear him get up from the bed. I grip the edge of my desk tight with both hands. Squeeze. My eyes are hot and itchy with tears. I squeeze them, too. I won't let the tears fall. I won't.

Hear his footsteps on the carpet. Right behind me.

Hands on my shoulders.

Hands on my shoulders and I go back in time, just like in a comic book. A panel transition:

Panel 1:
We see KYRA from the front, sitting at her desk. She is SIXTEEN in this scene, with a nose stud and a fetching little ring piercing the corner of her mouth. Her head is shaved, not quite smooth because it's been about a day and a half since she last shaved it, and she's wearing one of her old-style all-black Goth Girl outfits. Her eyes are closed tight and her face is screwed up in agony and rage. Standing behind her—visible only from the chest to the waist—is her FATHER, who is resting both hands on her shoulders. He's wearing a dress shirt and a tie that's loosened around his neck.