Authors: Barry Lyga
"Yeah, it's OK. It's weird—once the baby came, Mom got kinda mellow." He grins at me and I can't stand it—he's so cute when he does that, I almost forget that I hate him. "I gotta take advantage of it while I can."
I turn away to look out the window. Anything to avoid looking at him. "So, she had the baby, huh?" Ugh. Stupid, Kyra. Of
course
she had the baby! She was, like, a million months pregnant when I met her, and that was six months ago.
"Yeah. And she decided not to go back to work and it's like all of a sudden she's much calmer, even though Betta keeps her up a lot."
"Betta?" What kind of a name is
that?
"Well, her name's Elizabeth, but somehow we just ended up calling her Betta. I think Tony started it. Here."
He fishes around for his wallet. I can't believe he's actually taking a hand off the wheel—he's been driving so carefully that I could fall asleep. It's like the driving equivalent of that stuff in turkey that makes you sleepy.
He flips open his wallet and holds it out to me. I take it. There's a little wallet-size picture of a baby there.
"See, that's her. My sister. Well, half sister, technically."
It's a pudgy little baby-thing. Why do people think babies are cute? They're sort of ugly, actually. They're all out of proportion, with these gigantic heads that flop around and these little bodies with sunken chests and beer guts. I don't get the attraction.
I never want to have kids. For one thing, I can't imagine having to deal with that big of a pain in the ass. For another thing, it hurts like
hell.
And for
another
thing, like, the
last
thing I need in this world is for my boobs to get even
bigger.
I'm not spending my life as a cow for some bawling ball of snot and stuff.
"She's cute," I lie, and hand it back to him.
"Yeah, she is."
He pulls up into his driveway. The truck is gone, but his mom's car is there.
It's weird, being here again. About to go inside. Last time I was in his house with him ... The last time, things didn't work out so well.
God, am I
scared?
Is that what's going on?
"You coming?" he asks. He's already out of the car.
"Chill out, Fanboy. You're acting like you're gonna get some."
It's like I slapped him. Good.
"Just ... whatever. Come on, Kyra."
At the door, he says, "We need to be quiet when go in, in case they're asleep."
"OK."
But they're not. As soon as we go in, I hear his mom, saying, "Ooga-googa-goo? Umma-wummy-boo!"
Well, not really. But it's that singsong crap people say to babies.
"Hi, Mom!" Fanboy calls up the stairs. "I brought Kyra home to show her some
Schemata
stuff, OK?"
She appears at the top of the stairs, carrying the baby. "Oh. Hi." She looks surprised to see me. I don't blame her. I ran out of here in a fury last time.
I
would be pretty damn surprised to see me, too. "Hi. Good to, uh, see you again."
Ha. Like we had a big, in-depth conversation last time.
"You, uh, look a bit different," she says. And I remember: White clothes. Shaved head. It's only been a day, but I'm already so comfortable with it that I forget.
I run a hand over my dome. "Like it?"
"Well, as long as
you
like it."
Fanboy goes up a few stairs and tickles the baby's cheek. "Hey, Betta. Hey, Betta." He looks down at me. "Want to hold her?"
Gross.
Before I can say anything, though, Momma saves the day: "I need to change her. Maybe later."
"OK, Mom."
I just stand there and try not to throw up. I'm allergic to domestic bliss. I'm also dying for a cigarette, but I bet Momma would dive down the stairs and claw my eyes out if I even thought hard about one.
Before he can come down the stairs, she leans over and whispers something to him. He rolls his eyes, but only I can see it. "I
know,
Mom."
Mom goes away. And then it's me and it's Fanboy and he leads me down to the basement once more.
H
IS ROOM IS EXACTLY THE WAY
I remember it. His room is completely different.
Last time I was here, it was like some weird kind of archeological dig—the unearthing of the Tomb of the New Millennium Geek Boy. It's still a geek's paradise, but now you get the impression that there's
work
going on here. Serious work.
It used to be that
Schemata
was relegated to his desk. Now it's
everywhere.
There are pages and sketches and stuff scattered all over. I guess maybe there's a method to it all, but I can't see it. It just looks random to me. He even has pages pinned up on the walls, like he ran out of surfaces and just started tacking things up. The piles of comic books and graphic novels that were on the floor have been stacked neatly on top of a bookcase, out of the way.
He still has the same old crappy computer, though. Nice to see
some
things don't change.
"Uh, let me see," he says, and clears off his chair, spinning it from the desk and wheeling it into the middle of the room. He gestures for me to sit.
Last time I was here, I sat on the bed.
"What did your mom tell you?"
"What?"
"She whispered to you. Just now."
"Oh." He shakes his head. "Oh. Yeah. She said, 'Door open, remember? Like I'm an idiot or something."
Door open. That didn't stop me last time...
"Kyra? Hey, Kyra?"
I blink. "What?"
"You OK? You were kinda spaced out—"
"I was just overwhelmed by the toxic levels of geekitude in this place. You're lucky the EPA doesn't shut you down."
He laughs. Goddamn! Six months ago, he would have started apologizing or tried to change the subject.
"Yeah, Cal calls it Geek Central. Sit down."
He's been holding the chair for me the whole time. I sit down.
"So, let me show you some of the new stuff..." He starts rummaging around, thrusts a pile of pages into my hands. How do I get the
old
stuff? I need the pages where Courteney looks like Dina.
Before I can do or say anything, though, he says, "Shit!" which surprises me because he's usually pretty clean-mouthed.
"I left the latest pages upstairs. I'll be right back."
He darts out the door and I hear him on the stairs.
I look around. Where would the old pages be? On his computer? Probably. Could I find them and e-mail them to myself before he gets back?
Probably not. Especially with his shitty dial-up Internet.
Damn.
God, it's weird to be here. I get up and sit on the bed. That feels a little bit better.
There's still that old hard drive case sitting on his desk. His secret bullet hiding place. Is it still in there? Should I steal it again, just to mess with him?
I can't help it—the idea makes me giggle.
I move to the spot on the floor where I once planted my feet and unbuttoned my shirt and took off my bra. It's like it was yesterday, not six months ago. It's like it was five minutes ago.
It's like it's happening
right now.
How would he react? What would he do if he came back down here and I was standing in that same spot, my brand-spanking-new white shirt off, my same-old, same-old minimizer bra unfastened?
Or what if I took off everything? What if I stood there naked for him? Or naked on the bed?
Could I even
do
that? Could I even show myself to him like that? To anyone? I've never done that. Not even with Jecca—we've always kept our clothes on.
Could I take my clothes off for him? Why is my heart pounding? Why does my head feel weird? Why ... Ugh. Why do my boobs ... Why are my...
Stop it! Stop it!
I have to get out of here. I have to leave. This is insane. I'm losing my effing mind.
Not gonna do it. I'm not getting
naked
for him. What the hell was I thinking? Showing myself like that ... It was one thing to flash my boobs. To hold my power over him. But naked? That's weak. That's vulnerable. And flashing him again ... No. The only reason it was OK the first time is because I knew I would never do it again. Because I showed him something he couldn't have and then never again.
If you
keep
doing it, you're no better than Simone. Or Miss Powell.
So, no.
I sit on the bed. Better.
His footsteps on the stairs again. And then he's standing in the doorway. He freezes for a second at the sight of me sitting on the bed. I feel like I should say something, some kind of comforting lie:
It's more comfortable here. I don't like that chair.
Something.
But I've got nothing. So I just start flipping through the pages like it's no big deal.
"Uh," he says after a little while. I've been flipping through pages, but I haven't
seen
a single one. I'm all mixed up inside.
"Uh," he says again, and walks over to me. "These are the newest pages."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." I try to say it like I'm brushing him off, but I'm having trouble getting the words out. I'm still not seeing anything on the pages in front of me.
"So you're looking at next week's installment," he says. "It's the scene in the cancer ward. You saw it before, but it was later in the book then. I decided to move it up because it's really dramatic and I wanted something dramatic earlier on."
"Right." God, will he just shut up and let me think? Let me focus. For just a second.
He sits down next to me on the bed, and that's it. My brain's fried.
I want him to kiss me. I realize it and it's so hard and fast that it hurts.
That's all I want in the world. I want him to lean over and kiss me. It wouldn't be like it is with Jecca, I know. He's a boy. He's probably never put moisturizer on his lips in his life. He's got a little bit of stubble on his upper lip. It wouldn't be soft. It would be a little dry and a little scratchy, but I don't care. I want it. I want to do it. And then pull back and see my red, red lipstick smeared on
his
lips.
"And the pages here," he goes on, so totally a boy, so totally oblivious to my need, "are from the issue that'll come out just before Christmas break."
And that finally distracts me because, in looking down at the pages, I see something I can't believe I'm seeing.
She's naked.
Courteney. Courteney is
naked.
"W
HOA
. W
AIT A SEC
."
"Yeah." He grins, like he's so proud that he's shocked me.
It's not that I've never seen nudity before, in a comic or otherwise. (Duh. I have the Internet.) It's just that I can't believe
he
did this. He drew this with his own little hands.
For
Literary Paws.
"This is, like, the season finale for
Schemata,
" he says. "That's something Cal and I came up with. Seasons, like on TV, with a break for Christmas."
Cal. Again. Goddammit.
"I moved some stuff around," he goes on, "to end on a cliffhanger right before break. And it's gonna be pretty controversial, keep people talking about it over break."
I want to yell. And scream. I want to yell and scream that he shouldn't be listening to Cal, that he should be listening to
me,
that he's just doing porn now, just for shock value, just to get people talking. I want to tell him that he's
better
than this, better than just dropping
tits
into his book to get people to sit up and take notice. I know—from experience. I showed my boobs to Fanboy and I showed them to Bendis, and it wasn't worth it either time.
But I'm too shocked to say anything. I can't stop staring at Courteney, who no longer looks
exactly
like Dina Jurgens, but man—if she
did!
If she did ... and if I could find the original pages, with the original art, and show them to Michelle...
Now my heart starts pumping fast for all-new reasons. Show Michelle the original pages. Then she sees the nudes. And she realizes that Fanboy is going to draw her
sister
naked. Draw her naked and then publish it for the whole world to see.
And maybe Michelle gets pissed and brings the Wrath of the Popular, Beautiful People down on him. Or maybe she just thinks it's pathetic and that's fine, too. He'll be embarrassed. He'll never want to show his face at school again. He'll sure as
hell
stop being the popular kid. He'll just be the sad geek who gets his rocks off drawing girls he knows naked in his comic book.
Oh, yes.
"...and it's not like it's for show or controversy," he's babbling. "You have to
read
it. It's
artistic,
you know? I know
you
know. But I showed it to Mr. Tollin and he's OK with it. He says it's artistic and he'll defend me to Dr. Goethe and the Spermling if he has to."