Authors: Barry Lyga
That makes me start laughing out loud because I picture myself saying it to Simone, and she would say, "Uh, Kyra,
I'm
sexual. You're
a
sexual, like those things in biology that only reproduce with themselves. You're like a geranium."
And that's it—I'm a sexual flower. I have sex geranium-style, with myself only.
I
N THE MORNING, MY HEAD
is still nice and smooth. I just go over it quickly in the shower and rub in some of Makeup Lady's oil, just in case. I don't want gross ingrown hairs making my head all zitty.
I put on one of my new white outfits. I like this one—it's basically one of my old black outfits, only in white (with a slightly larger top, to hide the goodies better).
Check myself in the mirror. All that white makes my teeth kind of yellow, but I can deal. Maybe I'll get that special toothpaste or those white strip things. Or maybe I'll just say eff it and leave my teeth yellow.
Looking at myself, I feel like there's something missing. I pin on my reverse smiley. Here's the thing: On the other side, there's a little picture of my mom that I cut out, like, a million years ago. That's why I always wear it.
Something's still missing. Lipstick. Black or red?
Oh, I forgot. I grab up ElecTrick Sex and open it. Why not?
After I put it on, I take a step back and look at myself in the mirror again. It's a shock. Maybe that's the "ElecTrick" part.
The missing hair, the white clothes ... that made me look different enough. But now, with the lipstick, it's like I'm a completely different person. My lips look full and fierce. They shine and sparkle like they could shoot a lightning bolt up your ass. I pucker up like I'm going to kiss someone and imagine electricity shooting out of me. It's like I'm a superhero, but not a lame one.
It's totally different, but it's still me. In fact, it's closer to the real me than anything I've ever seen before. I never knew. I never could have imagined. I stand here and I almost start to cry because for the first time I'm looking in the mirror and holy shit
I recognize the person looking back at me.
Thank you, Makeup Lady. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I think I'm totally in love with you.
W
HEN
I
EMERGE INTO THE KITCHEN
, Roger is drinking his first of many coffees of the day. He looks up at me and then down at his newspaper and then totally looks up at me again.
"Good morning," I say, like nothing's happening.
"Morning," he says, and keeps staring. I go into the fridge for a yogurt, my shoulders all bunched and tight, ready for the arrow to go right between my shoulder blades.
"Kyra..."
"Yeah, what?"
"I can't believe I'm saying this..."
I pry off the foil on top of the yogurt. It splits in two. Why does it always do that?
"You look nice," Roger says.
I keep staring down at my yogurt. It's half uncovered. Lemon custard pie yogurt. My favorite. What did he just say?
"I don't know what it is ... I mean, the whole white thing and the hair thing really freaked me out, but ... I don't know. You look nice today."
Magic lipstick. Magic new outfit. I have powers. I look at him. He looks just as surprised as I am by what he's said.
"Thanks," I say while I shovel a spoonful of yogurt into my mouth. I don't know if he could hear me or understand me. Then I go out to the bus.
On the bus, people notice me. Well, they noticed me yesterday, too, but this time it's like they're really paying attention. I hate it and I like it at the same time. On the one hand, it's like, "Stop looking at me, you dickheads." And on the other hand, it's like, "Damn right you should look at me. This is what KICK-ASS looks like, you punks."
Is
that
why Simone dresses like a slut? I mean, beyond the fact that it totally advertises her availability. Does she love and hate the attention at the same time?
I pretend I'm reading my English book and that I'm totally unaware of everyone looking at me, and by the time we get to school, I've succeeded at ignoring them.
I head to the spot near the lunchroom where Simone will, hopefully, be waiting to join me in a morning cigarette so that I can give my lungs that sweet, sweet punishment they need before first bell rings.
But when I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.
Simone's waiting for me.
Jecca's with her.
And they...
They're both wearing
white.
Are you tired of the whole goth thing? You must be. I mean, people must think you're obsessed with it or something, so I imagine you get tired of it sometimes. It's like that scene in
Brief Lives,
where Delirium goes to a nightclub and thinks she sees her sister. And she goes to talk to her, but it turns out that the girl isn't Death; it's just some random goth chick who
looks
like Death. Was that your way of commenting on the whole goth trend? Were you trying to tell people that enough's enough and they should be themselves instead of trying to ape your character?
People think I'm a goth. But I'm not. I'm post-goth. I hang out with goths and they think they get me, but they really don't. But they're the closest thing I've got to people who
do
get me, so I stick with them.
See, goth was originally all about rebelling and being different. You'd be lucky to see two or three goths together at once. Now they're everywhere. There are, like, stores and stuff that cater to them. There's a website I found once that even does date matching for goths. Bakeries that make cakes with black icing...
It's all mainstream.
That's what I hate about this world: It takes everything unique and cool and interesting and makes it mainstream. There's an effing TV channel for everything. A website for everything. A section of the bookstore for everything.
I want to yell. I want to scream to the world: THIS IS NOT SOMETHING FOR YOU TO MARKET! THIS IS NOT SOMETHING FOR YOU TO SELL! THIS IS MY
LIFE!
THIS IS HOW I
FEEL!
There's no room left to be an individual. Everyone's part of a group. And it sucks.
So I invented post-goth. I made it up on my own and I didn't really tell anyone about it. I just did it and I knew—deep down—that I was different from the rest of the kids with their black clothes and their eyeshadow and their pale, pale faces. People thought I was the same, but I knew the truth.
Fifty-twoThat's all I wanted. To be myself. To be an individual. And to be left the hell alone.
"W
HAT DO YOU THINK
?" S
IMONE ASKS
, her voice bright and shiny. She and Jecca both pose like fashion models for me.
Simone's wearing white jeans that are so tight, I figure she can't possibly have room for underwear in there, but as she poses, her shirt lifts up and I can see the loop of a bright yellow thong encompassing her hip. She's got on short white boots and her shirt is so sheer that you can see every detail of her yellow bra right through it. She didn't go all the way—she still has her long black hair, but for the first time
ever
it's slicked back and tied in a ponytail and she's streaked it blond.
Jecca went about halfway. She's got on white sneaks and then black pants and then a top that's striped diagonally white and black. She went with white lipstick, though, so points for commitment there.
Simone holds out a pack of cigarettes. I'm frozen between taking one and staying, and freaking the hell out on them both.
My lungs win out—I take the cigarette and join them.
"Come on, what do you think?" Simone asks again, and Jecca nods and bobs next to her like a faithful puppy.
I think you're an effing bitch is what I think!
I want to say.
I think you've never had an original thought in your effing life and you just have to take what's mine, take my ideas, and then slut them up.
"The teachers are gonna bust you for being able to see through that shirt," I tell her instead.
She blows smoke. "Yeah, I know. I brought a jacket. It's white, too."
"Of course."
"We thought we would surprise you today," Jecca says.
I get a quick and intense flash of kissing her, our ElecTrick and white lips mashing together, leaving wet sky blue smudges on each other's faces.
God. Stop it.
Surprise me.
Hell.
"Well, it's a surprise."
They both grin. I can't stay angry at them.
Good thing I have someone else to be angry at.
S
IMONE DOESN'T EVEN MAKE IT
to homeroom before a teacher yanks her out of the hallway and into a room and gives her a bunch of crap for her see-through shirt and look-at-my-tits yellow bra. She acts all innocent and shit and puts on her white jacket, which is actually really cute, so I kinda hate her for that.
After homeroom, I run into Fanboy in the hall. His eyes light up and for a second there I forget that I'm supposed to be pissed at him, but don't worry—I remember right away.
"Hey, I brought that stuff you wanted," he says. He goes digging in his backpack and comes out with a big envelope. He hands it over. "Just, uh, don't let anyone see that stuff, OK? I mean, it's the old pages, you know?"
Just then someone walks by and slaps Fanboy on the shoulder. "Hey, man!"
"Hey" Fanboy tosses back over his shoulder. Holy shit. An actual living human being just said hi to Fanboy. I can't believe it. We truly live in an age of wonder.
"You're a popular guy," I tell him.
He shrugs. "People like
Schemata.
" We're both holding the envelope. I want to pull it from his hands and go running down the halls until I can find Michelle Jurgens. I picture myself running down the hall like a madwoman, a white and ElecTrick Sex blur, screaming, "I have naked drawings of Dina Jurgens! I have naked drawings of Dina Jurgens!"
"Anyway..." He releases the envelope. "Like I said, don't let anyone see this stuff. It's old and I don't want people to see, like, the work in progress, you know?"
"Oh, totally," I lie.
"Cool. Hey, you got a second?"
We're like five steps from my first-period class. "Sure."
He goes back into his backpack. "I meant to give you this yesterday, you know, at my house, but we got all distracted and stuff. So I brought it today. I bought it over the summer. I was at the store and I saw it and the guy told me about it and I thought of you and..."
Just when I think he's going to keep talking forever, he stops himself and pulls his hand out of his backpack. He holds out a comic book in a Mylar sleeve. It looks incredibly stupid—a superjerk is at the bottom, holding up some big block of stone that's crumbling all around him, which is, like, Superjerk Pose #108 or something. It has the mind-numbingly idiotic title
Captain Atom.
Right.
"You thought I might like it." Did his brain go on vacation while I was away?
"It's got Death in it. You know, Gaiman's Death. It's like the only time she appears outside of—"
"Right. Whatever."
"No, really, Kyra, I thought ... I don't know. I just thought you'd like it."
He's still holding it out to me. I think to myself,
I don't care
what
you thought. And wanna know why? I'll tell you why. Because you didn't care what I thought, that's why. I went away and you didn't call or anything and you didn't wait or anything. You just substituted Cal for me, like you were all, "Well, I don't have a chick, so I'll go for another token. What's the diff?" And then you just kept on with your comic and you didn't care that I was trying to help you, so why the eff should I care about
you?
I already have the envelope. I have everything I need.
I want to yell at him. I want to make him feel all the hurt
I've
been feeling, or at least the chunk of it that
he
caused. How can he be so clueless?
But I need to pretend still. I need to pretend.
So I take the comic.
"Gee, thanks," I say with so much fake sweetness that I can't believe he swallows it, but he does. The bell rings, and as soon as he turns away, I shove the comic book all the way in the bottom of my messenger bag, not caring if it gets wrinkled or torn or whatever.
I go to my first class. I sit there and steam the whole time. I have the original
Schemata
art. I've already won. I can destroy him. I can destroy him so easily...