He told me I'm a suicide wannabe.
He told me to try harder next time.
He wanted to kiss me.
He didn't kiss me.
He never told me his third thing.
There.
For all of those sins, he deserves pain.
Thirty-two
I GET DRESSED IN BLACK AGAIN and sneak out of the house. It's late. Roger's dead to the world.
It's friggin' freezing outside. It feels like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my newly naked head. I wrap my scarf around it and then put on a hat, but it's like I can still feel the cold. Maybe this wasn't such a bright idea. Oh, well. Too late now.
I need another car, but this one's easy. This late at night, I can always—and I mean always—rely on Mrs. Yingling, who lives up the street. She left her car out on the curb one time, with the keys still in the ignition. It was like that all night! It's like she was begging me to take it, like she'd left a note on it: Dear Kyra, Please steal my car for me. I have left the keys for you, with the door unlocked and a full tank of gas. Thanks! Mrs. Yingling.
So not only did I take it that one time—I also had a copy of the key made. So now when I need to get away, I swipe her car and it's easy. I don't do it all the time because she would start to notice, and the more you do it the better the chances that she'll wake up at three in the morning with a craving for Ben & Jerry's or something and decide to go to 7-Eleven and oops, where's my car?
But for now, I risk it. I slide right into the driver's seat like I belong there—and I do, I really do—and I start up the engine.
This is the most dangerous time. I always figure someone will hear the car starting deep in the ass-end of the night/morning and bang! Busted. But no one has ever come running out of the house screaming, "What the hell are you doing?"
And no one does tonight, either.
My heartbeat goes back to normal. I pull away from the curb and out of the neighborhood.
Why I Steal Cars
BECAUSE I CAN.
Duh.
Thirty-three
WHEN I DRIVE, I DON'T THINK. It's nice.
It's good. Because I don't want to think about Roger or Mom or Jecca or any of it.
I find myself driving somewhere without thinking about where I'm going. Before I realize it, I'm in Fanboy's neighborhood.
I park a couple of houses away and kill the engine and the lights.
That bastard.
That little bastard!
I helped him with Schemata! I helped him make it better, and does he even thank me? Does he put a little blurb in the effing magazine that says, "Special thanks to Kyra Sellers" or something like that?
No.
Nothing.
I sit here and I stew and I get angrier and angrier, and I think of something my mother told me once, which is that you get angriest at the ones you love. And thinking that just makes me even angrier! She told me that when she was dying. It was early on and the doctors were still all like, "We caught this late, but not too late," and "With the new treatments, you have decent odds, Mrs. Sellers," and shit like that.
(They were wrong. They were all, literally, dead wrong. Assholes.)
And I was angry at her all the time because ... Because ...
Because...
Because she deserved it.
Right?
She must have.
God, I can't believe I'm sitting here in a freezing car in the middle of the night, thinking about this shit! She must have deserved it, otherwise I wouldn't have been angry at her, right? And anyway, I don't love Fanboy. That's just ... That's stupid, OK? Love is stupid. It doesn't solve anything. It makes things worse.
Like, in Sandman, Morpheus falls in love with Thessaly, who's this total bad-ass witch. And she leaves him and he's all depressed, and because he's the Lord of Dreams, the whole world gets bad dreams.
Who needs that?
And then, later, there's this bit with Nuala, the little faerie girl who's in love with Morpheus. And Morpheus is in trouble because the Kindly Ones are coming to kill him and Nuala sort of blurts out to her brother, "Morpheus is in dire need and he doesn't love me!" And her brother is all like, "Well, would it be better if he was in dire need and did love you?" That's just great. That's one of my favorite panels in the whole comic because it's so true. It's like, have some perspective, you know? Whether or not Morpheus loved you, he's still going to die. Love doesn't stop the world. Love doesn't change the world.
Love just makes you think that the world can get better or be better.
My phone beeps at me. I flip it open and there's a text from Jecca: want 2 come over?
I close my eyes for a second. Just a second. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like. With Jecca. To go farther. To be naked with her, maybe. What would it be like to feel her skin? Her skin against mine? What would that be like? To let her—maybe to ... to let her go down on me. What would that be like?
I shiver. It's effing freezing in this car!
I know what Jecca wants. I'm not going. Not after all of that crap about Brad before.
I'm all cold and shivery, but I'm also burning up because I'm pissed. I'm twice as pissed as I was before. I'm mad at all of them—Jecca, Roger, Mom ... but Fanboy especially. Oh, yeah.
Mrs. Yingling has a little notebook and a pen in one of her cupholders. I tear out a sheet of paper and write something quickly. Then, before I can change my mind, I hop out of the car and walk to Fanboy's house.
The wind picks up and my head feels like a dome-shaped ice cube, even under the scarf and hat.
There are no lights on at Fanboy's house. Three cars in the driveway. That's new. One of them is new to me—an old junker from, like, the nineties. That must be Fanboy's. He turned sixteen while I was away. Someone got him a car.
How sweet.
Maybe I should forget about the note and just key the hell out of his car instead...
Nah. He wouldn't even be able to tell. And I want him to know. I want him to know someone was here.
I look at the note again: "I know what you did!—D.J."
D.J. Dina Jurgens.
That ought to mess with his head.
Unless...
What if Dina found out about him using her in Schemata... and didn't care? I mean, if someone had based a character on me and then drew that character in lingerie and having sex with her husband and did all kinds of stuff exploring sexuality and fantasy ... I would be pissed. But what if Dina thought it was flattering?
Oh my God. Is that even possible?
No. No way. What are you thinking, Kyra? Dina is hot and popular. When you're hot and popular, you're not flattered by geeks who lust after you. You're disgusted by it. I see how the hot girls look at the non-hot boys—like they're rats or mice or cockroaches or other gross things.
I tuck the note under his windshield wiper and then run like hell back to my temporary car.
This isn't going to do it, though. Leaving him a note from Dina will mess with his head, yeah, but it won't punish him.
I don't have any choice. If I really want to hurt him, I have to become his friend again.
Thirty-four
I CLIMB INTO BED AND FALL ASLEEP and five seconds later my alarm goes off and I have to be up for school.
I dress in my new white clothes and leave my head exposed. Roger says nothing to me when we bump into each other in the kitchen. He's nicked himself a couple of times shaving and he looks like he barely slept at all last night. It's a whole new expression: beyond Sad, Tired and all the way to Exhausted and Crushed.
Since he's not saying anything to me, I don't say anything to him, either. I just eat some toast—with napkins all over me so that I don't get anything on the white clothes (wearing white is hard!)—and then get out of the house.
On the bus, I get all kinds of stares. It's like I've gone back in time or something, back to when I first started the whole dyed-hair/bleached-face/black clothes thing. I remember the looks I
got then, too. Looks and little whispered comments, like right now.
I don't care.
When I was a little kid, I always thought that people who made themselves look different, who stood out, were freaks. The navel rings and the pink hair and the tattoos and the nose rings and the buzzcuts and the strange eyeshadow. Why would anyone want to stand out? I was shy—I just wanted to be left alone.
Then Mom died...
I realized something one day, pretty much by accident. I realized this:
Standing out ... sometimes it makes people stay away. They might laugh or gossip, but they stay away and that's what I wanted.
That's what I've always wanted.
Like right now. People are talking, but they're staying away. They're not asking questions. And that's good.
It lasts pretty much until I get to school and connect with Simone in our usual spot near the lunchroom.
"Whoa! Kyra! What the hell?"
Simone is decked out in her typical "no, really, I'm a goth" outfit—black pleated skirt, torn fishnets, chunky boots, and a halter top that would totally get her sent home to change clothes if she weren't also wearing a denim jacket over it. (Simone loves to play layer games at school, peeling stuff off for as long as she can, then covering up when a teacher bitches.)
"What the hell! Check you out," she says. She doesn't even ask for permission—she just reaches out and rubs my head. "Smooth."
"Yeah, I know." I duck away from her hand. "It's still kinda sensitive."
"Sorry. So, like, why? What the hell were you thinking?"
It's like she's my dad. Wish I had an answer to that one. I do a lot of stuff without really thinking about it ahead of time. "I just felt like making a change."
She takes a step back and tilts her head to one side. "Damn. You look bih-zarre, Kyra, with a capital 'Bih.' Doesn't she, Jecca?"
Jecca comes around from behind me, her eyes wide. "Holy shit, Kyra!"
I can't help it—I'm kinda psyched to get a rise out of her, after all the Brad talk.
"What the hell?" Like Simone, she goes for the head rub, but I'm ready for it and I duck. I don't want her touching me.
"It's a little sensitive," Simone says, as wise as the world.
"What is with you? This is really different," Jecca says. She can't stop staring at me. "Hey, have you ever worn that shade before?"
Who calls white a "shade"? And then I realize she means my lipstick—I'm wearing the really deep red. It's called Vital Vermeil.
"Yeah, a few times."
"Your boobs look bigger," Simone says, eyeing my chest like she's at the meat counter.
"Great. Just what I needed." I sort of slump forward and hold my books over my chest.
"Kyra, when you've got 'em, you gotta use 'em." Simone throws her shoulders back and Jecca does the same and a boy walking by almost trips and collides with the guy he's walking with. Simone and Jecca laugh.
"I didn't realize the white wouldn't hide things as much," I tell them. "I need to get the next size up next time."
Simone's eyes light up. "Hey, I'll drive us to the mall after school. You can get something there."
Jecca checks her watch. "We have time for a smoke before the bell."
"Yeah, I gotta go, though—I have something I have to do." She looks sort of disappointed, which makes me happy because ofBrad.
And then I'm off, looking for Fanboy.
Thirty-five
PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW AND PEOPLE I do know suddenly have something in common—they all stare at my bald head as I thread through the halls. A bunch of people reach out to touch it, like they're in a horror movie and my head's some alien egg they found somewhere. Hands off, assholes! I don't just think it.
I find Fanboy at his locker. It's total luck on my part—I'm headed for his homeroom and I happen to see him.
I feel all sorts of shit welling up inside me. I'm angry at him. Pissed that he never tried to get in touch with me while I was away.
But there's something else, too. I can't help it—my heart kind of does a little flippy-floppy thing, and I don't know what to do with that.
I should say something, but my mouth doesn't work. So I just stand still and watch him. He's gotten a little bit taller, which just stretches him out and makes him ganglier. But it's cool because there's something new, too. I don't know what it is. His shoulders aren't slumped as much. It's like he's growing up.
He shuts his locker, spins the combo lock, and looks over at me. There's absolutely nothing in his eyes except for that quick assessment guys do, that fast little dart up and down. I still have my books over my chest, so he's getting nothing there.
"Uh, hi," he says, and flashes me a little grin before turning and starting to walk away. He has no idea who I am.
"Hi yourself," I tell his back.
He stops dead in his tracks. Turns to me.
"Holy..." His eyes get real wide, searching me all over, like he's looking for me in fog. "Kyra? Kyra?"
"Who the hell else did you think it was, Fanboy?"
"Oh, my God! You look ... you look amazing!"
I grin at him and his face splits in a huge smile as he rushes to me. I figure he's going to try to manhandle my dome, like everyone else, but instead he throws out his arms to hug me. There's a second when I'm ready to let him do it, too, when I'm ready to let him put his arms around me and hug me and—who knows?—maybe make me feel as comfortable and as safe as I do with Jecca.
But I can't let that happen. I step back.
"Hey, watch it. Who said you get to touch?"
"Oh. Oh." He catches himself and stands there for a funny moment, his arms still out, before dropping them to his sides. "I'm sorry. I just ... I just ... Wow. You look ... Well, you look awesome, Kyra. Different. But amazing."
"Don't sling the bullshit my way, Fanboy. I look like a freak."
"No. Uh-uh." He shakes his head like a spaz. "You look awesome. Seriously."
"It's OK. I like looking like a freak."
He gives up. "When did you come back to school?"
"A couple of days ago."
His smile goes away. He looks like a puppy that's just been kicked. "But ... why didn't you call me? Or text me? Or come see me?"
I force myself to keep grinning. I want to grab him by the shoulders and throw him against the lockers and shout, "Shut the eff up, you asshole! Why didn'tI call you? I was gone for months and you didn't send me so much as a single effing e-mail!"
But instead I remind myself of my mission: Get close to him. Destroy him. "Been busy. Getting back into shit. Catching up."
"Oh. Sure. Yeah. I get it. I've been busy, too."
Before I can say anything, he flashes me a smile. It's totally ... disarming. I didn't expect it. Not from him. He was always sort of cute in a shy, geeky way, but now it's like he doesn't hate himself or something. It's like he's not afraid to smile at someone, and that just totally smashes my brain.
"I'm really glad to see you!" He practically shouts it, and I can tell by the way he's twitching that he wants to hug me so bad. And I have to admit—I want him to. It really sort of surprises me, how bad I want it.
It's a great moment. It really is. He wants me and I want him to want me, and that's terrific and liberating, so of course—of course—I go and ruin it, because that's what I do.
"So, still got three things you want more than anything?" I ask him with a sneer. (I know I'm sneering because my lip ring always bumps my cheek when I sneer.)
It stops him cold. "Well, gosh, Kyra..."
"'Gosh, Kyra...' Shut the eff up."
He doesn't react the way he's supposed to. He doesn't go all quiet and timid and Fanboy-y. Instead, he just ... grins. He grins at me.
"'Eff'?" he says. "What the hell. Are you afraid to say—"
"Shut up! I don't say that word!"
And we stare at each other. How the hell did this happen? How did he end up questioning me? How did I end up on the defensive?
He shrugs. "O
K. Cool. That's fine."
He's way too relaxed. What happened to him in the last six months? I have to chill out. I'm supposed to be his friend again.
"Sorry," I say, and it takes every last ounce of strength I have in me to say it.
"It's OK," he says. "I'm just glad you're back from ... you know."
Yeah. Yeah, I know.
The hospital.
Where I was DCHH.
DCHH
I STARTED OUT IN THERAPY TWICE a week when I was in the hospital. Three times, really, if you count Group. But in the beginning I saw Dr. Kennedy twice a week—Mondays and Thursdays. Group was on Wednesdays, so Thursdays were usually just a chance for me to bitch about Group. Because the people in Group were this crew of burnouts and idiots who let their boyfriends beat them up and shit like that. Why was I in with that crowd?
"Because you can learn from them," Kennedy told me every week. And for some reason—even though it was total bullshit—I believed him when he said it and I didn't hate him for saying it and I wanted it to be true even though it wasn't.
I didn't hate Kennedy. That was pretty weird in and of itself, because I basically hated everyone in the hospital: the effed-up patients, the retarded orderlies, the clueless asshats who ran Group, and the nurses.
Especially the nurses.
I hate how on TV shows and shit they always make the nurses like these effing angels of mercy. It's all bull. The nurses treated me like crap. Like I was something they saw on the hood of their car when they came out of the house in the morning and they just didn't have time to deal with it.
"What's D-C-double-H?" I asked Kennedy one day.
For the first time since I'd met him, he flinched. He looked like I'd jabbed him with a hot fork. I felt good about that for, like, half a second, and then I felt really bad about feeling good because it was Kennedy, not some useless douchebag.
"Where did you hear that?" he asked, but he asked it in that weird way people have when they already know the answer. Like he was stalling for time because he didn't want to answer.