Read Online The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl by Barry Lyga - Free Book Online
Authors: Barry Lyga
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here. Her hair is blond, though, and she has it tied back, but otherwise she's the same. Her blouse is a little bigger, though, because it's hanging off her shoulder, which is tan, for some reason, and she gives me that grin, the one that makes the ring in her lip move, and it's not Kyra. How could I think it was Kyra? It's Dina Jurgens. In my house. In my
bedroom.
I'm looking right at her, staring, really, watching her straight on, not out of the corner of my eye, not a furtive, stolen glance. I'm
studying
her,
memorizing
her. For the first time, I don't have to look away, and, God, she's more beautiful than I thought, more perfect than I ever imagined. She's curves and arcs, flesh poetry written in sines and cosines and the special geometries reserved for the circumference of a thigh, the radius of a breast, the perimeter of a mouth, curving just right. She's coming closer, getting onto the bed, walking across it on her knees, toward me.
I wake up just before she touches me. Typical.
I lie in bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The lights are on. Did I fall asleep? Or was it some sort of waking dream? And why do I always wake up just before the good parts? Is it because I have no experience for my brain to access to mimic that?
The bullet fell out of my hand during the dream; it glints from the floor next to my backpack. I reach out to pick it up and notice my English paper sticking out of my bag. Mrs. Hanscomb's large "99%" gets a smile from me ... until I remember Kyra saying that she'd like to see 99 percent of the school dead.
She can't possibly be serious, can she? She must have just been engaging in hyperbole. That's all.
My IM program chirps for my attention. Since it's a weekend night, I don't have to bother with the plastic over the door and turning down the volume; Mom doesn't mind me staying up on the weekends. I slip into my chair and drop the bullet next to the keyboard.
Promethea387:
How's it going?
Xian Walker76:
Fine. How are you?
Promethea387:
How's your shoulder?
I pump my arm a couple of times. Not sure why, but that's what tough guys in movies do when people ask them how their arms are. The spot where Frampton used me as a piñata for two days straight is less purple now, more yellow. Tender to the touch, but not painful.
Xian Walker76:
It feels OK. Just bruised.
Promethea387:
What are you doing tomorrow?
I shrug, which is stupid because she can't see me. What's the right answer to that? Say "nothing" and I'm a loser. Make something up and I miss out on whatever she's getting at. Whoever thought I'd have this problem?
My IM bings again, which is annoying.
Give me a second,
I start to type, but then I see why it chirped: It's from another user.
IamaChildMolester:
hey man guess what
Oh, crap. The window with my conversation with Kyra glares at me like a collection of angry relatives, her last question particularly annoyed. Cal's window is a pesky kid cousin, tugging at my leg and whining, "See what I did? See what I did?"
Xian Walker76:
Give me your phone number?
Promethea387:
Why? I know where you live. I'll stop by at noon. Later.
I shut down the last window and breathe a sigh of relief. That was stupid. Why didn't I just tell Cal I was talking to someone else? Why didn't I just ask Kyra to hold on for a second?
As usual, I skim through the chat logs quickly to make sure I didn't say anything too stupid. It also helps to refresh my memory in case I made up some sort of little helper lie. I wince at the glitches where I cut-and-pasted to save time. "ves's." That would be Vesentine's house.
Noon. She'll pick me up at noon. What
is
this? Is she my girlfriend or something? She
did
call me noble.
I pick up the bullet and toss it up and down a few times. I don't understand the world at all.
Chapter Fifteen
L ATER THAT MORNING , after an uncharacteristic five hours of sleep, I tell Mom that I'm going out for a little while.
"Where are you going? I can't drive you today. I
bedroom.
I'm looking right at her, staring, really, watching her straight on, not out of the corner of my eye, not a furtive, stolen glance. I'm
studying
her,
memorizing
her. For the first time, I don't have to look away, and, God, she's more beautiful than I thought, more perfect than I ever imagined. She's curves and arcs, flesh poetry written in sines and cosines and the special geometries reserved for the circumference of a thigh, the radius of a breast, the perimeter of a mouth, curving just right. She's coming closer, getting onto the bed, walking across it on her knees, toward me.
I wake up just before she touches me. Typical.
I lie in bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The lights are on. Did I fall asleep? Or was it some sort of waking dream? And why do I always wake up just before the good parts? Is it because I have no experience for my brain to access to mimic that?
The bullet fell out of my hand during the dream; it glints from the floor next to my backpack. I reach out to pick it up and notice my English paper sticking out of my bag. Mrs. Hanscomb's large "99%" gets a smile from me ... until I remember Kyra saying that she'd like to see 99 percent of the school dead.
She can't possibly be serious, can she? She must have just been engaging in hyperbole. That's all.
My IM program chirps for my attention. Since it's a weekend night, I don't have to bother with the plastic over the door and turning down the volume; Mom doesn't mind me staying up on the weekends. I slip into my chair and drop the bullet next to the keyboard.
Promethea387:
How's it going?
Xian Walker76:
Fine. How are you?
Promethea387:
How's your shoulder?
I pump my arm a couple of times. Not sure why, but that's what tough guys in movies do when people ask them how their arms are. The spot where Frampton used me as a piñata for two days straight is less purple now, more yellow. Tender to the touch, but not painful.
Xian Walker76:
It feels OK. Just bruised.
Promethea387:
What are you doing tomorrow?
I shrug, which is stupid because she can't see me. What's the right answer to that? Say "nothing" and I'm a loser. Make something up and I miss out on whatever she's getting at. Whoever thought I'd have this problem?
My IM bings again, which is annoying.
Give me a second,
I start to type, but then I see why it chirped: It's from another user.
IamaChildMolester:
hey man guess what
Oh, crap. The window with my conversation with Kyra glares at me like a collection of angry relatives, her last question particularly annoyed. Cal's window is a pesky kid cousin, tugging at my leg and whining, "See what I did? See what I did?"
Xian Walker76:
Give me your phone number?
Promethea387:
Why? I know where you live. I'll stop by at noon. Later.
I shut down the last window and breathe a sigh of relief. That was stupid. Why didn't I just tell Cal I was talking to someone else? Why didn't I just ask Kyra to hold on for a second?
As usual, I skim through the chat logs quickly to make sure I didn't say anything too stupid. It also helps to refresh my memory in case I made up some sort of little helper lie. I wince at the glitches where I cut-and-pasted to save time. "ves's." That would be Vesentine's house.
Noon. She'll pick me up at noon. What
is
this? Is she my girlfriend or something? She
did
call me noble.
I pick up the bullet and toss it up and down a few times. I don't understand the world at all.
Chapter Fifteen
L ATER THAT MORNING , after an uncharacteristic five hours of sleep, I tell Mom that I'm going out for a little while.
"Where are you going? I can't drive you today. I
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