Read Online The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl by Barry Lyga - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barry Lyga
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have to go—"
"Don't worry about it." I can finesse this—she's busy, so she's not paying 100 percent attention to me. She's sitting at the kitchen table, some sort of catalog of baby stuff open before her. The pages are dog-eared and plastered with Post-its. Outside, the step-fascist is making loud, unnatural sounds with a chainsaw and the pile of wood behind the shed. Every few seconds, the saw makes a noise that sounds almost like a human yelp: "Weee-ow!"
"Don't worry about it?" She turns away from the catalog. "Where are you going?"
I actually don't know. "Around. Just hanging around."
"With
who?
cal?"
"No."
"Then with
who?
"
"Jeez, Mom, a friend, OK? What's the big deal?" Finesse is not an option, apparently.
Mom gnaws on her bottom lip. "A friend?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"Her name's—"
"Her?"
"Can I finish? Her name's Kyra."
"Kyra. How did you meet her?"
That's one story that wouldn't go over well. Anything that starts with "I met her on the Internet" is just a bad idea. "She goes to school with me."
"How come you've never mentioned her before?"
"Mom! Do I have to tell you
every
thing?" Oh, crap. That was the
wrong
thing to say. Mom's eyes narrow.
"What else aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing, Mom. I just met her a few days ago, that's all."
"Is she coming over
here?
" Mom has some sort of bizarre, paranoid reaction to people coming to our house. She doesn't even like it when my grandparents come over. She likes it to be her, the step-fascist, and, I guess, me. I think it's because back in our old neighborhood people used to stop by uninvited all the time, knocking at the front door, showing up on the porch, faces pressed to the kitchen door. I liked it—it was fun, having people show up all the time. But Mom hated it. She said she felt like she was living in a fishbowl, like she had no privacy. "I couldn't even come home from the supermarket," I heard her tell the step-fascist once, "without the phone ringing with ten people asking what I bought and what I was fixing for dinner."
So, part of my job as son is to quell her terror. "No, Mom. She's just picking me up."
"She drives? She's older than you?"
Oh, for God's sake, why do I keep screwing this up with the truth? "Yeah, she's a year older and she has her license. We're going to the comic book store over in Canterstown. I
never
get to go there and it's a lot better than Space Bazaar." There.
"She's a year older than you..."
"Yes."
"And she's a new friend?"
"Yes, Mom."
Mom smiles. "That's great, honey. That's really great. See, I
told
you you'd make new friends here."
It must be nice to be able to ignore reality the way my mother does; we've lived in Brookdale for six years, ever since the divorce, when she moved me away from my school and my friends. Ever since then, every time I've asked to have a friend from my old neighborhood come over or spend a weekend, she's gone into her paranoia mode and told me, "You'll make new friends here." Six years, and I've made exactly two friends and she thinks that's a good track record. Unreal.
I've got an hour before Kyra gets here. I don't know if this is a date or what. I don't know anything. But best foot forward and all that. I shower, mess around with some of Mom's mousse until I get my hair looking sort of like something that might one time have been on TV, spritz a bunch of cologne all over. I check myself in the mirror: Shave or not? Clean-cut look or rough stubble guy? And does the stubble really look rough and cool, or is it just sloppy? Can I do a goatee or not?
Better safe than sorry: I shave. Very carefully, so as not to nick myself.
Clothes. I look at the clock. Twenty minutes to go. Casual or what? Goth Girl won't care about neatness, right? It's warm out, so I go with olive green shorts, a yellow T-shirt, and a red golf shirt over top. Layers make me look less skinny.
By five of noon, I'm heading out the door. Mom shouts,
"When are you coming back?"
Beats the hell out of me. "Eight!" I
"Don't worry about it." I can finesse this—she's busy, so she's not paying 100 percent attention to me. She's sitting at the kitchen table, some sort of catalog of baby stuff open before her. The pages are dog-eared and plastered with Post-its. Outside, the step-fascist is making loud, unnatural sounds with a chainsaw and the pile of wood behind the shed. Every few seconds, the saw makes a noise that sounds almost like a human yelp: "Weee-ow!"
"Don't worry about it?" She turns away from the catalog. "Where are you going?"
I actually don't know. "Around. Just hanging around."
"With
who?
cal?"
"No."
"Then with
who?
"
"Jeez, Mom, a friend, OK? What's the big deal?" Finesse is not an option, apparently.
Mom gnaws on her bottom lip. "A friend?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"Her name's—"
"Her?"
"Can I finish? Her name's Kyra."
"Kyra. How did you meet her?"
That's one story that wouldn't go over well. Anything that starts with "I met her on the Internet" is just a bad idea. "She goes to school with me."
"How come you've never mentioned her before?"
"Mom! Do I have to tell you
every
thing?" Oh, crap. That was the
wrong
thing to say. Mom's eyes narrow.
"What else aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing, Mom. I just met her a few days ago, that's all."
"Is she coming over
here?
" Mom has some sort of bizarre, paranoid reaction to people coming to our house. She doesn't even like it when my grandparents come over. She likes it to be her, the step-fascist, and, I guess, me. I think it's because back in our old neighborhood people used to stop by uninvited all the time, knocking at the front door, showing up on the porch, faces pressed to the kitchen door. I liked it—it was fun, having people show up all the time. But Mom hated it. She said she felt like she was living in a fishbowl, like she had no privacy. "I couldn't even come home from the supermarket," I heard her tell the step-fascist once, "without the phone ringing with ten people asking what I bought and what I was fixing for dinner."
So, part of my job as son is to quell her terror. "No, Mom. She's just picking me up."
"She drives? She's older than you?"
Oh, for God's sake, why do I keep screwing this up with the truth? "Yeah, she's a year older and she has her license. We're going to the comic book store over in Canterstown. I
never
get to go there and it's a lot better than Space Bazaar." There.
"She's a year older than you..."
"Yes."
"And she's a new friend?"
"Yes, Mom."
Mom smiles. "That's great, honey. That's really great. See, I
told
you you'd make new friends here."
It must be nice to be able to ignore reality the way my mother does; we've lived in Brookdale for six years, ever since the divorce, when she moved me away from my school and my friends. Ever since then, every time I've asked to have a friend from my old neighborhood come over or spend a weekend, she's gone into her paranoia mode and told me, "You'll make new friends here." Six years, and I've made exactly two friends and she thinks that's a good track record. Unreal.
I've got an hour before Kyra gets here. I don't know if this is a date or what. I don't know anything. But best foot forward and all that. I shower, mess around with some of Mom's mousse until I get my hair looking sort of like something that might one time have been on TV, spritz a bunch of cologne all over. I check myself in the mirror: Shave or not? Clean-cut look or rough stubble guy? And does the stubble really look rough and cool, or is it just sloppy? Can I do a goatee or not?
Better safe than sorry: I shave. Very carefully, so as not to nick myself.
Clothes. I look at the clock. Twenty minutes to go. Casual or what? Goth Girl won't care about neatness, right? It's warm out, so I go with olive green shorts, a yellow T-shirt, and a red golf shirt over top. Layers make me look less skinny.
By five of noon, I'm heading out the door. Mom shouts,
"When are you coming back?"
Beats the hell out of me. "Eight!" I
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