The Astonishing Adventures of Fan Boy and Goth Girl by Barry Lyga Page B

That's
awesome.
You're my hero!"
    Her hero. God, I'm glad it's getting dark out, so that she can't see the look on my face. Mainly because I'm not sure
what
the look on my face is.
    "I overheard her saying to someone later that she felt bad that she didn't know about the turtles." I laugh, too, remembering. "Eventually, she figured out the truth. I figured she'd be pissed at me, but instead she said it was very creative—no kid-ding!—and asked me to write it up for her. I didn't know she was telling people about it."
    "See, that's what I meant before. People who are so stupid that they don't mind telling you that they're stupid."
    "Not everyone's like that." I can't believe I've met someone who hates people more than I do.
    She sits there for a minute, quiet. She lights up a cigarette, the flame bright in the darkness. Then she looks at me. "No, not everyone."
    I can't read her in the dark. She's all highlights—the lip ring, the stud in her nose, the sharp relief of her eyebrows against her colorless skin. It's too dark.
    Too dark.
    I look at my watch. It's eight-thirty.
    "Got a hot date?" she asks, gesturing at my watch.
    "No. I, uh..." I don't want to tell her that I told Mom I'd be home at eight. It's not like I'm a little kid. What's the big deal?
    "Do you have to get home?"
    "I told my mom eight..." There I go again, not lying.
    "Want to leave? Are you gonna get in trouble?"
    I can't imagine why. It's not like I'm out at two in the morning carjacking people. It's not even completely dark out yet, and I'm just sitting here, not hurting anyone.
    "We can hang a little while longer."
    She sighs. "Good."
    I sit and watch her while she gazes at the muddy park-that-never-was. I consider working up the courage to put my arm around her, maybe kiss her on the cheek, but who am I kidding?

Chapter Twenty
     
    A LITTLE WHILE LATER , we climb back into the car and head out onto Route 54. We need the headlights now, and the road is busy with mall traffic. Never did kiss her, of course, but that's OK.
    A minivan buzzes past us. I catch a glimpse of the rear bumper, and the sticker there.
    "I hate that."
    "What?" Kyra asks.
    I didn't realize I'd said it out loud.
    "Come on, you can tell me."
    "No, no, it's nothing."
    "It's something. You've got your arms crossed over your chest and you're looking all pissed. Was it the minivan? I hate those things, too."
    "Just let it rest."
    "Nah. I don't let things rest. Get real. What was it?"
    "You'll think it's stupid."
    She hums a bit to herself as we drive. "Probably. But tell me anyway."
    I sink down in my seat a little bit. Arms still crossed. I'm aware of how childishly defensive I must look, but I can't seem to help it. "It's stupid. It was the bumper sticker."
    "Bumper sticker?" I wait, but no laughter is forthcoming.
    "Yeah, the bumper sticker. It was one of those ones that says 'My kid can beat up—'"
    "'—your honor student,'" she finishes. "Yeah, I've seen 'em. They're stupid. Why do you let it get to you? Just because you're an honor student? Hate to break it you, but their kid probably
can
beat you up."
    "That's not it." And then, even though I don't intend to, I let it go. All of it. How for years I watched cars with bumper stickers shouting the praises of idiot football players and jackass soccer players, the same people who have made my life miserable since I was old enough to understand the word
miserable
(which was younger than you'd think). Seeing them and their ilk feted and toasted everywhere—on TV, in school, in books, in conversations, at picnics. It's like no one else in the world matters. Then, one day, someone decides to throw a little attention and a little validation in the direction of people like me, people who have one thing going for them in this world—their brains.
    "I mean," I tell her, "we live in a country that hates smart people. There's this absolutely virulent strain of anti-intellectualism that runs through America like a—"
    "Absolutely what of