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Zusatztext "Readers will love getting her side of the story, whether she is raging about sexism in letters to her hero, writer Neil Gaiman, or finally figuring out that the person she needs is "someone who appreciates not just what you do, but how you do it."-- Publishers Weekly "In this sequal to The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl (2006), Lyga dives with typical boldness into the complexity of teen emotions and, for the first time, the female perspective...it is Kyra's wholly believable questions and her forceful voice that will stay with readers."-- Booklist "It is a no-brainer that fans of the first book will eat this one up, but new readers will not have any trouble following the story as Lyga peppers this book with ample information from the first. Buy multiple copies of this one -- it will go out and get passed around -- and might not come back."-- VOYA, April 2010 Informationen zum Autor Barry Lyga is a recovering comic book geek and the author of many books, including The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Goth Girl, Goth Girl Rising, Boy Toy, and Hero-Type for HMH, Wolverine: Worst Day Ever for Marvel Books, and Archvillian for Scholastic . He has also written comic books about everything from sword-wielding nuns to alien revolutionaries. He worked as marketing manager at Diamond Comic Distributers for ten years. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.Visit Barry online at www.barrylyga.com. Klappentext Time is a funny thing in the hospital. In the mental ward. You lose track of it easily. After six months in the Maryland Mental Health Unit, Kyra Sellers, a.k.a. Goth Girl, is going home. Unfortunately, she's about to find out that while she was away, she lost track of more than time. Kyra is back in black, feeling good, and ready to make up with the only person who's ever appreciated her for who she really is. But then she sees him. Fanboy. Transcended from everything he was into someone she barely recognizes. And the anger and memories come rushing back. There's so much to do to people when you're angry. Kyra's about to get very busy. Leseprobe One My mother and I both spent a lot of time in hospitals. Unlike her, I survived. Before she went and died, my mom told me to stop bitching about my cramps all the time. "It’s nothing that every other woman on the planet hasn’t gone through," she said. And besides, she went on, your period is a good thing. It’s a sign that you’re alive and healthy. Easy for her to say—cancer was eating her lungs from the inside out, so what’s the big deal about some cramps, right? Still, I knew that what I was experiencing wasn’t right or normal. It wasn’t what other girls were feeling every month. (I know—I asked around.) Weird thing, though: After she died, my cramps sort of got better. It’s not like they went away; they just stopped being so intense and so consuming. I started to think that, OK, maybe this is what other girls felt. Like I had been abnormal before, but now I was somehow becoming normal, that now the world was working properly and everything was good and normal and usual. Everything except my mom’s face . . . My mom’s face before they closed the casket looked like a Barbie doll’s. A Barbie doll someone had left in the sandbox too long. All plasticky and too shiny, but somehow gray at the same time. And then one day after the funeral—it was a pretty nice day, too—I took a box cutter from my dad’s workshop and slashed across my wrist. It hurt, but not that much. Not bad at all. So I slashed the other one, too. And that’s how I ended up in the emergency room and then in front of a judge and then locked up in a mental hospital. That was my firs...
