by Michael S. Fedison

"What are you holding?"

"Oh," he said. "It's a comic. Spider-Man number twenty-eight. Classic issue. First appearance of The Molten Man."

Peter saw Tanya's good eye roll.

"Why don't you just rent the movie, you dork?" she said, and he thought he heard a faint echo of her old playfulness. But then, maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"The movie's not the same," he said. "Besides, The Molten Man isn't in it."

"Lemme see that for a second," Tanya said.

He handed her the comic.

"Boy, this is beat. Why would you want a rag like this?" She was still hiding the right side of her face from him.

"Well," he said, "the main reason is it's affordable. But I like it like that, too. I mean, smell it."

She put the comic to her nose and sniffed.

"Whaddaya think?" he said. "Pretty awesome, huh?"

"Smells like dust and mouse turds," she said. "Why don't you just get the new ones?"

"I do," he said. "But they aren't nearly as good. You just can't beat a classic old Spider-Man or Fantastic Four. And you know what? I like that it's beat up. Some guys will only buy a comic if it's in mint condition-one little scratch, and they won't even look at it. It's gotta be perfect, y'know? And they won't read it, either. They'll just store it away somewhere, or maybe sell it to somebody else."

"But you're not like that." He wasn't sure if she was complimenting him or insulting him.

"No way," he said. "I mean, I couldn't be, even if I wanted to. Like that Spidey there-" he pointed to the issue in his sister's hands-"it's over forty years old. If that was in nice shape, it would cost four, five hundred bucks, easy. I'd never be able to buy it. But that's not even the biggest thing. I know it sounds weird, but I like it to be rough, I like the creases and the scuff marks. They make it more mine, y'know? More special."

"More special?" she said. "You're right, Peter, that does sound weird. Even for you."

He smiled. "I don't really know how to explain it," he said. "I just love the stories, that's all. You don't get the comics I do for the way they look. You get 'em to read the stories. And the stories in those old comics are the best. They're like magic."

She put the comic on the nightstand beside her bed. "Look," she said, "thanks for coming in here, Peter, but I really do want to be alone, okay?"

"Okay." He stood up. "You'll be going back to college in January, won't you?" he said, surprising himself. He had intended just to walk out without saying anything else.

"I don't know," Tanya said. "I want to. I mean, I really like it, y'know? I like my classes and stuff, but . . . I just, I . . . don't know."

"I hope you do," he said. "They'll be missing a lot if you don't go back."

"Will they? I didn't know they missed seeing freaks every day."

"Tanya --"

"Oh, I can see it now. First day back to classes, and as I walk in, everyone just stares. Maybe even a few run away screaming. Oh, yeah, I'll be missed all right! Sure!"

"No, Tanya, you've got it all wrong. You --"

"Look at my face!" she shrieked, and she finally exposed the right side of her face to him. It wasn't a surprise -- he had just seen it yesterday when Tanya was in the kitchen pouring herself a bowl of cereal. But it still shocked him. He wondered if it always would. She wore a white patch over her right eye. The dog had bitten into it, destroying it and robbing it of any usefulness. Two scars snaked angrily down from the patch. One of them cut across to her ear. The other twisted down to the right side of her mouth, forcing her lip into a contorted, clownish sneer. More scars lined the ruined flesh of her cheek. She looked like the survivor of a terrible knife fight. What must her face have looked like before? Peter thought, and shuddered. Before the five surgeries, before even the first surgery? What did it look like on that night, when the dog ripped into it? What did it look like then?

Peter turned away from his sister's face.

"See?" she said. She was crying now. "Even you can't look at me. My own brother! What do you think the people in my classes will do?"

He forced himself to look at her. A fat teardrop seeped out from under her eye patch, slowly working its way over her scars. She wiped it away.

"I used to be pretty," she said. "Well, maybe not pretty, but normal at least!" No, Peter thought. No, Tanya. You were pretty. You were beautiful. "Now what am I? I'm a monster! A freakshow! I hate my face! I can't even look in the mirror anymore, and it hurts. It hurts so bad all the time. It hurts even to talk and to chew. My God, it hurts!"

That was all she could say. She just cried then, burying her face in the pillow. Peter stood there a moment longer, wishing he could help but knowing he couldn't. He left. As he closed the door on his way out, he noticed his comic on her nightstand. He had forgotten to take it.

* * *

He couldn't get to sleep that night, couldn't stop thinking about Tanya. He had never really been too close with her, and they often fought, but it wasn't so bad. They got along all right, when you really looked at it. The thing was, he had often been a little jealous of her. She was always so popular. Ever since he could remember, boys had flipped over her. Peter? He was sixteen and hadn't even been on a date yet. He recalled one day, about three years ago, when Tanya had still been a junior in high school. Four boys had come over, all at different times. She sent them all away, but that wasn't the point. He wished he could have even one-tenth of her popularity. But now, he wouldn't trade places with her for all the money in the world.

He remembered when their Aunt Helen came to visit from across the country. She had looked at Tanya, then a little girl, cupped her face in her hands, and said, "You are so pretty, Tanya, do you know that? You have the face of an angel. The boys are gonna be after you like flies on butter."

Aunt Helen's voice reverberated in Peter's mind as he looked out his bedroom window into the cold October night. You have the face of an angel. Now what did she have? Half of an angel's face? That was the worst thing. The left side of Tanya's face was just as smooth, just as flawless as ever. It seemed to Peter that Tanya might have been better off if both sides of her face had been scarred. The way it was now, it just seemed like a taunt-the good side laughing at the bad side.

He went to his dresser and pulled out another of his old comics. He brought it to his nose and smelled the musty smell he had always loved. But now it only made him think of fallen leaves rotting in stormdrains.

* * *

Tanya's boyfriend came over the next day. He had seen her at the hospital after the bandages had been removed, and he had looked pale. Now, he went up to her room, was in there all of five minutes, and then he raced back downstairs. He said good-bye quickly to Peter's mother, and left. Peter knew they'd never see him again. He wasn't sure if he hated Tanya's boyfriend or sympathized with him.