by Robin Reul
“Yeah, probably,” I tell her and shift my weight between my feet.
“Well, think about it. Just don’t tell your dad. It’ll be our little secret.” She holds her index finger to her lips. “Everybody doesn’t have to know everything about everybody’s personal business, right?”
I nod. I like Monica. There’s something about her that I feel like I can trust. She understands that people have secrets. She gets that things don’t always make sense and people have to compromise to get by.
My mind is swimming with images of everything I just saw at Peyton’s: the messed-up yard, the burning Barbies, Peyton’s mom’s drunk boyfriend grabbing her like that. If I don’t say something I’m going to explode.
“So…can I ask you something?”
“Sure, anything.” She angles her rearview mirror, checks her teeth for lipstick, and rubs blush on her cheeks.
“What if you saw something that didn’t seem right? Like, someone could be in danger, but you don’t know the whole story. Do you tell someone?”
“Well, I think the first thing you have to do is find out the whole story. Can you ask this person what’s goin’ on?”
I shake my head and dig my hands in my pockets. “I don’t actually know her that well. Plus, I don’t know if she’d even want to tell me.”
“What kind of danger exactly? Is someone trying to kill her? Is she suicidal?” Monica raises her eyebrows and her mouth hangs open a little.
“Nothing like that, just… I don’t know. Forget it. It’s probably nothing. Like I said, I don’t know the whole story, and the truth is I don’t want to get involved. But…this person involved me, so now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“Look, sometimes shit goes down between other people and the best thing you can do is stay clear. It can get messy. Trust me, I know from personal experience. I didn’t leave home and become an exotic dancer because it was my life’s dream or somethin’. But one day, I’m gonna finish gettin’ my cosmetology license and have my own salon and leave dancin’ behind. Sometimes life delivers more than you can handle, but survival is a strong instinct.”
“Right. So since we’re basically strangers, I can walk away and not feel like a total douche, right?”
“Only you can answer that, Hank. I’m a fan of stayin’ out of other people’s shit. You are less likely to create expectations. And people never live up to those. So if you don’t know this girl and you don’t really care, then I say step off. Otherwise, you could be signin’ up for a whole lotta drama.”
I nod as she winks at me and kicks the car into reverse. The gravel crunches under her wheels as she backs down the driveway, shooting pebbles in all directions. She sticks her hand out the window and shakes one of her red nipple tassels in the air, waving good-bye as she drives down the street.
Dad’s still not home so I grab a soda from the fridge and head upstairs. I lie back on my bed to read the Shakespeare crap that’s due tomorrow in English, but my mind keeps drifting to this afternoon.
Picturing Peyton’s face when her mom’s boyfriend came outside.
The way Pete talked to her.
The way she’s put on this big, mouthy show whenever I’ve seen her, but clammed right up around him.
Wondering what happened when he dragged her inside.
I don’t want to think about Peyton. I don’t want to get in the middle of some crazy girl’s life and problems—I have enough of my own—but a nagging voice in my head tells me I should. That it’s the right thing to do. I just have to figure out exactly what I should do. So I reassure myself that there’s time to let it marinate and come up with a plan, that she’s not going anywhere anytime soon. But ironically, she does.
6
Peyton is not at school the next day. Or the day after that.
In fact, she’s not there for the rest of the week, and life is practically normal. She’s not showing up unexpectedly at my lunch table or lurking in the hallways or anything. It’s like she’s disappeared into thin air. While a part of me wonders where she is, I’m also relieved. I can finally breathe without worrying if my life is about to be turned upside down any second.
I’m in such a good mood that I don’t even mind when Kyle Jonas cracks yet another one-liner at my expense during gym. I just chuckle along with him and tell him he’s hilarious, which seems to rattle him. He waves his hand dismissively and takes off with his knucklehead simian buddies. Of course he takes his frustration out on me for the next half hour by throwing the dodgeball at me extra hard and always aiming for my balls. Fortunately, I’m quick on my feet.
“You have a serious death wish, man,” Nick tells me on our way to the locker room. His gym uniform is so oversize it makes him look even skinnier than he is, if that’s possible.
I wipe the sweat off my upper lip with the bottom of my gray school-issue tee and say, “I’m sick of putting up with that assclown.”
“He’s a fessacchione. Before you graduate you should find some way to get back at him.” Nick’s eyes light up, and he grins from ear to ear. “You could leave a pile of dead fish on the front seat of his car on a hot day. I saw that in a movie once.”
I laugh at the mental image. It’s glorious. “That would be pretty amazing except for the fact that the guy has a convertible, so it would never smell.”
“Trust me, you’d smell that shit two states over. Let me know if you’re ever interested. My dad’s friend owns a fish market. I could get you a good deal.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
We reach our lockers, and as we spin the dials on our combination locks, Nick asks me, “So did you hear about Amanda Carlisle?”
My mood perks up at the mention of her name. “No, what about her?”
“You know how some loser tried to burn down her house but she’s convinced it was all some romantic gesture?” He snickers.
I feel my cheeks get hot and redden. “Yeah. What a moron. The guy I mean. Not Amanda. But go on, what about her?”
Nick glances around, then leans in, speaking in a low voice. I can still smell the salami sandwich he ate at lunch on his breath. “Turns out she’s wicked serious about wanting to find out who this ‘mystery guy’ is. She’s talking about setting up a website so guys can fill out an anonymous survey of questions only the person who did it would know how to answer.”
I try to act casual even though my mind is racing. I stuff my gym shirt into my locker and slide my red Flash tee over my head. “Seriously? That’s whack.”
His eye drifts to the side as he says, “All the girls are going bonkers over how sweet it is. Meanwhile, it’s pretty much open season for the guys. If you can guess the right answers, you have a shot at Amanda Carlisle. So every idiot and his brother is going for it. Hell, I’m even considering taking the survey.”
I try to process what he’s saying. “Hold up. People are essentially making up a load-of-crap story and entering a contest so they can go on a date with Amanda?”
“Yup. Wild, huh?” He pulls his shirt over his head and I can see the outline of his rib cage, along with a shiny, jagged scar on the side of his stomach. Rumor has it he was stabbed in a knife fight. I quickly avert my eyes before he catches me staring.
I pull on my jeans. “The thing is, anyone who claims to be ‘the guy’ has pretty much confessed to nearly burning down her frickin’ house. While Amanda may be willing to overlook that, I’m guessing Mr. Carlisle won’t. And probably not their insurance company either. Not exactly the way to score points at the beginning of a relationship, if you know what I mean.”
“She promises total immunity, though you raise a good point.” Nick’s brow furrows as he considers all this, and then he shrugs. “She’s smokin’ hot. It might be worth the risk.”
I’m still skeptical, but of course I’m interested. I stack the pros of winning a date with Amanda aga
inst the cons of how much trouble my confession could potentially bring. “So what happens if you answer all the questions right? I mean, twenty guys could luck out and guess the right answers. How does she know who’s the real one?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she has a bonus question.”
“And then what? She goes out with the guy?”
“Get this: sounds like she said she would take him to prom.”
Prom.
With Amanda Carlisle.
It might still happen after all. But this is too easy. I mean, I know all the answers. I was there. It sounds so simple and straightforward, but there’s gotta be a catch. Despite her offer of immunity, what if this is all some elaborate plan to catch the poor dumb bastard (me) and then humiliate and punish him publicly? And what if Amanda finds out it was me and bursts out laughing and refuses to go through with it? She doesn’t seem like the type who would do that though. I think that’s why I got the nerve to ask her in the first place.
Any time I’ve ever talked to her, Amanda has always been polite and friendly. Of course, it’s never a deep conversation or anything; more like she says, “Do you know what time it is?” and I say, “Two fifteen.” One time she asked me, “Do you want to sign my petition to get the school cafeteria to start carrying gluten-free entrees?” and I said, “Sure,” even though I didn’t have the slightest clue what gluten was. It seemed important to her so I went with it.
I got the idea to invite her to prom two weeks ago when both our lab partners didn’t show up and Mr. Seitz put us together. She basically sat back and let me dissect our whole frog, but she kept thanking me, saying I was so sweet for understanding that she could never harm a fish, no matter how big or small. She was so emotional about it that I didn’t have the heart to tell her a frog is actually an amphibian. Even the formaldehyde couldn’t mask how good she smelled—like baby powder and jasmine flowers all mixed up.
While I was doing our lab work, Amanda made small talk and asked me if I was going to prom. I said I wasn’t sure, and she said she didn’t know if she was going either. No one had asked her yet. It was almost like she was hinting.
Granted, I knew inviting her was a stretch, but it felt like we’d had a moment. Sometimes in life you have to go for what you want. It’s pretty freeing, actually. In the best-case scenario, things work out. And in the worst-case scenario, you set the girl’s lawn on fire and make the evening news.
I’m not much of a religious guy, but I gotta say that hearing about Amanda’s website feels like somebody upstairs is giving me a do-over, the chance to make things right. At the same time, I’m sure he (or she) is laughing his (or her) ass off, amused at how I get myself into these situations.
“Earth to Hank!” Nick’s waving his hand in front of my face. I snap back to reality.
“Sorry, man. I completely spaced out. What did you say?”
“I said the downside of winning is I’d actually have to go to prom.” We close our lockers and head out of the gym toward the quad. “Hey, you wanna go to Ziggy’s and grab a burger after school?”
Ziggy’s is this amazing hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint in town that makes the most incredible kick-ass chili cheese fries. But they are known for their How High burger. It’s two patties topped with mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers, a fried egg, potato chips, bacon, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and secret sauce. If you can eat the whole thing, they take your picture and put it on the wall. Nick and I have made a pact to do this someday.
“I can’t. Gotta work. Rain check?”
“No problem. Another time. Maybe you could invite your friend.”
“What friend?” I’m thrown for a minute because he’s pretty much the only person that I talk to.
“That chick with the frizzy hair who hates grapes.”
“Peyton?”
“Yeah, Peyton.” He clears his throat and bobs his head. “She seems pretty cool.”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Well, when you do, tell her I said hi.” The corners of his mouth tease at a smile, and I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.
“You like Peyton?” It comes out like an accusation, and I instantly regret it because his face becomes stony and one eye locks onto me while the other glares menacingly over my shoulder.
“Why’d you say it like that? What’s wrong with her?”
I start to tell him and then snap my mouth shut like a fish. I can’t. It would mean unraveling the whole story of how we met and everything that I know about her, and how she told me she’d never shown anyone any of that stuff before, like she trusted me. Even though it was weird, there was definitely something cool about how she opened up to me.
The fear in her eyes the other afternoon flashes in my mind. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget it. My stomach churns every time I think of it, and I silently wonder if she’s okay. As much as I want to talk to Nick about it, that doesn’t seem right. I can’t explain it, but I feel oddly protective of her.
“Nothing. She’s all right,” I counter quickly. “I’ll tell her the next time I see her.”
“Excellent.” Nick nods.
And then I find myself saying, “I might swing by her house later on my way to work. You know, check in and see what’s up. I’m passing right by there anyhow.”
So much for not getting involved.
7
My bike practically glides to Peyton's on autopilot, navigating the now-familiar potholes and curves. My shift at Shop ’n Save starts in a little over an hour so I’m dressed for work in my uniform, a bright banana-yellow polo. Nothing says “blend in and be low key” like a guy wearing a blinding polo and riding a bike through a neighborhood he doesn’t live in. I’m practically a beacon.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. I don’t want that Pete guy to see me and get Peyton in trouble. He didn’t strike me as the kind of person who would invite me in for a glass of milk and freshly baked cookies. Probably not even a warm beer and some stale peanuts.
But something keeps tugging at me, needing to know that she’s all right. I don’t actually have to talk to her. I could just sneak up to the house and assess the situation. Once I’m certain that she’s fine, I can take off. She doesn’t have to know I was ever there. No harm, no foul.
Technically, I wouldn’t be getting involved; it would be more like satisfying my curiosity. Nothing wrong with that.
When I get within sight of Peyton’s house, I jump off my bike and walk it to the giant bush, engaging the kickstand and propping it up on the street side. I’ll only be here a few minutes at best.
Clouds have rolled in during my ride over, and the temperature has started to drop. It looks like it could rain. I silently curse for forgetting to bring my sweatshirt because I can feel the bumps popping up on my bare arms like chicken skin. I rub my hands up and down them for warmth, then carefully poke my head around the bush.
It’s as quiet as the first time I was here. The house is still shut up tight with the blinds drawn. The only thing that’s different is that the driveway is empty, with black, shimmery orbs where the dying Subaru had been parked. I’m guessing this means that Pete’s not home.
I take a deep breath, scoot across the driveway, and sink beneath the window in the side yard. It’s open, same as it was when Peyton snuck me around back.
I should probably just leave right now.
Instead, I stand up slowly, aligning myself with the side of the window frame, and turn my head so that I can peer in. This window is right above the kitchen sink, which is stacked with dishes. A fly settles on the edge of a food-encrusted plate, then buzzes through an archway into what appears to be the living room. It’s hard to tell, what with the blinds being drawn and the house being dark like the inside of a cave.
I hear a noise inside as if someone is coming. I try to control my breathing so
I’ll remain undetected. That’s when she walks into the kitchen.
She’s carrying a garbage bag that clinks and rattles as she moves. With a disgusted look, Peyton plucks an empty beer bottle from the counter where it stands next to a frozen dinner tray and dumps it into the bag. It clatters against the others.
She appears even more unkempt than usual. Her hair is pulled back in a weak attempt at a bun, but loose strands stick out all around her face, and her collarbone protrudes from her oversize, faded Led Zeppelin tee. She turns toward me and is reaching for another beer bottle on the counter when our eyes connect. She sucks in her breath, startled, as the bottle in her hand crashes to the floor.
“Sorry about that,” I say as I move to the center of the window.
“Hank? What are you doing here?” Her tone is frantic, and she glances nervously at a clock on the wall. She kneels, disappearing from my view below the counter, presumably to collect the pieces of broken glass.
I keep my voice low. “I just wanted to see what’s up. You haven’t been at school in a while.”
“You came to check on me?” She seems surprised.
“Is that okay?”
She finishes picking up the last of the broken glass and ties the bag closed. “I guess.”
“So you gonna tell me where you’ve been?” I ask, taking in her disaster of a kitchen.
“I wasn’t feeling well. Plus, I had stuff to do. My mom gets pissed if I fall behind on the cleaning,” she says, glancing at the clock again, then back at me. Now I know something’s up.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Because from what I can see, I’m pretty certain this house hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned since the last presidential administration.”