My Kind of Crazy

by Robin Reul

  Her face softens. “I’m fine. I just took a few days off. No big deal. But thanks for checking on me.”

  “Well, after what happened when I was last here, I didn’t know what to think. Things got sort of weird, you know?”

  She nods, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smirks. “Yeah, Pete’s kind of an asshole. He acts like a hall monitor so he can keep in my mother’s good graces and she doesn’t kick him the hell out.” She bites at her lip nervously and shoots a third glance at the clock. “You want to come in for a few minutes? He won’t be back for a bit. He went to the package store two towns over. Says it’s cheaper than the local one where the fascist owners are ripping him off.”

  “He sounds like a real winner.”

  “You have no idea.” We both laugh and it lightens the mood a little. She rolls her eyes as she motions toward the sliding door. “I’ll meet you around back.”

  I walk around the corner of the house, and she’s waiting with the door open. I step inside, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—like stale cigarettes and beer. It hangs in the air like anti–air freshener. Everything is mismatched and in need of repair: the stained orange couch that clashes with the deep-red walls, the bookcase with a collapsed shelf, the dining room table piled high with wallpaper sample books. It makes my house look like it should be in Better Homes and Gardens. Taking it all in at once definitely causes sensory overload. She catches me staring.

  “Another one of Pete’s projects. One day he announced he wanted to re-wallpaper the whole house. We’re not even allowed to paint. They’ve been sitting there ever since.” She points to the sample books and pushes at the edge of one to reveal a dust-free triangle of table underneath.

  “Why does she stay with this guy?”

  “A warm body is better than no body, I guess. He moved in two weeks after she met him. At least he had a job then. Three weeks later, he told his boss to go screw himself. He’s been unemployed ever since and sits on the couch all day watching TV. My mom keeps assuring me that he’ll be back on his feet soon, that he just needs ‘time to sort things out.’” She makes air quotes around the last part. “Meanwhile, it’s been a year. People can do some pretty stupid things when they’re into someone. Though I guess I don’t need to tell you that,” she says as she leads me down the hall.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say, taking in the oddball assortment of faded family pictures as we walk. An elementary school photo of Peyton with her two front teeth missing; a fading picture of a baby sitting on a woman’s lap at a piano. The woman looks like an older version of Peyton with the same ice-blue eyes. I’m guessing it must be her mother. In many of the photos, holes have been cut where a man’s head would be, though his body has been left in the picture.

  Peyton pushes open a door at the very end of the hall. “Let’s stay in my room. My mother has this lame rule that I’m not allowed to have people over when she’s not home. I can crack my blinds to see when Pete’s coming, and you can crawl out my window.”

  “You have this all figured out. You sneak many guys in here?” I’m anxious about Pete returning, but my curiosity about seeing her room and desire to keep talking to her override it.

  “Hordes.” She stands in the doorway, waiting for me to enter. I refrain from telling her this is the first time I’ve set foot in a girl’s room because I know if I say the words out loud they’ll sound even more pathetic than they do in my head.

  Peyton’s room is covered floor to ceiling in posters of rock bands from the seventies and eighties. She has old forty-fives dangling on fishing wire from the ceiling. I reach for one and spin it around in my hand. It’s a Paul Simon single, “Kodachrome.” Next to that is Bowie’s “Changes” and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” On the far wall by her bed are black-and-white photos that have been pushpinned to the wall.

  “Whoa. This is really cool,” I say, trying to take in all the details.

  “What’d you expect? Pink walls and a fluffy bedspread with unicorns and rainbows? Five Seconds of Summer posters?”

  “Did you take these?” I ask, pointing to the photos. They’re all of ordinary people doing everyday things: a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart with his belongings down the street; a child playing in a sandbox at the park; an old couple sitting on a bench; a woman talking on her cell phone with her hand to her mouth, on the verge of tears.

  “Yeah.”

  I walk toward them to look closer. “They’re awesome.”

  “Thanks. I like capturing random moments. There’s such honesty in them, like you’re stripping away all the bullshit and what’s left is real and raw. It’s a total dream, but it would be really cool to work for, like, National Geographic. Or to have an exhibition in a gallery. Of course, that’ll never happen.”

  “You don’t know that.” I point to the forty-fives. “Where’d you get all these?”

  “I’m super into music.” She gazes at them wistfully and bites her lip. “They’re all I have left of my dad.”

  “Did he die or something?” I tap the edge of a forty-five with my finger and make it spin in circles. “My mom died when I was twelve. My older brother too. Car accident.” I’ve told the story so many times that I’ve nailed the SparksNotes version.

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. “Thanks.”

  She reaches for a pack of matches on her nightstand and lights one, letting it burn down dangerously close to her fingers before blowing it out. She tosses it in a cup and lights another. She does it over and over, as if it’s some sort of nervous habit or meditation. “Mine might as well be dead. He left a long time ago. I think he lives in California. Or maybe it’s Arizona. I can’t remember which. It’s somewhere with a lot of sun.”

  “You don’t talk to him?”

  “No. But it’s okay,” she says nonchalantly and hugs her knees to her chest, making room for me on the bed, but I opt to stand.

  “How is that okay?”

  “Because he wanted a different life. I get it. I wouldn’t mind that myself most days. I understand why he left. They were kids. He was a musician and a free spirit. My mom was sixteen when she dropped out of high school to become the lead singer in his band. If her parents weren’t ready to disown her for that, then she got pregnant with me. He stuck around for the first couple of years, but then he took off. My mom got me and his record collection. He got freedom and a fresh start.”

  “So is your mom still a singer?”

  Peyton shakes her head. “Nah. That dream pretty much went out the door with him, which is sad because she has an amazing voice. Now she works three crappy jobs just to keep things going. She’s, like, never here.”

  I know what that feels like. The difference is that although her situation may be less than ideal and she may not see her mother a lot, at least hers still exists. “That’s too bad.”

  “I guess.” She lights another match and stares at the flame, then adds it to the growing collection. “When I was little, my mom sang to me all the time. But the older I got, the more she resented me. I was the one standing in the way of her having any sort of a life. All these responsibilities, you know? She gets into bad relationships. I feel sorry for her. I know it’s hard for her, but I don’t know how to help.”

  I’m surprised she’s telling me all this stuff so casually, as if we’re good friends. The weird part is, I’m interested. “I take it you guys aren’t close.”

  “Truthfully, the only time we get along is when she’s between boyfriends, which is rare. Even then, she treats me more like a sister than a daughter. And each time she gets dumped or fired, she wants us to move. It’s like she can’t stand being in one place too long. Reminds her of how she couldn’t make it work. She tells me that the minute you start to get attached is the perfect time to let go.”

  “Interesting philosophy.”

  “I don’t know. Seems l
ike it would be smarter to put energy into trying not to mess things up in the first place. Oh well. Life isn’t perfect, right?” She peeks between the slats of the blinds.

  I change the topic, hoping to lighten the mood a little. I gesture to her posters. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the musical taste of someone in their midforties?”

  “I take that as a compliment. These are real bands. They made real music that endured. There isn’t much today that you’ll hear twenty or thirty years from now except as a pop culture joke.”

  “So I guess it’s safe to say you’re not a Directioner?” I turn to smile at her as she twists the bottom of her Zeppelin tee, causing it to ride up and expose a purplish bruise on her side. She self-consciously adjusts it, avoiding my stare.

  “You sure have a lot of band shirts.”

  She pulls her shoulders back, arching her back defensively. “You sure have a lot of superhero tees.”

  I laugh. “Touché.”

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “With the shirts?” I dig my hands in my pockets. “I guess superheroes are my thing. I collect old comics and I draw one too. I call it Freeze Frame. It’s about this dude who has the ability to freeze time and go back to change fate.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, my brother got me into comics when I was a little kid. He used to love superheroes. Used to watch all the movies over and over ’til the damn DVD player broke.” I smile at the memory. Dad had been about to pop a vein, but Mickey knew how to talk him down. Mickey could do no wrong. And now that he’s dead, he’s practically a saint.

  I go on. “Anyhow, superheroes tend to be regular guys who have experienced some freak accident or trauma that results in them developing extraordinary powers or abilities. They take all the crap in life and find a way to turn it around for good. When my life gets insane, I try to imagine I could be like that.”

  Peyton laughs, and I feel my cheeks flush. I have no idea why I shared that with her. I’ve never told anyone that, and it certainly wasn’t meant to be amusing. “I’m sorry,” she says and waves her hand.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “It wasn’t really… I was just picturing you in a full-on superhero costume.”

  “I don’t want to dress like one,” I snap. “You know, you do all kinds of weird shit and then I tell you something personal, and you make me feel like an idiot.”

  She can tell I’m genuinely pissed and stops laughing. Her face becomes lined with worry, like she’s afraid I’m going to leave. “No, seriously, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other and shake my bangs off my face with a jerk of my head. “Oh, before I forget…uh, Nick Giuliani says hi.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “The dude with the freaky eyes who called me out on my grapes?”

  Now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah.”

  “I heard his dad killed someone.”

  I shrug. “You hear a lot of things about Nick.”

  “Well, what do you think? Do you think his dad killed someone?”

  “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  “Doesn’t it make you wonder? I mean, are you scared to be alone with him? Think he’d knife you when you’re not looking?”

  “Nah. I figure he’s got his secrets, and I’ve got mine. He’s a pretty cool guy if you get to know him.”

  She considers this for a moment. “Maybe I’ll ask him next time I see him.”

  Bad idea. Aside from the fact that the question would probably upset him, I wouldn’t want Nick thinking I was spreading rumors. “Whoa. You can’t just walk up to someone and ask if their dad offed somebody.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s rude. Nick’s my friend. People say a lot of crap about him, but that doesn’t mean any of it’s true. They don’t even know him. Not everybody is comfortable putting their cards on the table.” I cross my arms.

  “Fair enough. Everyone is hiding something though. There’s the story we tell ourselves and the story we tell everyone else.” She blows out the match and strikes another. I can’t act like I don’t notice much longer, because it’s starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

  “Hey, what’s with the matches?”

  “I like doing it. Does it make you nervous?”

  “It just seems a little dangerous.”

  “That’s what makes it so satisfying.” She puts the matchbook on her nightstand. “Why did you come here, Hank?”

  The truth is that I don’t know. I’m kind of scared for her to tell me what’s really going on because I’m not sure I’ll know how to handle that information. But I do know one thing: the minute this girl walked into my life, something shifted. As strange and messed up as she is, there’s something about Peyton Breedlove that’s more honest and real than anyone I’ve ever known.

  Before I get a chance to answer, we both hear the high-pitched squeal of worn-down brake pads as the Subaru pulls into the driveway. Peyton’s eyes get wide as saucers. “Shit, that’s Pete.”

  She struggles to raise her window but it doesn’t budge. “It sticks sometimes.” She motions me over, and I stand next to her to help. It finally yields, sliding up with a loud screech. A blast of cool air hits me in the face. There’s no screen, so I’m guessing this is not the first time it’s been used to sneak out. “I’m going to go out and distract him. You wait until he’s inside, then climb out and run.”

  “Got it.” I position myself, ready to make my escape. My heart starts beating fast, just like it did the other night when I was worried I’d get caught at Amanda’s house.

  She heads to the door. Before she opens it, she turns to me and says, “Hank?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.”

  The look in her eyes tells me that coming here tonight really means a lot to her, and I know that I can’t walk away this time the way I might have before. Moreover, I don’t want to.

  She slips out the door, closing it with a click behind her. I wait until I hear her opening the front door and talking to Pete. He says, “Someone left a bike in front of the house. You know anything about that?” but I don’t stick around for Peyton’s response. I shimmy out the window and drop low to the ground. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I book it back to the bush and my bike.

  Naturally, Amanda Carlisle is at her mailbox, flipping through the envelopes one by one. When she catches sight of me running out of Peyton’s yard like I’m being chased by a pack of wolves, she regards me curiously. Then she breaks out in a big grin.

  “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you in my bio class? You were my lab partner a few weeks ago, right?”

  I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. I turn to her and smile, trying to act nonchalant, but my adrenaline is pumping. Of course she chooses to strike up a conversation as I’m trying to get the hell out of here. Story of my life.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I casually lean against my bike, which causes it to pitch over with a loud crash. At least that makes her laugh. I fumble to right the bike, and she’s already halfway across the street by the time I regain my composure.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Hank. Hank Kirby.” I shoot a quick glance toward Peyton’s house, hoping Pete won’t come outside to see what the racket is about.

  “Right. Do you live over this way?” She eyes my highly fashionable Shop ’n Save polo.

  “I…uh…I was just bringing Peyton some groceries,” I lie.

  “On your bike?”

  “She needed some stuff. You know, milk and bread and…um…toilet paper.” A million items in the supermarket and I have to mention toilet paper. Jesus.

  “You’re friends with her?” Amanda’s face crinkles like she’s smelled something foul.

  “Uh…kinda. I k
now her from school.” I don’t know why I get so nervous around Amanda. It’s like I go into hyperdrive, especially my mouth. “It’s not like we hang out or anything. I see her and we say hi and stuff, but we’re not close. She hasn’t been at school though, so I figured I’d bring her work by because, you know, if I was out sick, I’d want someone to bring me my work so I didn’t fall behind.” It’s like a bullshit burrito: bullshit sprinkled in cheese, wrapped in a layer of more bullshit.

  Amanda looks confused. “I thought you said you were bringing her groceries.”

  “Oh yeah, I brought her groceries and homework.” Dumbass.

  “That’s very nice of you,” Amanda says and runs her finger absently over her bottom lip. I’m mesmerized. “I didn’t think she had any friends.” She peers past me at Peyton’s house, then leans in a little, cupping her hand around her mouth, and says in a loud whisper, “She’s kind of weird. Truthfully, she scares me a little. I swear, strange stuff happens over there. Yelling, loud noises, smoke—even at all hours of the night. Everyone wishes they’d move. They’re bringing down the whole neighborhood.”

  I don’t know what to say and I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with her, so I glance back toward Peyton’s house. “It’s a nice neighborhood.”

  Amanda continues as if she didn’t hear me. “Plus, I never see her parents. Which explains why the house has become such an eyesore. Seriously, how hard is it to mow a lawn once in a while? My parents say the guy who owns the place will rent to anyone as long as the check clears the bank.”

  Her mention of the lawn makes me think of accidentally scorching hers, and I reflexively shoot a glance at it.

  She giggles conspiratorially and I swear she’s flirting with me, so I play along. I don’t want to screw up this moment. I’m having a bona fide conversation with Amanda Carlisle. This doesn’t happen every day. Not in my world.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty much a train wreck over there.”

  I feel my insides twist. It’s the truth, but saying it so casually feels like I’m throwing Peyton under the bus. I try to ignore my conscience and focus on Amanda—the dimple in her left cheek when she smiles, the little flecks of gold in her blue eyes when the light hits them just right, the winding trail of freckles down her neck leading underneath her sweater. I wonder how many more are hiding under there.