My Kind of Crazy

by Robin Reul

  Nick is cracking jokes, telling stories, and trading barbs with his dad. Nick is trying so hard, and apparently whatever he’s doing appears to be working, because I’ve never seen Peyton smile so much.

  I distract myself by watching Giovanna lick the whipped cream off her strawberry and try to figure out how someone this smoking hot came from the same gene pool as Nick. Mr. Giuliani is telling a long-winded joke that has almost built to its punch line when Giovanna’s phone buzzes loudly. Mr. Giuliani’s cheeks flush and his jaw tenses.

  Giovanna sees the expression on her father’s face and says, “What? I’m expecting a call.”

  “Who is more important than Sunday night dinner with your family and guests?” he asks as his face begins to redden.

  “It’s Bobby,” she says quietly.

  The way his face is turning red, Mr. Giuliani looks like he just ate a chili pepper.

  “Bobby,” he says calmly. “Is this the same son-of-a-bitch Bobby that decided to dump you two months before the wedding I paid for? That didn’t have the nerve to say it to your face?” Now he’s not quite so calm. He looks like his head is going to pop off.

  “Daddy, relax. He just wants to talk.”

  “Do you have no self-respect? This stronzo has no further business with you.”

  Giovanna pouts. “Daddy, I’d thought you’d be happy for me. Bobby wants to work things out. He knows he made a mistake.”

  “His mistake was calling before Dad could finish his joke,” Nick says, trying to lighten the mood. He catches sight of the uncomfortable look on Peyton’s face and reassures her, “Don’t worry. They’re not really fighting. This is just how my family talks.”

  Mrs. Giuliani pats Giovanna’s hand and says, “Go talk to Bobby. Relax, Dominic. Every girl should be so lucky to have a father who loves her so much.”

  Giovanna gives her father a kiss on the head as she bolts from the room. There is an awkward silence as we all eat our cheesecake, and I try to imagine what it would be like to have my dad care about me that much. I glance at Peyton, and I can tell from the way she’s looking at Mr. Giuliani that she’s probably thinking the same thing. Then she pipes up and asks, “So how did the joke end? What happened to the nun and the fifty-pound canary?” And just like that, she reels Mr. Giuliani back in.

  All I can think is how much I wish I had someplace I belonged with people who care about me the way Nick’s family cares about each other. I used to, but that was a long time ago. I wonder if Peyton has ever known what that feels like. Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse: to have it and to lose it, or to never know it at all.

  Nick turns to me. “Hey, Hank, don’t you have to leave soon? You know, to pick up that thing for your dad before the store closes?” He puts emphasis on the last word and raises his eyebrows as if I may have forgotten the cue.

  “Oh, right. That thing for my dad. Yeah, I better get going. Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Giuliani. It was delicious.”

  I start to push back my chair when Peyton asks me, “What do you have to pick up at this hour?”

  I think fast. “Um, I have to get to the pharmacy before it closes. I gotta pick up some cream. My dad’s got this rash… It’s pretty nasty actually. On his feet. Been going on for a while now and I keep telling him he’s gotta get it checked, because he’s…um…always scratching and it’s spreading.”

  Everybody seems thoroughly repulsed, so that’s my exit. Mr. and Mrs. Giuliani shake my hand, and Peyton and Nick walk me to the door. Nick is all smiles.

  All the way home, I imagine the two of them together. I wonder if he’ll make out with her. If she’ll sneak him into her room, maybe take a picture of him standing there gazing up at those forty-fives. Her hanging a photo of him on her wall.

  What if she tells him things she doesn’t tell me? That’s cool, I guess. She’s entitled. It’s not like I’m her shrink. Hell, it’s not like I asked to hear half the stuff I know about her.

  I’m not jealous or interested in her. I just like it when all three of us are equally miserable. And for some reason, the two of them being happy together without me pisses me off.

  At home, I intend to unwind and work on Freeze Frame, but I’m too distracted. I can’t stop thinking about Peyton.

  Peyton, with her hair pulled back like it was tonight, her skin so white it’s practically glowing, lying back on her bed, her lips slightly parted.

  Peyton, who for all I know is making out with Nick Giuliani right now.

  Peyton, who probably thinks Nick is all that because his dad drives a Mercedes and doesn’t come stumbling home drunk, calling him names. He lives in a fancy house and doesn’t have to worry if there’s anything in the refrigerator that doesn’t have an alcoholic content of at least five percent.

  Meanwhile, a year from now—ten years from now—I’ll still be here, bagging groceries at the Shop ’n Save. If I’m lucky, I’ll have moved up to produce manager. Then I’ll get to wear one of those green aprons instead of my black one. Something to aspire to.

  I pull out my sketchbook and try to push it all aside. For the next few hours, I lose myself drawing my superhero Freeze Frame as he frantically searches for his love interest, Rowena. She’s been kidnapped and the Dark Overlord has hidden her somewhere in the bowels of the city. She dropped her timekeeper talisman so he can’t track her, but based on where he’s picked up the signal, he believes she’s left him a clue.

  When I’m done with the final panel, it’s two forty-five in the morning. I look over the pages. They’re good. Really good. Maybe some of the best stuff I’ve done. I wish I could show the comic to someone.

  The truth is, I want to show it to Peyton. Other than Victor, she’s the only person who knows about Freeze Frame. She gets how personal my art is to me, how when I’m drawing Freeze Frame, I feel most like myself. It’s weird, but I don’t mind being vulnerable with her. I trust her. And now I just hope that won’t get awkward with things taking a romantic turn between her and Nick. I can’t let it.

  I steal another look at the clock. I can’t wait until tomorrow.

  I pull on my jeans and grab my Batman hoodie and my sketches, because I don’t give a flaming fuck what time it is. I crack my door. Dad’s snores carve through the silence, loud and guttural, like he’s under deep and won’t be getting up for a long while. He’s in his room this time thankfully, so I sneak downstairs, hop on my bike, and ride in the direction of Peyton’s neighborhood.

  Her house is dark and quiet. Her window is open.

  I make out her silhouette lying in her bed, the covers curled around her. There’s no sign of Nick, for which I am relieved. I open my mouth to wake her up but stop. I don’t want her to get scared and scream. Pete’s frightening enough during the day. No need to incur his wrath in the middle of the night. Instead, I lean in and stretch my arm to gently lay the sketches next to her.

  Seeing Peyton now almost feels more normal than seeing her during the day. I swear, since I met Peyton, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep, and yet I’m not tired. In fact, I’ve never been more wide-awake.

  13

  "Did you make the finals?" Nick asks me as we’re walking toward our lockers at the beginning of nutrition break on Monday.

  I worry that maybe I forgot about some test or competition in gym class. “Finals? What are you talking about?”

  He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Dude, it’s like you live in a cave sometimes. Amanda posted who’s moving on to the next round. If your number is listed on her website you have to answer more questions.”

  With everything that has been going on, I’d nearly forgotten about Amanda’s site and whether or not my answers had actually gone through. “I haven’t checked. How about you? Did you make the cut?”

  He grins and rubs at his bad eye, almost as if he’s trying to guide its gaze back into place. “I did. I had some
pretty smooth answers, so I’m not surprised. I’m not sure what to do though, because I got this thing developing with Peyton, right? I wouldn’t want to have to break Amanda’s heart if I’m dating someone else. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Definitely. So what’s the deal with you and Peyton? Are you guys, like, going out now or what?”

  “She’s definitely into me. I can tell. Who could resist the Giuliani charm? Dinner went really well, except for the part when you and my parents were hanging around messing up my mojo.” He gives me a mock punch in the arm. “What was up with that foot rash story, man? That was disgusting.”

  “Well, you drove her home, right? You were alone then. Did you put the moves on her or what?” I’m razzing him, but I’m more interested in the answer than I’d care to admit.

  Nick shoots a glance over his shoulder and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Nah. I just drove her home, you know? I didn’t want to push my luck. Had to be a gentleman. Of course, if she’d invited me in, I might have been willing to bend the rules.”

  “Of course.” I smile and say, “So did your sister get back together with her boyfriend?”

  He snorts. “Not yet. My father is ready to have a friggin’ coronary because he never liked Bobby in the first place, but he also doesn’t like to waste money. My sister dropped some serious cash on a dress, and there was a nonrefundable deposit for the caterer. I know they’ll get back together, but Giovanna is drawing it out and making Bobby beg for her forgiveness. Can you imagine if my father knew she was knocked up?”

  “She’s pregnant?”

  “Let’s just say you don’t need to be Sherlock to notice she’s in the bathroom throwing up most mornings. When my father finds out, it won’t be pretty.”

  “Wow.”

  “Family. It’s the original f-word, am I right?” He cracks himself up, then tries to act all casual as he asks, “So have you seen Peyton around today?”

  “I haven’t.” What I don’t add is that not seeing her has been driving me nuts. She hasn’t said a frickin’ word since I left that comic on her pillow. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, showing her my stuff like that anyway. I’m not used to letting anyone else into my head. It’s a bit like standing naked onstage during a school assembly.

  We separate, heading to our respective lockers. I still have seven minutes before nutrition is over, so I dart around the corner to the school computer lab and log on to Amanda’s site. I scroll down the list of twenty-five or so numbers that’ve moved on to the next round for further questioning, and there it is: entry number 456. Holy shit. It took.

  This is really happening.

  I don’t have time to read through the new questions since I have to get to my next class, but the odd euphoria of feeling one up on those who didn’t get chosen makes me smile. Part of me wants to show everyone I’m not the loser they think I am, but another part of me doesn’t care because the whole thing is so inane to begin with. It’s like what Monica said: life and people never live up to expectations. I’m supposing Amanda would be no different, but I’d love a chance to prove that theory wrong. Although we’ve only talked once since the incident, I feel like our conversation gave me a better sense of who she is as a person, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say she still seems pretty fantastic.

  I’m sitting in the back of bio, doodling in the margins of my notes and stealing glances at Amanda, calculating my chances for being her escort to prom, when the fire alarm goes off. There is a mix of cheers and grumbles as our teacher jumps into emergency response mode and hustles us single file out the door.

  The faculty shepherd us through the halls, while a group of freshmen whisper back and forth about two fire alarms in two weeks. I smile, sensing this is most definitely not a coincidence.

  I shove my hands in my pockets, and on a hunch, I casually make my way toward the faculty parking lot. Lying right in front of the gate is a matchbook, the cover folded neatly back and tucked in on itself, a single unlit match sticking up like a middle finger. I pick up the matchbook, closing the cover. This one is from Purple Haze Hookah Lounge. I laugh and shove it in my pocket, then slip through the gate into the parking lot.

  I find Peyton sitting cross-legged on the asphalt next to Vice Principal Jergensen’s Volvo wagon, which has the bumper sticker “Are you following Jesus this close?” As I get closer, I see that she is reading the Freeze Frame pages that I left on her pillow. She has not set them on fire, so I’m hoping that means she thinks they’re decent.

  When she hears me approaching, she looks up and actually has tears in her eyes.

  “Hank, this is amazing,” she says, shaking her head and thumbing her way to the next page.

  Admittedly, it’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, and it fills me up. “I’m glad you liked it. I wanted to show it to you because I’m pretty proud of it actually, and I’m excited to hear what you think. But…we could have met up after school or something. You didn’t need to pull the fire alarm.”

  She laughs. “No worries, I only burned a few paper towels in the girls’ restroom. It’s all tile and toilets. I’m sure it was out before the fire engines got here. Though all that hair spray residue does up the flammability factor. Hmmm.”

  As much as I want nothing more than to get her feedback, and I’m flattered that she couldn’t even wait until lunch to talk, I’m also unsettled by how flippant she is about what she’s done. She throws caution to the wind. Like she doesn’t care if she hurts anyone because she’s got nothing to lose.

  “Seriously, what if someone got hurt? Or the fire got out of control? You should stop. What if someone catches you? You’d get kicked out.” I glance nervously toward the school, afraid that at any minute one of the teachers will sweep the parking lot for stray students and find us.

  “Can we please talk about this instead?” She grabs my wrist and pulls me down next to her. “Hank, you are very talented. I’m not kidding. You have to do something with this.”

  “Do what with it?”

  “I don’t know. You need to show this to someone. I imagine all the art schools in the country would beg you to come if they saw your work. Or you could send it to a publisher. There have to be special publishers for this kind of stuff, right? We could write to them, and maybe they would take a look at it.”

  She seems genuinely excited. Having Peyton look at my pages and judge them was hard enough; I’m not sure I could handle a college or publisher telling me my work is no good.

  I bite my lip for a moment. “That would be pretty amazing. But the reality is that colleges have already closed applications for the fall. I have greater odds of being hit by lightning than getting in, not to mention being able to afford tuition. And I don’t know squat about how to find a publisher.”

  Peyton rolls her eyes. “There’s this amazing thing called the Internet, Hank. It’s like a genie. You ask it questions, and it gives you answers. Also, there’s this awesome school called the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. They have rolling admissions, so you can still apply. It’s not too late. Their admissions people look at your stuff and let you know their decision in a month or so.”

  “How do you know so much about their admissions policy?”

  “Again, Hank, the Internet. Are you listening to me? You owe it to yourself. I’ll help you figure out the details. It’s just… This is too good. The world should know who Hank Kirby is. You have so much talent, and you’re a good person. You deserve good things. So many people don’t. But you do.” She squeezes my arm as if that will drive the point home, then swallows hard, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and adds, “And most of all because I know it took a lot of courage for you to show me this. I’ve never had anyone trust me that much.”

  “Well, I have more pages. I mean, I’d love to show you more of them if you’re interested.”
I’m hoping she is.

  “Of course I’m interested.” She beams and hugs the papers to her chest. “Can I keep these for a while?”

  “Sure. Whatever blows your hair back.”

  She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a pack of bubble gum, offering me a piece.

  “Wow, matches and gum at school. You’re a rebel.”

  “I’ve never been much for following rules I didn’t agree with. That’s probably the reason I’m not Student of the Month,” she says and blows a ginormous bubble. “So did you know that the guy who invented Captain America and the Fantastic Four and a bunch of other famous superheroes was named Jack Kirby? Maybe he’s, like, your long-lost uncle six times removed.”

  “Where’d you learn that? I mean, I knew that, but…I’m impressed that you do.”

  She leans into me and says, “If I’m going to be friends with the next big comic book artist and writer, it’s in my best interest to be up on my superheroes. You can’t ever be too informed.”

  I smile and give her a playful nudge, intended to convey how much it means to me that she looked up this stuff because she knew it was important to me. That’s pretty cool. “It’s true. You never know when you could be in a life or death match of Trivial Pursuit.”

  “I will have you know that I kick ass at that game. I used to play all the time when I was in the hospital.”

  It slides out of her mouth and from the look in her eyes, she wishes she could reel the words back in. But before I can ask her what she’s talking about, we are interrupted by the sound of footsteps. Then our English teacher, Mr. Vaughn, skitters past, his head down, covertly sneaking a puff off a joint. He spies us mid-inhale and freezes as if deciding his best course of action, looking every bit as surprised to see us as we are to see him.