My Kind of Crazy

by Robin Reul

  “I’ve gotta assess the roommate situation,” I add. “He sounds totally chill and says he’s completely down with Peyton staying there so it shouldn’t be a problem. He has a girlfriend who goes to Boston University, so he said he’ll probably be at her place most of the time anyway.”

  “I’ve been talking to this woman at this gallery on Newbury Street, and she said she might be looking for a gallery assistant,” Peyton says. “I’d love to do that and save up to take some photography classes next semester.” She lights up like a candle as she tells Nick about it. She seems so hopeful and excited.

  “Nice. Sounds like you have a good plan.” Nick leans back to take a sip of his Coke, only to have the block of ice crash forward with the liquid and hit him in the mouth. Smooth.

  I hand him one of the sixteen napkins from his pile. “So how about you? You’re gonna be freezing your balls off in Chicago, huh?”

  “I can’t wait to blow this clambake,” he says. “Plus, those Midwestern girls are smokin’ hot.”

  It’s funny the things you talk about when you’re hungry. Our conversation slowly degenerates into a discussion of where would be the safest place to survive a zombie apocalypse. (Our answer: one of those wholesale club warehouses. Not only do they have all the food and supplies you could ever need, but you can’t get in without a membership card.)

  And then the moment of truth arrives. The bell rings again, and seconds later, amid a chant of “How High, How High!” from the entire kitchen and waitstaff, three beauteous fifteen-dollar burgers the size of our heads are delivered to our table in all their greasy glory. They are a true culinary masterpiece. I’m not even sure I can get my mouth around the thing.

  “Let’s do this,” Nick says. We raise our burgers as if we are making a toast, and then we all take our first bite at the same time.

  The rush of flavors hits my mouth all at once: the melty cheesiness of the mozzarella sticks, the spice of the jalapeño poppers, and the lukewarm, runny egg yolk are balanced by the coolness of the secret sauce, lettuce, and tomatoes. It all perfectly meshes with the ground beef and salty strips of bacon. It’s pretty much the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.

  Nearly thirty minutes later, we finish the damn things and the waitress snaps a picture of the three of us for the wall with an ancient Polaroid camera. Before she can put the camera down, Nick bolts from the table and heads to the bathroom, looking slightly ill. They put our picture up on the wall, and as I look at it, I know that we’re savoring the final moments of something special. We may remain friends, but as time progresses, there will be new experiences, a loss of common ground, and inevitably, the connection will never be quite the same again. Not because we don’t care about each other, but because you can’t hold on to the past forever. That photo on the wall is already a memory.

  We drive around in Nick’s car for a while after that, laughing and talking, with no particular destination in mind. It feels good to be together, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a sense of belonging and family. Family isn’t about sharing the same blood in your veins; it’s about the people who come into your life and see how completely messed up and nutter you are and then stick around anyway. I wish I could freeze-frame this moment because I don’t ever want to forget it.

  I gotta be honest. I have no idea what the hell is going to happen next. I don’t know if my relationship with Peyton will work out and be great forever, or if it’s just great right now. I don’t know when I’ll see Nick again.

  That’s the amazing thing about life: you can be sure you know what’s going to happen next, but you never really do. Anything can happen, and amazingly, that doesn’t scare me.

  In fact, it’s pretty frickin’ cool.

  Acknowledgments

  Although writing a book may be a solitary venture involving copious amounts of caffeine and cupcakes, it takes many wonderful people to bring a book to life, and I cannot thank them enough.

  First, confetti drops, sparkles, and never-ending gratitude to my amazing editor, Annette Pollert-Morgan, whose incredibly thoughtful comments, brainstorming sessions, and genuine love for these characters helped make this story so much richer. I still owe you an “I Heart Hank” tee. Thank you for giving a home to the book of my heart.

  To my incredible, hilarious, rock star agent Leigh Feldman. Thank you for believing in me and this story from the very beginning. I am so grateful for your invaluable advice, wisdom, and laugh-out-loud emails. I feel so lucky to have you in my corner.

  To Dominique Raccah, Todd Stocke, Elissa Erwin, Alex Yeadon, Kathryn Lynch, Nicole Komasinski, Elizabeth Boyer, and the rest of the incredible team at Sourcebooks Fire, for that kick-ass cover, for making me look like I can grammar and English like a pro (I kept you on your toes!), and for being part of helping me hold my lifelong dream in the palm of my hand.

  To Jessica Brody, mentor/friend/soul sister: there are not enough words to express what your friendship and support mean to me. Whether we are dreaming up book titles and apps over pancakes, eating our weight in sushi while sharing sage advice, or playing Mall Madness and baking cookies, you keep me smiling. Thank you for being that friend that always seems to bring perspective and sunshine.

  To Gae Polisner: my partner-in-crime. This novel is what it is in huge part because of you, and I thank you for your spot-on, brilliant insight, your grounded reality checks, and your equally twisted sense of humor that so perfectly matches my own.

  To Jessi Kirby: between your book touching my heart at a time when I needed it most, introducing me to Leigh, and lending your last name to Hank, you have helped change my life. Thanks for all your kindness. You are one of the most genuine souls I have ever met.

  To Alex: thanks for being my light in the darkness when I needed it most. I miss you every day.

  If ever there were a profession where one needs people who get his/her crazy, it’s writing, and I am so grateful for some fabulous friends in my life who do just that. All the squeezy hugs and gratitude to Demetra Brodsky, Tracy Holczer, Shelli Cornelison, Michelle Levy, Jessica Love, Ara Grigorian, Jennifer Bosworth, Gretchen McNeil, Nadine Nettman, Julia Collard, Jennifer Olson, James Raney, Lisa Marnell, Anne Tibbetts, Meredith Glickman, Eileen Cook, Beth Navarro, Claire Di Liscia Baird, Nicole Maggi, Dana Elmendorf, Cindy Pon, Shaun Hutchinson, Karen Grencik, my fellow Sweet Sixteeners, SCBWI, and all my SoCal writer peeps! And to Laurie Halse Anderson, who gave me my first manuscript critique and made me swear I would never stop writing.

  Additional thanks to my nonwriter cheerleading squad: Jill Freeman, Rachel Greenwald, Lisa Fragner, Julie Hallowell, Susan Wolf, Marcus Ryle, Nancy Walker, Martha Green, Niki Ross, Melissa Beal, Mike Gangemi, Jacob Walker, Arun Burra, Michelle Choi, Ilene Bobrowsky, Cori Henry, Debbie Blander, and all my WHS Regiment moms! Please know that your encouragement and support has meant the world to me.

  And last but not least, to my incredible family, who never stopped believing in me, who reorganized their lives around my writing time, who put up with my crazy way beyond the call of duty. John, Ethan, Katie, Mom, Dad, Ben, Bonnie, Lee, Scott, Lily, Sasha, Joy, Jason, Roberta, and Nan—you are my heart, and this book is for you. “The delay is never the denial.”

  About the Author

  Robin Reul has been writing stories since she was old enough to hold a pen. Though she grew up on movie sets and worked for years in the film and television industry, she ultimately decided to focus her attention on writing young adult novels. And unlike Hank, she does not know how to ride a bike. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and daughter. My Kind Of Crazy is her first novel.

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