My Kind of Crazy (10 page)

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.

"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.

Mr. Vaughn is pretty chill as teachers go, and he exhales loudly as he brushes back the hundred or so hairs—each of them shoulder length and gray—that remain on his head. He's the kind of guy who must have been to a million Grateful Dead concerts. I wouldn't be surprised if he stays at just the right level of stoned to make it through us kids massacring the English language every day in his class.

“What are you two doing back here?” he asks, trying to be all official, which is hard when you're cupping a joint in one hand.

“We're taking a break,” Peyton tells him. “What are
you
doing, Mr. Vaughn?”

He studies the ground for a minute, as if the proper answer will manifest itself there, and then looks at us and grins. “I guess I'm taking a break too.”

Peyton nods. “I think it's good to take a break now and then.”

She may be up for casual conversation, but I'm practically pissing myself at the thought of Mr. Vaughn turning us in. But I suppose catching a teacher smoking a jay cancels out two teenagers reading and talking about superheroes during a fire drill, even if one of them was responsible for the fire that caused the drill.

Mr. Vaughn notices the stack of papers in Peyton's lap. “Whatcha got there?”

Peyton hands my comic to him, and I feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I reach out to grab the pages back but Peyton swats my hand away.

“It's a comic Hank writes and illustrates. He's going to be famous,” she says with authority.

Mr. Vaughn flips through the pages and starts smiling, then laughing, but in a good way. He takes another puff of his joint. He exhales and says, “This is really good, man. You going to art college next year?”

I can practically hear Peyton say, “See? I told you so!”

“That's not the current plan. Possibly junior college in the next year or two, if I can swing it. I'll be working so it might be tough. My schedule changes every week,” I tell him. I don't want to share that I also probably can't afford it. I've heard all the scholarship talks from the counselors, but I know my dad is counting on the extra money I will bring in once I can bump up to full time.

Mr. Vaughn's face falls. He sees through my bullshit. “You show a lot of promise, Hank. You should stick with your studies.”

Nobody has ever told me that before.

He gives Peyton the stack of papers and sighs deeply. “All right. Back to the unruly masses. We're bound to be missed. Me especially.” We all laugh at that. “Hey, you by chance have an extra stick of that gum?”

Peyton roots out the pack and hands him one. He pops it in his mouth, salutes, and says, “Thanks. I'll let you two lovebirds finish your moment. Sorry to interrupt.”

My jaw involuntarily drops and I want to insist that it's not like that—we're not making out or even
thinking
about exchanging bodily fluids of any sort—but his back is already to us.

“I guess we looked like a couple,” she says.

“Yeah, well, he was high. Now we know why he's always asking kids to bring him cheeseburgers if they ditch, right?”

We stand up, and she kicks at the rear tire of Jergensen's car with the graffitied toe of her Converse high-tops and says, “Would that have been such a crazy thing?”