My Kind of Crazy (17 page)

I swallow hard and wipe my palms on my fashionably challenged yellow Shop 'n Save polo. I'm starting to sweat bullets. Clearly not too many people, given the choice, buy a bike the color of a Cheeto. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I wanted you to know that
I
know, Hank. I know
everything
. I know it was you.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “And I want you to know that I think it's super sweet. You're a really nice guy, Hank.”

Here it is: my chance to be with Amanda. Except everything's different now. That's not what I want anymore. “Why would you think that?”

“That you're a nice guy?”

“No, that I did it.”

“Because that weird girl who lives across the street told me everything.”

“Peyton?” My heart races just saying her name, and I grip the door handle, ready to dash if Amanda knows where she is and how to find her. “When did you talk to her? Is she okay?”

“Jeez, excitable much? She left me a note. She was your witness, right? That's what you said in your entry; that you had a witness. And even though she's strange, what she said added up. It would've been nice if maybe she'd come forward
sooner
so I hadn't made an ass out of myself picking the wrong guy, but better late than never, right?”

“
When
did she leave you the note?”

Amanda twists a strand of hair around her finger and shrugs. Clearly she didn't expect me to focus on this part of the story. “Why are you, like, freaking out? Why does that matter?”

“It just does.”

“It was on my car window this morning. She said she wanted me to know the truth because you're a great guy and deserve to be happy. She said she was telling me because she knew you wouldn't, and she was trying to put everything back together the way it was supposed to be. She said you'd probably understand what that meant.” She tucks her hair behind her ear and narrows her eyes. “And what do you mean, is she okay? What's wrong with her?”

If she left the note this morning, she must be all right. But why would she tell Amanda the truth? Doesn't she get that I'm not interested in Amanda Carlisle, prom, or this stupid frickin' contest anymore? Because even if our situation is all mixed up and insane right now, the one thing I know for sure in my gut is that we're
exactly
the way we're supposed to be when we're together. I had hoped Peyton felt that too.

Amanda's sitting there, waiting for me to answer. To say something. Anything at all. She prompts, “So it
was
you, right?”

I take a deep breath and look her right in the eye. I can't believe I'm about to say what I'm about to say. But I do. “Look, Amanda. I'm really sorry. If you actually knew me, you'd know that I pretty much make a mess of everything. I don't mean to; it just happens. It was stupid of me to think you'd want to go to prom with me in the first place, and when the mulch and the tree and everything caught on fire, I chickened the hell out. I'm not proud of that. The whole thing was a mistake. And I'll pay you and your parents back for the damage. I promise.”

“I'm not here for money, Hank. You went to a lot of trouble to invite me to prom, and I want you to know I appreciate what you tried to do. It was very sweet and romantic. I'm here because I feel badly about the way it turned out, and I want to make it right. And besides, I think you're really cute.”

I shake my head, my mind still on Peyton. “You don't need to do that.”

“So are you saying you
don't
want to take me to prom?” She looks a little hurt, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I savor that power for a few seconds before letting her down easy.

“I can't.”

She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Wow.” She was most definitely not expecting this reaction. I'm guessing nobody turns down Amanda Carlisle. Except, of course, me. “May I ask why not?”

“It's nothing personal. It's just…there's someone else.”

She nods. “Okay… Well, this is awkward.”

“It doesn't have to be. And I really am sorry about the fire.”

Christ, only a few weeks ago I would have given anything to sit and talk with Amanda Carlisle, let alone take her out on a date. But it's different now.

I ask her, “So does everybody know? That it wasn't Nick?”

She shakes her head. “No. I wasn't going to say anything until I talked to you.”

I picture Nick, how frickin' crushed he's going to be when she kicks him to the curb. I kinda feel sorry for him.

“Can I say something then? I mean, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think you should still go to prom with Nick Giuliani.”

She raises both her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because he likes you and he wants to take you out. He probably never imagined you'd go for a guy like him otherwise. Being vulnerable like he was in front of the whole school takes a lot more guts than lighting a few sparklers and running away. When the truth gets out, he's going to feel pretty shitty, so maybe we could keep this between us. Go to prom with the guy. It's one night. It'll probably be the best night of his entire high school existence. Then let him down easy. Consider it…community service.” I can't believe I'm saying this, but Nick is my friend. He doesn't deserve that kind of public humiliation.

She lets that marinate for a minute, then her face lights up. “Oh! I nearly forgot. In her letter, Peyton said that if we talked, I should give this to you.”

Amanda reaches in her purse, extracting a small, white envelope, the kind with the plastic window you use to pay bills, and hands it to me. It's folded in half and secured with a rubber band. And my name is scrawled on it in Peyton's writing.

I take it from her and tear open the envelope. Inside is a book of matches from Mo's Boobie Barn. The
o
's are white with red dots in the center that look like nipples. I burst out laughing. Amanda stares at me like I'm nutter, and then she starts laughing in that way people do when they don't get what's funny but think they're supposed to, which makes me laugh even harder.

“What's that?” she asks.

I smile and curl my fingers around the matchbook. I can't even begin to explain. “It's a sign,” I tell her.

She has no idea what the hell I'm talking about, of course, and there really isn't a whole lot to say after that. My break is over anyway, so I thank her for stopping by and get out of her car. I imagine most people would swear I am out of my mind for walking away from Amanda for Peyton. But then again, I'm not most people.

Now that I know where Peyton is, I have to see her.

It's going to be a lot harder to get past Bouncer Dude since it's already dark outside and more customers will be there. I try to imagine what Freeze Frame would do in this situation. In each episode, after he freezes time, he only has a finite window to search for his love, Rowena, before time resumes, so his movements must be precise. Every second counts. Essentially, he has to create a diversion so that he can save her undetected.

And that's how I come up with a plan so screwy it just might work.

I stop at home to ditch my Shop 'n Save uniform, changing into all black, and I purposely don't shave. I can't swing a five-o'clock shadow like Nick's, so it adds maybe a year at best. I spike my hair with some gel and find an old, black eyeliner of Monica's in the bathroom and draw a soul patch on my chin. The result is pretty damn hilarious, but I should pass for older.

I borrow Dad's aviator shades to complete the look and grab an empty duffel bag from the hall closet. I fill it to capacity with whatever will fit from my CD collection, my old headphones that only work in one ear, and a bunch of wires from behind the stereo so that everything looks official. And then I'm off.

Mo's Boobie Barn is definitely a lot busier at night. The parking lot is jammed when I arrive, and the music is so loud I can hear it from the street. I park my bike on the side of the building, don the aviator shades, extract the headphones from my bag, and put them on. They're giant and metal and make me look like an air traffic controller, but it's all good.

I carry the bag with a firm grip and walk to the door like I mean business. I try to ignore the signs plastered everywhere that say “No admittance under age 21. Violators will be prosecuted,” because I get one chance at this. Dad's made it clear he's not going to bail me out, so I'll pretty much end up as someone's prison wife if I screw this up.

Yes, technically I'm breaking the law, but I'm not hurting anyone or putting someone in danger. As far as I know, no one ever died from exposure to major boobage. And it's not like I'm trying to sneak in and watch the show for free. Plus, really, nudity is natural, so what's the big deal? If anything, I'm trying to help someone I really care about, so hopefully the big guy upstairs will look the other way on this one.

A bunch of college guys are jamming up the entrance, and the bouncer from the other day is scrutinizing their IDs with his penlight. Clearly none of these kids are old enough to get in, and they're all scoffing and protesting, which makes it even more obvious that they're underage. Bouncer Dude has his hands full. It's perfect.

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, stare straight ahead, and then stride toward that purple velvet curtain. I'm a man on a mission.

Bouncer Dude sees me. His hand, which is the size of a personal pan pizza, comes down on my shoulder, stopping me in place.

“Hold up, man. Where do you think you're going?”

The lines in his forehead form a capital
V
. But I'm ready for him. “Dude, it's cool. I'm with the DJ.”

Confidence is key. I look at him over the tops of my aviator shades, and I unzip the bag to show him all the CDs and wires. I bop my head along to the music like I saw the DJ do when Peyton and I were here and rezip the bag before he can ask any questions. If he recognizes me from the other day, he doesn't show it.

One of the college guys slips the bouncer a twenty and tries to push inside, which pisses him the hell off. Like he can be bought and sold! He turns to the kid and starts ripping him a new one as he pockets the twenty, and in what may be the single greatest break of all time, he waves me through the curtain.

I'm in!

This place is off the hook. Every table is taken. The chick onstage runs her tongue down the pole as she twists one leg around it and spins. Holy crap. I'm guessing that's highly unsanitary. The dancer runs her hands through her hair and shakes her ass. The crowd goes wild. I'm not gonna lie: I'm kinda hypnotized.

“You the guy covering for Jake tonight?” a voice shouts. It's male, and I have no idea what the hell he is talking about. I turn. It's the DJ dude.

“Huh?”

“You're the guy Jake sent, right? I gotta take a piss, man, and I should have had a break a half hour ago. Where the hell you been? The playlist is on top of the CD player.” He slaps me on the arm, dragging me to the DJ booth, and then takes off, presumably toward the bathroom.

Okay, this is definitely
not
part of the plan. I try not to panic, hoping that the equipment is straightforward and nobody notices that I'm seriously underage and not actually a DJ. How hard could this be, right?

I quickly look over the setup in the booth. There are a playlist of songs, two CD players side by side, and some kind of receiver to toggle back and forth between them. Pretty basic. I scan the list to find the title of the song currently playing and load the next CD into the other player, keeping my hand on the switch so it's ready to go. I can do this.

I glance at the stage. The tongue chick is still up there dancing, and the audience is going bananas for her. I bend my knees, dancing in place, trying to get a groove going to keep in character. This place is sensory overload.

The song ends and I start the next one. Some other girl crawls across the floor like a cat. She's even wearing pointy ears and a tail. She begins to do this thing with the pole like it's a scratching post, and I am so mesmerized I do not even notice that the song has ended until Catwoman is staring at me along with everyone else in the room.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

I gotta say, few things are sadder than a nearly naked girl crawling on the floor pretending to be a seductive cat with no music to pull it all together. It's like when Dorothy discovers that the Great and Powerful Oz is just a man sitting behind the curtain. The illusion is broken, which is actually useful because it helps me refocus. Folks start getting restless and annoyed.

I scramble to find the next CD and get it playing before the audience and the dancer lash out at me, but I send half a stack of cases clattering to the floor first. When I stand up, DJ Dude has magically reappeared, and he doesn't look happy. I quickly get the next song going.

“What the hell, man? You some kind of moron? You wanna get us both fired?” he asks. That word does seem to be coming up a lot lately.

“Sorry,” I say, hastily grabbing my duffel bag.

“What'd you say your name was again?” he asks me.

I say the first thing that comes to my mind. “Peter Parker.” If he's ever read a single issue of Spider-Man, it doesn't show.

“Well, where do you think you're going, Peter? You just got here.”

“Now
I
gotta take a piss.”

“Why do you need your bag?”

I think fast. “I always travel with my own toilet paper. Germophobe.”

He narrows his eyes. His look is one of pure disgust. “Don't take too long.” He waves me away, and I'm out of there like a shot, winding my way toward the back dressing rooms to find Monica. After a few songs play and I don't return, it's only a matter of time before the DJ realizes I'm not, in fact, the guy Jake sent and signals the bouncer, and they start looking for me. The clock is ticking. I've only got one shot, and there's no room for error.

It doesn't take me long to find Fantasia's dressing room door. I give a quick knock, looking over my shoulder nervously.

“Yeah, yeah. Relax… I've still got ten minutes,” she yells from inside.

She opens the door, and she's wearing nothing but a G-string and those red tassels. I try to keep my eyes focused above her neck and on the reason I'm actually here. “Monica, I need—”

She pulls me into the room.

“Holy shit, Hank! What are you doing? They'll arrest you if they catch you in here!” she tells me as she reaches for a robe that's draped over the back of her chair and wraps it around herself. “Not to mention your father is going to kill me if he finds out.”

“Then don't tell him.”

“Interesting look for you,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Where's Peyton?” She stiffens and I can tell she wants to protect Peyton, but so do I. “Look, Monica. I need to know that she's okay.”

“I don't know if she wants to be found right now, Hank. I get the feeling she'd like to stay lost for a while.”

“She sent me a matchbook from here, and I know that won't make any sense, but it's her sign that she wants me to find her. She
is
here with you, right?”

Monica sits down in her chair and begins applying her makeup for the show. “She came here after she heard you and your father fighting about her. She didn't want you to get in trouble. I guess she didn't know where else to go. She was pretty upset. I felt bad for her so I let her crash with me, but I told her it could only be temporary. I had to tell the manager she was my sister.”

I shake my head. “It was a big misunderstanding. Dad didn't know what was going on, and I didn't have a chance to explain before she bolted out of there. But I talked to him, and everything is okay now so she can come back.”

“You stormed the castle to save the princess, huh?” She smiles as she brushes bright-purple eye shadow on the creases of both lids. “That's very chivalrous, Hank.”

“So does she hate me?” The words just flood out of my mouth. “You said she was upset, and then she left this note for Amanda Carlisle, like she
wanted
me to go out with her or something. But then she gave me the matches. She had to know I'd come looking for her, and I can't help but believe that's what she wanted. So I'm really confused.”

“So am I. I have no idea what the heck you're talking about. Who's Amanda Carlisle?” she asks.

“It doesn't even matter.”

Monica draws her eyeliner carefully on each eye, making it fan out at the corners like she's from ancient Egypt. “She doesn't hate you, Hank. Just the opposite. And I think that scares her as much as anything else right now.”

“I need to see her.”

“She's lucky, Hank. You know why? Because she matters to you. It would have made all the difference to me at her age to know I mattered to someone like that. It can be a lonely friggin' road, Hank. But knowing you're not alone can carry you through some pretty dark places.”

I shift the weight of the duffel bag to my other hand and tell her, “Look, I figure I've got about another thirty seconds until someone comes knocking on this door looking for me. Is she upstairs in your room?”

She smiles and nods. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“She can't really stay here, Hank. I could get in big trouble if anyone finds out that she's not really my sister and she's underage. She doesn't belong in a place like this.”

“Yeah, well…neither do you.” It's the truth. Monica deserves much better. She stands and pulls me into a hug, then motions to the door.

“Go get her.”

I sneak out of Monica's dressing room and make my way up the back stairwell undetected. I can hear the sounds of a muffled TV on the other side of the door and I knock gingerly.

A few seconds later, Peyton is standing in front of me. I have about five million things I want to say to her, but all I really want to do is hug her because it's so damn good to see her.

I thought she'd be equally excited to see me, but instead she bursts out with a single laugh, then covers her mouth. Not quite the reaction I expected. That's when I realize I still have the frickin' headphones around my neck and aviator shades on my head, and I'm carrying the duffel bag. “Is that eyeliner on your chin?”

“Nice to see you too. Laugh it up all you want. You have
no
idea what I went through to get to you.”

“So, I'm guessing you must have talked with Amanda Carlisle,” she says, her smile fading. Her mouth turns down slightly as she says Amanda's name.

“Can we discuss this on our way back to my house? Because I'm positive the DJ has figured out by now that I'm not here as his backup.” I motion with my thumbs in the direction of the exit, but she just stands there.

“Amanda wasted no time tracking you down, did she? Well, I'm glad it all worked out. I know this is what you wanted, and you deserve it. I'm happy for you guys.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I made such a mess of things between you and your dad. The least I could do was make sure Amanda knew the truth and set things right.”

I step into the room and shut the door behind me. “Seriously? I just snuck into a strip club, which, according to the signage outside, is highly illegal and impersonated a DJ. So please, can you grab your stuff? We can hash out all the details somewhere less sketchy.”

She's still not moving. I lean back against the door and sigh.

“Jesus, Peyton, why'd you run away like that? I didn't know where you were or if something happened to you.”

“I didn't want to make things more complicated for you than I already have. I thought it would be easier if I left. It wasn't fair to you.” She bites at her lip. “That night, when I saw the fire you set on Amanda's lawn, I thought you were a kindred spirit.
Finally, someone who understands me!
Why I do what I do, what I think, how I feel. Someone who wouldn't judge me. But I was wrong. I got so caught up in spending time with you that I forgot you actually wanted to be with
Amanda
. The whole reason we started hanging out was because you showed up that night to invite
her
to prom. Well, now you have a chance to finish what you started. Take it. I want you to be happy, Hank.”

I step into the room toward her and tell her, “I
am
happy, Peyton. Don't you get that?”