My Kind of Crazy (18 page)

She folds her arms across her chest and avoids looking at me. “You guys can go to prom, boy gets girl, and the story has a happy ending after all.”

“I'm not taking Amanda to prom. Do I honestly look like the kind of guy that gives a crap about a dance?”

“You should go, Hank. I won't hold it against you. Amanda Carlisle is pretty, popular, and uncomplicated. Everything I'm not. I'm sure that would make your dad super happy.”

“I'm not interested in prom or Amanda Carlisle or what my dad thinks about who I like. For the first time in my life, I can't wait to wake up every day. I can't wait to see what crazy thing you're gonna do, or what completely inappropriate thing you will say to make me laugh, or what long-haired seventies rock band will be on your shirt. I like that you're unpredictable and complicated. Because I like
you
, Peyton. When I'm around you, I feel like I can do anything. You helped me let go, feel free, and give myself permission to move forward. For the first time in my life, I'm not scared of anything.”

I move a little closer. I want her to see I'm telling the truth.

Peyton cracks half a smile. “I'm sorry. I know we're having a poignant moment here, but it's very hard to take you seriously with that thing on your chin.” She rests her hand on my shoulder, laughs again, and pulls me into a hug. I breathe her in.

I whisper into her hair, “I mean it, Peyton.” I run my hand down the small of her back and press my cheek against hers. “I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you ever again. I promise.”

Her body is warm and soft, and I can feel her heart beating as she leans into me. She buries her head in my shoulder, and I whisper, “Please just come home with me.”

After what seems like an eternity, she replies in a voice so quiet I can barely hear it. “Okay.”

I'm smiling from ear to ear as I help her gather what few things she has lying around and shove them in an empty, plastic drugstore bag. She scribbles a quick note to Monica and leaves it on her pillow. As we're leaving, I say, “We can't let anyone see us. We could get in trouble.”

“No kidding. That's why we take the back exit,” she says as she leads me down the hall to a separate stairwell that empties out by the giant, pink phallic silo. “You could have just come in that way in the first place, you know.”

Who knew?

I'm back at school. Peyton is back too, and I swear everyone thinks she's a transfer student because no one recognizes her with her new hair.

I'm going through the motions the best I can, like nothing ever happened, but I can sense something is off. Life in general seems too calm and I don't trust it. It's like we're in a frickin' snow globe that someone's about to give a good shake.

So when Peyton is paged to the front office during last period, I get a weird feeling. It's probably because she was MIA for a week. There must be rules about extended absences, but she knows how to work the system because in the time I've known her, Peyton has pretty much come and gone as she pleases. I have to be at work by four, but I wait for her after school by her locker to see what that's all about.

She doesn't show. I'm not gonna lie; this makes me anxious. A million scenarios compete in my head. Did she get detention? Could they have found evidence she was responsible for the fires and kicked her out? Or something worse? I unlock my bike from the rack in front of the school and climb on, about to leave, when I spot her walking down the front steps of the school with some woman. I can't make out their words, but the body language between them is tense and the woman seems agitated. I ride toward them slowly, wanting to make sure Peyton is okay.

The woman looks vaguely familiar with curly, shoulder-length hair, tight clothes with cleavage spilling out, cheap shoes, and too much makeup. She reaches for Peyton's arm, but Peyton pulls it out of her grasp, falling two paces behind her. Each time the woman speaks, Peyton flinches as if she's been slapped. In between sentences, the woman's mouth is an angry, straight line.

They walk in the direction of an old yellow car with oxidized paint and rimless tires. The woman opens the door to the driver's side and Peyton begrudgingly opens the passenger's, her head down.

That's when I officially flip out, because I know why this woman seems so familiar to me. I've seen her picture on the walls in Peyton's house. It's her mom, the same woman who took scissors to Peyton's hair and gave her those bruises. My stomach lurches. I yell, “Peyton!” and pedal faster until I'm practically on top of them.

Both train their eyes on me at the same time. Peyton shakes her head slightly, as if she's willing me to go away, but I can't
not
get involved. That ship sailed a long frickin' time ago.

“Peyton, are you okay? What's happening? Where are you going?” I'm on edge, and it feels as if everything is spinning out of control.

“Who are
you
?” her mother asks before Peyton can answer me. Her tone is clipped and cautious. Up close, she could easily be mistaken for Peyton's older sister. She is young but battle-weary.

“I'm Hank Kirby.”

Her mother gives me the once-over, assessing me. Her eyes are cold.

She says, “So
you're
Hank. The boy she was staying with, right? You have no idea what you put me through. It would have been nice if you or your family had called and let me know she was all right.”

Is this lady frickin' serious?

“The school kept leaving messages that she was absent, and I figured she'd turn up eventually. She always does. It's not like she has anywhere else to go. But when she didn't come home after two or three days, I started to worry. I only find out she's okay and back at school because the principal calls me in for a meeting to discuss all the time she's missed, and now I have no choice but to deal with it. I had to take off work today to clean up this mess.”

The inconvenience of losing a day's pay is more important than learning that her daughter—who hasn't been home in a week—is alive and safe? I feel my temper rising.

I pull myself up to my full height as my adrenaline surges. “
You
were worried about her? Concerned for her safety? Are you kidding me?”

“Hank, what are you doing?” Peyton interrupts, but I keep going.

“I'm sure that you were up each night, wondering where she was. Putting up flyers, crying yourself to sleep, filing a missing person report with the police.” I nod my head in the direction of the school. “I'm sure you probably have them convinced this was all some big misunderstanding, but it still doesn't explain why you never called them, does it?”

“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow to slits. “Is there some sort of problem here?”

I'm not sure where this bravado is coming from, but I run with it. “Oh, I think there is most definitely some sort of problem here. When Peyton went missing, why didn't you call the school? You said the principal called
you
after she'd been out for several days. Wouldn't you think you should let the school know in case she shows up here? I mean, since you are such a concerned parent and all.”

She's pissed now, and frankly I don't give a crap. Peyton deserves to have someone defend her, and I refuse to let her mom intimidate me. Mrs. Breedlove takes a step closer. “I don't know who you think you are, talking to me like that. You should mind your own business.”

My parents had an issue of
Time
magazine that was in the bathroom for, like, three years when I was growing up. I read the articles over and over until I'd practically memorized the text. In one of them, there was a quote by this social rights activist dude from South Africa named Desmond Tutu. He said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” It always struck me as something a superhero might say, but I never fully understood it until right this moment.

“Peyton
is
my business,” I say. I shoot a glance at Peyton, who looks absolutely terrified. “There's no way in hell she is getting in that car with you and going back to that house. I can't let that happen.”

Mrs. Breedlove raises her eyebrows at Peyton. “Well, Peyton, you certainly did quite a number on this boy. That's very noble and all, Hank, but you don't have the right to tell me what my daughter can and can't do.”

Something in the way she speaks, as if each word is as sharp as a razor blade, reminds me of my dad when he was drunk, and I reflexively ball my hands into fists. “I think Peyton should stay with me.”

Mrs. Breedlove smirks. “Oh, you think that, huh?”

“Yes.” I made Peyton a promise. I'm not going to back down.

“And why is that?”

“Because I know what happened that night. I know what I saw. You can't do that to her.”

Peyton's eyes go wide. “Hank, don't—” But her mother cuts her off.

“And what exactly do you think you saw?” Her mother scoffs, and before I can answer, she says, “You are
so
out of bounds, kid. I'm sure you both had a wonderful time playing house, but Peyton's seventeen. She's not a legal adult. And neither are you. So as I see it, our family matters don't concern you.” She narrows her eyes at me and then says, “Get in the car, Peyton.”

“Don't, Peyton,” I say, standing my ground. If she gets in that car, who knows what might happen. Her mother's jaw tenses.

“Hank, please don't,” Peyton pleads. “It's fine, okay?”

“It's
not
fine. Look what she did to you.”

Her mother locks eyes with me. “What
I
did to—”

Peyton's voice cracks. “Don't get involved, okay?”

I don't understand why she's trying to get me to back off. It doesn't make sense. Not after everything that's happened.

Mrs. Breedlove's voice is low and intense. “Look, if I were you, I'd shut my mouth and quit throwing around accusations, especially when you don't have the first clue what's really going on.” And then, without ever taking her eyes off me, she says, “Get in the
car
, Peyton.”

Peyton gives me one last pleading look to leave her alone before opening the door and climbing in.

I practically spit words at her mother. “I know
exactly
what's going on. She told me you came at her with scissors, that you cut off her hair, told her you wished she'd never been born, slapped her across the face. I should probably call the cops right now.” I reach for my cell phone in my back pocket just to show her I'm serious. It doesn't seem to faze her a bit.

“Is that what she told you?” Her mother calmly shakes her head. “Peyton has always had quite an imagination.”

“It's pretty hard to make that kind of stuff up when there's physical evidence,” I say. I figure I'm already way past the point of making a good impression on her mother so I don't give a crap anymore.

Mrs. Breedlove adjusts her purse strap over her shoulder and gets right in my face. Her tone is terse. “You may think you know a lot about my daughter, Hank, but I assure you, there's more to the story than whatever she's told you. Everything isn't always as it seems. Let's leave it at that.”

“Why would she make something like that up?”

“That girl will do whatever she has to do to get attention. She always has. And it certainly looks like she got yours.” She turns her back on me and gets into her car, putting an end to our conversation. Peyton doesn't even look back at me.

After everything that's happened, I can't believe that she'd just go with her mom like that. Or that the school wouldn't intervene. Mrs. Breedlove must've put on a helluva show in there. It seems like I should tell someone, but what can I say? I don't have any
actual
evidence, only my word against her mother's, since Peyton isn't speaking up, which I don't get.

I consider following them home because I'm worried about what might happen to Peyton, but if I do, there's a good chance O'Callaghan will call Dad looking for me, and everything could unravel if Dad pieces together why. I'm gonna be a good ten minutes late for my shift as it is, and I can't get canned.

During the whole ride to Shop 'n Save I replay what her mother said. What a bitch. Trying to cover up what she did to Peyton by implying that what Peyton said wasn't true. Why would anyone lie about a thing like that? I know what she looked like when she came to my door—the bruises, her hair, the blood. What assurance do I have that it won't happen again? And what the hell did her mother mean that there's more to the story than I know?

• • •

The night is a blur. O'Callaghan has me inventorying pet food, and it makes me want to pull out my eyebrows, hair by hair, knowing I'm here doing this petty crap while Peyton is dealing with who knows what. It drives me crazy that she doesn't have a frickin' cell phone. At least then I could try to text her. God, I hope she's all right.

I get home around ten thirty. On my way upstairs, I catch sight of the mail sitting on the table. Nestled in between the bills and the supermarket flyers, a big, fat envelope from the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston is sticking out. Another one of those useless college solicitations. I'm not in the mood for thinking about everything I can't have right now, but I grab it anyway, along with the latest Victoria's Secret catalog addressed to Monica, and head upstairs.

I flop down on my bed and flip mindlessly through the catalog. Even totally hot, half-naked, perfectly tanned models in lacy lingerie can't do the job in taking my mind off this afternoon. Not even the chick in the bra with the real diamonds.

I feel so completely impotent, and not in that can't-get-your-jock-up kind of way. I mean, after everything that happened, I just stood there and watched Peyton leave. Short of throwing myself across the hood, I don't know what I should have done. Peyton didn't make a move. And what if she
ha
d
? What then? Ride off into the sunset with her on the handlebars of my frickin' bike?

I can't sleep. All night I toss and turn, listening for her at the window. Every noise I hear outside I think maybe could be her. I consider riding over to her house to make sure she's okay, but I worry what might happen if her mother or Pete sees me, and the position that might put her in. I finally fall asleep, but I swear I hear a girl's voice downstairs as I drift off.

I wake up to the distinct smell of overcooked eggs and burned bacon. I'm halfway down the stairs when I notice the green suitcase with the rainbow-colored ribbons propped neatly by the door, like Mary Poppins has come back to visit. I smile and groggily stagger into the kitchen, following the smell of cremated food. Sure enough, there's Monica, standing at the stove wearing my dad's lucky Red Sox tee and a pair of pink fuzzy socks, and cracking more eggs into the pan.

“Good morning,” she says and grins, nibbling on a slice of semi-burned toast while she scrambles the eggs, like it's no big deal that she's in the kitchen making breakfast at six thirty in the morning.

“Hey,” I say. “You're back.”

She smiles as she pours herself a cup of coffee. “I am.”

“That's great,” I say. “I'm glad.”

“We talked last night. Like…really talked. Your dad's trying to get his shit together, and it's about time I got mine together too. So we're gonna try to help each other, you know? Make a few changes. He's quittin' the drinking, and I've decided to quit dancing.” She plates some eggs, hands them to me, and adds, “Actually, I have you to thank for that.”

“Me? How so?” I ask, taking a bite of eggs. They're crunchy. I subtly extract a piece of eggshell from my mouth and place it in my napkin.

“That day when you brought Peyton to see me? You know, to fix her hair? It felt so good to help someone, to know that what I did was making a difference in how they felt about themselves. It made me realize I want to do something that makes me feel like that every day. I don't want my past to hold me back.”

She reaches for her mug of coffee, takes a sip, and says, “Then I bumped into your dad as he was coming out of his AA meeting downtown. That's how we started talking about how he was making some changes too, and I thought to myself, ‘Monica, this definitely is some kind of sign.' And you know I'm into signs.”