My Kind of Crazy (4 page)

As he drags her toward the house, I can hear him berating her though I can't make out exactly what he's saying. But even from here, I can tell her spirit is broken in this guy's presence. She curls into herself, following his lead and never once turning back in my direction.

I wait in the corner of the yard until I'm sure they've gone inside and then cautiously make my way to the side of the house. I am tempted to pause by the open window and listen, just to make sure Peyton is okay, but I don't hear anything, not even the faint drone of the television we heard on the way in.

I run and pull my bike out of the bushes, then pedal away as fast as I can, past the trail of burned matchsticks and all the people leading normal lives, completely unaware that right down the street some seriously messed-up stuff is going on. I've finally met someone whose life is potentially more craptastic than mine. Who knew that was even possible?

I suppose on some level I should feel relieved, but I don't. I just feel sad. As much as I wish I could forget this entire day, I can't stop thinking about her all the way home and wondering what her story is.

I roll into the driveway just as Monica is heading to her car—going to work I'm assuming, based on her outfit. She's wearing a pair of denim shorts so revealing that half her ass is hanging out, and her white T-shirt is so tight and see-through that the outlines of her nipples are like two brown berries. The top's cropped just below her boobs, revealing a bejeweled belly button ring. The ensemble's a little distracting.

“Hey, Hank.”

I try to keep my eyes focused on her face. “Hey.”

She stops midway down the drive and frantically roots through her purse. She holds up a pair of red tassels like a victory prize. “Thank God! I thought I lost these. Gotta give 'em what they like, right? These always translate into big tips.”

“Right.”
Jesus.
Does anyone else have conversations like this with their father's girlfriend? I'm pretty sure the answer is no.

She tilts her head and studies me, cracking her gum loudly. “You okay? You seem kinda out of it.”

“I have a lot on my mind, that's all. School and stuff. It's cool.” I shake my head to brush my bangs out of my eyes. A part of me wants to tell her about Peyton, about what I saw at her house, and ask Monica what she thinks, but she's already fiddling the key into the lock of her piece-of-crap 1992 Dodge Shadow.

The door gives way with a loud groan, and she climbs into the driver's seat, then pumps the gas pedal a few times before turning the key so the engine will catch and start. She always talks to it, patting the dashboard with a soothing “C'mon sweetie. You can do it,” as if that will help. With a roar, the engine engages. She smiles at me.

“Hey, listen. I know being a teenager completely blows. And with your mom gone and your dad not being the easiest person to talk to, you can totally talk to me.”

“Thanks.” I really want to, but I don't know how to bring this up. It's not the sort of thing you just blurt out.

“You know what I think? I think you need a little excitement. A guy your age—you need to blow off some steam. I could probably sneak you in to one of the shows and have one of the girls give you a private dance. I mean, unless that would be weird for you since I work there and all.” She cracks her gum loudly again, and I'm thinking her working at Mo's Boobie Barn would be the least bizarre part of that scenario.

“Yeah, probably,” I tell her and shift my weight between my feet.

“Well, think about it. Just don't tell your dad. It'll be our little secret.” She holds her index finger to her lips. “Everybody doesn't have to know everything about everybody's personal business, right?”

I nod. I like Monica. There's something about her that I feel like I can trust. She understands that people have secrets. She gets that things don't always make sense and people have to compromise to get by.

My mind is swimming with images of everything I just saw at Peyton's: the messed-up yard, the burning Barbies, Peyton's mom's drunk boyfriend grabbing her like that. If I don't say something I'm going to explode.

“So…can I ask you something?”

“Sure, anything.” She angles her rearview mirror, checks her teeth for lipstick, and rubs blush on her cheeks.

“What if you saw something that didn't seem right? Like, someone could be in danger, but you don't know the whole story. Do you tell someone?”

“Well, I think the first thing you have to do is find out the whole story. Can you ask this person what's goin' on?”

I shake my head and dig my hands in my pockets. “I don't actually know her that well. Plus, I don't know if she'd even want to tell me.”

“What kind of danger exactly? Is someone trying to kill her? Is she suicidal?” Monica raises her eyebrows and her mouth hangs open a little.

“Nothing like that, just… I don't know. Forget it. It's probably nothing. Like I said, I don't know the whole story, and the truth is I don't want to get involved. But…this person involved me, so now I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“Look, sometimes shit goes down between other people and the best thing you can do is stay clear. It can get messy. Trust me, I know from personal experience. I didn't leave home and become an exotic dancer because it was my life's dream or somethin'. But one day, I'm gonna finish gettin' my cosmetology license and have my own salon and leave dancin' behind. Sometimes life delivers more than you can handle, but survival is a strong instinct.”

“Right. So since we're basically strangers, I can walk away and not feel like a total douche, right?”

“Only you can answer that, Hank. I'm a fan of stayin' out of other people's shit. You are less likely to create expectations. And people never live up to those. So if you don't know this girl and you don't really care, then I say step off. Otherwise, you could be signin' up for a whole lotta drama.”

I nod as she winks at me and kicks the car into reverse. The gravel crunches under her wheels as she backs down the driveway, shooting pebbles in all directions. She sticks her hand out the window and shakes one of her red nipple tassels in the air, waving good-bye as she drives down the street.

Dad's still not home so I grab a soda from the fridge and head upstairs. I lie back on my bed to read the Shakespeare crap that's due tomorrow in English, but my mind keeps drifting to this afternoon.

Picturing Peyton's face when her mom's boyfriend came outside.

The way Pete talked to her.

The way she's put on this big, mouthy show whenever I've seen her, but clammed right up around him.

Wondering what happened when he dragged her inside.

I don't want to think about Peyton. I don't want to get in the middle of some crazy girl's life and problems—I have enough of my own—but a nagging voice in my head tells me I should. That it's the right thing to do. I just have to figure out exactly
what
I should do. So I reassure myself that there's time to let it marinate and come up with a plan, that she's not going anywhere anytime soon. But ironically, she does.

Peyton is not at school the next day. Or the day after that.

In fact, she's not there for the rest of the week, and life is practically normal. She's not showing up unexpectedly at my lunch table or lurking in the hallways or anything. It's like she's disappeared into thin air. While a part of me wonders where she is, I'm also relieved. I can finally breathe without worrying if my life is about to be turned upside down any second.

I'm in such a good mood that I don't even mind when Kyle Jonas cracks yet another one-liner at my expense during gym. I just chuckle along with him and tell him he's hilarious, which seems to rattle him. He waves his hand dismissively and takes off with his knucklehead simian buddies. Of course he takes his frustration out on me for the next half hour by throwing the dodgeball at me extra hard and always aiming for my balls. Fortunately, I'm quick on my feet.

“You have a serious death wish, man,” Nick tells me on our way to the locker room. His gym uniform is so oversize it makes him look even skinnier than he is, if that's possible.

I wipe the sweat off my upper lip with the bottom of my gray school-issue tee and say, “I'm sick of putting up with that assclown.”

“He's a
fessacchione
. Before you graduate you should find some way to get back at him.” Nick's eyes light up, and he grins from ear to ear. “You could leave a pile of dead fish on the front seat of his car on a hot day. I saw that in a movie once.”

I laugh at the mental image. It's glorious. “That would be pretty amazing except for the fact that the guy has a convertible, so it would never smell.”

“Trust me, you'd smell that shit two states over. Let me know if you're ever interested. My dad's friend owns a fish market. I could get you a good deal.”

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.”

We reach our lockers, and as we spin the dials on our combination locks, Nick asks me, “So did you hear about Amanda Carlisle?”

My mood perks up at the mention of her name. “No, what about her?”

“You know how some loser tried to burn down her house but she's convinced it was all some romantic gesture?” He snickers.

I feel my cheeks get hot and redden. “Yeah. What a moron. The guy I mean. Not Amanda. But go on, what about her?”

Nick glances around, then leans in, speaking in a low voice. I can still smell the salami sandwich he ate at lunch on his breath. “Turns out she's wicked serious about wanting to find out who this ‘mystery guy' is. She's talking about setting up a website so guys can fill out an anonymous survey of questions only the person who did it would know how to answer.”

I try to act casual even though my mind is racing. I stuff my gym shirt into my locker and slide my red Flash tee over my head. “Seriously? That's whack.”

His eye drifts to the side as he says, “All the girls are going bonkers over how sweet it is. Meanwhile, it's pretty much open season for the guys. If you can guess the right answers, you have a shot at Amanda Carlisle. So every idiot and his brother is going for it. Hell, I'm even considering taking the survey.”

I try to process what he's saying. “Hold up. People are essentially making up a load-of-crap story and entering a contest so they can go on a date with Amanda?”

“Yup. Wild, huh?” He pulls his shirt over his head and I can see the outline of his rib cage, along with a shiny, jagged scar on the side of his stomach. Rumor has it he was stabbed in a knife fight. I quickly avert my eyes before he catches me staring.

I pull on my jeans. “The thing is, anyone who claims to be ‘the guy' has pretty much confessed to nearly burning down her frickin' house. While Amanda may be willing to overlook that, I'm guessing Mr. Carlisle won't. And probably not their insurance company either. Not exactly the way to score points at the beginning of a relationship, if you know what I mean.”

“She promises total immunity, though you raise a good point.” Nick's brow furrows as he considers all this, and then he shrugs. “She's smokin' hot. It might be worth the risk.”

I'm still skeptical, but of course I'm interested. I stack the pros of winning a date with Amanda against the cons of how much trouble my confession could potentially bring. “So what happens if you answer all the questions right? I mean, twenty guys could luck out and guess the right answers. How does she know who's the real one?”

“I don't know. Maybe she has a bonus question.”

“And then what? She goes out with the guy?”

“Get this: sounds like she said she would take him to prom.”

Prom.

With Amanda Carlisle.

It might still happen after all. But this is too easy. I mean, I know all the answers. I was there. It sounds so simple and straightforward, but there's gotta be a catch. Despite her offer of immunity, what if this is all some elaborate plan to catch the poor dumb bastard (me) and then humiliate and punish him publicly? And what if Amanda finds out it was me and bursts out laughing and refuses to go through with it? She doesn't seem like the type who would do that though. I think that's why I got the nerve to ask her in the first place.

Any time I've ever talked to her, Amanda has always been polite and friendly. Of course, it's never a deep conversation or anything; more like she says, “Do you know what time it is?” and I say, “Two fifteen.” One time she asked me, “Do you want to sign my petition to get the school cafeteria to start carrying gluten-free entrees?” and I said, “Sure,” even though I didn't have the slightest clue what gluten was. It seemed important to her so I went with it.

I got the idea to invite her to prom two weeks ago when both our lab partners didn't show up and Mr. Seitz put us together. She basically sat back and let me dissect our whole frog, but she kept thanking me, saying I was so sweet for understanding that she could never harm a fish, no matter how big or small. She was so emotional about it that I didn't have the heart to tell her a frog is actually an amphibian. Even the formaldehyde couldn't mask how good she smelled—like baby powder and jasmine flowers all mixed up.

While I was doing our lab work, Amanda made small talk and asked me if I was going to prom. I said I wasn't sure, and she said she didn't know if she was going either. No one had asked her yet. It was almost like she was hinting.

Granted, I knew inviting her was a stretch, but it felt like we'd had a moment. Sometimes in life you have to go for what you want. It's pretty freeing, actually. In the best-case scenario, things work out. And in the worst-case scenario, you set the girl's lawn on fire and make the evening news.

I'm not much of a religious guy, but I gotta say that hearing about Amanda's website feels like somebody upstairs is giving me a do-over, the chance to make things right. At the same time, I'm sure he (or she) is laughing his (or her) ass off, amused at how I get myself into these situations.

“Earth to Hank!” Nick's waving his hand in front of my face. I snap back to reality.

“Sorry, man. I completely spaced out. What did you say?”

“I said the downside of winning is I'd actually have to go to prom.” We close our lockers and head out of the gym toward the quad. “Hey, you wanna go to Ziggy's and grab a burger after school?”

Ziggy's is this amazing hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint in town that makes the most incredible kick-ass chili cheese fries. But they are known for their How High burger. It's two patties topped with mozzarella sticks, jalapeño poppers, a fried egg, potato chips, bacon, lettuce, tomato, pickles, and secret sauce. If you can eat the whole thing, they take your picture and put it on the wall. Nick and I have made a pact to do this someday.

“I can't. Gotta work. Rain check?”

“No problem. Another time. Maybe you could invite your friend.”

“What friend?” I'm thrown for a minute because he's pretty much the only person that I talk to.

“That chick with the frizzy hair who hates grapes.”

“Peyton?”

“Yeah, Peyton.” He clears his throat and bobs his head. “She seems pretty cool.”

“I haven't seen her.”

“Well, when you do, tell her I said hi.” The corners of his mouth tease at a smile, and I can't help it. I burst out laughing.

“You like Peyton?” It comes out like an accusation, and I instantly regret it because his face becomes stony and one eye locks onto me while the other glares menacingly over my shoulder.

“Why'd you say it like that? What's wrong with her?”

I start to tell him and then snap my mouth shut like a fish. I can't. It would mean unraveling the whole story of how we met and everything that I know about her, and how she told me she'd never shown anyone any of that stuff before, like she trusted me. Even though it was weird, there was definitely something cool about how she opened up to me.

The fear in her eyes the other afternoon flashes in my mind. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget it. My stomach churns every time I think of it, and I silently wonder if she's okay. As much as I want to talk to Nick about it, that doesn't seem right. I can't explain it, but I feel oddly protective of her.

“Nothing. She's all right,” I counter quickly. “I'll tell her the next time I see her.”

“Excellent.” Nick nods.

And then I find myself saying, “I might swing by her house later on my way to work. You know, check in and see what's up. I'm passing right by there anyhow.”

So much for not getting involved.