My Kind of Crazy (6 page)

Peyton laughs, and I feel my cheeks flush. I have no idea why I shared that with her. I've never told anyone that, and it certainly wasn't meant to be amusing. “I'm sorry,” she says and waves her hand.

“Why is that funny?”

“It wasn't really… I was just picturing you in a full-on superhero costume.”

“I don't want to
dress
like one,” I snap. “You know, you do all kinds of weird shit and then I tell you something personal, and you make me feel like an idiot.”

She can tell I'm genuinely pissed and stops laughing. Her face becomes lined with worry, like she's afraid I'm going to leave. “No, seriously, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other and shake my bangs off my face with a jerk of my head. “Oh, before I forget…uh, Nick Giuliani says hi.”

She wrinkles her nose. “The dude with the freaky eyes who called me out on my grapes?”

Now I'm the one laughing. “Yeah.”

“I heard his dad killed someone.”

I shrug. “You hear a lot of things about Nick.”

“Well, what do
you
think? Do
you
think his dad killed someone?”

“I don't know. I doubt it.”

“Doesn't it make you wonder? I mean, are you scared to be alone with him? Think he'd knife you when you're not looking?”

“Nah. I figure he's got his secrets, and I've got mine. He's a pretty cool guy if you get to know him.”

She considers this for a moment. “Maybe I'll ask him next time I see him.”

Bad idea. Aside from the fact that the question would probably upset him, I wouldn't want Nick thinking I was spreading rumors. “Whoa. You can't just walk up to someone and ask if their dad offed somebody.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it's rude. Nick's my friend. People say a lot of crap about him, but that doesn't mean any of it's true. They don't even know him. Not everybody is comfortable putting their cards on the table.” I cross my arms.

“Fair enough. Everyone is hiding something though. There's the story we tell ourselves and the story we tell everyone else.” She blows out the match and strikes another. I can't act like I don't notice much longer, because it's starting to make me feel uncomfortable.

“Hey, what's with the matches?”

“I like doing it. Does it make you nervous?”

“It just seems a little dangerous.”

“That's what makes it so satisfying.” She puts the matchbook on her nightstand. “Why did you come here, Hank?”

The truth is that I don't know. I'm kind of scared for her to tell me what's really going on because I'm not sure I'll know how to handle that information. But I do know one thing: the minute this girl walked into my life, something shifted. As strange and messed up as she is, there's something about Peyton Breedlove that's more honest and real than anyone I've ever known.

Before I get a chance to answer, we both hear the high-pitched squeal of worn-down brake pads as the Subaru pulls into the driveway. Peyton's eyes get wide as saucers. “Shit, that's Pete.”

She struggles to raise her window but it doesn't budge. “It sticks sometimes.” She motions me over, and I stand next to her to help. It finally yields, sliding up with a loud screech. A blast of cool air hits me in the face. There's no screen, so I'm guessing this is not the first time it's been used to sneak out. “I'm going to go out and distract him. You wait until he's inside, then climb out and run.”

“Got it.” I position myself, ready to make my escape. My heart starts beating fast, just like it did the other night when I was worried I'd get caught at Amanda's house.

She heads to the door. Before she opens it, she turns to me and says, “Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The look in her eyes tells me that coming here tonight really means a lot to her, and I know that I can't walk away this time the way I might have before. Moreover, I don't want to.

She slips out the door, closing it with a click behind her. I wait until I hear her opening the front door and talking to Pete. He says, “Someone left a bike in front of the house. You know anything about that?” but I don't stick around for Peyton's response. I shimmy out the window and drop low to the ground. When I'm sure the coast is clear, I book it back to the bush and my bike.

Naturally, Amanda Carlisle is at her mailbox, flipping through the envelopes one by one. When she catches sight of me running out of Peyton's yard like I'm being chased by a pack of wolves, she regards me curiously. Then she breaks out in a big grin.

“Hey, I know you. Aren't you in my bio class? You were my lab partner a few weeks ago, right?”

I freeze like a deer caught in headlights. I turn to her and smile, trying to act nonchalant, but my adrenaline is pumping. Of course she chooses to strike up a conversation as I'm trying to get the hell out of here. Story of my life.

“Hey, what's up?” I casually lean against my bike, which causes it to pitch over with a loud crash. At least that makes her laugh. I fumble to right the bike, and she's already halfway across the street by the time I regain my composure.

“What's your name again?”

“Hank. Hank Kirby.” I shoot a quick glance toward Peyton's house, hoping Pete won't come outside to see what the racket is about.

“Right. Do you live over this way?” She eyes my highly fashionable Shop 'n Save polo.

“I…uh…I was just bringing Peyton some groceries,” I lie.

“On your bike?”

“She needed some stuff. You know, milk and bread and…um…toilet paper.”
A million items in the supermarket and I have to mention toilet paper. Jesus.

“You're friends with her?” Amanda's face crinkles like she's smelled something foul.

“Uh…kinda. I know her from school.” I don't know why I get so nervous around Amanda. It's like I go into hyperdrive, especially my mouth. “It's not like we hang out or anything. I see her and we say hi and stuff, but we're not close. She hasn't been at school though, so I figured I'd bring her work by because, you know, if I was out sick, I'd want someone to bring me my work so I didn't fall behind.” It's like a bullshit burrito: bullshit sprinkled in cheese, wrapped in a layer of more bullshit.

Amanda looks confused. “I thought you said you were bringing her groceries.”

“Oh yeah, I brought her groceries
and
homework.”
Dumbass.

“That's very nice of you,” Amanda says and runs her finger absently over her bottom lip. I'm mesmerized. “I didn't think she had any friends.” She peers past me at Peyton's house, then leans in a little, cupping her hand around her mouth, and says in a loud whisper, “She's kind of weird. Truthfully, she scares me a little. I swear, strange stuff happens over there. Yelling, loud noises, smoke—even at all hours of the night. Everyone wishes they'd move. They're bringing down the whole neighborhood.”

I don't know what to say and I can't bring myself to make eye contact with her, so I glance back toward Peyton's house. “It's a nice neighborhood.”

Amanda continues as if she didn't hear me. “Plus, I never see her parents. Which explains why the house has become such an eyesore. Seriously, how hard is it to mow a lawn once in a while? My parents say the guy who owns the place will rent to anyone as long as the check clears the bank.”

Her mention of the lawn makes me think of accidentally scorching hers, and I reflexively shoot a glance at it.

She giggles conspiratorially and I swear she's flirting with me, so I play along. I don't want to screw up this moment. I'm having a bona fide conversation with Amanda Carlisle. This doesn't happen every day. Not in my world.

“Yeah, it's pretty much a train wreck over there.”

I feel my insides twist. It's the truth, but saying it so casually feels like I'm throwing Peyton under the bus. I try to ignore my conscience and focus on Amanda—the dimple in her left cheek when she smiles, the little flecks of gold in her blue eyes when the light hits them just right, the winding trail of freckles down her neck leading underneath her sweater. I wonder how many more are hiding under there.

Right then, the universe puts an abrupt end to my fantasy. The sky opens and it starts raining so hard I swear Noah is gonna gather animals for the ark. Amanda holds her mail over her head to shield her hair and says, “I better get inside. Hope you don't have a long ride home!”

The fact that she's worried about me, even a little, makes me smile. There is a clap of thunder and I raise my voice because it's so loud. “I'm actually headed to work. I'll be all right. It's only a few blocks. I don't mind the rain.”

“Okay then.” She grins and starts up her driveway, then pivots on her heel and says, “Sorry if I upset you by saying something mean about your friend. I was just being honest.”

She runs toward her house as I call after her, “It's all good. Like I said, Peyton and I aren't really friends.”

Amanda gives me a wave before she disappears inside.

Standing there in the downpour, I feel the rush of talking with Amanda disappear as quickly as it came. I am a royal asshole for betraying Peyton not once, but twice. I'm soaking wet and the insides of my shoes squish water when I walk, but I tell myself that I deserve to miserable. What I did? I'm no better than Kyle, saying crap to sound cool at another person's expense.

I swing one leg over my bike and am set to pedal toward Shop 'n Save when I hear a bang from the direction of Peyton's house. It's the sound of a window being slammed shut. More specifically, Peyton's window.

Shit, fuck, shit.

How much of the conversation did she hear?

I get my answer later that night.

I'm lying in bed looking through an old Captain America comic that I got about a year ago, trying to chill out. It's an old one from 1987 called
Captain America No More!
in which the Red Skull devises a plan to destroy Captain America, but ultimately his plans are revealed and order is restored. The comic book isn't worth jack, particularly in this condition, but it's one of my favorites, mainly because Dad bought it for me.

The night I got it stays with me because Dad and I don't generally hang out. Things have been pretty messed up between us since I was a kid, even before Mom and Mickey died, and I've felt like an inconvenience for the better part of a decade. I'd always envied the closeness he and Mickey shared and wished he and I could be like that. That we'd have something more in common than our shared DNA.

It's not like Dad has never tried. It's just always been on his terms. Back when Mickey and I were kids, my parents would save up all year, and every August they would pack us in the car for the long drive to Boston to catch a Sox game at Fenway. My dad had an old Chevy that had no air-conditioning and was prone to overheat, so it was always an adventure. And on the ride, Dad and Mickey would be shooting off all kinds of stats from the season: RBIs, home runs, batting averages, that sort of crap.

We had the cheapest seats, way in the outfield, but I never cared because I was more interested in doodling on my concession-stand napkin than watching the actual game. I mostly liked how we were all together and it felt like we were a family. Then, when I was ten, I screwed everything up.

The truth is, I didn't really like baseball that much, which was sacrilege in my house. My father was convinced that if I played Little League, I would turn into an all-star like him and my brother. It didn't matter that I had zero interest or ability and would rather take art classes; Dad was determined that I follow in his footsteps. He coached my team every year. I went along with it because I wanted to make him happy, but I was miserable.

One day, I saw a poster at the comic book store about a showing of Steve Ditko's original sketches from early Spider-Man comics at a gallery in Boston, and he was supposed to be there in a rare public appearance with Stan Lee. Even though I knew it meant missing the last game of my team's season and that my dad letting me go was probably a total long shot, I begged him to take me. He laughed it off as if it were trivial, just a bunch of drawings. I was so upset that I told him I thought baseball was boring as shit, that I didn't want to play anymore and he couldn't make me. He was so furious that his jaw clenched and a vein bulged in his forehead as he yelled at me that I didn't make the rules. So at the game, bottom of the ninth inning, bases loaded, score tied, with everything riding on my at-bat, I decided to show him who's boss.

When the pitcher threw the ball, I didn't swing. I could see my father out of the corner of my eye, yelling at me to hit the ball. He was on his feet, pulling his baseball cap on and off his head, practically having a frickin' coronary. With each of the next two balls, he kept yelling, asking me if I was a moron, then reprimanded me in front of the crowd, but I didn't move a muscle. I stood my ground. I had to show him I wasn't—and would never be—like him and Mickey.

While I felt like a jerk for throwing the game and letting down the team, I was tired of my dad trying to mold me in his image. I felt proud of myself for standing up to him. But happiness was fleeting, because when the game ended, the entire team—including my dad—completely iced me out. I'd humiliated him publicly. I'd pushed things too far with him, and I tried to apologize the entire ride home, but he didn't want to hear it.

There were no more family trips to Fenway after that. He'd still go, of course, but he'd only take Mickey. Mom loved baseball, but Dad was adamant that I not “subject myself to that boring-as-shit game,” and Mom worried about leaving me alone, so she stayed home with me. I could see in her eyes how disappointed she was to miss it, which made me feel worse. I tried explaining to him that I didn't really feel that way, that I had just been upset, but it didn't matter. The damage was done. And after Mickey died, Dad stopped going altogether.

Most days Dad makes it clear that sharing a house doesn't mean we have to share a conversation. So last year when he invited me out for a pizza and we found ourselves at the comic store, it was kind of a big deal. That night, Monica was working, there was no game on, and Dad wanted company. Sure, he spent most of the evening draining a pitcher of beer, ranting about how the Pats weren't gonna be able to take it all the way to the Super Bowl, and checking out the boobs on our waitress, but it was progress. He didn't ask me a single question about myself, but I was glad to be there with him. He's pretty much all I've got.

On the way home, we passed Metropolis Comics. They were getting ready to close, and Victor, the old guy who owns the place, waved at me as we walked by.

“Who the hell is that?” my dad asked with a belch.

I waved back. “That's Victor.”

My dad leaned in to me and grabbed the inside of my arm near the elbow, steadying himself. “He a friend of yours?”

“Kinda.”

He snickered and added, “Ain't he a little old for you, Hank? What's a guy his age interested in some young kid for?”

“Dad, he owns the comic book store. I come here a lot. He knows me.”
Probably better than you do
, I'd thought.

Dad stopped in his tracks and eyed the neon sign as if he was noticing the store for the first time. “Metropolis Comics, eh? I used to like comics when I was a kid. Who's your favorite?”

I tried to play it cool. “That's a tough call. So many great ones, but I'm going to have to go with the Silver Surfer.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That the guy on a skateboard?”

“Surfboard, actually. That's why they call him the Silver Surfer.” Dad had shared so little of himself with me, and now that we were finally speaking the same language, I didn't want to mess it up. “Who was
your
favorite?” I asked him.

“Jeez, it was so long ago. I was about your age, maybe younger.” Dad shook his head.

I tried to imagine my dad as a teenager. I saw a photo once a long time ago. He actually looked a lot like I do now. It's as if his life was divided into before and after Mom and Mickey died. Everything that came before was put in a box and closed up tight like the door to Mickey's room. It's different for me. I like to think about my mom and brother, to imagine the things they'd say or do if they were still here. It comforts me in a way I can't fully explain. But for Dad, I guess the memories are too painful to revisit.

“I used to love the classics. You know: Hulk, Wolverine, Iron Man, Spider-Man.”

“So you're a Marvel guy then?”
Who knew?

“Absolutely. Superman and Batman were all right, but DC lost me with Aquaman. I always thought, how can you take someone seriously who rides a sea horse?”

We shared a laugh, and I felt excited, hopeful. Neither of us was yelling. We were having fun. I wondered what he'd think about
Freeze Frame
. I'd never shown it to him, but for the first time, I thought that maybe I could. I'd always been too worried he'd discount it the way he had the drawings I'd made as a kid.

“You like Captain America? That guy was wicked cool.”

“I do. He's one of my favorites.” He grinned and slapped me on the back, saying, “Let me buy you a Captain America comic.”

“That would be awesome!” It was big. I remember thinking that maybe,
maybe
he'd forgiven me a little bit. I wasn't even nervous that he'd upset a display or talk too loudly.

We spent about a half hour there, sifting through comics together and talking. Ultimately, the one he bought me set him back about fourteen bucks. I wondered if he'd even remember it in the morning. More likely, he'd wonder where his money went and assume I'd stolen it. It wouldn't have been the first time.

But whenever I read
Captain America No More!
—tonight being no exception—it makes me remember what a great night that was, and how much I want Dad and me to be like that more of the time. So far, that hasn't happened.

I reach the last page of the comic and am carefully putting it back into its protective plastic sleeve when I hear the sharp crack of something hitting my window. It sounds like the little pebbles from the driveway. I look out, but I don't see anything. As I lie down and reposition the pillow behind my head, I hear it again.

Clack! Plink!

This time I put down my comic, open my window, and stick my head outside. The moon slices through the trees, casting long shadows in the side yard. A stray cat sprints across the grass to the shelter of some nearby bushes, but that's about it.

It's close to midnight, but I decide to go against the warning of every horror movie I've ever seen and head downstairs to check things out. As usual, Dad is passed out in front of the TV, a half-empty bottle of beer nestled in the crook of his arm. His head is slumped over his chest, causing him to snore like a jackhammer with each breath.

I carefully remove the bottle and place it on the coffee table next to two other empties and the remains of what appear to have been bean dip and a bag of Fritos.
Late-night snack of champions.
I think Dad drinks more when Monica's not around to slow him down.

I flip on the porch light. Then as quietly as I can, I open the front door, hoping the hinges won't squeak too loudly. The screen makes a yawning creak as it resists my push, but Dad's out cold and doesn't seem to hear it over whatever crappy rerun is blaring on the TV. I tiptoe outside and down the steps. It's long since stopped raining and the sky is clear, but the ground is still wet and the air is heavy with a damp chill.

I survey the perimeter of the property for potential serial killers, but everything is still. It's only when I walk around to the side yard below my window that I step on something that makes me yowl.

I squint and kneel for a closer look. Yep, it's as I suspected: the charred remains of a male Barbie. I can't see the original hair color because the plastic's blackened and melted into a twisted lump, though the doll's feet have miraculously retained their shape. I can't read the writing on its chest because it has been obliterated by flame, but if I had to bet on it, I'm pretty sure I'd know what it would say. The message couldn't be clearer.

“Peyton?” I half yell, half whisper, hoping she'll pop out from behind a bush like she usually does.

There's no way she could have hightailed it out of here that quickly, and the urgency to find her overshadows the fact that I am not wearing any shoes. I hop down the gravel driveway, turning in circles, looking for any sign of her.

“
Peyton?
”

No response. The only sounds are the leaves rustling when the breeze kicks through the trees and a dog barking somewhere up the road. I call her name again and am about to give up and head back inside when I catch movement by my neighbor's trash cans. Tomorrow's garbage pickup, which means it's as likely to be a raccoon as it is Peyton, but I decide to take my chances. It's clear she's angry and isn't coming out if she's hiding, so I say my piece.

“Peyton, I get that you're pissed at me. What I did was shitty. I don't know why I said what I said. Seeing Amanda threw me off. She was talking to me, which rarely happens, and I got carried away. I wasn't thinking.”

The breeze picks up again and I bear-hug myself, because even though the calendar says it's early May, someone forgot to tell the weather this week. My toes are starting to go numb. How long does it take for frostbite to set in?

I address the trash cans again. “I'm an asshole, Peyton. You didn't deserve that. The truth is, it's been a long time since anyone was nice to me. You could have busted me right from the start. But you didn't, and even though you might do and say some freaky shit, I think you're pretty cool. I shouldn't have taken advantage of your trust like that.” I sigh deeply and add, “And if it makes you feel any better, I've felt miserable all night for what I said. Because it isn't true, Peyton.”

I stand there for another minute waiting to see if she appears, and when she doesn't, I turn toward the house. “Nice job, jackass,” I say under my breath. Only I would pour my guts out to a garbage can.

On the porch, I go to open the door, but the knob doesn't give. Stuck again. Dad's been saying he'll get around to fixing it for forever, but that day has yet to come. I jiggle it again, a little harder this time, but nothing.
You've got to be kidding me.

I look for a stick on the ground, and when I find one approximately the right thickness, I attempt to jimmy the lock, but the stick splinters in my hand.

Unbelievable.

I have no choice but to knock gingerly for Dad. He doesn't answer. I knock harder and step back from the door, jogging in place to try to keep warm. My adrenaline starts pumping, anticipating what's to come.

I hear Dad stirring inside, cursing and stumbling his way to the door. “Who the hell is knocking at this hour of the night?” he bellows. He throws open the door, his brow lined with annoyance, prepared to give whomever is on the other side a piece of his mind, but his eyebrows shoot up in confusion when he sees it's me.

“Hank? What the hell are you doing out there? What happened to your clothes and shoes? Somebody messing with you?” He peers past me as if the answer is hiding behind me in the shadows.

“Everything's fine, Dad.” I push past him into the house, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet as I pass, but not caring because it's warm in here.