My Kind of Crazy (12 page)

For the last few weeks, my dad has been sitting on the couch in various states of intoxication and watching television, only getting up to pee or forage for food. I suspect this is what rock bottom looks like. It isn't pretty. I try to avoid talking to him as much as humanly possible, heading straight to work from school and then right to my room when I get home. Working on the next installment of
Freeze Frame
has been a welcome distraction.

I've been thinking about what Peyton said about looking for a publisher for my comic. She'd loved it so much that she'd set a fire to get me out of class to tell me so. Mr. Vaughn seemed to like it too, even if he was stoned. Drawing is the only thing I know I'm good at, other than stacking cans of Campbell's soup. Only one of those talents is delivering a paycheck right now, but for the first time, I'm hopeful that
Freeze Frame
could be my ticket out of here.

O'Callaghan gives me some extra shifts. I'm trying to work as much as I can, not just to make extra money, but also to keep busy so my brain doesn't explode. Amanda still hasn't posted her decision. The word around school is that she's going to in a few days. She pretty much has to, because everyone's making plans for prom, which is coming up soon.

I wonder if Nick is going to ask Peyton. Would she even go? She doesn't seem like the type who would give a crap about a dance, even if it is some major “rite of passage.” I wouldn't know because I haven't seen them much. They're probably too busy playing tonsil hockey to miss me. Far be it from me to get in the middle of their love fest.

Bottom line: the less I have to think about my life right now, the better.

Just when I am convinced Dad is going to permanently become one with the couch and never get out of his lucky Red Sox tee and boxer shorts again, a miracle happens. I'm heading out the door to work, and there he is, showered and shaved, with his hair combed and slicked back. He's even wearing a tie.

“Got a job interview today,” he tells me. “Haven't had one of those since before you were born.”

He paces back and forth in the living room, and there are faint rings of sweat under his armpits.

“Good luck! I'm sure you'll knock it out of the park, Dad.” Truthfully, I'm a little nervous about what might happen if he doesn't.

Maybe this is the week things will be looking up for the Kirbys.

Or maybe only for Dad, because when I arrive at the Shop 'n Save, O'Callaghan hands me a mop and a bucket and sends me off to do a cleanup in aisle five. Apparently, some dickhead decided it would be fun to punch holes in a bunch of V8 cans. The place looks like a crime scene, with sticky pools of red liquid everywhere. O'Callaghan normally doesn't put me out on the floor like this, but he's shorthanded. In a way, it's a promotion, which is sort of exciting and pathetic at the same time.

I'm dunking the mop into the bucket to give the floor a final swab when a voice behind me says, “
There
you are.”

I turn and it's Peyton in the Pink Floyd tee she was wearing the night I met her, along with a pair of cutoffs and high-top Converse. She's holding something behind her back. She's drawn happy faces on both her kneecaps again. Her hair is in two long, sloppy braids that make her look about twelve, but it's cute, and the sight of her makes me smile.

“Hey,” I say and shake my bangs out of my eyes. “Where's Nick?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“I thought you guys would be hanging out.”

I put the mop back in the bucket and glance over my shoulder to see if O'Callaghan is watching. He hates it when I talk to customers. He says time is money, and by talking, I'm wasting his. He's caught up at one of the registers with some old lady who looks to be paying for her groceries in dimes and pennies. I pull out the mop again so he doesn't call me over to help.

“We're not conjoined twins,” she says.

“Trouble in paradise already? Or is it his breath? I always tell Nick he should use mints. Chronic halitosis doesn't have to be an issue nowadays.”

She laughs. “His breath is fine.”

“Yeah? So that's going well then?” I swish the mop around, trying to play it cool, like I don't really care about the details, but part of me hopes she'll say it's boring as hell without me there.

“I guess. We went to see a movie and grabbed a slice of pizza.”

“I bet that's not all he wanted to grab,” I say, and she scrunches up her nose.

“Well, he didn't get very far, but not for lack of trying. Nick is definitely a touchy-feely kind of guy, emphasis on ‘touch with the goal to feel,'” she tells me. I imagine Nick running his hands over her, and the thought makes me feel weird. “Do we have to talk about this? I didn't come here to talk about Nick.”

“Then let's talk about something else.”

“I came here to give you something. Ta-da!” She smiles and hands me a medium-size purple gift bag, the handles of which are tied together in a sloppy bow with a piece of red yarn. Instead of tissue paper inside, there is a folded sheet of this week's Shop 'n Save circular. “Sorry, I was out of wrapping paper. I had to improvise.”

“What's this?”

“It's just a little something I wanted you to have. I hope you'll like it.” She has a huge grin and is bouncing on her heels excitedly.

I've never had a girl give me a present before, and it takes me by surprise. It feels really personal, like she was actually thinking about me. I gesture toward O'Callaghan and say, “Thanks. I wish I could open it right now, but my boss is totally on the warpath with me. I think his Lucky Charms weren't magically delicious this morning.” I dunk the mop and slosh it over a spot I missed underneath the lip of the shelves.

She bites at her lip, visibly disappointed, and then shrugs it off. “That's okay. You can open it later.” She digs her hands in her pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Have you been avoiding me, Hank?”

I stop mopping. “Why would you say that? I'm standing here talking to you, aren't I?” I glance at O'Callaghan again. He's checking me out, so I say in a very loud voice, “Tampons are in aisle twelve, miss. I believe the store brand is on sale.”

Her forehead creases with confusion, so I add under my breath, “My boss. Work with me.”

She gives me a wink and responds in an equally loud voice, “Thank you. I'm having an especially heavy flow this month. Do you carry the super overnight pads with wings? I need extra protection.” And then in a lower voice, she says to me, “Obviously not right this minute. I mean in general. I haven't seen you all week.”

I say loudly, “Yes, we have many varieties of pads in all shapes and sizes,” then lower my voice and tell her, “No, I've just been working a lot. My dad lost his job last week, and his girlfriend bailed, so it's been kinda crazy…”

Her face crinkles with concern. “That sucks. I'm sorry. When I didn't see you, I thought maybe you felt weird around me after what happened last Friday. You know, during the fire alarm.”

I wasn't sure which part she meant: when she admitted to crying over
Freeze Frame
, when she mentioned she'd been in the hospital, or when we almost kissed. Of course, that last one could have been my imagination.

I don't get the chance to ask because Mr. O'Callaghan appears beside me, his bushy brow furrowed, his hands on his hips, saying, “Can I help you with something, miss?”

“I was just directing this customer to the feminine products,” I explain, and Peyton nods in agreement.

“Aisle twelve,” he tells her, then glares at me. “Hank, get back on a register. I'll finish here. Those groceries aren't going to scan and bag themselves.”

I hand him the mop, and it dribbles dirty water onto his shoes. He jumps out of the way and narrows his eyes at me. I just give him my best “at your service” smile and head back to the front of the store. As I walk away, Peyton asks, “Do you also carry douches in assorted scents? A girl has to feel fresh.” I suppress a laugh as I try to imagine O'Callaghan's face.

At the registers, there is not a single customer waiting to be rung up. What a tool. I'm dying to look inside the bag, but I stash it under the counter to savor later.

Five minutes later, Peyton is at my register with a big box of tampons, maxi pads, and a bottle of lavender-scented feminine wash. She puts them down at the end of the conveyor belt. I smile cheerfully as I ring her up. “That's gonna be nineteen dollars and seventy-three cents,” I tell her.

She digs in her front pocket and pulls out eighty-six cents. She frowns. “I'm a little short.”

“Appears so.”

“Hmmm. I guess I'll have to get these another time. I'll buy this instead,” she says and grabs a plastic disposable lighter, placing it on the counter next to the credit card machine.

I remove the other items from the conveyor belt, place them in the returns basket, and ring her up. “Should I be selling you this?”

“That's a burning question, isn't it?” she replies with a straight face as she shoves her change toward me.

O'Callaghan will be back to check on me any second, but I don't want her to leave yet. Judging by the past week or so, I don't know when I'll get to see her again without Nick. It feels good to talk to her. “I heard a really messed-up joke the other day you might appreciate.”

“Hit me.”

“What kind of car does a pyromaniac drive?”

She pockets the lighter and a pack of watermelon gum that she did not pay for. “No clue.”

“A Blazer.”

Peyton laughs as another customer starts unloading her groceries onto the conveyor belt behind her.

“Thanks for the present.”

“You're welcome. What time are you done here tonight?”

“Ten thirty.”

She smirks. “Well, can I meet you after work, then? I want to watch your face when you open it.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say and smile, already looking forward to seeing her again.

“See you later,” she says as I greet the next customer and start to scan her groceries. I turn back toward the exit to wave at Peyton, but she's already gone.

The next three hours pass excruciatingly slowly, and at the strike of ten thirty, I'm outta there like a shot. Peyton's waiting by my bike with a huge smile on her face.

I tear away the newspaper wrapping, and there in my hands, wrapped in a protective plastic sleeve, is Marvel issue #48 of the
Fantastic Four
: “The Coming of Galactus!”
What the…?

“Holy shit…” I carefully remove the comic and flip through the pages. When I can pick my jaw off the asphalt, I tell her, “Thank you. This is amazing. Where did you get this?”

“At that comic book store you took me to,” she says. “You like?”

“I can't believe you bought this for me.”

The question is:
How
did she buy this for me? Where the hell did she get that kind of money?

I know I can't accept such a generous gift from her, no matter how badly I want to. It wouldn't be right.

Would it?

“Well, believe it. It's yours now. It showed up in that store for a reason,” she says. She's so genuinely happy that she's practically glowing.

“Does Nick know about this?” I'm annoyed that Peyton's given me this amazing present and that I have to worry about how Nick will react. She and I were friends before she met him. Maybe I'm a prick for feeling that way, but it's the truth. Peyton is the first person who's actually made me feel good about myself in a long time. She's probably the best friend I've ever had, and I'm not willing to give that up just because Nick decides he wants to put sour cream on her burrito.

Her smile cools as she says, “What does Nick have to do with this?”

“You guys are dating, right? I mean, isn't it weird to give some other guy a present? Not that I'm complaining. This is possibly the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me in my entire life.”

The glow returns. “Friends give each other presents all the time and it's no big deal. This has nothing to do with Nick. This is between you and me.”

I am overwhelmed. “I can't let you spend that kind of money on me, Peyton. Let me pay you back. I can't get it to you all at once, but I can pay you in installments or something.”

“It's fine, Hank. Seriously. The look on your face when Victor showed you the comic? I knew I had to get it for you.” She smiles. “I'd never seen you so excited. I just wanted to see you that happy again.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, nobody's ever done anything like that for me before. So…thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She leans in and hugs me. She smells good, like laundry detergent. I probably smell like sweat and V8. Not a great combo.

“I wish I could show this to my brother. Jesus, Mickey would flip out that I saw, let alone got, a copy of that issue.”

“I wish I could have met him,” she says.

“He was a cool guy.”

We start to walk in the general direction of Peyton's house—me pushing my bike and her carrying my backpack draped over one shoulder.

“You said he and your mom died in a car accident, right?”

“Yeah, when I was twelve.”

“Wow, that must have been rough, especially since you two were close. It's lucky you weren't in the car with them.”

“Actually, I was.” I can feel my hands start to shake. I've never talked about what happened that day. It's just too personal and painful and confusing. I worry that she might think less of me, but it's a risk I'm willing to take. I've never felt a connection to someone like I do with her. I feel like I could tell her anything.

I want her to know the truth. My truth.