My Kind of Crazy (13 page)

“My mom had dragged Mickey and me on errands. We'd argued over who'd get shotgun so she'd made us flip a coin. He won, and I spent the whole ride pouting like a damn toddler. It started getting dark, and Mom had some extra money in her purse so she took us to McDonald's as a treat for dinner. We each got to order a large fry and shake. When I had my fill, I thought it would be amusing to start throwing fries at Mickey, just to annoy him. It worked.” I feel the tears coming, but I fight them back. I puff out my cheeks, exhaling loudly. “I'm sorry. I've never told anyone this before.”

When I hesitate, she reaches for my hand and squeezes it lightly, then lets go. “It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

“Actually, the weird thing is, I do.”

She smiles and gently asks, “So what happened?”

“It started to piss him off, which only egged me on. Finally, Mickey whirls around, unbuckles his seat belt, and tries to grab my shake out of my hand. Mom turns her head to tell me to stop, so she doesn't see the car in front of us slow down. She swerves and jumps the median into the path of a charter bus full of blue-haired old ladies on their way to the casino to play nickel slots. And then everything started moving in slow motion. I knew what was about to happen but was totally helpless to stop it. Two seconds later, they were gone.”

The tears sear my eyes, but I don't want to blubber in front of her like a guest on
The Jerry Springer Show
. I take another deep breath and sigh.

Peyton puts her hand on my arm and stops. She faces me so that she's looking right in my eyes. “It's not your fault. You have to know that.”

I swipe my fist at the corner of my eye. “They said the only reason I survived is because Mickey's seat broke my impact. It should have been me, not him. He had everything going for him. And my mom… God, she was an amazing person. She put up with so much, and yet she was always positive. Like a ray of sunshine and you just wanted to bask in her light.”

“Hank…it's
not
your fault.”

I shake my head, the weight of their loss creeping around me like fog. “I killed them. If I hadn't been such a stupid, obnoxious little kid, they'd both be here today. And my life wouldn't be such a total piece of shit. Everything would be different.”

“You don't know that,” she says quietly.

“
I'd
be different,” I tell her. “And maybe my father wouldn't be the way he is. Mickey was always his favorite. They were into all the same stuff. They even looked alike: same chin, same grayish-green eyes. Mickey made you feel good just by being around him. He used to brainstorm ideas for comics with me. That's how we came up with
Freeze Frame
. We'd work on it when we needed to block out the sound of Dad yelling at Mom. Mickey would write the story, and I'd draw the images.

“When he died, we were about to start a new issue. We'd left the story line on a real cliff-hanger. Then suddenly it was all up to me to figure out what happened next, without him. Now it keeps me going. Whenever I work on
Freeze Frame
, it's like Mickey's there, telling me not to give up, to trust my own voice. My mother and brother were the glue that kept our family together. And ever since they died, everything has pretty much fallen apart.”

Peyton says, “You can't blame yourself. It was an accident.
You
didn't kill them, Hank.”

I shake my head. “I don't know. I want to believe that. I really do.”

“Sometimes, to help make sense of things, we tell ourselves stories and we convince ourselves that they're true, but that doesn't mean they really are.”

We walk the rest of the way to her house in silence. When we get to her driveway, we can hear the TV blasting from the street. Pete's car is there. No sign of her mom's. Peyton hangs back slightly, as if she's hesitant to go inside.

“Hey, you wanna come over for a while? I could ask my dad if I can borrow the car to take you home later.”

She nods. “Yeah, sure. That would be good.”

We're about halfway to my house when she blurts out, “I spent six months in a psychiatric hospital about a year ago. It was basically a lot of therapy sessions where we talked about impulsive behaviors and relaxation training, and the doctors packed me with pills to help with my stress and emotional outbursts. I think it was easier for my parents to stick me there than to have to deal with me. Parenting is not my mother's strong suit, in case you haven't noticed. Honestly, in some ways the psych ward was like a vacation. At least there people paid attention to me and I could count on a hot meal every day. Crazy, huh? Every pun intended, of course.”

It's a lot to process. I kind of like that we know something about each other that no one else does. She trusts me with her secrets, and it makes me feel even closer to her. I want her to understand that I like being with her and this new information doesn't change anything, so I say, “Crazy is a relative term.”

“True. So do you want to know why I was there?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

“I burned down a gardening shed.”

“On purpose?”

“No.” She digs her hands deep into her front pockets. “I don't know. My father and stepmonster said I did, and that's why they sent me there. I honestly don't remember. There are a lot of versions of this story depending on whom you talk to, and after a while they all sort of blur together.”

“Did anyone get hurt?”

“No.”

“Well, that's good. And you're feeling better now?”

“Better is a relative term too. Of all people, I'd expect you to understand that.” She exhales loudly. “Anyhow, I'd rather not talk about it anymore.”

“Okay.”

So we don't.

When we get to my house, the lights are out, and it doesn't look like anyone's home. Maybe Dad got the job and he's out drinking an advance on his first paycheck. At least he'd be working again. I prop my bike against the side of the house, and we head inside and upstairs to my room.

For the next three hours, I show her more
Freeze Frame
comics and we rank the worst villains and debate if DC is better than Marvel. Peyton tells me about this amazing photography exhibit she saw at a gallery in Boston with all these cool pictures of every major city at the turn of the century. She is so excited and animated when she talks about it that I can visualize each photograph from the way she describes it. It is really cool.

Then she yawns. “It's getting pretty late.”

“Right, I should walk you home.” I wish she didn't have to leave. It's been great to sit and talk with her like this.

Peyton stands, then reaches out to brace herself on my desk chair. “Whoa, I must have gotten up too fast. I feel dizzy.”

“Why don't you lie down for a minute?” I suggest and she nods.

Then I yawn, and she scoots over. “You should lie down too. You're tired. You don't have to stand there like that.”

“Okay,” I say and lie down next to her. It's not like we're doing anything wrong that Nick needs to get all hopped up about; we're just waiting things out.

I ask her if she's feeling less dizzy, and she tells me that being still is definitely helping.

I turn off the light, because that might be part of what's making her dizzy. Now the room is completely dark. Peyton says that's better, and it is. It absolutely is better.

For a long time, we lie there, not talking. Eventually her breaths grow softer and steadier until I'm pretty sure she's fallen asleep. I suppose there's no harm, really, if she spends the night. I had friends sleep over when I was a kid. Of course, none of them were girls, let alone one that happened to be dating my friend. We're just two people lying on a bed in the dark, fully clothed. It's not like it means anything. Plus, it's late, and who knows what kind of situation she'd be going home to, so actually I
should
let her sleep, if I'm looking out for her. That's what friends do. Look out for each other.

Nothing wrong with that. In fact, right now, everything is perfect.

Peyton leaves before I wake up, and we never discuss how she slept over at my house. When I see her at school, she simply acts like her usual self, and if Nick suspects anything, he doesn't let it show. In fact, he's hanging all over her, chatting her up and making her laugh, and she doesn't exactly look like that makes her miserable.

But what Nick doesn't know is that for the next three nights, when I get home from work, Peyton is waiting by the side of my house for me. Dad's been out a lot, still unemployed but apparently keeping the local bars in business, so I haven't had to explain. The truth is, he'd probably be psyched that I'm hanging out with a girl. He'd see it as confirmation I'm not gay, which would end years of speculative jabs. It isn't like that though.

Usually we just talk. Other times, I'll work on
Freeze Frame
while she reads the older issues I've made. I can tell she really likes them. She gets this intense look on her face when she's reading them, like she can't wait to see what will happen next. When we hang out at my house, it's as if she's a different person, relaxed and funny. Not someone who would deliberately set things on fire.

Sometimes, when she's not looking, I make silly drawings of her. I leave them rolled up in one of her Converse or tucked into her binder or on her pillow when she goes to brush her teeth before bed. I like how they make her laugh. Then we climb into my bed, shut off the lights, and go to sleep. In the morning, she's always gone before my alarm goes off.

Our relationship isn't sexual; more comforting, really. And after a few days, I can't imagine being able to fall asleep without her short, warm bursts of breath on my neck.

But by Friday, I honestly can't look at Nick without feeling like a total asshole. I know this thing with Peyton needs to stop, even though it's completely innocent, but I'm guessing he wouldn't be as understanding. Despite the fact that she's slept in my bed every night this week, they are still…well, whatever they are. I guess she could just as easily be hanging out at his house, but she's not. And I'm not exactly complaining.

I see Nick and Peyton across the quad between second and third period, and they both look pretty serious. With everything that's been happening, I feel awkward about just walking up to them and jumping into the conversation so I head to my next class. I'm not quite sure how to act around Peyton at school anymore. If I let something slip, the whole thing will blow up. It's easier to just avoid them both. I have no idea what I'd say if Nick confronted me. Even though there's nothing going on, I feel guilty, because truthfully I don't
want
it to stop.

I overhear the big news during history. Amanda has made her decision. The word is that she will announce the winner two periods from now during lunch. I'm not gonna lie. I've been so distracted with Peyton staying over that I'd almost forgotten about the contest. Hard to imagine that could be possible. The thing is, I feel like a different person than the guy who was at Amanda's house that night. So much has happened since then. The whole thing seems almost comical at this point.

As the bell rings for lunch and everyone spills into the halls, the buzz of excitement is audible, like the winning numbers for the Powerball are about to be read. Admittedly, I'm as curious as everyone else, so I join the crowd making its way to the quad.

Amanda is standing on the brick wall of one of the planter beds, holding court. She looks particularly amazing today in a tight, green cropped tee with a high-waisted floral skirt that appears to be dancing on the barbed-wire fence of passing the dress code. But no one cares; they're here for the show. This is probably the biggest thing to happen at Kennedy High since they installed a vending machine that dispensed free candy if you hit it in just the right spot. She's holding a handmade sign, on which she has written
Prom?
in golden asterisks. I'm assuming the asterisks are meant to symbolize the letters lit up as sparklers. She waves it at the crowd, getting everyone pumped.

Amanda calls out, “Are you ready to meet Prince Charming? Because I know I am!”

The crowd goes insane. You'd think she asked if they were ready to meet Justin Timberlake. My mind races.
What if she actually calls my number?
I hadn't counted on having to stand up on a stage next to her. I'm not even sure I'm wearing a clean shirt. Plus, it's one thing if Amanda knows I set the fire, but now everyone else will too, and only time will tell if that makes me a total loser or the coolest guy in school. I've been riding the wave of momentum like everyone else, but now I'm starting to feel a little nervous and slightly pukish.

I scan the crowd and spot Peyton standing off to the side, chewing the skin around her thumb like it's lunch. Between seeing her and everything that's happened the last few days, I wonder if I even want to win this thing anymore. As bizarre as it may sound, my life is actually pretty good right now, and I'm not sure I want anything to change. I make my way over to her.

“Hey,” I say.

“Moment of truth, huh?”

I shake my head. My palms begin to sweat. I can't tell if it's because I'm anxious about the outcome or how potentially winning might affect things between Peyton and me. I wipe my hands on my jeans. “I don't know about that. I'm thinking the truth is overrated.”

“Well, how could she
not
choose you? You had to answer questions about that night, didn't you? Who else could have all the right answers?”

“Honestly, it's not much of a stretch. The news reported what happened. Anybody could make up the rest because there's no real proof.”

“Did you tell her you had a witness?”

“Yup.”

“Well, if she doesn't pick you, then I will lose all faith in humanity.” She pats me on the arm, then turns back to watch Amanda. “Good luck, Hank. May the force be with you.”

“Thanks.” If the idea that Amanda could choose me upsets her, it doesn't show. Not that it
should
upset her. But for some reason, the fact that Peyton is totally unfazed by it after these last few days we've spent together bothers me.

Amanda waves her hands to quiet the crowd. “I had so many people respond to the questionnaire on my website, and I have to say I am beyond flattered at some of the things you've said. Who said they would light the entire mall on fire if it meant they could take me to prom? That was beyond sweet. And saying I'm prettier than Emma Watson? Wow. Because she's like…stunning.”

Peyton rolls her eyes. “Glad I didn't eat first.”

Amanda continues, “But obviously, only one person
really
knows what happened that night. That person shared his story with me and let me know what was in his heart. His responses made me smile, and from everything he wrote, he's clearly sweet and romantic and funny—and I absolutely cannot wait to meet him.”

The crowd “awwwww”s. It's like being on
The Bachelorette
. I smile and feel my adrenaline kick up a notch. The moment she said, “He made me smile,” I knew it
has
to be me. Something big is about to happen. This is my before-and-after moment. Maybe, for once, the stars are about to align in my favor. Amanda will call my name, and I'll stand on that wall next to her and look down at Kyle Jonas and show him who's the worthless piece of shit now.

Someone from the band plays a drumroll on a snare. Amanda clears her throat and holds up her sign again and says, “So, without further ado,
number two hundred eleven
, will you go to prom with me?”

The smile freezes on my face. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Lucky number 211 has a date with destiny, or at least with Amanda Carlisle. The crowd roars. Everyone's looking around for who is moving toward the wall.

Peyton elbows me. “Go!”

It's over. “That's not my number.”

“What? Shut up! It has to be you.”

I shake my head. “It was never supposed to be me.”

Peyton casts her gaze toward Amanda and says, “This is so wrong. She's an idiot.”

I let the news sink in, wondering what bottom-feeder has the balls to stand in front of the entire school, take credit for my fucktastic fuckuppery, and smile pretty for the camera.

And then, as if this all wasn't insane enough, I am hurled off the diving board into a pool of pure batshit crazy as the crowd parts like the Red Sea and none other than frickin' Nick Giuliani swaggers toward her and climbs up on the wall, smiling like a walrus at a clam convention. He's even wearing his eye patch that makes him look like he's Johnny Depp in
Pirates of the Caribbean
. In less than two seconds, Nick goes from zero to hero.

Well, I'll be damned.

I turn to Peyton, and she is staring at the two of them, her jaw hanging slack.

“Are you kidding me?” I put my hand on the crook of her arm. “Are you okay?”

She bursts out laughing, which is completely not what I expected. Now I'm really confused as hell. We watch as Nick fist pumps the air for the cheering crowd as they snap pictures. The only person who looks slightly less enthusiastic is Amanda herself, who is probably realizing that her anonymous questionnaire, may have, in fact, been a terrible, terrible mistake. I'm betting none of the scenarios she ran in her head included Nick Giuliani. It would actually be pretty funny if I wasn't so confused about whether I should be elated I wasn't chosen or pissed off that he was.

Nick is clearly enjoying his fifteen minutes. He holds his hands up in his best Nixon “I am not a crook” pose and loops an arm around an under-enthusiastic Amanda's shoulders as they are immortalized for all time on Instagram, or at least in next week's issue of the
Kennedy High Gazette
.

I'm about to tell Peyton that Nick's a jerk and we should cut out and go somewhere, just her and me, but she shakes her head. “It's fine. I'm good.”

“Are you kidding me? Are you watching the same thing I am? Because in case you haven't noticed, your boyfriend is kind of an asshole.”

“I'm fine. In fact, this is perfect. I'm actually relieved.” She really does seem relaxed. It makes me wonder if the reasons she might be are the same reasons I am.

I catch up with Nick in Mr. Vaughn's class. The kid practically radiates from his newfound celebrity. I can't even look at him.

“Can you believe this madness?” he says, leaning across the aisle as we wait for class to start. “Someone pinch me, right? Hey, you wanna go to Ziggy's after school and grab a burger to celebrate? My treat. I'm feeling generous.”

Is he kidding?
I lean in and whisper, “What the hell is going on, Nick?”

“What crawled up your ass and died? I'd think you of all people would be happy for me, man. Jesus.” He frowns.

“
Happy
for you? Really?”

He seems as confused by my reaction as I am by his. “Hank, what's up? You're acting weird.”

I shake my head. “What about Peyton?”

His brows knit together again. “What about her?”

“Well, she's kinda your
girlfriend
.”

“Dude, we broke up three days ago. Keep up, man. I mean, Peyton's cool and all, but that girl has some serious issues. I'm not sure the chemistry is right. You know what I'm saying? We're better off as friends. Plus, every other word out of her mouth is about
you
. It was like you were there with us every time we hung out, even though you weren't actually there. So when she broke it off with me, I was honestly relieved. I didn't want to have to break her heart. She's pretty intense.”

Every word was about me? They broke up three days ago?

Well, this is an interesting development. “Wow. I didn't know.” I resist the urge to smile.

“I figured she told you. It wasn't like we were all that serious anyhow.”

“That's cool,” I say, trying to process all this new information. “I gotta ask you something though. Why'd you do it? You know…go up there with Amanda.”

He looks at me, confused, and angles himself in his seat toward me. “What are you talking about? I got up there because I won.”

Just like that, I'm back to feeling annoyed. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. He shouldn't have won. He bullshitted his way through those stupid questions on Amanda's website, just like everyone else. Now he's walking around like he's all that, and I'm the only one, aside from Peyton, that knows it's a load of crap. Plus, he was still dating Peyton while pursuing Amanda, which pisses me off even more. “Really? You set that fire?”

He looks around to see if anyone's listening, and then leans in and says, “You
know
I didn't set that fire, man. I wouldn't do something like that. I'm not a moron.”

I ignore the moron bit. “So you're willing to lie on the chance it scores you a piece of ass? To climb the social ladder for a better view?”

He laughs, thinking I'm joking with him, but I'm not. I'm dead serious. His chuckle turns into a sputter. “When you put it that way…”

“What if I told you I know who set that fire? What if I told you there's evidence and a witness, and your story could be blown apart in two seconds?”

Nick just stares at me. “I guess I'd say to back me up, man. The girl chose me. This kind of crazy shit doesn't happen to guys like us every day, you know? So it would be cool if you kept what you knew to yourself and gave a guy a break.”

With that, Mr. Vaughn enters the room, ready to get class rolling, although from the look of his pupils, he's already been rolling other things.

Ten minutes later, the fire alarm goes off. I'm theorizing that before this day is over, a male Ken doll with brown hair and a Sharpie-ed eye patch will be contorting over hot coals. Okay, so maybe Peyton lied. She's a little pissed.