My Kind of Crazy (16 page)

Be cool, Hank. Just be cool, keep it together, and find Monica. Or Fantasia.
Whatever.

At the back, a narrow hallway leads to a series of black doors, which I'm figuring are the dressing rooms. There's a piece of paper taped to each one, and the names of the dancers are scrawled on them in Sharpie. This is obviously not a big-budget operation. I find the one that says Fantasia and knock.

“Who is it?” a voice calls.

“It's…um…Hank.”

“Hank…
Kirby
?”

“Yeah,” I say and dig my hands in my pockets.

The door flies open, and Monica is suddenly all over me, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing her perfect body up against mine. Thankfully, she's wearing clothes. I'd forgotten how completely intoxicating she smells. I try to shift my thoughts to incredibly unsexy, un-hot things—like senior citizens without their dentures and people with excessive body hair—so I don't get too excited about this reunion.

She pulls back, still holding on to my shoulders and says, “Oh my
Go
d
! Hank! How are you? I've been thinking about you. I'm so glad to see you. How did you get in here?”

“It wasn't easy, but if anyone asks, we have a mutual friend who's dying.”

“Hi, I'm Peyton.” Peyton shoves her hand into the space between our bodies, forcing Monica to let go of me. Christ, I'd almost forgotten Peyton was standing there.

Monica responds with her name and grins. Then her gaze travels to Peyton's hair and her expression turns to confusion.

“Listen, I need to ask you a favor. Is there somewhere we can maybe talk in private?” I ask.

Monica invites us upstairs where she is renting a small room above the club. She listens intently as I tell her Peyton's story, and how I thought she might be able to help Peyton get fixed up since she's studying to be a beautician. The next thing I know, Monica's putting her arms around Peyton and telling her she'll do whatever she can.

Peyton looks uncomfortable with the attention, with a stranger knowing her story, but honestly, I don't know who else to turn to. I'd ask my mom, because she always knew what to do no matter the situation, but that's not an option. Ironically, Monica's probably the closest substitute I have.

Monica settles me in front of the TV while she digs through her closet to find Peyton some clothes and then takes Peyton into the bathroom and sits her on a chair in front of the sink. She starts rooting through a bag and pulling out scissors, combs, and all sorts of crap. I catch the occasional sentence here and there over the sounds of the TV, and I presume that Monica is sharing her own story with Peyton. A good half hour later, they emerge from the bathroom. My jaw drops.

Peyton's Peyton, but transformed.

This girl is wearing jeans that hug her in all the right places and a skintight long-sleeved top that shows the curves I didn't even know she had until last night. Monica has cut Peyton's hair into a short pixie style that's sexy as hell. For the first time, she's not hiding under all that hair or a hoodie. She's also wearing just enough makeup to even out her skin and hide her bruising.

Peyton's smokin' hot.

I'm guessing my slack-jawed speechlessness confuses her, because Peyton runs her hand self-consciously over her hair and folds her arms over her chest, holding on to her elbows.

“Wow,” I manage to say.

“Better?”

“You look amazing,” I tell her. She visibly relaxes, hints at a smile even.

As I'm hugging Monica good-bye, she asks if Dad ever talks about her. It's as if the floodgates open. I share how lonely he's been since she left and how he's not the type of guy to admit when he's wrong, but I think he knows he screwed up. I even mention that he misses her cooking, but I leave out the “almost” part.

“You should come by and say hi.”

“I don't know. Maybe.” From the distracted way she twists the fabric at the bottom of her shirt I know she's considering it.

I seize the opening. “You said it yourself. My dad isn't the easiest guy to live with. When my mom and brother died, it messed him up pretty good. You're the first person he's cared about since then.”

Even though their relationship has its fair share of what-the-fuckery, Monica makes my dad happy, and I believe she genuinely cares about him too. If only I could get her to come back to the house, I bet they could work it out and things might start inching back to normal.

Monica smiles and nods in Peyton's direction. “Everybody needs somebody who gets their kind of crazy, right? That doesn't come along every day.”

I glance at Peyton. She's staring out the window, lost in thought, and I am grateful that Nick Giuliani won Amanda's damn contest and bailed, because he doesn't deserve her.

As Peyton climbs onto the handlebars of my bike and we ride back toward town, it occurs to me that I have no idea what normal is anymore. Normalcy is elusive, redefining itself on a daily, if not hourly basis.

But when Peyton glances back at me, the breeze ruffling her short hair, I know there is nowhere I'd rather be than with this girl and all her baggage. I want to freeze-frame this moment—her on my bike with her face to the sun, looking free and happy—because deep in my gut, I know it won't last.

We can't go back to my house yet in case Dad is home, because I don't want him to start in on me for missing school, so we go to Ziggy's for burgers and fries. Now that the adrenaline and tension have worn off, I'm starving. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday's nuked TV dinner, and so much has happened since then.

It's weird to be at Ziggy's with Peyton and not Nick. I haven't talked to him in a couple of days—since Amanda chose him to go to prom. I don't really know what to say to him, especially since things have ramped up between Peyton and me. We both kind of messed up, and the truth is, I miss hanging out with him. The only thing greasier than this burger is Nick Giuliani's hair, but right now I don't care because the burger is the best damn thing I've ever tasted.

While I practically shove the whole burger into my mouth in two bites, Peyton deconstructs hers with precision. First she lifts off the slice of lettuce and sets it aside, then peels the thick layer of cheese from the top of the bun and tears it into strips, eating it in small pieces. I stop chewing and smile as she carefully puts the fluffy top of the bun back on her burger and smashes it flat with her palm before tentatively taking a bite. I used to find all her food quirks to be weird as hell, but now they're actually sort of endearing.

We spend the rest of the afternoon hiding out at Crescent Park and talking. We sit at the edge of the woods and Peyton lights leaf after leaf on fire, then stamps them out with a battered Converse. Even though it scares me a little, I act like this is perfectly normal.

I googled “pyromania” the other day. It literally means “fire madness.” The article was wicked long and confusing, but the gist of it was that it's an impulse-control disorder. A person sets fires to relieve built-up tension. The behavior can be triggered by extreme stress, neglect, abuse, or because the person is seeking attention. I'm no shrink, but with what I know about Peyton's home life, it's not a stretch to see the links here.

She seems calmer as she watches the flame from her lighter eat through each leaf, though I wish I could get her to stop. I'm worried that sometime she'll be careless and get in trouble, or maybe the fire will get out of control and she—or someone else—will get hurt. At least now I'm there to keep an eye on her and make sure that she's safe.

Around four we head back home. Dad's car is in the driveway and he's inside, planted in his usual spot on the couch, watching TV.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, making for the stairs with Peyton.

“Whoa, slow it down. I wanna talk to you.”

I motion for Peyton to go up without me, and then I sit down in the chair across from Dad. A small puff of dust rises from the cushions, and the particles shimmer in the sunlight. Sadly, my mom was probably the last one who dusted around here.

“What's up? Did you get your job back?” I ask, hoping that's what this heart-to-heart is about.

“Yeah, I did.”

“That's great! I told you if you talked to them they'd listen to reason.”

“Don't pat yourself on the back too hard. They put me on probation. I have to go to AA meetings twice a week, and if they catch me drinking again, I'm out. It's a bunch of bullshit, but it's a paycheck, so there's that.” He locks eyes with me and crosses his arms. “But that's not what I wanna talk about. I got a strange call from the school today. You know anything about that?”

So many ways to play this… I swallow and shake my head. “No,” I say. “Strange how?”

“I mean, they called to see how you were feeling.”

I try to play it cool so I don't go off at the mouth like I usually do. “How I'm feeling? That's weird. What's up with that?”

“Apparently they were concerned, because they seemed to think you might have encephalitis.”

“Encephalitis? That's like…a brain inflammation, right?” I let out an exaggerated laugh. “That's crazy. You know how big the high school is. They must have me mixed up with some other kid with a similar name.”

“That's what I said, but here's the kicker. I asked the lady how she'd heard that, and she told me
I
called you in sick this morning.”

As if on cue, my diarrhea of the mouth kicks in. “That's ridiculous. You'd think they'd keep better records of whose parents called in. Clearly somebody at the attendance office was hitting the sauce this morning. Man, you could totally freak out a parent by saying shit like that. They'd think their kid is really sick.”

“That's what I said. I told her you were at school today, so it had to be a mistake. But she tells me it's no friggin' mistake. That you were most definitely
not
in school today.”

He's not amused anymore. In fact, his face is piss serious and I know I'm screwed.

“Dad, I—”

“I won't tolerate lies, Hank. I won't be disrespected like that. I won't be made a fool of when the school calls and you aren't where you're supposed to be.”

“I'm sorry, Dad.” The words come out just above a whisper.

“Don't think I haven't noticed you coming and going at crazy hours. I found a matchbook for a hookah lounge in the laundry.
I
certainly haven't been to a hookah lounge. What are you getting mixed up in, Hank?”

Jesus, the matches.
I'd forgotten I'd shoved them in my pocket each time Peyton dropped them on the ground. “Nothing, Dad. I swear. I can explain everything.”

“What, you're going to tell me more lies?” He points upstairs in the direction of my room. “Does this have to do with that girl upstairs, Hank? Because I told you, I don't want any trouble. And I can assure you that's all that girl is going to bring you.”

I shake my head. “You don't even know her, Dad. You don't know the situation.”

“Something's not right. Those bruises, that hair… That ain't normal. She may have gotten cleaned up, but whatever she's going through is beyond anything you and I can fix.”

Like he's ever tried to fix anything or anyone in his entire life. His comment pisses me off, but I hold it together. “Well, it doesn't mean I'm not going to try to.” He raises an eyebrow, but before he can launch into another lecture, I say, “I took Peyton to see Monica.”

Now he looks wicked confused. “Monica? What the hell for?”

“I thought she could help her. You know, even out her hair, make it look better. Monica is going to beauty school. She knows about that kind of stuff.”

Dad nods. He doesn't even question where we went to find Monica. “She help her?”

“Yup. She did.”

His stern expression gives way, and he rakes his hands through his hair. “How's she doing?”

“She's okay. She asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I told her she should come by.”

“What'd she say?” he asks tentatively.

“She said maybe.” His expression brightens momentarily as that sinks in, and then he snaps out of his reverie, remembering he was in the middle of ripping me a new one.

“I mean it, Hank. I'm as serious as a goddamn heart attack. You go to school and you keep your nose clean. I don't know who this girl is, but the minute her problems become my problems, I will not be as understanding. Be careful. You get me?”

“Got it.” This is going better than I anticipated. He's actually looking out for me and is so distracted by my mention of Monica that he seems to be letting the missed school thing slide with little more than a reprimand. I'll take it.

“If you really want to help her, we should call the friggin' cops on whoever did that to her.”

“
NO
!
” There're thumping footsteps behind us as Peyton takes the stairs two at a time, making her way to the front door. She's obviously heard everything. “I'm so sorry. I'll leave. This is all my fault.”

She bounces her teary gaze between my dad and me, and before we can say anything, she's out the door and down the driveway.

I don't even think; I just react. I leave Dad sitting there slack-jawed on the couch as I bolt out the door after her. Peyton's already halfway down the street, and I'm thinking maybe she wasn't bullshitting about the whole early-morning jogging routine, because when she wants to, this girl can run like a cheetah. I curse myself for not being more in shape as I struggle to keep up with her. I call her name, but she ignores me and keeps running. I can hear my pulse in my ears, boxing at my eardrums, and there's a stitch in my side. I never was very good at the track unit in gym.

“Jesus, Peyton! Hold on!” I yell after her, but she abruptly veers to the left, cutting through someone's yard.

By the time I reach where she peeled away, there is absolutely no sign of her and I have no damn clue where she might have gone. I panic. What if she does something stupid? I spin in circles in the middle of the street, silently willing her to appear. Wherever she's going, she doesn't want me with her.

• • •

I visit every place I can think of looking for her, but she's not at any of them and I can't call her because she doesn't own a cell phone. I can barely piece together what to do next because my brain is so jacked, worrying about what may have happened to her. Dad even lets me borrow the car to drive around looking for her, but she's nowhere to be found.

I want to call the police, file a missing person report, something—anything. But doing so will open a whole other can of worms, and Peyton didn't want that. I don't know what the right thing to do is except simply wait and have faith that she'll send some sign that she's all right. She always does. This isn't the first time she's gone off the radar only to reemerge.

She has to, because the idea that I might not see her again is too much.

I spend the weekend stocking shelves at Shop 'n Save, hoping she'll show up, loudly asking for condoms or lubricant, so we can laugh and pretend none of this shit ever happened. Then we'll both sit down with Dad and explain everything so he'll chill. As I corral the carts in the parking lot, I decide I'll talk to O'Callaghan about giving her a job too.

Peyton once mentioned that she'd be eighteen by the start of summer. Which means she'll be an adult in the eyes of the law; she can legally vote, be drafted, and get a tattoo. I'm pretty sure it also means she can live wherever she wants and no one can stop her. If we both work a ton of shifts, we might even be able to save up to find a place together.

The idea gets my heart pumping. I want to time travel so we can be there already, just us, away from all the bullshit. Safe. If only she would show up so I can tell her my idea.

Instead, I get a very different visitor.

I'm extracting a cart that wound up in a hedge beside the building rather than the cart roundup, which is a mere three feet away, when a car pulls in next to me. The driver cuts the stereo, and I turn as the door to a white Honda opens and out steps Amanda Carlisle. Seeing Amanda instantly takes me back to my misguided promposal, which started this whole mess.

“Hey, I thought it might be harder to track you down,” she says. She smiles, and her teeth are all white and shiny, like in a toothpaste commercial.

I look over my shoulder because frankly, I can't imagine she's actually talking to me, but there's no one else around except for a homeless guy talking to a pigeon at the far end of the parking lot. When I turn back to her, she's still smiling. She tugs at the hem of her light-pink Abercrombie tee and kicks absently at the concrete curb in front of her car with her matching pink flats.

“You mean me?”

“Yeah, you. Got a minute?”

Why the hell does Amanda need to talk to
me
? I tell her I need to bring the carts back to the front of the store, but then I can take my break. She seems cool with waiting, so I go through the motions, and when I return, she's sitting in her car playing music with the engine off. She motions for me to get in. Her car smells like vanilla air freshener and about six different types of scented hand lotion, all competing for first place—sort of what I'd imagine it would smell like if Bath & Body Works exploded.

“I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here,” she starts off.

“You were out of eggs?” I offer.

She giggles. “It's so typical that you would say something funny like that.”

My brow knots in confusion, and I wonder how the hell she'd know what's typical about me. “So this isn't about eggs?”

“No.” She angles herself in the driver's seat and lowers the music, then says, “I know Nick Giuliani didn't set the fire. I had my doubts once we started talking after I chose him.”

I swallow. “Oh yeah?”

“I mean, the truth is, the website was a dumb idea. Anyone could figure out the right answers, really.”

“Wow. You don't say.” I'm uncomfortable, like I can't get enough air. At any previous time in my personal history, the small space between our bodies would be enough to send me over the edge, but now it's just stifling.

“I thought I'd never find out who was there on my lawn that night. I know the fire was accidental, and I know from the evidence that those sparklers spelled
Prom
. And I felt bad that the person who went to all that trouble to ask me out disappeared when it turned into this big disaster, probably thinking I was mad or he would get in trouble, you know?”

I'm pretty sure I can see where this is going. I roll down the window.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine, just a little stuffy in here,” I say.

“You know how I know Nick lied?” She doesn't wait for me to answer. “Because I had one final question to ask in person. A question I knew the answer to because it was the only detail I could make out in the dark that night. I wanted to know how he was able to leave the scene so quickly. Nick said he drove away, that he was parked down the block. But I saw the person ride away on a bike. Kind of like the bike you were riding that day when it was raining and we were talking in front of my house.”