My Kind of Crazy (5 page)

My bike practically glides to Peyton's on autopilot, navigating the now-familiar potholes and curves. My shift at Shop 'n Save starts in a little over an hour so I'm dressed for work in my uniform, a bright banana-yellow polo. Nothing says “blend in and be low key” like a guy wearing a blinding polo and riding a bike through a neighborhood he doesn't live in. I'm practically a beacon.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. I don't want that Pete guy to see me and get Peyton in trouble. He didn't strike me as the kind of person who would invite me in for a glass of milk and freshly baked cookies. Probably not even a warm beer and some stale peanuts.

But something keeps tugging at me, needing to know that she's all right. I don't actually have to talk to her. I could just sneak up to the house and assess the situation. Once I'm certain that she's fine, I can take off. She doesn't have to know I was ever there. No harm, no foul.

Technically, I wouldn't be getting involved; it would be more like satisfying my curiosity. Nothing wrong with that.

When I get within sight of Peyton's house, I jump off my bike and walk it to the giant bush, engaging the kickstand and propping it up on the street side. I'll only be here a few minutes at best.

Clouds have rolled in during my ride over, and the temperature has started to drop. It looks like it could rain. I silently curse for forgetting to bring my sweatshirt because I can feel the bumps popping up on my bare arms like chicken skin. I rub my hands up and down them for warmth, then carefully poke my head around the bush.

It's as quiet as the first time I was here. The house is still shut up tight with the blinds drawn. The only thing that's different is that the driveway is empty, with black, shimmery orbs where the dying Subaru had been parked. I'm guessing this means that Pete's not home.

I take a deep breath, scoot across the driveway, and sink beneath the window in the side yard. It's open, same as it was when Peyton snuck me around back.

I should probably just leave right now.

Instead, I stand up slowly, aligning myself with the side of the window frame, and turn my head so that I can peer in. This window is right above the kitchen sink, which is stacked with dishes. A fly settles on the edge of a food-encrusted plate, then buzzes through an archway into what appears to be the living room. It's hard to tell, what with the blinds being drawn and the house being dark like the inside of a cave.

I hear a noise inside as if someone is coming. I try to control my breathing so I'll remain undetected. That's when she walks into the kitchen.

She's carrying a garbage bag that clinks and rattles as she moves. With a disgusted look, Peyton plucks an empty beer bottle from the counter where it stands next to a frozen dinner tray and dumps it into the bag. It clatters against the others.

She appears even more unkempt than usual. Her hair is pulled back in a weak attempt at a bun, but loose strands stick out all around her face, and her collarbone protrudes from her oversize, faded Led Zeppelin tee. She turns toward me and is reaching for another beer bottle on the counter when our eyes connect. She sucks in her breath, startled, as the bottle in her hand crashes to the floor.

“Sorry about that,” I say as I move to the center of the window.

“Hank? What are you doing here?” Her tone is frantic, and she glances nervously at a clock on the wall. She kneels, disappearing from my view below the counter, presumably to collect the pieces of broken glass.

I keep my voice low. “I just wanted to see what's up. You haven't been at school in a while.”

“You came to check on me?” She seems surprised.

“Is that okay?”

She finishes picking up the last of the broken glass and ties the bag closed. “I guess.”

“So you gonna tell me where you've been?” I ask, taking in her disaster of a kitchen.

“I wasn't feeling well. Plus, I had stuff to do. My mom gets pissed if I fall behind on the cleaning,” she says, glancing at the clock again, then back at me. Now I know something's up.

“Are you sure you're okay? Because from what I can see, I'm pretty certain this house hasn't been thoroughly cleaned since the last presidential administration.”

Her face softens. “I'm fine. I just took a few days off. No big deal. But thanks for checking on me.”

“Well, after what happened when I was last here, I didn't know what to think. Things got sort of weird, you know?”

She nods, then tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smirks. “Yeah, Pete's kind of an asshole. He acts like a hall monitor so he can keep in my mother's good graces and she doesn't kick him the hell out.” She bites at her lip nervously and shoots a third glance at the clock. “You want to come in for a few minutes? He won't be back for a bit. He went to the package store two towns over. Says it's cheaper than the local one where the fascist owners are ripping him off.”

“He sounds like a real winner.”

“You have no idea.” We both laugh and it lightens the mood a little. She rolls her eyes as she motions toward the sliding door. “I'll meet you around back.”

I walk around the corner of the house, and she's waiting with the door open. I step inside, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—like stale cigarettes and beer. It hangs in the air like anti–air freshener. Everything is mismatched and in need of repair: the stained orange couch that clashes with the deep-red walls, the bookcase with a collapsed shelf, the dining room table piled high with wallpaper sample books. It makes my house look like it should be in
Better Homes and Gardens
. Taking it all in at once definitely causes sensory overload. She catches me staring.

“Another one of Pete's projects. One day he announced he wanted to re-wallpaper the whole house. We're not even allowed to paint. They've been sitting there ever since.” She points to the sample books and pushes at the edge of one to reveal a dust-free triangle of table underneath.

“Why does she stay with this guy?”

“A warm body is better than no body, I guess. He moved in two weeks after she met him. At least he had a job then. Three weeks later, he told his boss to go screw himself. He's been unemployed ever since and sits on the couch all day watching TV. My mom keeps assuring me that he'll be back on his feet soon, that he just needs ‘time to sort things out.'” She makes air quotes around the last part. “Meanwhile, it's been a year. People can do some pretty stupid things when they're into someone. Though I guess I don't need to tell you that,” she says as she leads me down the hall.

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, taking in the oddball assortment of faded family pictures as we walk. An elementary school photo of Peyton with her two front teeth missing; a fading picture of a baby sitting on a woman's lap at a piano. The woman looks like an older version of Peyton with the same ice-blue eyes. I'm guessing it must be her mother. In many of the photos, holes have been cut where a man's head would be, though his body has been left in the picture.

Peyton pushes open a door at the very end of the hall. “Let's stay in my room. My mother has this lame rule that I'm not allowed to have people over when she's not home. I can crack my blinds to see when Pete's coming, and you can crawl out my window.”

“You have this all figured out. You sneak many guys in here?” I'm anxious about Pete returning, but my curiosity about seeing her room and desire to keep talking to her override it.

“Hordes.” She stands in the doorway, waiting for me to enter. I refrain from telling her this is the first time I've set foot in a girl's room because I know if I say the words out loud they'll sound even more pathetic than they do in my head.

Peyton's room is covered floor to ceiling in posters of rock bands from the seventies and eighties. She has old forty-fives dangling on fishing wire from the ceiling. I reach for one and spin it around in my hand. It's a Paul Simon single, “Kodachrome.” Next to that is Bowie's “Changes” and Queen's “Bohemian Rhapsody.” On the far wall by her bed are black-and-white photos that have been pushpinned to the wall.

“Whoa. This is really cool,” I say, trying to take in all the details.

“What'd you expect? Pink walls and a fluffy bedspread with unicorns and rainbows? Five Seconds of Summer posters?”

“Did you take these?” I ask, pointing to the photos. They're all of ordinary people doing everyday things: a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart with his belongings down the street; a child playing in a sandbox at the park; an old couple sitting on a bench; a woman talking on her cell phone with her hand to her mouth, on the verge of tears.

“Yeah.”

I walk toward them to look closer. “They're awesome.”

“Thanks. I like capturing random moments. There's such honesty in them, like you're stripping away all the bullshit and what's left is real and raw. It's a total dream, but it would be really cool to work for, like,
National Geographic
. Or to have an exhibition in a gallery. Of course, that'll never happen.”

“You don't know that.” I point to the forty-fives. “Where'd you get all these?”

“I'm super into music.” She gazes at them wistfully and bites her lip. “They're all I have left of my dad.”

“Did he die or something?” I tap the edge of a forty-five with my finger and make it spin in circles. “My mom died when I was twelve. My older brother too. Car accident.” I've told the story so many times that I've nailed the SparksNotes version.

“Wow. I'm sorry.”

I shrug. “Thanks.”

She reaches for a pack of matches on her nightstand and lights one, letting it burn down dangerously close to her fingers before blowing it out. She tosses it in a cup and lights another. She does it over and over, as if it's some sort of nervous habit or meditation. “Mine might as well be dead. He left a long time ago. I think he lives in California. Or maybe it's Arizona. I can't remember which. It's somewhere with a lot of sun.”

“You don't talk to him?”

“No. But it's okay,” she says nonchalantly and hugs her knees to her chest, making room for me on the bed, but I opt to stand.

“How is that okay?”

“Because he wanted a different life. I get it. I wouldn't mind that myself most days. I understand why he left. They were kids. He was a musician and a free spirit. My mom was sixteen when she dropped out of high school to become the lead singer in his band. If her parents weren't ready to disown her for that, then she got pregnant with me. He stuck around for the first couple of years, but then he took off. My mom got me and his record collection. He got freedom and a fresh start.”

“So is your mom still a singer?”

Peyton shakes her head. “Nah. That dream pretty much went out the door with him, which is sad because she has an amazing voice. Now she works three crappy jobs just to keep things going. She's, like, never here.”

I know what that feels like. The difference is that although her situation may be less than ideal and she may not see her mother a lot, at least hers still exists. “That's too bad.”

“I guess.” She lights another match and stares at the flame, then adds it to the growing collection. “When I was little, my mom sang to me all the time. But the older I got, the more she resented me. I was the one standing in the way of her having any sort of a life. All these responsibilities, you know? She gets into bad relationships. I feel sorry for her. I know it's hard for her, but I don't know how to help.”

I'm surprised she's telling me all this stuff so casually, as if we're good friends. The weird part is, I'm interested. “I take it you guys aren't close.”

“Truthfully, the only time we get along is when she's between boyfriends, which is rare. Even then, she treats me more like a sister than a daughter. And each time she gets dumped or fired, she wants us to move. It's like she can't stand being in one place too long. Reminds her of how she couldn't make it work. She tells me that the minute you start to get attached is the perfect time to let go.”

“Interesting philosophy.”

“I don't know. Seems like it would be smarter to put energy into trying not to mess things up in the first place. Oh well. Life isn't perfect, right?” She peeks between the slats of the blinds.

I change the topic, hoping to lighten the mood a little. I gesture to her posters. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the musical taste of someone in their midforties?”

“I take that as a compliment. These are real bands. They made real music that endured. There isn't much today that you'll hear twenty or thirty years from now except as a pop culture joke.”

“So I guess it's safe to say you're not a Directioner?” I turn to smile at her as she twists the bottom of her Zeppelin tee, causing it to ride up and expose a purplish bruise on her side. She self-consciously adjusts it, avoiding my stare.

“You sure have a lot of band shirts.”

She pulls her shoulders back, arching her back defensively. “You sure have a lot of superhero tees.”

I laugh. “Touché.”

“So what's the deal?”

“With the shirts?” I dig my hands in my pockets. “I guess superheroes are my thing. I collect old comics and I draw one too. I call it
Freeze Frame
. It's about this dude who has the ability to freeze time and go back to change fate.”

“That's cool.”

“Yeah, my brother got me into comics when I was a little kid. He used to love superheroes. Used to watch all the movies over and over 'til the damn DVD player broke.” I smile at the memory. Dad had been about to pop a vein, but Mickey knew how to talk him down. Mickey could do no wrong. And now that he's dead, he's practically a saint.

I go on. “Anyhow, superheroes tend to be regular guys who have experienced some freak accident or trauma that results in them developing extraordinary powers or abilities. They take all the crap in life and find a way to turn it around for good. When my life gets insane, I try to imagine I could be like that.”