My Kind of Crazy (8 page)

She says, “You won't have to. You'll already be outside.” Nick and I look at each other in confusion as she adds, “Bring your backpack to class. By the time they figure out we're gone, school will be over.”

“What about my bike?” I ask.

“You'll come back for it later. Trust me. I have a plan.” She takes a final bite of pudding, drops the empty container on my tray, stands up, and walks away. Clearly this is not her first rodeo.

Nick watches her leave. “That girl is an enigma, man. I am so completely turned on right now.”

“Look, I don't want to get busted, Nick. I'm kind of walking on thin ice at home as it is. Maybe just you should go,” I tell him, but he shakes his head furiously.

“Hank, don't be such a pussy. You gotta go. I think she's nervous is all. Like with dinner. She wants you there too, like a chaperone or something. And that's cool. If I can talk her up a little, I can get things going. Then you can take off or whatever. C'mon, you gotta do this for me, man.”

He gives me a pleading, desperate look before one eye starts roving toward the window, and between that and the stains on his pants, I can't help but think about Peyton's comment and the kind of friend I want to be. So when the fire alarm goes off during English because, rumor has it, someone set a small fire in one of the classrooms, I can't help smiling because I have a pretty good guess who was behind it.

The administrators are freaking out because this is no drill. It's a bona fide fire, and even though it only burned a bunch of recycled papers in a trash can—and a teacher put it out with an extinguisher—you'd think it had been an inferno. Teachers are flailing their arms and barking directions and hustling us out of the building to the athletic field. Taking in the controlled chaos, it hits me. Peyton set a real goddamn fire. It's serious business pulling an alarm, but setting an actual fire? Is she crazy? What if someone had actually gotten hurt?

The fire engines arrive on the scene, their sirens wailing and lights blazing. It will easily take the whole period to line everyone up and wait for the fire department to give the all clear, and by the time they let us inside, last period will be underway, so there won't even be enough time to take attendance. It's perfect. Nick and I find each other and slowly maneuver our way to the back of the pack, slipping out the side gate with ease while everyone is distracted, just as Peyton had said.

We make a beeline for the faculty parking lot, shooting glances over our shoulders like we've just pulled off a jewelry heist. And there's Peyton, casually sitting on the hood of Principal Drucker's car, lighting a stack of flyers about an upcoming pep rally one by one and casually reducing each to a pile of ash on the ground beside the front tire. There's a look in her eyes that rattles me a little, as if she gets some sort of a release from this, like scratching an itch.

She sees us and a smile spreads across her face. She abandons the remaining flyers and jumps down, leaving a slight groove in the hood where she's been sitting.

Nick keeps on moving, all arms and legs, anxious to get out of the parking lot undetected, and he motions to us to hurry and follow him.

“C'mon,” I urge her because she's moving in slow motion and I'm starting to panic that someone will see us too.

She shoves something in my hand as I pass her. I look into my palm. It's a red matchbook with “Lombardi's Liquors” scrawled across the front. I flip it open and it's empty. All of the matches have been used. I shove it in my front pocket. She smiles at me and says, “I guess it's true what they say. Children really shouldn't play with matches.”

And then she's running ahead of me and I'm running after her, and my heart is pounding with adrenaline. Even if it's only for a couple of hours, we don't have to answer to anyone except ourselves. For the first time in a long time I feel free. I have no idea where we're going, but it really doesn't matter. Maybe Peyton's dangerous, maybe she's crazy, but whatever she is, I want to follow her and find out.

Even though ditching school two periods early is hardly jacking a car or robbing a bank, I feel kind of badass about getting away with something I shouldn't have. If the last two weeks are any indicator, I'm becoming somewhat of a pro in this department.

The only problem is that between the three of us we have no car, a stick of gum, and about three dollars in change, so our options are limited. We end up at Ziggy's sharing an order of chili cheese fries. Peyton has never been there before, and she points to the giant bell hanging from the wall by the cash register.

“What's that for?” she asks.

We tell her about the How High burger, how every time someone orders one, they ring the bell as they bring it out, and how someday Nick and I are each going to order one, finish it, and get our pictures on the wall.

“You seem pretty serious about this,” she says.

“There is nothing
not
serious about a How High burger,” Nick says as he stuffs his mouth full of fries. A lone strand of cheese dangles precariously from his chin, but neither of us has the heart to tell him it's there. It's far too amusing.

“The name alone. It's like a dare.” I drain my water, then shake the ice in my cup, hoping it will inspire the waitress to stop reading her
National Enquirer
and actually bring us refills.

“It sounds disgusting,” Peyton says.

“Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Your face could be up there too. Hank and I are going to be legendary. Just sayin'. Before we leave this town, our pictures are going to be up on that wall.” Nick says “we” but I don't correct him. Not here in front of her, but the fact is he's the only one of us who has any hope of getting out of this town anytime soon.

The three of us leave our money on the table and head outside. We're still good on time but have zero funds left, so we start walking and talking about random crap.

“What's the grossest thing you've ever seen?” Nick asks as he picks a leaf from a low-lying branch in our path.

No-brainer. “That would definitely be Joey Tuscaluso picking his nose in seventh grade and sticking the boogers under his desk. By the end of the year, there must have been two hundred of them under there,” I say as Nick howls like a frickin' hyena.

“I remember that guy. What ever happened to him?”

“Who knows? Probably got a job at the Kleenex factory.”

“The grossest thing I ever saw was my mother having sex with this guy who came to fix our TV,” Peyton says flatly, and both Nick and I abruptly stop laughing.

“You had to watch your mom have sex? That's messed up,” Nick says.

“Our TV broke so this repairman arrived. Long, greasy brown hair, goatee, tats up and down his arms. Mom must not have had the money, but clearly they worked out a payment plan, because I come out of my room to get a drink of water, and there they are, going at it on the couch. They were both totally into it.”

Nick and I groan. “Nasty. Did she see you? What did your mom do?” I ask.

Peyton has our full attention, and she seems to be enjoying it. She blows her bangs out of her eyes and smiles. “Nothing. She looked right at me and put a finger to her lips, like I should be quiet. You'd have to know my mom, but this might be one of the least shocking stories I could tell you about her. In my opinion, that definitely trumps a desk full of boogers.”

“She's got you there, Hank,” Nick agrees. “Holy shit.”

“What's the grossest thing you've ever seen, Nick?” she asks. I can practically see him push his shoulders back because she's called him out. He grins goofily as he lets the bomb drop.

“I once saw this guy with his brains blown out the back of his head. Gray matter everywhere, and tons of blood. And this…crater missing from his head.”

He creeps me out with how he says this with a smile on his face.

“Oh man, that's sick.” I wave my hands as if that will make the image disappear.

“Did your dad kill him?” Peyton asks without batting an eye.

Nick snorts. “What?”

“Your dad. Did he kill him?”

I start to feel nervous. No one says that kind of stuff to Nick. At least not to his face. I can't believe she just asked him that point-blank.

“Why would you think my dad killed him?” Nick's tone is dead serious.

Peyton licks her lips and narrows her eyes, then says, “People talk at school. They say your dad is…a hit man or something.”

“My dad is in waste management,” Nick replies and swallows. His Adam's apple bobs up and down like a fishing lure in his throat.

“As in a garbageman?” I ask, hoping to clarify.

Nick's mouth hangs open as Peyton shrugs and says, “Whatever you want to call it. It makes perfect sense, actually. Such an easy way to get rid of the evidence. It's cool if he is, you know. I honestly don't care. I was just curious. My mom once dated this guy who worked at a funeral home and sidelined at a real estate agency. Folks would kick the bucket, and then while the family was grieving and vulnerable, he'd get the listing for their rent-controlled apartment. People do all sorts of messed-up shit, and they all have their reasons why. Who am I to judge?”

Nobody says anything for a few minutes. I mean, what can you say in those circumstances? A comment like that is sort of a conversation stopper. Instead we watch cars driving by, the cracks in the sidewalk, the street sweeper blowing up a mini dust storm.

Nick kicks at a rock on the sidewalk, and it goes skittering into the road. “My dad's a great guy. He's honorable. He stands up for what he believes in. He loves his family, his friends, and his community. He goes to church.”

So did the Sopranos.

“Hey, like I said, I don't care if he takes out the garbage or he ‘takes out the garbage.'” Peyton uses air quotes to drive her point home. “I'm just saying that who our parents are doesn't have to define who we are. At least not to me.”

“So what's the deal with the guy with his brains blown out?” I ask as we walk toward Main Street. Nick looks visibly relieved by the change in topic.

“It's some video I saw once on YouTube,” he says. “You can see all sorts of weird shit like that on the Internet. Mutilated bodies, people having sex with animals: you name it.”

We end up at Metropolis Comics. Victor doesn't even bat an eye that I'm showing up before the end of a school day. He greets me by name as if I'm a regular at the local bar. He grabs his cane and gets to his feet.

Victor has one wooden leg. His real one got shot off in the war a long time ago. Sometimes he says he can still feel it, like it's still there. They call it phantom pain. I get that sometimes too. Stuff will happen and I'll want to tell Mom or Mickey. And then I remember they're not here anymore either.

“This must be Nerdvana for you,” Peyton says, taking in all the posters on the walls and the display cases of back issues and collectible figurines.

“I like to come here. Victor doesn't mind if I sit and read in the back. He's awesome,” I tell her as Nick pushes past us to look at a Spider-Man anthology that's grabbed his attention.

“Hey, Hank. I got something that I think you're gonna want to see,” Victor tells me with a knowing smile. He tilts his head, summoning me to the counter.

“New Avengers?” I ask him. Sometimes if he gets in an issue early, he'll let me check it out even though he's not supposed to put it on display yet. He used to do the same thing for Mickey when he was alive. Victor has always looked out for us. I think it's because he once had a kid too, but his kid died. Drowned in a pool or something messed up like that.

“Better.” His New England accent is so thick that the word comes out sounding like
bett-uh
. He wiggles his eyebrows as I make my way over.

“What's better than a new Avengers?” I ask.

“What's the one thing you've been asking me about for years?
Nev-uh
come through here before,
nev-uh
even
seen
one, and then yesterday it shows up. Some old guy bit the dust, and his nephew comes in and sells everything. I didn't put it out because I wanted you to be the first to see it.”

“You're killing me with the suspense, Victor,” I say.

He reaches into a drawer behind the counter, and my eyes bug out of my head when he pulls out a beat-to-hell copy of Marvel's
Fantastic Four #48:
“The Coming of Galactus!” and lays it down in front of me. Nick and Peyton lean over my shoulder as I run my finger over the battered cover and then carefully hold it in my hands. I can't find the words.

“What's the big deal? It's just some old comic,” Peyton says, and Victor chuckles.

“This is not just any old comic,” I tell her. “This is the March 1, 1966, issue of
Fantastic Four
where the Silver Surfer character is introduced for the very first time. He comes to Earth as a scout for Galactus, and they battle with the Fantastic Four and the Watcher.” I can't believe I'm actually holding a copy of it in my hands.

“Unfortunately, this one is in wicked poor shape,” Victor explains. “The spine is split, especially between the staples, and there's a lot of edge wear and small tears in the pages. And half the back cover is missing. But you don't turn one of these down when it comes through, even if it's low grade.”

The condition doesn't matter to me. It's not like I'd turn around and sell it, not when I've wanted it for so long.

“How much is it?” I ask. I'm willing to bet I don't have near enough to buy it.

“In this condition? Around $275.”

It's like I found a winning lottery ticket, only to have it swept out of my hands by a gust of wind and blown into the gutter. Not that I know what that actually feels like. I'm just guessing it feels a lot like this. Here one minute, gone the next. Never really mine to begin with.

Nick whistles and leans in for a closer look as I carefully open the cover, taking in each glorious yellowed page. Peyton shakes her head in disbelief. “For a ripped-up comic book? Who would pay that?”

Victor says, “People will pay upward of seven or eight grand if it's in mint condition. This one's very popular. People are always looking for it.”

“That's like…a car,” she rationalizes.

“A shitty car,” Nick says. “With no air-conditioning and bald tires.”

“I put it aside just for you, Hank. Thought I'd offer you the first shot at it,” Victor says with a grin.

I sigh. “Man, I wish I could. I don't have that kind of money.”

I thumb through the pages, wishing I were here alone so I could sit in the corner and read the whole thing. When I reach the end, I gingerly close the cover, running my fingers over it again before reluctantly handing it back to Victor. God knows how many times Mickey and I talked about wanting to find this issue. He'd be beside himself right now. Giving it back is killing me.

Victor carefully slides the comic back into its plastic sleeve and locks it in the drawer behind the counter. “Well, I'll wait a while before putting it out. How's that? Maybe you'll be able to scrape it together, huh?”

I smile, knowing that unless I rob a bank or discover I am the sole heir of an unknown rich uncle I have zero chance of ever owning that comic. “Yeah, maybe.”

Victor turns to Nick and Peyton and beams with pride as he says, “Your friend Hank is quite the artist himself. One day I'll be selling his comics for top dollar. You can bet on that. They'll be lining up outside to wait for the latest issue.”

“I wouldn't hold your breath, Victor,” I say and he pats me on the back good-naturedly.

I can tell Victor feels sorry for me because he tells us all to go ahead and pick out a comic from the Last Chance Clearance bin, on the house. Most of the time, I hate when people feel sorry for me. When people find out my mother and brother are dead, or that I have no money, or that my dad spends more time with the drunks at the local bar than with his one non-dead kid, they treat me differently. Their eyes get this pitying look, and they go out of their way more than they would for other people.

When people feel sorry for me, it's because they see me as broken, and sometimes I wonder if there's truth in that. But it's weird; I don't. I know my life is pretty messed up, but I gotta believe there's more to life than this. Otherwise I'm no better off than my mother and brother, pushing up daisies from six feet under in the cemetery up the road.

I'm like the Silver Surfer. Despite the considerable evidence that the world is pretty screwed up with people who do bad things, the Silver Surfer believes there is still good in the world. And as I look at Nick and Peyton digging through the bins, and Victor smiling as he watches the three of us, I think I'm standing in the middle of it.

• • •

I finally make it home about twilight after going back to school to get my bike. I walk in and am greeted by a view of Monica bending over in front of the oven, her leopard-print thong showing over the top of her denim cutoffs.

“Oh, hey, Hank! I thought I'd make you guys some dinner before I head out.” Monica removes some cremated thing in a Pyrex dish from the oven, fanning her oven mitt over it furiously. Literally, the top is charred and I have no idea what it is, but at this point I'm starving and there's a short list of other options.

She places a huge slice of whatever it is on a plate and hands it to me.

“Lucky me.” I thank her and smile. I try to cut off a piece with my fork and knife, but the mass won't separate. I try to approach it from another angle, but still no luck, so I pick it up with my bare hands and tentatively take a bite. It pretty much tastes as good as it looks, but Monica's staring at me expectantly, so I force myself to chew and swallow it as quickly as possible.