My Kind of Crazy (9 page)

“Whaddya think? It's spinach-stuffed meat loaf with blackened mashed potatoes on top. I saw it in a magazine. It's like everything is all in one place. No side dish necessary. You like it?”

“Oh yeah, it's great.” I've never wished we had a dog as much as I do at this moment. But I'm guessing a few bites of this meat loaf would quite possibly kill it or, at the minimum, give it the shits all over the living room floor.

She beams as the front door slams and my dad stumbles into the kitchen, raking his hands through his hair and sighing deeply. He doesn't say hello to either of us—just looks at the contents of that Pyrex dish and curls his lip. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”

“It's meat loaf stuffed with spinach and topped with blackened mashed potatoes,” I tell him and take another tiny bite.

Dad reaches over and pokes at the leathery potato topping, then walks to the fridge and grabs the first of who knows how many beers he'll drink to make this edible. I almost want to ask for one myself.

“Hank likes it. It's good, right?” She looks at me and I nod, still chewing.

Dad turns, downing half the beer in one swill, and pulls Monica to him, then tells her with a laugh, “Honey, I'm starting to wonder if you shouldn't stick to dancing.”

She sticks out her bottom lip in a mock pouty face and says, “You're so mean.” He chuckles, leaning to give her a kiss, and I can tell by the way they look at each other that despite all the good-natured ribbing, they're genuinely crazy about each other. I definitely don't need to see where this is heading.

That's my cue to grab my plate. “I'm gonna take this upstairs. Got a lot of homework.”

They don't even notice.

In my room, the first thing I do is chuck the spinach, meat loaf, and potato missile out the window. It gets good distance and lands with a
thwack!
against something in the neighbor's yard. A cat lets out a yowl, so I'm guessing it may have hit the cat. That meat loaf is just spreading misery wherever it goes.

I throw on some sweats and turn on my piece-of-shit computer so I can start my homework. The computer is old and there's a white line across the screen where the pixels dropped out, but it gets the job done. As long as it runs, it falls into Dad's category of “If it ain't broke, don't fix it, and even then, don't fix it.” I pull my well-worn copy of Charles Dickens's
Great Expectations
out of my backpack and try to figure out how I'm going to write a ten-page essay about it by the end of the week. The book is basically about this guy who falls in love with this wealthy girl who's totally out of his league and spends his life trying to impress her. It makes me think about Amanda.

I know I should focus on my essay, but I have to see what everyone is talking about. I have to look at her website. The whole thing is so frickin' insane, and judging by earlier, I probably won't get on anyway. But either everyone's busy having dinner or people have started to come to their senses, because just like that, the site loads and I'm in.

And then I do something that may change the course of history.

Or at least my history.

There she is. Amanda Carlisle in her senior portrait. Next to her photo is a blue box with a big, white question mark. Underneath, it says in a pink swirly font:

Are you my Prince Charming? Answer the following questions about the night of the fire, and my true prince will take me to ball.

I snort at her typo, because you know that's what every guy is hoping will happen by the end of the night. It's not like any of us honestly give a crap about going to some dance, myself included. But the truth is I'm not exactly sure what I want anymore.

Asking Amanda to prom was a moment of temporary insanity. I knew it was a long shot, and her lawn catching fire probably saved me from a very awkward and humiliating rejection. If I were a smarter guy, I'd leave well enough alone and let some other poor bastard reap the rewards.

But then I think to myself, can I live with some other guy enjoying a night that might have been—that
should
have been—mine?

I scroll to the first question. It says:

No one has come forward about setting or seeing the fire that night. But I know I saw someone in the yard. The fire chief said he may have been trying to warn me of the danger or convey another message. Which is it? If you were trying to warn me, why didn't you stick around? And if you had a message, what was it?

My eyes linger on “No one has come forward” because that means Peyton hasn't told anyone what she knows, despite all that's happened between us. Turns out she's pretty cool. Technically, she's the reason all this is happening. If not for her, I'd probably be in the juvenile detention center making friends with kids named T-Bone and Doomsday.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a few minutes.
Keep it short. Keep it simple
, I tell myself. And then I start typing.

I spelled out “prom.” I was trying to be original to get your attention. I see it worked. (Sorry about the tree.) I couldn't stick around for your answer because I had a dentist appointment, and those people charge you big bucks if you don't cancel at least twenty-four hours in advance. Good oral hygiene is a priority in my life.

Question number two:

If the answer was that it was a message, what did you use to write the message?

I write:

Sparklers. I thought they'd be more festive…and less dangerous than lighting a bunch of candles because sparklers just burn themselves out. Apparently, this was not the case.

Question number three:

It was dark, but I caught a glimpse of your outfit. What were you wearing—and what was that logo on your chest?

I write:

Since my superhero costume was at the cleaners, I wore a Batman hoodie and a pair of jeans. And Captain America boxers. I was mixing it up with the Marvel/DC franchises because that's how I roll. I'm a rebel.

I chuckle out loud for a minute at what a witty bastard I am.

Question number four:

Do I know you?

Yes. And no. Kind of. I wouldn't say we're friends, but we're not
not
friends. But I guess we're closer to not friends than friends. But not in a bad way. I'm certainly hoping that we can move past this whole crazy incident and get to know each other better.

Question number five:

Tell me something about that night only you and I would know.

This is a tricky one. I wrestle with how to answer it. Should I tell her how pretty she looked that night? Or what the weather was? Or how fast the fire department responded? How will what I say stand out from all the other entries? I go for humor.

If you want to ask someone out, lighting sparklers in a pile of mulch is a surefire way to get their attention. We can honestly say our friendship started with a spark.

Question number five:

Describe our perfect prom night.

Technically, this is not a question, it's a short-answer essay, and I'm not much for essays. I opt for the truth since, ironically, I'm likely out of the game anyway.

You have an adventurous spirit, right? Well, if I take you to prom, I'd roll up on my bike and prop you on the handlebars. I promise to try like hell to avoid potholes. (My dad has a car, but the odds of me coming down with Legionnaires' disease are higher than him handing over the keys.) I'd probably pick you up early so we could grab a bite to eat first. I guess it's safe to say that if I pick you up on a bike, it's pretty much a given I can't take you somewhere with fancy napkins and candles. But Ziggy's makes a great burger. Unless you're a vegetarian. It's totally cool if you are. I'm pretty sure they have salads there too.

We'd eventually go to the dance and might stay for a while, if that's your thing. But I'm guessing as soon as you see my mad dance moves you'll be much happier with Plan B, which is to catch a movie at the dollar theater on the other side of town. After that we'd head over to the park with a fresh bag of chips (your choice of flavor, of course) and two Cokes (Unless you prefer Pepsi. I can be down with that too.) and lie back to watch the stars and talk about the mysteries of the universe. Once we've answered life's greatest questions, we'd hop back on my bike and pick up some ice cream before I take you home. So, in closing, if you choose me, it would be cool if you remember to bring a helmet.

And last but not least, question number 7:

Do you have any proof that it was you?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I think about what Peyton said to me in the cafeteria. This is the one question that could swing my entry from a maybe to a yes. What do I have to lose? I smile and type:

I have a witness.

I hit Submit, and the following screen notifies me that I am entry number 456 and to remember my entry number. Unbelievable. Four hundred and fifty-five people are willing to risk a brush with the law for a chance to take Amanda to prom. This is so out of hand. A new screen pops up asking if I want to edit my current entry or finish and return to the main screen. I hesitate for a moment; then I press the Finish button. A spinning rainbow cursor appears, indicating the website is processing my entry.

After the fourth revolution, I close my eyes and try to imagine Amanda reading my answers and contacting me, letting me know she wants to meet to me in person.

I start to feel queasy, but not because I ate the leftover chicken wings and washed them down with three-days-past-expiration milk straight from the carton. No, it's the queasiness that comes with leaving your comfort zone, then wishing you could go back because you're not ready for this kind of change. It's the intestinal twisting that follows stepping into the spotlight when you are much happier being backstage—if not under the stage, let alone anywhere near the frickin' stage. The light-headed, contents-of-your-dinner-rising-in-your-throat, pukish sensation of being given a second chance to make an important decision and screwing that up too.

Sometimes, the best course of action is inaction. Even though answering seven stupid questions may alter the entire course of my crappy teenage existence, it could be argued that not answering them does too. At least I know what to expect.

So I decide to delete my entry.

Every last word.

I frantically hit the Back button, trying to return to the previous screen, but nothing happens. The rainbow cursor keeps spinning. I slam at all the keys, but the screen is completely frozen, leaving me no choice but to reboot the computer. By the time I get it up and running and log back onto Amanda's website, the count is now up to four hundred and seventy three, and I have absolutely no way of knowing if my entry is one of them.

Well, isn't that perfect.

The last time I ate at someone else's house was after my mom and Mickey died. Some lady from church invited Dad and me over for dinner. He made me wear a stiff, uncomfortable collared shirt and lectured me that I'd better eat every single thing that was put in front of me or it would be disrespectful to this kind lady's hospitality.

I had no appetite whatsoever, but I was too scared to protest so I ended up sitting alone in the kitchen and eating six times my weight in turkey tetrazzini casserole, while the woman from church “comforted” my dad. I got the feeling she'd been “comforting” him for some time, even before my mother died. I'm not sure if it was that epiphany or the turkey tetrazzini, but I spent the entire night doubled over the toilet puking my guts out.

My mother would have massaged my back or brought me a cool washcloth. Hell, even Mickey would have climbed out of bed and said, “Hey, buddy, can I get you anything? Glass of cold water?” But my dad never even checked on me. He just sat in a chair downstairs, staring into space until the sun came up.

Thumbing through my closet, I see the shirt still hanging there toward the back. It's tiny because it is meant for a twelve-year-old, and if my mother were still here, it would have long since been donated. All I have at this point is a bunch of well-worn T-shirts, sweatshirts, and one faded-looking navy button-down flannel, but at least it has a collar, so I decide it will be decent enough to wear to Nick's.

Nick lives in the nicer part of town, where the houses are bigger and not sagging at the corners, and the cars in the driveways are actually from this decade and not on blocks. I am a little intimidated when I first see his house. It's a two-story brick monster with tall, white columns and black shutters on either side of the windows. It is set back from the street and surrounded by a wrought iron gate with a little camera turned on the entrance to the driveway.

As soon as I roll up on my bike, it's like they can see me because the gates creak open, then close after me as I pedal in. People in “waste management” make a hell of a lot more money than I expected.

I park my bike behind a sweet-looking older model Mercedes with tinted windows. I can't help it; I imagine a body, gagged and bound, stuffed in the trunk. I swallow hard and resolve to be extra polite so that's not me at the end of the night.

Nick opens the door and greets me with a big smile, ushering me into the foyer. He's all suited up for the occasion, and I feel underdressed but grateful I'm wearing a shirt with buttons.

“Fancy,” I say.

“Peyton just got here,” he tells me and wiggles his eyebrows. “So far, so good. She dug the suit. Chicks are into suits. I hope you're hungry because my mother made enough food for an army.”

“I'm starved,” I tell him, and it isn't even a lie. My stomach has been rumbling with anticipation for hours. Not to mention that this could be the last decent meal I get for a while, so I need to store it up like a camel.

“Now remember, we eat, and after dinner, once Peyton loosens up, I'll give you the signal and you can go. Say you have to pick up something for your dad or whatever.”

“Pick up something. Got it.” I flash him a thumbs-up.

“Thanks for doing this, buddy. I owe you one.” He gives me a smack on the back. “C'mon, everyone's in the kitchen.” I follow him down a hallway filled with dark wood and marble with gold accents. I've never been in such a nice house. Everything is polished and in its place. And there's the most amazing aroma of garlic and herbs, unlike at my house, which always smells musty, like spilled beer and wet dog—and we don't even have a dog. Pack me a bag. I'm ready to move in with Nick's family.

Nick leads me into the kitchen, and when Peyton sees me, she smiles, visibly relaxing. He introduces me to his mother, Angela, who has a nest of curly black hair, bright-red lipstick, and a round body crammed into clothes meant for someone half her age. She comes at me with her arms stretched wide like I'm some long-lost relative and pulls me into a hug that crushes me to her gigantic breasts. They're soft and doughy against my chest, like I'm lying on a pillow.

“So nice to meet Nicky's friends,” she gushes. “He never wants to bring anyone by. It's like he's ashamed of us.”

“Ma, I'm not ashamed,” Nick protests.

“So why haven't you ever had your friends over before?”

“They're here now, aren't they?” Nick's father interrupts and extends his thick, meaty hand to give mine a strong shake. “Dominic Giuliani. Welcome.”

He's tall like Nick, and it's clear who Nick inherited his unibrow from. But that's where the resemblance ends because Dominic Giuliani has enough paunch around his middle to show that he's a fan of his wife's cooking. When he smiles, there is a gap between his two front teeth, and when he says the letter
S
, he makes a slight whistling sound. His voice is deep and rich, and when he laughs, his whole body shakes. In fact, he's so pleasant and welcoming that I forget he may be a hit man until the doorbell rings. His expression turns gravely serious. He frowns at Nick. “Who's that? You said you invited two friends.”

Mr. Giuliani crosses the kitchen to look at a small TV monitor. As he passes me, I shoot a glance at Peyton. She looks different tonight. Her hair is actually pulled back from her face, which makes her eyes really stand out. Tonight they look especially blue. Like she might be wearing makeup. And instead of one of her oversize rock band T-shirts, she's wearing a plain black sweater and a flowy red skirt. Cleaned up like that, she looks nice. Pretty, even. Nick must think so too because he can't stop staring at her.

Mr. Giuliani lets out an exasperated grunt and presses a button. I watch the iron gates swinging open on the monitor as he tells Mrs. Giuliani, “It's Giovanna. She must have misplaced her remote again. I swear, if that girl's head wasn't attached to her shoulders, she'd lose that too.”

Mrs. Giuliani waves her hand at her husband dismissively and says, “Go easy on her, Dominic. You know she's having a tough time.”

Nick leans in and says, “She broke up with her boyfriend.”

“Her
fiancé
broke up with her. Two months before the wedding. Can you believe it?” Mrs. Giuliani says, and I can see a vein bulge in Mr. Giuliani's forehead.

“We don't talk about it,” Nick says.

“No problem,” I assure him.

“I could wring that bastard's neck,” Mr. Giuliani says as he goes to the front door to let in Nick's sister. Peyton and I exchange a glance, and she raises her eyebrows, as if telling me, “I told you so.” Admittedly, I'm glad I'm not Giovanna's ex-fiancé.

“He got cold feet. Ended things via a friggin' text message. My father is ready to have an aneurysm,” Nick explains.

Not gonna lie: Nick's sister is totally hot. Her stick-straight black hair shines like a shampoo commercial. She has a mole right above her lip that draws my attention to her mouth, which is painted deep purple, like she sucked all the color out of a grape. She's so skinny she looks like she could break if you hugged her hard enough, but the plunging vee of her sweater reveals that she takes after her mother in that area. Giovanna seems to be around Monica's age, but she looks far more exotic. She plops her oversize, studded purse on the kitchen island and inspects Peyton and me as if we've both sprouted two heads.

“Who is this?” she asks.

“What kind of way is that to greet company?” Mrs. Giuliani asks. “These are Nicky's friends, Peyton and Hank.”

Giovanna plasters on a smile. She arches an eyebrow.
Very sexy.

“Nicky has friends?” she asks innocently.

“Shut up,” Nick says as she cackles. I think she might be more intimidating than Mr. Giuliani.

“I'm teasing. Nice to meet you, Nicky's friends,” she says and shakes our hands. As we sit around the kitchen table to eat, Peyton slides into a chair between Nick and me. She catches Nick staring at her and smiles nervously.

“What's wrong? Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks.

“Like what?”

“Like
that
. You keep giving me these weird looks. Is my hair messed up or something?”

She reaches up to smooth it. I want to crack up, because in the brief time I've known her, I never thought she owned a hairbrush, let alone worried about her appearance.

“No, you look fine,” he assures her. His cheeks start to turn red. “In fact, you look better than fine. You look really nice.”

Her mouth turns up at the corners as she puts her napkin in her lap. “Thanks.”

Nick is right; his mother makes the most kick-ass marinara sauce I've ever eaten. I devour three servings of it over the most perfectly cooked rigatoni I've ever had, along with garlic bread, antipasti salad, minestrone soup, and for dessert, homemade cheesecake with strawberries and dollops of freshly whipped cream.

Nick is cracking jokes, telling stories, and trading barbs with his dad. Nick is trying so hard, and apparently whatever he's doing appears to be working, because I've never seen Peyton smile so much.

I distract myself by watching Giovanna lick the whipped cream off her strawberry and try to figure out how someone this smoking hot came from the same gene pool as Nick. Mr. Giuliani is telling a long-winded joke that has almost built to its punch line when Giovanna's phone buzzes loudly. Mr. Giuliani's cheeks flush and his jaw tenses.

Giovanna sees the expression on her father's face and says, “What? I'm expecting a call.”

“Who is more important than Sunday night dinner with your family and guests?” he asks as his face begins to redden.

“It's Bobby,” she says quietly.

The way his face is turning red, Mr. Giuliani looks like he just ate a chili pepper.

“Bobby,” he says calmly. “Is this the same son-of-a-bitch Bobby that decided to dump you two months before the wedding I paid for? That didn't have the nerve to say it to your face?” Now he's not quite so calm. He looks like his head is going to pop off.

“Daddy, relax. He just wants to talk.”

“Do you have no self-respect? This
stronzo
has no further business with you.”

Giovanna pouts. “Daddy, I'd thought you'd be happy for me. Bobby wants to work things out. He knows he made a mistake.”

“His mistake was calling before Dad could finish his joke,” Nick says, trying to lighten the mood. He catches sight of the uncomfortable look on Peyton's face and reassures her, “Don't worry. They're not really fighting. This is just how my family talks.”

Mrs. Giuliani pats Giovanna's hand and says, “Go talk to Bobby. Relax, Dominic. Every girl should be so lucky to have a father who loves her so much.”

Giovanna gives her father a kiss on the head as she bolts from the room. There is an awkward silence as we all eat our cheesecake, and I try to imagine what it would be like to have my dad care about me that much. I glance at Peyton, and I can tell from the way she's looking at Mr. Giuliani that she's probably thinking the same thing. Then she pipes up and asks, “So how did the joke end? What happened to the nun and the fifty-pound canary?” And just like that, she reels Mr. Giuliani back in.

All I can think is how much I wish I had someplace I belonged with people who care about me the way Nick's family cares about each other. I used to, but that was a long time ago. I wonder if Peyton has ever known what that feels like. Honestly, I'm not sure which is worse: to have it and to lose it, or to never know it at all.

Nick turns to me. “Hey, Hank, don't you have to leave soon? You know, to pick up that thing for your dad before the store
closes
?” He puts emphasis on the last word and raises his eyebrows as if I may have forgotten the cue.

“Oh, right. That thing for my dad. Yeah, I better get going. Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Giuliani. It was delicious.”

I start to push back my chair when Peyton asks me, “What do you have to pick up at this hour?”

I think fast. “Um, I have to get to the pharmacy before it closes. I gotta pick up some cream. My dad's got this rash… It's pretty nasty actually. On his feet. Been going on for a while now and I keep telling him he's gotta get it checked, because he's…um…always scratching and it's spreading.”

Everybody seems thoroughly repulsed, so that's my exit. Mr. and Mrs. Giuliani shake my hand, and Peyton and Nick walk me to the door. Nick is all smiles.

All the way home, I imagine the two of them together. I wonder if he'll make out with her. If she'll sneak him into her room, maybe take a picture of him standing there gazing up at those forty-fives. Her hanging a photo of
him
on her wall.

What if she tells him things she doesn't tell me? That's cool, I guess. She's entitled. It's not like I'm her shrink. Hell, it's not like I asked to hear half the stuff I know about her.

I'm not jealous or interested in her. I just like it when all three of us are equally miserable. And for some reason, the two of them being happy together without me pisses me off.

At home, I intend to unwind and work on
Freeze Frame
, but I'm too distracted. I can't stop thinking about Peyton.

Peyton, with her hair pulled back like it was tonight, her skin so white it's practically glowing, lying back on her bed, her lips slightly parted.

Peyton, who for all I know is making out with Nick Giuliani right now.

Peyton, who probably thinks Nick is all that because his dad drives a Mercedes and doesn't come stumbling home drunk, calling him names. He lives in a fancy house and doesn't have to worry if there's anything in the refrigerator that doesn't have an alcoholic content of at least five percent.

Meanwhile, a year from now—ten years from now—I'll still be here, bagging groceries at the Shop 'n Save. If I'm lucky, I'll have moved up to produce manager. Then I'll get to wear one of those green aprons instead of my black one. Something to aspire to.