My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,10
first I started with pieces of paper. I’d write down the names of people who pissed me off and then set fire to them, but this is so much better. Who gets under your skin? Just completely goes out of their way to make your life a living hell?”
I smile. “That’s a no-brainer. Kyle Jonas.”
Kyle Jonas is this total dick in my English class who’s had it out for me ever since elementary school. In tenth grade, he put a smear of chocolate pudding on my seat, and then he and his equally dickish friends howled with laughter as I proceeded to sit in it. The chair was dark brown so I couldn’t see it. I had to walk around looking like I’d crapped in my pants for three periods before I could escape to the locker room and change into my gym shorts. Two years later, and he still thinks the “can’t hold it” jokes he makes at my expense are hi-frickin’-larious.
She smirks. “That guy’s an ass. Watch and see how much better you’re gonna feel.”
She paws through the Barbies until she extracts a male one that bears an uncanny resemblance to Kyle with perfectly combed brown hair and a chiseled chin. She holds it up victoriously, then grabs a black Sharpie from inside the bin and scrawls “Kyle” across its chest before handing it to me.
I look at the naked doll, unsure what I’m supposed to do with it, but Peyton’s already throwing balls of newspaper on the fire pit and a few pieces of old plywood. She sprays some fuel on top and sets it all on fire. The flames dance at the edges of the paper, slowly eating at the corners until the fire finds the dry lumber. The wood starts to pop and crack. I can feel the heat coming off it, and the breeze blows the smoke toward me, which makes me sneeze.
I have no idea what the hell is going on.
I stand to the side as Peyton pokes at the fire with a metal rod. It’s like she’s in a trance. She never takes her eyes off the flames. She turns to me. “Go ahead. Throw it in.”
“The Barbie?” I ask.
She locks gazes with me and says, “It’s not a Barbie. It’s Kyle Jonas.”
“Kyle Jonas,” I repeat. “Right.”
I take a step toward the fire. She grabs my hand.
“Wait! Close your eyes. As you throw it in, tell yourself that you’re taking back the power. That Kyle Jonas can never hurt you again.”
She releases my hand and nods in encouragement. I take that as my cue to chuck Ken, a.k.a. Kyle Jonas, into the pit. I gotta admit that I am a little freaked out, but at the same time, I’m slightly intrigued as Ken nose-dives into the flames.
The flames attack the doll instantly, blackening and distorting its plastic features, and causing its arms and legs to melt and mutate at weird angles. After a few more moments, it becomes unrecognizable as what it once was.
Finally I say, “Is this some weird voodoo shit? Because I gotta be honest. I’m not really down with black magic.”
She scoffs. “No, of course not. Voodoo is like people running around with bloody, headless chickens, saying incantations and speaking in tongues.”
I hesitate. “Well, I’m not sure I get it is all.”
Peyton’s brow creases, and she is clearly disappointed by my comment. She chews at her lip, then says, “It’s…it’s like they transform from being beautiful to ugly and distorted. There’s a different kind of beauty in that, I think. Everything beautiful can be ugly, and everything ugly can be beautiful. It’s all perspective. But it’s like you’re the artist with the brush, and everything else is your canvas. I don’t know—I thought you might understand that.”
She grabs a nearby bucket filled with water and douses the flames with a hiss. As the fire gives way to smoke, she shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I never should have shown you.”
I see the tears building up in the corners of her eyes as she works to clean up while I stand there awkwardly, rocking back and forth on my heels, trying to figure out the right thing to say. I settle on, “No, it’s cool. I get what you mean: the whole brush-and-canvas thing. That felt pretty good.”
She stabs at the contents of the fire pit with the poker, tamping down the ash. “You’re just saying that.”
Peyton is the one person who knows I’m responsible for what happened last night.