My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,11

She could blow my life up in two seconds if she wanted to. I can’t afford to piss her off. Plus, for some reason I can’t put my finger on, I feel sorry for her. So I opt to follow that old saying: keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It’s not like Peyton’s an enemy, but she’s not exactly a friend. I don’t know what she is yet, so I merely nod and say, “No, seriously. I felt like I had the upper hand for once. Like I was in control and that douche bag was at my mercy for a change.”

She dabs the corners of her eyes, then sniffles. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” While this seems to calm her, I’m still a little nervous about this whole situation and I start to ramble. “In fact, if you hadn’t put that out, I probably could have come up with at least a dozen more names we could throw into the fire. And that’s without including the football team or the lacrosse team or any other team. Because you know what ‘team’ spells backward? Meat. And that’s all they are. A bunch of meatheads.”

“Actually, ‘team’ spelled backward is ‘maet.’” She exaggerates the sounds as if she’s trying to speak with some lame southern accent.

I shrug. “Yeah, well, spelling was never my strong suit.”

She smiles and says quietly, “I knew you were special, Hank Kirby.”

And then a voice rips through the yard like a needle scratching across a record. “Peyton! Where are you? I know you’re out here because I can smell the damn smoke! You better put that out, or I’m gonna tell your mother you’re starting up with that crap again.”

“Shit,” Peyton whispers, her hands balling into fists.

I’m guessing it’s Pete, lured away from his home improvement show by the acrid smell of burning Barbie. Peyton shoves me back and motions for me to squat by the Barbie bin as she throws the tarp back over it. In a low voice, she says, “Just hide here. He won’t come out this far. He never does. Wait until after we go inside, then sneak around the side of the house.”

“What’s the big deal? Why can’t I just leave with you?”

Her eyes widen and she squeezes my hand. “Please. Just do it. I don’t want him to see you. It will only cause problems. Do this for me, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Pey-ton? I’m not in the mood for hide-and-seek. Where the hell are you?” Pete’s voice has more urgency this time, and although he can’t see me, I spy him stumbling across the yard in a stained wifebeater tank. His feet are bare, and when he steps on something in the dirt, he rages and screams her name again, as if blaming her for his injury.

“Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The crazy look in her eyes has been replaced by fear, and my stomach lurches as she runs off. Pete greets her by grabbing her arm with enough force that her body rocks to keep upright.

As he drags her toward the house, I can hear him berating her though I can’t make out exactly what he’s saying. But even from here, I can tell her spirit is broken in this guy’s presence. She curls into herself, following his lead and never once turning back in my direction.

I wait in the corner of the yard until I’m sure they’ve gone inside and then cautiously make my way to the side of the house. I am tempted to pause by the open window and listen, just to make sure Peyton is okay, but I don’t hear anything, not even the faint drone of the television we heard on the way in.

I run and pull my bike out of the bushes, then pedal away as fast as I can, past the trail of burned matchsticks and all the people leading normal lives, completely unaware that right down the street some seriously messed-up stuff is going on. I’ve finally met someone whose life is potentially more craptastic than mine. Who knew that was even possible?

I suppose on some level I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I just feel sad. As much as I wish I could forget this entire day, I can’t stop thinking about her all the way home and wondering what her story is.

5

I roll into the driveway just as Monica is heading to her car—going to work I’m assuming, based on her outfit. She’s wearing a