My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,24
had to bet on it, I’m pretty sure I’d know what it would say. The message couldn’t be clearer.
“Peyton?” I half yell, half whisper, hoping she’ll pop out from behind a bush like she usually does.
There’s no way she could have hightailed it out of here that quickly, and the urgency to find her overshadows the fact that I am not wearing any shoes. I hop down the gravel driveway, turning in circles, looking for any sign of her.
“Peyton?”
No response. The only sounds are the leaves rustling when the breeze kicks through the trees and a dog barking somewhere up the road. I call her name again and am about to give up and head back inside when I catch movement by my neighbor’s trash cans. Tomorrow’s garbage pickup, which means it’s as likely to be a raccoon as it is Peyton, but I decide to take my chances. It’s clear she’s angry and isn’t coming out if she’s hiding, so I say my piece.
“Peyton, I get that you’re pissed at me. What I did was shitty. I don’t know why I said what I said. Seeing Amanda threw me off. She was talking to me, which rarely happens, and I got carried away. I wasn’t thinking.”
The breeze picks up again and I bear-hug myself, because even though the calendar says it’s early May, someone forgot to tell the weather this week. My toes are starting to go numb. How long does it take for frostbite to set in?
I address the trash cans again. “I’m an asshole, Peyton. You didn’t deserve that. The truth is, it’s been a long time since anyone was nice to me. You could have busted me right from the start. But you didn’t, and even though you might do and say some freaky shit, I think you’re pretty cool. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your trust like that.” I sigh deeply and add, “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve felt miserable all night for what I said. Because it isn’t true, Peyton.”
I stand there for another minute waiting to see if she appears, and when she doesn’t, I turn toward the house. “Nice job, jackass,” I say under my breath. Only I would pour my guts out to a garbage can.
On the porch, I go to open the door, but the knob doesn’t give. Stuck again. Dad’s been saying he’ll get around to fixing it for forever, but that day has yet to come. I jiggle it again, a little harder this time, but nothing. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I look for a stick on the ground, and when I find one approximately the right thickness, I attempt to jimmy the lock, but the stick splinters in my hand.
Unbelievable.
I have no choice but to knock gingerly for Dad. He doesn’t answer. I knock harder and step back from the door, jogging in place to try to keep warm. My adrenaline starts pumping, anticipating what’s to come.
I hear Dad stirring inside, cursing and stumbling his way to the door. “Who the hell is knocking at this hour of the night?” he bellows. He throws open the door, his brow lined with annoyance, prepared to give whomever is on the other side a piece of his mind, but his eyebrows shoot up in confusion when he sees it’s me.
“Hank? What the hell are you doing out there? What happened to your clothes and shoes? Somebody messing with you?” He peers past me as if the answer is hiding behind me in the shadows.
“Everything’s fine, Dad.” I push past him into the house, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet as I pass, but not caring because it’s warm in here.
He closes the door behind him and grunts. “How could everything be fine? You’re outside half naked in the middle of the night. Are you telling me that’s normal behavior?”
“I heard something outside, so I went to check it out. I got locked out. Sorry to wake you, Dad,” I say and start for the stairs. It would be a miracle if he lets me off this easily.
He doesn’t.
“What the hell is that in your hand?”
I look down to see that I’m still holding the charbroiled Barbie. “Oh, this was on the porch. I think a stray cat left it. Probably got into someone’s trash.” I force a smile and tuck the gnarled plastic into my pocket. “’Night, Dad.”
I make it up three stairs before he stops me.
“Since when are you a Boy Scout