My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,26

hurt her, and I know I did. But someone can only hurt you if they matter to you in the first place. And this weird sense of loss I’m feeling, believing I’ve caused some irreparable damage to our friendship, makes me realize that in some messed-up way, she’s started to matter to me too.

Which is crazy.

The thing is, my gut tells me it’s about to get even crazier.

9

By the end of third period, I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that Peyton (a) isn’t at school, (b) is completely avoiding me like a flesh-eating virus, and/or (c) is off somewhere sticking pins in a voodoo doll that bears an uncanny resemblance to me and I will be stricken with zits the size of bowling balls. The way I see it, I’m simply screwed. The charred Barbie could be the tip of the iceberg.

As if she wasn’t pissed enough last night, the turn of events at school this morning probably isn’t going to help. Amanda Carlisle’s website went live. And everybody’s talking about it. So many people tried to log on that the site crashed.

So even if Peyton ratted me out, at this point why would anyone believe her? Practically the entire male student population of Kennedy High is lying their asses off, hoping to take Amanda to prom. It’s not a matter of truth; it’s a matter of winning. It’s like the whole school turned into Crazytown overnight and Amanda’s the new mayor.

I pass Nick on the way to my locker before lunch, and he jackknifes in front of me, sporting this goofy grin. “Have you checked out Amanda’s website yet?”

I try to act nonchalant. “Not yet. The server was down.” I don’t tell him I’ve spent half the morning trying to get on, the same as everyone else.

“I heard it was back up again. There’re already, like, three hundred and sixty responses logged. She has a counter.” He says it with authority, as if he’s sharing an insider tip.

“Seriously? That’s nuts.” The only thing nuttier is how three hundred and sixty guys are trying to take credit for my epic fuckup so they can go out with Amanda.

“I filled out the questionnaire. It’s totally anonymous. What the hell, right?” Nick rakes his fingers through his hair and checks out a group of freshman girls walking by.

“So what kind of questions does she ask?”

I throw my books in my locker and we head toward the cafeteria. He says, “I don’t remember exactly. Just stuff about that night. I don’t know how she’s gonna weed out the liars.”

“They’re all liars though. Yourself included.” And then to cover my ass, I add, “Unless, of course, you set the fire.”

Nick scoffs and says, “I didn’t set that fire, man. I’m not that stupid.”

True, because only one guy is that stupid.

I can tell it’s Taco Day long before we hit the cafeteria. The smell of greasy ground beef hangs in the air like a radioactive plume, and I suspect it’s no less toxic.

“Aw, man,” Nick says as we grab our trays. “Last time it was Taco Day I spent half of sixth period doubled over in the friggin’ bathroom. I think they’re trying to kill us.”

My stomach feels queasy as the lunch ladies dole out the tacos, give them each a squirt of sour cream from a bottle, and ladle fluorescent-orange Mexican rice and runny beans onto our plates. Since they make the tacos ahead of time, by the time you sit down to eat them, the bottoms are soggy and they fall apart. I imagine prison food is better than this. So are Monica’s attempts at cooking.

On the plus side, the lunch lady gives me an extra vanilla pudding.

We wind our way to our corner table, which is usually empty, but today someone is already sitting there. Before I see her face, I recognize the long, frizzy hair and the fork in her hand, maniacally picking off the tomato bits and olive slices. It’s Peyton, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or nervous as hell. Nick’s face lights up as we draw closer, and he says in a low voice, “Hey, it’s your friend. You told her I said hi, right?”

“Definitely.”

“What did she say?”

“Not much.”

His jaw tenses and he stops for a second. “Whaddya mean, ‘not much’? Did she look interested? Happy? Suicidal? What?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Happy, I guess. She definitely knew who you were.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent.” He grins and bobs his head, then runs his hand over his hair,