My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,34

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.

11

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

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