My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,48

I’m trying to work as much as I can, not just to make extra money, but also to keep busy so my brain doesn’t explode. Amanda still hasn’t posted her decision. The word around school is that she’s going to in a few days. She pretty much has to, because everyone’s making plans for prom, which is coming up soon.

I wonder if Nick is going to ask Peyton. Would she even go? She doesn’t seem like the type who would give a crap about a dance, even if it is some major “rite of passage.” I wouldn’t know because I haven’t seen them much. They’re probably too busy playing tonsil hockey to miss me. Far be it from me to get in the middle of their love fest.

Bottom line: the less I have to think about my life right now, the better.

Just when I am convinced Dad is going to permanently become one with the couch and never get out of his lucky Red Sox tee and boxer shorts again, a miracle happens. I’m heading out the door to work, and there he is, showered and shaved, with his hair combed and slicked back. He’s even wearing a tie.

“Got a job interview today,” he tells me. “Haven’t had one of those since before you were born.”

He paces back and forth in the living room, and there are faint rings of sweat under his armpits.

“Good luck! I’m sure you’ll knock it out of the park, Dad.” Truthfully, I’m a little nervous about what might happen if he doesn’t.

Maybe this is the week things will be looking up for the Kirbys.

Or maybe only for Dad, because when I arrive at the Shop ’n Save, O’Callaghan hands me a mop and a bucket and sends me off to do a cleanup in aisle five. Apparently, some dickhead decided it would be fun to punch holes in a bunch of V8 cans. The place looks like a crime scene, with sticky pools of red liquid everywhere. O’Callaghan normally doesn’t put me out on the floor like this, but he’s shorthanded. In a way, it’s a promotion, which is sort of exciting and pathetic at the same time.

I’m dunking the mop into the bucket to give the floor a final swab when a voice behind me says, “There you are.”

I turn and it’s Peyton in the Pink Floyd tee she was wearing the night I met her, along with a pair of cutoffs and high-top Converse. She’s holding something behind her back. She’s drawn happy faces on both her kneecaps again. Her hair is in two long, sloppy braids that make her look about twelve, but it’s cute, and the sight of her makes me smile.

“Hey,” I say and shake my bangs out of my eyes. “Where’s Nick?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I thought you guys would be hanging out.”

I put the mop back in the bucket and glance over my shoulder to see if O’Callaghan is watching. He hates it when I talk to customers. He says time is money, and by talking, I’m wasting his. He’s caught up at one of the registers with some old lady who looks to be paying for her groceries in dimes and pennies. I pull out the mop again so he doesn’t call me over to help.

“We’re not conjoined twins,” she says.

“Trouble in paradise already? Or is it his breath? I always tell Nick he should use mints. Chronic halitosis doesn’t have to be an issue nowadays.”

She laughs. “His breath is fine.”

“Yeah? So that’s going well then?” I swish the mop around, trying to play it cool, like I don’t really care about the details, but part of me hopes she’ll say it’s boring as hell without me there.

“I guess. We went to see a movie and grabbed a slice of pizza.”

“I bet that’s not all he wanted to grab,” I say, and she scrunches up her nose.

“Well, he didn’t get very far, but not for lack of trying. Nick is definitely a touchy-feely kind of guy, emphasis on ‘touch with the goal to feel,’” she tells me. I imagine Nick running his hands over her, and the thought makes me feel weird. “Do we have to talk about this? I didn’t come here to talk about Nick.”

“Then let’s talk about something else.”

“I came here to give you something. Ta-da!” She smiles and hands me a medium-size purple gift bag, the handles of which are tied together in a sloppy bow with a piece of red yarn. Instead of