My Kind of Crazy - Robin Reul Page 0,64

a hoodie. She’s also wearing just enough makeup to even out her skin and hide her bruising.

Peyton’s smokin’ hot.

I’m guessing my slack-jawed speechlessness confuses her, because Peyton runs her hand self-consciously over her hair and folds her arms over her chest, holding on to her elbows.

“Wow,” I manage to say.

“Better?”

“You look amazing,” I tell her. She visibly relaxes, hints at a smile even.

As I’m hugging Monica good-bye, she asks if Dad ever talks about her. It’s as if the floodgates open. I share how lonely he’s been since she left and how he’s not the type of guy to admit when he’s wrong, but I think he knows he screwed up. I even mention that he misses her cooking, but I leave out the “almost” part.

“You should come by and say hi.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” From the distracted way she twists the fabric at the bottom of her shirt I know she’s considering it.

I seize the opening. “You said it yourself. My dad isn’t the easiest guy to live with. When my mom and brother died, it messed him up pretty good. You’re the first person he’s cared about since then.”

Even though their relationship has its fair share of what-the-fuckery, Monica makes my dad happy, and I believe she genuinely cares about him too. If only I could get her to come back to the house, I bet they could work it out and things might start inching back to normal.

Monica smiles and nods in Peyton’s direction. “Everybody needs somebody who gets their kind of crazy, right? That doesn’t come along every day.”

I glance at Peyton. She’s staring out the window, lost in thought, and I am grateful that Nick Giuliani won Amanda’s damn contest and bailed, because he doesn’t deserve her.

As Peyton climbs onto the handlebars of my bike and we ride back toward town, it occurs to me that I have no idea what normal is anymore. Normalcy is elusive, redefining itself on a daily, if not hourly basis.

But when Peyton glances back at me, the breeze ruffling her short hair, I know there is nowhere I’d rather be than with this girl and all her baggage. I want to freeze-frame this moment—her on my bike with her face to the sun, looking free and happy—because deep in my gut, I know it won’t last.

19

We can't go back to my house yet in case Dad is home, because I don’t want him to start in on me for missing school, so we go to Ziggy’s for burgers and fries. Now that the adrenaline and tension have worn off, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday’s nuked TV dinner, and so much has happened since then.

It’s weird to be at Ziggy’s with Peyton and not Nick. I haven’t talked to him in a couple of days—since Amanda chose him to go to prom. I don’t really know what to say to him, especially since things have ramped up between Peyton and me. We both kind of messed up, and the truth is, I miss hanging out with him. The only thing greasier than this burger is Nick Giuliani’s hair, but right now I don’t care because the burger is the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted.

While I practically shove the whole burger into my mouth in two bites, Peyton deconstructs hers with precision. First she lifts off the slice of lettuce and sets it aside, then peels the thick layer of cheese from the top of the bun and tears it into strips, eating it in small pieces. I stop chewing and smile as she carefully puts the fluffy top of the bun back on her burger and smashes it flat with her palm before tentatively taking a bite. I used to find all her food quirks to be weird as hell, but now they’re actually sort of endearing.

We spend the rest of the afternoon hiding out at Crescent Park and talking. We sit at the edge of the woods and Peyton lights leaf after leaf on fire, then stamps them out with a battered Converse. Even though it scares me a little, I act like this is perfectly normal.

I googled “pyromania” the other day. It literally means “fire madness.” The article was wicked long and confusing, but the gist of it was that it’s an impulse-control disorder. A person sets fires to relieve built-up tension. The behavior can be triggered by extreme stress, neglect, abuse, or because the person is seeking attention. I’m no shrink, but with