My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul

she stay with this guy?”
    â€œA warm body is better than no body, I guess. He moved in two weeks after she met him. At least he had a job then. Three weeks later, he told his boss to go screw himself. He’s been unemployed ever since and sits on the couch all day watching TV. My mom keeps assuring me that he’ll be back on his feet soon, that he just needs ‘time to sort things out.’” She makes air quotes around the last part. “Meanwhile, it’s been a year. People can do some pretty stupid things when they’re into someone. Though I guess I don’t need to tell you that,” she says as she leads me down the hall.
    â€œYeah, thanks,” I say, taking in the oddball assortment of faded family pictures as we walk. An elementary school photo of Peyton with her two front teeth missing; a fading picture of a baby sitting on a woman’s lap at a piano. The woman looks like an older version of Peyton with the same ice-blue eyes. I’m guessing it must be her mother. In many of the photos, holes have been cut where a man’s head would be, though his body has been left in the picture.
    Peyton pushes open a door at the very end of the hall. “Let’s stay in my room. My mother has this lame rule that I’m not allowed to have people over when she’s not home. I can crack my blinds to see when Pete’s coming, and you can crawl out my window.”
    â€œYou have this all figured out. You sneak many guys in here?” I’m anxious about Pete returning, but my curiosity about seeing her room and desire to keep talking to her override it.
    â€œHordes.” She stands in the doorway, waiting for me to enter. I refrain from telling her this is the first time I’ve set foot in a girl’s room because I know if I say the words out loud they’ll sound even more pathetic than they do in my head.
    Peyton’s room is covered floor to ceiling in posters of rock bands from the seventies and eighties. She has old forty-fives dangling on fishing wire from the ceiling. I reach for one and spin it around in my hand. It’s a Paul Simon single, “Kodachrome.” Next to that is Bowie’s “Changes” and Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” On the far wall by her bed are black-and-white photos that have been pushpinned to the wall.
    â€œWhoa. This is really cool,” I say, trying to take in all the details.
    â€œWhat’d you expect? Pink walls and a fluffy bedspread with unicorns and rainbows? Five Seconds of Summer posters?”
    â€œDid you take these?” I ask, pointing to the photos. They’re all of ordinary people doing everyday things: a homeless guy pushing a shopping cart with his belongings down the street; a child playing in a sandbox at the park; an old couple sitting on a bench; a woman talking on her cell phone with her hand to her mouth, on the verge of tears.
    â€œYeah.”
    I walk toward them to look closer. “They’re awesome.”
    â€œThanks. I like capturing random moments. There’s such honesty in them, like you’re stripping away all the bullshit and what’s left is real and raw. It’s a total dream, but it would be really cool to work for, like, National Geographic . Or to have an exhibition in a gallery. Of course, that’ll never happen.”
    â€œYou don’t know that.” I point to the forty-fives. “Where’d you get all these?”
    â€œI’m super into music.” She gazes at them wistfully and bites her lip. “They’re all I have left of my dad.”
    â€œDid he die or something?” I tap the edge of a forty-five with my finger and make it spin in circles. “My mom died when I was twelve. My older brother too. Car accident.” I’ve told the story so many times that I’ve nailed the SparksNotes version.
    â€œWow. I’m sorry.”
    I shrug. “Thanks.”
    She reaches for a pack of