My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul Page A

matches on her nightstand and lights one, letting it burn down dangerously close to her fingers before blowing it out. She tosses it in a cup and lights another. She does it over and over, as if it’s some sort of nervous habit or meditation. “Mine might as well be dead. He left a long time ago. I think he lives in California. Or maybe it’s Arizona. I can’t remember which. It’s somewhere with a lot of sun.”
    â€œYou don’t talk to him?”
    â€œNo. But it’s okay,” she says nonchalantly and hugs her knees to her chest, making room for me on the bed, but I opt to stand.
    â€œHow is that okay?”
    â€œBecause he wanted a different life. I get it. I wouldn’t mind that myself most days. I understand why he left. They were kids. He was a musician and a free spirit. My mom was sixteen when she dropped out of high school to become the lead singer in his band. If her parents weren’t ready to disown her for that, then she got pregnant with me. He stuck around for the first couple of years, but then he took off. My mom got me and his record collection. He got freedom and a fresh start.”
    â€œSo is your mom still a singer?”
    Peyton shakes her head. “Nah. That dream pretty much went out the door with him, which is sad because she has an amazing voice. Now she works three crappy jobs just to keep things going. She’s, like, never here.”
    I know what that feels like. The difference is that although her situation may be less than ideal and she may not see her mother a lot, at least hers still exists. “That’s too bad.”
    â€œI guess.” She lights another match and stares at the flame, then adds it to the growing collection. “When I was little, my mom sang to me all the time. But the older I got, the more she resented me. I was the one standing in the way of her having any sort of a life. All these responsibilities, you know? She gets into bad relationships. I feel sorry for her. I know it’s hard for her, but I don’t know how to help.”
    I’m surprised she’s telling me all this stuff so casually, as if we’re good friends. The weird part is, I’m interested. “I take it you guys aren’t close.”
    â€œTruthfully, the only time we get along is when she’s between boyfriends, which is rare. Even then, she treats me more like a sister than a daughter. And each time she gets dumped or fired, she wants us to move. It’s like she can’t stand being in one place too long. Reminds her of how she couldn’t make it work. She tells me that the minute you start to get attached is the perfect time to let go.”
    â€œInteresting philosophy.”
    â€œI don’t know. Seems like it would be smarter to put energy into trying not to mess things up in the first place. Oh well. Life isn’t perfect, right?” She peeks between the slats of the blinds.
    I change the topic, hoping to lighten the mood a little. I gesture to her posters. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the musical taste of someone in their midforties?”
    â€œI take that as a compliment. These are real bands. They made real music that endured. There isn’t much today that you’ll hear twenty or thirty years from now except as a pop culture joke.”
    â€œSo I guess it’s safe to say you’re not a Directioner?” I turn to smile at her as she twists the bottom of her Zeppelin tee, causing it to ride up and expose a purplish bruise on her side. She self-consciously adjusts it, avoiding my stare.
    â€œYou sure have a lot of band shirts.”
    She pulls her shoulders back, arching her back defensively. “You sure have a lot of superhero tees.”
    I laugh. “Touché.”
    â€œSo what’s the deal?”
    â€œWith the shirts?” I dig my hands in my pockets. “I guess superheroes are my thing. I collect old comics and I draw one too. I call it