My Kind of Crazy Read Free

me?”
    â€œSorry,” I say and click off the light.
    She looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t put a finger on why. And despite the fact that it’s almost two thirty in the morning, she is not wearing pajamas. In fact, she has on a pair of jeans and an old Pink Floyd shirt that is about two sizes too big for her. In the moonlight I can make out the graffitied, white rubber tips of her Converse. Her long, curly brown hair sticks out at all sorts of defiant angles, and she peeks at me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen from underneath her unruly bangs.
    â€œYou’re not going to find what you’re looking for,” she tells me.
    â€œHow do you know what I’m looking for?” I ask. “And why are you walking around the neighborhood at two thirty in the morning?”
    â€œHmmm, I could ask you the same questions,” she says and puts a finger thoughtfully to her chin.
    â€œI lost something. I think I might’ve left it here.” I shoot another glance around, trying to play it cool.
    â€œWhat’d you lose? Maybe I can help you.”
    She takes a step toward me, and I reflexively step away from her. “Why are you here?” I ask again.
    â€œI was heading out for a jog.”
    I look her over suspiciously. “At this hour? You’re wearing jeans.”
    â€œI didn’t know there was a dress code. Look, do you want my help or not?”
    â€œNot. I’m good. Enjoy your run. Thanks though.” I give her a little wave, hoping she will take the hint and be on her way, but instead she crosses her arms and stares at me.
    â€œYou’re Hank Kirby, right?”
    My back stiffens. “How do you know my name?”
    â€œI know who you are. I’ve seen you around.” She smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back.”
    This girl is starting to creep me the hell out.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘come back’?” I ask nervously. What if she’s a serial killer? What if she’s about to chop me into bits, divide me into a bunch of garbage bags, and toss me in the county dump alongside a bunch of rotting produce and stained, saggy mattresses? I can’t die a virgin.
    She reaches behind her and I panic. This is it. She’s going for her knife. I start to back away, but she’s looking at me with this confused expression. When her hand comes around, she’s not holding a knife at all.
    She’s holding a box of sparklers.
    My box of sparklers.
    She’s seen me. She must know what happened, that I’m responsible. I’m totally screwed. Oh God. Who has she told?
    â€œImpressive,” she says as she places the box in my hand. I quickly shove it into my back pocket and pull my sweatshirt over it to make sure it’s completely hidden from view. “Too bad it didn’t burn the place down. That would have been beautiful. Lord knows I’ve thought about it a thousand times myself.”
    Now I’m the one looking at her like she’s whack-a-doodle. “What are you talking about? I didn’t try to burn down her house. I was trying to ask her to prom. Jesus. You didn’t tell anyone that, did you? Does anybody know you found this?”
    â€œProm? That’s disappointing. And also slightly pathetic,” she says with a smirk and scoops that mane of hers up into a ponytail, twisting a hair band around so it looks as if a small poodle is hanging off the back of her head. “And no, I didn’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.”
    I don’t know who this chick is or what her deal is, but I do know that hanging around chitchatting in front of Amanda Carlisle’s house at 2:30 a.m. with an empty box of sparklers in my back pocket is probably not a stellar idea. I dart past her, pick up my bike, and swing my leg over it, angling myself in the direction of home. “Well, thanks. I better get going. See ya.”
    She shakes her head and bites