Free Crazy by Han Nolan Page A

the street. Her bike is locked to the speed limit sign.
    Shelby follows me. "Well, yeah, how else was I going to get here? I live way over on Vinton Street, near the school, and my dad's out of town, as usual, and my mom can't drive—duh, and my sister's away at college, and the nurse has to stay with my mom, so ..." Shelby unfastens her helmet, takes it off, and shakes her hair out. It looks the color of cinnamon in the living room lights. It falls onto her shoulders in a mass of frizzy curls.
    SEXY LADY :
What an obvious move. She's trying to come on to you.
    Shelby joins me at the window.
    "You could have killed yourself," I say. "It's really slippery out there."
    "Tell me about it."
    I look at her and she smiles, lighting up her whole face.
    I smile back at her, pleased that she's come out in miserable weather just to keep me company. We stand for a few seconds looking at each other. I notice that her eyes and even her freckles are the same color as her hair. She's the color of cinnamon all over.
    CRAZY GLUE :
(Singing) You're gonna wet the bed.
    I turn back to the window. "I can't believe you rode all the way over here."
    "Right, so don't be sending me out there into the cold. Show me your kitchen; I'm hungry."
    Shelby sets her helmet on a stack of books and scuttles toward the back of the house.
    "So tell me what happened? You just came home and your father was gone?" she asks, still aiming for the kitchen while I struggle to get ahead of her and block the entrance. I know there's nothing to eat. I don't want Shelby going through our cupboards and finding that out.
    I manage to squeeze past her just as she reaches the kitchen. She looks at me standing in front of her. "What are you doing?" She pushes her finger against my forehead again, and I remember the eyeliner. I know I look crazy.
    CRAZY GLUE :
But you're not, right?
    "Jason, you almost knocked me down." Shelby pushes me aside and enters the kitchen.
    I follow her. "Just—just would you wait a second? I haven't done any shopping lately, so all we have is—"
    "Hey, I'm a whiz at making something tasty out of this and that. Just watch me." She goes toward the refrigerator, so I give up and just let the embarrassment happen.
    "Nice kitch, by the way. I really like red walls."
    AUNT BEE :
We have such a nice memory of you and your dad painting it while your mom was in her coma. We all hoped to surprise her when she got better and she came home, but...
    CRAZY GLUE :
Aunt Bee, stow it already.
    AUNT BEE :
I was just going to say, at least someone's appreciating it.
    The kitchen does look fresh, with its red walls and white cabinets and trim. We have a pine table in the center of the room with four chairs that my mom painted in different colors: red, yellow, aqua, and green. The room looks festive and warm.
    Shelby opens the refrigerator to find...
    CRAZY GLUE :
Exactly nothing.
    "I was going to get some milk and bread and eggs—really," I say.
    She nods and closes the refrigerator, then removes her backpack. She digs into her pack and pulls out her cell phone. I see her texting somebody.
    "Who are you talking to? What are you saying there?" I peer over her shoulder.
    FBG WITH A MUSTACHE :
She's broadcasting your empty refrigerator to the whole school.
    CRAZY GLUE :
Busy fingers are already at work all over town text messaging: The Pope-a-Dope has no food!
    "I'm asking Haze to bring some goodies when he comes over later tonight," she says.
    "He's coming, too?"
    LAUGH TRACK :
Gulp!
    "Yeah, the more the merrier in cases like this, right?" She gives me a puzzled expression, as if to say, what's got you all bent out of shape?
    CRAZY GLUE :
Nightmares, urine-soaked sheets, crazy dad—for starters.
    "In cases like what?" I ask.
    CRAZY GLUE :
Careful—your paranoia is showing.
    "You know, in cases where we're going through a tough time," Shelby says. "We're here for you, Jason. That's what 'support group' means, right?" She picks up the burned-out pot in the sink.
    I lunge