Free My Kind of Crazy by Robin Reul Page A

he’d wonder where his money went and assume I’d stolen it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
    But whenever I read Captain America No More! —tonight being no exception—it makes me remember what a great night that was, and how much I want Dad and me to be like that more of the time. So far, that hasn’t happened.
    I reach the last page of the comic and am carefully putting it back into its protective plastic sleeve when I hear the sharp crack of something hitting my window. It sounds like the little pebbles from the driveway. I look out, but I don’t see anything. As I lie down and reposition the pillow behind my head, I hear it again.
    Clack! Plink!
    This time I put down my comic, open my window, and stick my head outside. The moon slices through the trees, casting long shadows in the side yard. A stray cat sprints across the grass to the shelter of some nearby bushes, but that’s about it.
    It’s close to midnight, but I decide to go against the warning of every horror movie I’ve ever seen and head downstairs to check things out. As usual, Dad is passed out in front of the TV, a half-empty bottle of beer nestled in the crook of his arm. His head is slumped over his chest, causing him to snore like a jackhammer with each breath.
    I carefully remove the bottle and place it on the coffee table next to two other empties and the remains of what appear to have been bean dip and a bag of Fritos. Late-night snack of champions. I think Dad drinks more when Monica’s not around to slow him down.
    I flip on the porch light. Then as quietly as I can, I open the front door, hoping the hinges won’t squeak too loudly. The screen makes a yawning creak as it resists my push, but Dad’s out cold and doesn’t seem to hear it over whatever crappy rerun is blaring on the TV. I tiptoe outside and down the steps. It’s long since stopped raining and the sky is clear, but the ground is still wet and the air is heavy with a damp chill.
    I survey the perimeter of the property for potential serial killers, but everything is still. It’s only when I walk around to the side yard below my window that I step on something that makes me yowl.
    I squint and kneel for a closer look. Yep, it’s as I suspected: the charred remains of a male Barbie. I can’t see the original hair color because the plastic’s blackened and melted into a twisted lump, though the doll’s feet have miraculously retained their shape. I can’t read the writing on its chest because it has been obliterated by flame, but if I had to bet on it, I’m pretty sure I’d know what it would say. The message couldn’t be clearer.
    â€œPeyton?” I half yell, half whisper, hoping she’ll pop out from behind a bush like she usually does.
    There’s no way she could have hightailed it out of here that quickly, and the urgency to find her overshadows the fact that I am not wearing any shoes. I hop down the gravel driveway, turning in circles, looking for any sign of her.
    â€œ Peyton? ”
    No response. The only sounds are the leaves rustling when the breeze kicks through the trees and a dog barking somewhere up the road. I call her name again and am about to give up and head back inside when I catch movement by my neighbor’s trash cans. Tomorrow’s garbage pickup, which means it’s as likely to be a raccoon as it is Peyton, but I decide to take my chances. It’s clear she’s angry and isn’t coming out if she’s hiding, so I say my piece.
    â€œPeyton, I get that you’re pissed at me. What I did was shitty. I don’t know why I said what I said. Seeing Amanda threw me off. She was talking to me, which rarely happens, and I got carried away. I wasn’t thinking.”
    The breeze picks up again and I bear-hug myself, because even though the calendar says it’s early May, someone forgot to tell the weather this week. My toes are starting