It's Kind of a Funny Story (19 page)

thirty

Nurse Monica brings me into the same office that I was interviewed in the day before, to ask me how I’m adjusting. I look at the white walls and the table where she showed me the pain chart and think that I’ve actually come kind of far since yesterday; I’ve eaten and slept; you can’t deny that. Eating and sleeping will do a body good. I needed the shot, though.

“How are we feeling today?” she asks.

“Fine. Well, I couldn’t sleep last night. I had to take a shot.”

“I saw on your chart. Why do you think you couldn’t sleep?”

“My friends called. They were kind of . . . making fun of my whole situation.”

“And why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they are not your friends.”

“Well, I told them . . . ‘Screw you,’basically. The main one, Aaron. I told him ‘Screw you.’”

“Did that make you feel good?”

I sigh. “Yeah. There was a girl too.”

“Who would that be?”

“Nia. One of the friends.”

“And her?”

“I’m done with her, too.”

“So you made a lot of big decisions on your first day here.”

“Yes.”

“This happens to many people: they come and make big decisions. Sometimes they are good decisions, sometimes bad.”

“Well, I hope good, obviously.”

“Me too. How do you
feel
about the decisions?”

I picture Nia and Aaron dissolving, replaced by Johnny and Bobby.

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Wonderful. Now, you’ve made some new friends here as well, isn’t that true?”

“Sure.”

“I noticed you talking with Humboldt Koper outside the smoking lounge last night.”

“Is that his real name?” I laugh. “Yeah, well, right, you were talking, too. We all were.”

“Yes. Now, you might not want to become so friendly with your fellow patients on the floor.”

“Why not?”

“That can distract people from the healing process.”

“How?”

“This is a hospital. It’s not a place to make friends. Friends are wonderful, but this place is about
you
and making you feel better.”

“But …” I fidget. “I
respect
Humble. I
respect
Bobby. I have more respect for them after a day and a half than I do for most people … in the
world,
really.”

“Just be careful of forming close relationships, Craig. Focus on
yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Only then does healing take place.”

“All right.”

Nurse Monica leans back with her moon face.

“As you know, we have certain activities on the floor.”

“Right.”

“On your first day you are excused from activities, but after that you are expected to attend on a daily basis.”

“Okay.”

“That means you start today. This is an opportunity for you to explore your interests. So I ask you: what are your hobbies?”

Bad question, Monica.

“I don’t have any.”

“Aha. None at all?”

“No.”

I work, Monica, and 1 think about work, and I freak out about work, and I think about how much I think about work, and I freak out about how much I think about how much I think about work, and I think about how freaked out I get about how much I think about how much I think about work. Does that count as a hobby?

“I see.” She takes some notes. “So we can put you in any activity group.”

“I guess.”

“And you’ll go?”

“Can I play cards with Armelio in the groups?”

“No.”

“Will participating in them get me out of here on Thursday?”

“I cannot say for sure. But not participating will be viewed as a step back in the healing process.”

“Okay. Sign me up.”

Nurse Monica marks a sheet in her lap. “Your first activity will be arts and crafts this evening, before dinner, with Joanie in the activity lounge, which is through the doors behind the nurses’station.”

“I thought those doors didn’t open.”

“We can open them, Craig.”

“When does it start?”

“Seven.”

“Oh. I won’t be there exactly at seven.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have to meet with someone at seven.”

“A visitor?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“A friend?”

“Well, yeah. So far. I hope so.”

thirty-one

At 6:55 P.M. I position myself at the end of the hall where I met with my parents yesterday and again today—around three, without Sarah this time; she was at a friend’s house. Dad didn’t crack any jokes and Mom brought the shirt for Bobby, who shook her hand and told her
Your son is great
and she told him she knew that. Dad asked whether we got to watch movies, and I told him that we did, but that since so many people were older, it was really boring movies with Cary Grant and Greta Garbo and stuff, and he asked if I wouldn’t enjoy him bringing over
Blade II
on DVD. And I checked with Howard and it turned out the hospital had a DVD player like everyone else in the world and so Dad and I made a date for Wednesday night, in three days, when he didn’t have to work late. He’d come by with
Blade II
and we’d all watch it.

The place I’m sitting in is the part of the H that mirrors the part next to the smoking lounge; Noelle said she didn’t smoke, so I think she wants to meet here. I didn’t tell my parents about her. I did tell them that I talked to my friends, that it didn’t go well, but that they were probably part of the problem anyway and it was good to stay away from them for a while. Mom said she knew my friends smoked pot and they were probably a bad influence anyway. Dad said
Now you yourself haven’t smoked pot, right, Craig?
and I told him no, no I hadn’t, not before the SATs like he told me. And we all laughed.

They asked how I was eating and I told them I was eating fine, which was true.

They asked how I was sleeping and I told them I was sleeping fine, which I hoped would be true tonight.

Now I sit with my legs crossed, only I think that looks weird, so I uncross them, only now I’m cold and nervous, so I cross them again. Right at 7:00 P.M. Noelle, in the same clothes I saw her in yesterday—dark Capri pants and a white wife-beater— comes down the hall.

She sits in the chair next to me and moves the hair away from her face with small fingers with no nail polish on them.

“You came,” she says.

“Well, yeah, you passed me a note. That’s like the first time a girl passed me a
note.”
I smile. I try to sit up and look good in my chair.

“We’re going to make this quick,” she says. “And it’s going to be a game.”

“Five minutes, right?”

“Right. Here’s the game: it’s just questions. I ask you a question, and you ask me a question.”

“Okay. Do you have to answer?”

“If you want, you can answer. But no matter what, you have to end with another question.”

“So we’re trading questions. Like twenty questions. Why do we have to talk like this?”

“It’s the best way to get to know a person. And in five minutes we can do way more than twenty questions. If we don’t dilly-dally. I’m starting. Ready?”

I concentrate. “Yeah.”

“No, answer with a question. Don’t tell me you’re stupid. Are you stupid?”

“No!” I shake my head. “Uh … are
you
ready?”

“There you go. We’re on. First question: Do you think I’m gross-looking?”

Gosh, she cuts right to the chase. I look her over. I’m a little ashamed of how I do it, because I look at her from the bottom up, like I would if she were on the Internet. I look at her feet ending in simple black sneakers and her small ankles and her pale lower legs and the indentation in the Capri pants where the pants start, under her knee, and up her body to her small waist and then the sharp bulge of her breasts and then her neck, coming through the uneven, distended neckline of her wife-beater, and her small chin and lips. The cuts on her face line her cheeks and forehead: little parallel slashes, three together in each place, with clumps of white skin on the ends where they’re healing. They don’t look like very deep cuts, and they’re thin—I have a feeling that when they heal up she’ll look just fine. And she’s beautiful. No question. Her eyes are green and knowing.

“No, you look awesome,” I say.

“What’s your question?”

“Uh, why did you pass me the note?”

“I thought you were interesting. Why did you do what it said?”

“I …” I can’t think up a fake answer quickly enough. “I’m a straight guy, you know. So if a girl talks to me or whatever, I’ll do exactly what she says.” Wait, now:
make it a compliment.
“Especially if it’s a
pretty
girl.” I smile.

“You’re not very good at this game. What’s your
question?”

“Oh. Right. Ah . . . are you straight?”

She sighs.
“Yes.
Don’t get too excited. You don’t have a boner, do you?”

“No!
“ I cross my legs. “No. So . . . how’d you get here?”

“Oh, that’s a big one. Crossing the line. What do you think?”

“Someone came in on you while you were cutting your face?”

“Ding ding ding!
Afterward, actually. I was bleeding all over the sink. How’d you get here?”

“I checked myself in.
When
did you get here?”

“Why
did you check yourself in? Twenty-one days ago. Whoops. Reverse those. Pretend I ended with the question.” She rubs her arms.

“I wasn’t doing well. I called, you know, the Suicide Hotline, and they told me to come here. Why have you been here so long?”

“They’re not sure I won’t hurt myself again. What medication are you on?”

“Zoloft. What about you?”

“Paxil. Where do you live?”

“Around here. Where do you live?”

“Manhattan. What do your parents do?”

“My mom designs greeting cards and my dad works in health insurance. What about yours?”

“My mom’s a lawyer and my dad’s dead. Do you want to know how he died?”

“I’m sorry. How?
Do
I want to know?”

“That’s two questions. Yes, you do. He died fishing. He fell off a boat. Isn’t that the stupidest thing you ever heard?”

“No. Not by a
long shot”
I say. “You want to know what I think is the stupidest way to die?”

“What?”

“Auto-erotic asphyxiation. You know what that is?”

“When people put ropes around themselves while they’re jerking off, right?”

“Right. I read about it in the
DSM
. Have you ever read the
DSM
?”

“The big book of psych disorders?”

“Yeah!”

“Of course. Have you ever heard of Ondine’s Curse?”

“Oh my God! I thought I was the only one who knew about that. Where you forget how to breathe. Uh . . . where did you first see the
DSM
?”

“On my shrink’s bookshelf. You?”

“Same. You call them ‘shrinks’too?”

“That’s what they are, right?”

“What does that even mean?”

“I think ‘headshrinks,’because they shrink people’s heads. You think I have all the answers?”

I stop. I need a break. I put my hands on my knees and rock forward. This game is hard. “Is your name really Noelle?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“After the whole thing at lunch yesterday, I don’t know what to believe. Do you know what my name is?”

“Of course. Craig Gilner. You think I’m an idiot?”

“How’d you know my last name?”

“I read your bracelet. You want to read mine?”

“’Noelle Hinton.’Hey …” I think, “So here’s one: Did you know what was going to
happen
at lunch yesterday?”

“With ‘Jennifer’? Of course. He does that to everybody. What I’m curious about is this: why’d you come over?”

“I thought she—uh, he—was, y’know, a
girl.
And I got asked—”

“Why did you come
here?’’

“Wait, I forgot to ask you a question.”

“That’s okay. You have one point. Why’d you come here?”

“Um, I thought I said: because you’re a girl. And you asked me. And you seem cool?”
You already said she’s beautiful; now show you’re not shallow and say she’s cool.

“Watching you try and answer these questions right is hilarious. You’re a silly boy. You know you’re silly, right?”

Noelle leans back and stretches. Her hair falls away from her face and her cuts scream up into the light. The lines of her wife-beater echo her hair.

“You know those cuts on your face really aren’t that bad?”

“How long have I been here, Craig?”

“You told me twenty-one days. Is that true?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine what they looked like when I came in?”

“Are they going to scar?”

“I have to have surgery to clear them up. You think I should?”

“No. Why hide what you’ve been through?”

“I don’t know if that’s really a question. It’s too obvious. Wouldn’t I be happier without scars?”

“I don’t know. It’s tough to tell what would make you happy. I thought I’d be happier in a really tough high school, and I ended up here. Wait, where do you go to school?”

“Delfin.” That’s a private school in Manhattan; I think it’s the last one where they have to wear uniforms. “You?”

“Executive Pre-Professional. Do you have to wear uniforms?”

“Are you like a school-uniform pervert?”

“No. Well. . .
no.”

“Two points. You didn’t ask a question. Do you like this game?”

“I like talking to you. It’s like a math problem. Do you like talking to me?”

“It’s all right. Do you like math?”

“I thought I was good at it, but it turns out I’m a year behind everybody else. You?”

“I’m bad in school. I spend most of my time in ballet. But I’m not tall enough for that. Have you ever been not tall enough for anything?”

“Maybe some rides, when I was a little kid. Why?”

“I’m still too short for those rides. It sucks to be short. Remember that.” She stops.

“One point for you.”

“That’s three for you. Game over.”

“Okay, cool.” I sit back in my seat.
“Phew.
What now?”

“That’s
a good question. I have no idea. I’ve got to go to arts and crafts.”

“Me too.”

“You want to go together?”

“Sure.” I stop. That’s a come-on, isn’t it? “Can we . . . uh . . . can I like kiss you or whatever?”

Noelle leans back and laughs and laughs. “No you can’t
kiss
me! What, you think we play the game once and you get to
kiss
me?”

“Well, I thought we had a thing going.”

“Craig.” She leans in and looks me right in the eyes. “No.” She smiles. The cuts crinkle.

“Do you know when you’re leaving?” I ask.

“Thursday.”

My heart jumps. “Me too.” I start to lean forward—

“No.
No,
Craig. Arts and crafts.”

“Okay.” I get up. I hold out my hand for Noelle. She ignores it.

“Race you!” she says, and sprints down the hall into the activity lounge, with me following, trying to keep up—how can I not, when my legs are so much longer? Does ballet teach you to run? Howard yells at us as we pass the nurses’station—"Kids! Kids! No running on the floor!"—but I really don’t care.