It's Kind of a Funny Story

It’s been a while since a bunch of girls asked me over to their table. First time, really.

“Me?” I point at myself.

“No, the other new guy,” Blue Streak says.

I’m not sure what to do with my tray. I get up, then turn back, then turn toward the girls, then swivel—

“On the cart,” Blue Streak says. She turns to the big girl. “God, he’s so cute.”

Did she just say that? I put my tray on the cart and sit at the vacant seat with the girls.

“What’s your name?” Blue Streak asks.

“Ah, Craig.”

“So what’s it like to be the hottest guy in here, Craig?”

My body hitches and jerks up as if on a pulley system. She’s got it all wrong—she’s the hot one. It’s tough to tell whether her skin or teeth are the more perfect white. Her eyes are dark and her lips pouty and open; the blue streak accents the contrast of hair and face, and she smiles at me—that’s definitely smiling. I don’t know how I didn’t notice her hotness before, when I looked into the dining room.

“Jennifer,” the big girl says. She leans toward me. “I’m Becca. Don’t take advantage of Jennifer; she’s a sex addict.”

Jennifer smacks her lips: “Shut up!” She turns back. “I’m only here for one more day.” She slithers forward. “You want to spend it with me?”

I think about what Humble would say. He would say Yeah, absolutely, because he’s the alpha male. I try to develop and drop my words, keeping my voice deep and level: “Yeah, absolutely.”

“Good,” she says, and there’s a heat on my knee and a hand moving up my leg. She leans in. “I think you’re really hottt.” The hand encloses my thigh. “I have my own private room because I’m so messed up they won’t let me sleep with anybody else.”

“You have your own private room because you’re a slut!” Becca corrects, and Jennifer kicks her.

“Ow!”

Without warning, the blond girl with the cuts on her face gets up and speed-walks out of the room. I look through the window for her: nothing.

“Forget her,” Jennifer says. “She’s no good for you.” Then, sparking an out-of-body experience that truly makes me question whether I’m dreaming this, or have died and gone to some kind of awesome hell, she flicks her tongue around her lips in a perfect O.

Something flashes out in the hall. The blond girl streaks to the window. I can’t be sure it’s her. I mean, it is a her—it has breasts. And I think I recognize her small body and wife-beater. But I can’t see her face because she presses up a piece of paper against the glass:

BEWARE OF PENIS

The sign slides down as if on an elevator.

“What are you looking at?” Jennifer asks, turning back. I eye her body as she swivels; from the waist up she doesn’t look like she has a penis. I keep my peripheral vision on the hall in case the messenger returns.

“Ha!” Becca is like. “Noelle did it to you again.”

“She what?” Jennifer stands. She has a round and totally female shape. Her legs are encased with jeans that have frills around her butt.

“I can’t believe her . . . hey.” She turns back. “You looking at my pants?”

“Yeah,” I gulp. I’ve lost all alpha maleness. Could I be like a theta male? They have to get lucky sometime. Being on top of the sexual food chain is a lot of pressure.

“I made them myself,” she says. “I’m a fashion designer.”

“Wow, really? That’s like a real job.” My mind spins; it’s somehow fallen off the sex track into grade-school logic. “I thought you were my age; how’d you learn how to design clothes—”

“All right,” Smitty strides in. “Playtime’s over. C’mon, Charles.”

“What the hell!” Jennifer jumps a few inches in the air and stomps her feet. Then, horror of horrors, her voice drops two octaves. “You guys won’t let me have any fun!”

It’s a bad voice, even for a guy, like a frog croaking. Becca laughs and laughs, doubling over on herself, and all I can do is catch my breath and stare goggle-eyed at Jennifer for signs. It can’t be. She’s flat, that’s all. She has big hands; lots of girls have big hands. She doesn’t have an Adam’s apple—oh, wait, she’s wearing a turtleneck.

“C’mon, don’t bother Craig,” Smitty says.

“But he’s so cute!”

“He’s not cute, he’s a hospital patient like you. You’re supposed to get out tomorrow; don’t jeopardize it. Have you taken your medicine yet?”

“Hormone treatments.” Jennifer/Charles winks at me.

“C’mon, enough.”

Becca laughs, sighs. “Oh, she got you good. I’m getting my meds.”

I look down at the table as they leave. I need some meds. I glance up and see patients lined up at the desk next to the phone, the nurses’ station, eagerly passing the time in their own little ways—President Armelio bopping from foot to foot, Jimmy holding the hand that refuses to work—before getting pills in little plastic cups. Jennifer/Charles and Becca eventually appear at the end of the line, chatting and gesticulating, and Jennifer/Charles blows me a kiss. I don’t think I need to be in line behind them right now. Besides, all I take is Zoloft in the morning; if they wanted me on something midday, they would have told me.