It's Kind of a Funny Story

“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.”