It's Kind of a Funny Story

“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.

thirty-two

“So who here likes to draw-awww?” Joanie asks. Joanie is a big smiling lady with lots of makeup and bracelets. She rules the activity lounge, which is exactly like the art room I had when I was in kindergarten. There are patient-contributed paintings of hamburgers and dogs and kites on the walls and then there are posters—OBSTACLES ARE THOSE FRIGHTENING THINGS THAT APPEAR WHEN WE TAKE OUR MIND OFF OUR GOALS; DREAMS ARE ONLY DREAMS UNTIL YOU WAKE UP AND MAKE THEM REAL; THINGS I HAVE TO DO TODAY: 1) BREATHE IN 2) BREATHE OUT. The alphabet, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen; if I saw Aa Bb I’d probably start the Cycling again. There is one interesting poster: PEOPLE WITH MENTAL ILLNESS CONTRIBUTE TO OUR WORLD. It lists Abraham Lincoln, Ernest Hemingway, Winston Churchill, Isaac Newton, Sylvia Plath, and a bunch of other smart people who were kind of nuts.

It’s depressing, though. I mean, this room is what I expect a mental hospital to look like. Adults reduced to children, sitting with finger paints; a jolly supervisor telling them that everything they do is great. But isn’t this what I was asking for when I was filling out my menus?

You wanted preschool, soldier, you got preschool.

I wanted the comfort of preschool, not the ambience.

You gotta take the good with the bad. Like your little chicky here. I bet you didn’t think you’d come in here and find a fine filly like that.

Well, she’s not a filly.

I have a feeling filly means girlfriend. I look at Noelle. We’re trying to decide where to sit.

I only talked with her once.