It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Huh.”

“Anything you can hold on to.”

I think about it. If an Anchor is a constant, there are lots of those. There’s the constant lite FM, which occasionally borders on dangerously funky, coming out of the nurses’ station whether Smitty or Howard is behind it. There’s the constant schedule: the food coming and going, the meds being dished out, the announcements of Armelio. There’s the constant of Armelio himself, always ready to play cards. And Jimmy is always around going, “It’ll come to ya!”

“The people are Anchors,” I say.

“People don’t make good Anchors, though, Craig. They change. The people here are going to change. The patients are going to leave. You can’t rely on them.”

“When will they leave?”

“I can’t know that.”

“What about the staff?”

“They change too, just on a different time scale. People always come and go.”

“Noelle. She’s beautiful and smart and I really like her. She could be an Anchor.”

“You don’t want any of your Anchors being members of the opposite sex you’re attracted to,” Dr. Minerva says. “Relationships change even more than people. It’s like two people changing. It’s exponentially more volatile. Especially two teenagers.”

“But Romeo and Juliet were teenagers,” I point out.

“And what happened to Romeo and Juliet?”

“Oh,” I mumble. “Right.”

“And have we gone beyond that, Craig? Have we gone beyond thinking those thoughts?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“Because if you have those thoughts again you know you have to come back here.”

“I know. I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just . . . It would suck to kill myself. I’d hurt a lot of people and . . . it would suck.”

“That’s right,” Dr. Minerva leans across the table. “It would suck. And not just for other people. For you.”

“It’s not noble or anything,” I say. “Like this guy Muqtada who’s my roommate, he’s practically dead. He doesn’t do anything. He just lies in bed all day.”

“Right.”

“And I don’t want to ever be like him. I don’t want to live that way. And if I were dead, I’d basically be living that way.”

“Excellent, Craig.”

She stops. Like I say, the good shrinks know when to throw in a dramatic pause.

I tap my feet. The fluorescent lights hum.

“I want to pick back up on your Anchors,” Dr. Minerva says. “Can you think of anything else you’ve found in here that could occupy your time when you leave?”

I think. I know there’s something. It’s at the tip of my brain-tongue. But it won’t come.

“No.”

“Okay, not a problem. You’ve made a lot of progress today. There’s only one more thing we have to do: call your principal.”

“No!” I tell her, but she’s already at it, pulling out her cell phone, which is apparently allowed up here. “Yes, I’d like the number for Executive Pre-Professional High School in Manhattan.”

“You can’t you can’t you can’t,” I say, leaning across the table, grabbing at the phone. Luckily the blinds are drawn so no one can see in here; if they did they’d probably have me sedated. She gets up and walks to the door, points outside. Do I want security in here? I sit back down.

“Yes,” she says. “I need to speak with the principal. I’m returning a call of his to one of your students regarding a health and legal matter. I’m the mother.”

A pause.

“Great.” She cups the phone. “I’m being connected.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” I say.

“I can’t believe you’d be worried about me doing this . . . yes, hello? Is this Mr. . . .” she looks at me.

“Janowitz,” I mouth.

“Janowitz?”

I hear an affirmative mumph through the line.

“I’m Dr. Minerva, calling for your student Craig Gilner. You called him before at Argenon Hospital psychiatric facility in Brooklyn. I’m Craig’s licensed therapist and I’m right here with him; would you like to speak with him?”

She nods. “Here you go, Craig.”

I take the cell phone—it’s smaller than mine, more buzzy. “Um, hello?”

“Craig, why’d you hang up on me?” His booming voice is light and gentle, almost laughing.

“Ah . . . I thought I was in trouble. I thought I was being expelled. You called me, you know, in the hospital.”

“Craig, I called you because I got a message from one of our teachers. I just wanted to tell you that you have the school’s full support in everything you’re going through and that we’re more than willing to have your semester repeated, or given over the summer, or for work to be provided for you where you are now, if you should miss enough days to warrant that.”

“Oh.”

“We don’t pass judgment on our students for being in the hospital, my goodness, Craig.”

“No? But it’s, like, a psychiatric—”

“I know what kind of hospital it is. You think we don’t have other kids in these situations? It’s a very common problem among young people.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing better.”

“Do you know when you’ll be leaving?”

I don’t want to tell him Thursday and then have it be Friday. Or next Thursday. Or next year.

“Soon,” I say.

“Okay. You just hang in there, and whenever you come back, we’ll be waiting for you at Executive Pre-Professional.”