It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Craig, I am sorry I only have very important beliefs about sex.”

“No, I understand. You did a good thing.”

“You are not in trouble, yes?”

“No, I’m fine. You handled it perfectly, man.” I put out my hand to get a slap from him, but he misinterprets that as a handshake attempt, so I take the initiative and turn it into a hug, a big smelly one. His glasses smack against me.

“I am out trying to get Egyptian music in hospital,” he says. “You give me idea. But they have none. Now I rest.” And he climbs back in bed, rearranges his sheet, curls into a fetal position, and stares through me.

I glance at the door. Right there, with her bright green eyes wide open, is Noelle.

I rush out to talk to her, but she flies down to her room and closes her door. I run up to it and knock, but there’s no answer, and when Smitty passes me, shooting a look, I have to stop knocking.

I check the clock in the hall and sigh. It’s five. Two hours until our second date.

forty-one

“I only have a couple of questions for you,” Noelle says, walking up fast at seven o’clock as I sit in the chair that I’ve come to call my conference chair, since I meet with so many people in it. I wonder what else has happened in this chair—people have probably peed on it, licked it, drummed their heads against it, and writhed around in it spouting gibberish. That gives me comfort. It feels like a chair with some history.

I didn’t think Noelle was going to show up, so I almost didn’t come—but then I decided I didn’t want any regrets. I’m done with those; regrets are an excuse for people who have failed. When I get out in the world, from now on, if I start to regret something, I’m going to remind myself that whatever I could have done, it won’t change the fact that I was in a psychiatric hospital. This, right here, is the biggest regret I could ever have. And it’s not so bad.

Noelle seems to be looking at me for comment. But I’m amazed at how she looks. New clothes: a pair of tight blue jeans cut down dangerously low and a sliver of white underwear sticking out above them. The underwear looks like it has pink stars on it—do girls’ underwear really have pink stars?—and I almost stare, before my eyes are drawn by the soft curve of her stomach to her T-shirt, which is wrapped against her with some kind of mystical female force, reading I HATE BOYS.

How come girls are coming to me dressed all hot all of a sudden?

Above the shirt is her face, bordered by blond hair pulled back, and highlighted by her cuts.

“Uh . . . Why’d you wear that T-shirt?” I ask. “Is that a message to me?”

“No. I hate boys, not you. And this is one reason why: they’re so arrogant. Why is that?” She stands with her hands on her hips.

“Well . . .” I think. “Do you want like, a real, honest answer?” My brain is working better than it did before. It has bagels and soup and sugar and chicken in it. It’s firing almost like it used to.

“No, Craig, I want a big, dumb, fake answer.” Noelle rolls her eyes. I think her breasts roll in synch with them. Girls’ breasts are so amazing.

“Wait, you didn’t ask a question!” I smirk. “One point for you.”

“We’re not playing the game, Craig. We were going to, but I’m too mad.”

“Okay, well, darn . . .” I start. “What were we talking about?”

“Why guys are so arrogant.”

“Right. Well, you know, we’re born into the world seeing that we’re just a little bit . . . We tend to have things a little bit easier than girls. And we tend to assume therefore that the world was built for us, and that we’re, you know, the culmination of everything that came before us. And then we get told that having a little bit of this attitude is called balls, and that balls are good, and we kind of take it from there.”

“Wow, you are honest,” she says, sitting down. “An honest asshole.” Yes! She sat down! “Who the hell was that girl?”

“A girl I know.”

“She’s pretty.” (It’s amazing how girls can say this and make it the most withering insult.) “Is she your girlfriend?”

“No. I don’t have a girlfriend. Never had a girlfriend.”

“So she was just a girl you were hooking up with in your room?”

“You saw, huh.”

“I saw everything: from out here to your roommate’s bed.”

“What, you were following me?”

“I’m not allowed?”

“Well, no—”

“You don’t like it?” She leans in. “You don’t like some poor little girl”—she throws on a Little Bo-Peep voice, fluffs her hair—“following big, manly Craig around the ward?”

“It’s not a ward, it’s a psych hospital.” But yes, yes I do like you following me around; yes, that’s awesome. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you. . . .” I think of the flashes of time with Nia, if I ever glanced down the hall or checked behind me.

“You were in a state of excitement; that’s why.”

“Well. You want to know who she was?”

“No. I lost interest.”

“You did?”

“No! Tell me!”

“Okay, okay, she was this girl I’ve known for a long time, and she came in here—”

“Just overcome with lust for you?”