It's Kind of a Funny Story

“Yeah, sure, exactly; she came in overcome with lust and I took advantage of her.” I flick my hand. “No, what really happened is she came in here lonely and confused, I think, and thinking that she belonged in a place like this . . .”

“That was pretty funny when your roommate caught you. That kinda made the whole thing worthwhile.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“You’re never going to be a good cheater. You’re going to be one of those guys who gets caught on the first try.”

“Is that good?”

“You didn’t even close the door. How’d you know the girl?”

“She was my best friend’s girlfriend since we were like thirteen.”

“How old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

“Me too.”

I look at her anew. There’s something about people who are the same age. It’s like you got piped out in the same shipment. You’ve got to stick together. Because deep down I believe my year was a special year: it produced me.

“So you macked your best friend’s girlfriend?”

“No, they broke up.”

“When?”

“Uh, a few days ago.”

“She moves fast!”

“I think,” I think out loud, “she’s just one of these girls who’s never really not had a boyfriend.”

“Sometimes we call those girls sluts. Do you think she had a boyfriend when she was eight?”

“Ew.”

“Maybe she was letting—”

“Stop! Stop! I don’t want to hear it.”

“It happens.” Noelle looks at me.

I nod, and pause, and let that sink it. It does happen.

“Um . . . how are you?” I ask.

“You think you’re really smart, don’t you?”

I laugh. “No. That’s one of the reasons I came in here, actually. Thinking I was dumb.”

“Why would you think that? You’re in a smart school.”

“I wasn’t doing well there.”

“What were you getting?”

“Ninety-threes.”

Oh.” Noelle nods.

“Yeah.” I fold my arms. “I think you’re really smart. You probably get good grades.”

“Not really.” She puts her chin in her palms like someone in a painting. “You’re not very good at giving compliments.”

“What?”

“I’m smart! C’mon.”

“You’re attractive, too!” I say. “Does that work? You’re attractive! Did I say that already? I said it the other day, right?”

“Attractive? Craig, real estate is attractive. Houses.”

“Sorry, you’re beautiful. What about that?” I can’t believe I’m saying it. We’ll both be out of here in two days; that’s why I’m saying it. No regrets.

“Beautiful’s all right. There are better ones.”

“Okay, okay, cool.” I crack my neck—

“Ewwww.”

“What?”

“Don’t do that. Especially when you’re about to compliment me.”

“Fine, okay. What are better words than beautiful?”

She puts on a Southern accent: “’Go-geous.’”

“Okay, okay, you’re gorgeous.”

“That sounds terrible. Do it my way: go-geous.”

I do it.

“You can’t even do a Southern accent? Oh my gosh, are you even from America?”

“Gimme a break! I’m from here!”

“Brooklyn?

“Yeah.”

“This neighborhood?”

“Yeah.”

“I have friends here.”

“We should meet up sometime.”

“You’re so terrible. Try some more compliments.”

“Okay.” I dig down deep. I got nothing. “Um . . .”

“You don’t know any more?”

“I’m not good at words.”

“See, this is why the math nerds don’t get girls.”

“Who said I was a math nerd? I told you my grades suck.”

“You might be one of those nerds who’s not smart. Those are the worst kind.”

“Listen,” I stop her. “I’m really glad you’re here talking with me, and I’ve met a lot of people in here.”

“Uh-oh,” she says. “Is this the part where it gets all serious?”

“Yes,” I say. And when I say it, the way that I say it, I see that she understands that I’m serious about being serious. I can be serious now. I’ve been through some serious shit and I can be serious like somebody older.

“I like you a lot,” I start. No regrets. “Because you’re funny and smart and because you seem to like me. I know that’s not a good reason, but I can’t help it; if a girl likes me I tend to like her back.”

She doesn’t say anything. I dip my head at her. “Um, do you want to say anything?”

“No. No! This is fine. Keep going.”

“Well, okay, I’ve been thinking about how to put this. I like you for all this stuff but I also kind of like you for the cuts on your face—”

“Oh no, are you a fetishist?”

“What?”

“Are you like a blood fetishist? There was one of them in here before. He wanted to make me like his Queen of the Night or something.”

“No! It’s nothing like that. It’s like this: when people have problems, you know . . . I come in here and I see that people from all over have problems. I mean, the people that I’ve made friends with are pretty much a bunch of lowlifes, old drug addicts, people who can’t hold jobs; but then every few days, someone new comes in who looks like he just got out of a business meeting.”

Noelle nods. She’s seen them too: the scruffy youngish guy who came in today with a pile of books as if it were a reading retreat. The guy who came in yesterday in a suit and told me in the most practical way that he heard voices and they were a real pain in the ass; they didn’t say anything scary but they were always saying the stupidest stuff while he was in trial.