It's Kind of a Funny Story

“This?” Armelio looks up. “This ain’t nothing like Greek music, buddy.”

“You want to sit, Muqtada?” I ask him.

He looks around, then up at the music.

“The best seat’ll be over here, right by the speaker.”

“Yes,” he says, and sits down.

“I don’t like this,” Armelio looks up.

“What kind of music do you like, Armelio?” I ask.

“Techno.”

“Just . . . techno?”

“Yeah. Utz-utz-utz-utz. Like that.”

“Heh heh.” Muqtada laughs. “The Greek man is funny.”

“Of course I’m funny, buddy! I’m always funny! You just don’t leave your room. You want to play cards?”

Muqtada starts to leave; I stand over him and hold my hands out. “Wait one second, man. I know you can’t play cards for money, but Armelio doesn’t play for money.”

“This I know; I do not want to play.”

“Are you sure? He’s got no one else to play with.”

“That’s right. My friends are all watching this stupid movie. You want to play spades? I’ll crush you in spades.”

“Muqtada,” I say. He’s still looking up at me, hands on his armrests, ready to spring. “Remember when you saved me from that girl?”

“Yes.”

“I’m trying to do the same thing for you now, to get you out of your room and save you. Please. Play with Armelio.”

He looks at me, then at the speakers.

“This I do for you, Craig. But only for you. And only because of music.”

“Great.” I pat his back. “Go easy on him, Armelio.”

“You know that’s not going to happen, buddy!”

I smile and walk down the hall, waving at them. As soon as I get to the corner, I run—I don’t have much time—but skid to a leisurely pace by Smitty and then, moving as slowly and calmly as I can, enter my room. Noelle picked up on what was happening: she’s already there, sitting on my bed, looking out the window.

“You’re very crafty,” she whispers. I shrug. “Come and sit. It’s a pretty view through your blinds.”

forty-nine

I sit down next to Noelle and it starts off right away, like it was destined to—though I don’t believe in destiny; I just believe in biology, and hotness, and wanting girls. There’s been so much hesitation in so many parts of my life that it’s shocking to not have any here, to just lean in and have this girl’s mouth open to mine, to be easing her down and touching her face and feeling the cuts there but understanding, not getting freaked out, just moving my hands down to her neck, which is clean and smooth, and her hitting my pillow and me next to her with my legs off the bed, still on the floor like I was sitting in class, like my lower half had no part in this. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

“You’re beautiful,” I stop and tell her.

“Shh, they’ll hear.”

She has her hand in my hair and that reminds me that my hands should be doing something—right now they’re just sort of touching her neck while I try and figure out what it is about her that’s so much more sexy than Nia. It’s her tongue, I think—it’s a whole different creature than Nia’s. Nia’s was small and flighty; Noelle’s is overwhelming—she slides it in and it almost fills me up. It’s like some deep dark part of her that I’ve gotten out, that no one else has access to. She presses it through my teeth and I keep my eyes open, although there’s nothing in the room but scattered moonlight to see her by. We press against each other as if we both had prizes at the back of our mouths and we could only get them out with the tips of our tongues.

It frickin’ rocks.

I put my hands on her white top and she doesn’t stop me, not at all, and there they are, right through the soft fabric—one on each side, that is so cool—my palms envelop them and then rise from them and then envelop again. I’m not really sure what to do with them. They’re bigger than Nia’s; they fill up my hands. Should I squeeze them? I try that. I look up. She’s nodding. I squeeze them again, the whole things, both at once, and move my mouth down her chin to her neck, kissing the underside of it where an Adam’s apple would be, only this is a real girl.

She moves her hips against me. Not her hips, her crotch—I mean, that is a crotch, right? Girls have crotches? Or do they have like a prettier name for them? Wow, how far is this going to go? She presses it—whatever it is—against my thigh. My feet have levitated somehow and now I’m horizontal on the bed next to her, with my hands squeezing her and my shoes—my Rockport shoes—clanking against each other.

She says nothing. Everything is touching.

“Do you want me to?” I ask.

She nods. Or maybe shakes her head. I don’t know. But I take two fingers of my right hand and put them through the soft seam in her top. Underneath is a bra, I’m pretty sure—something made of mesh that wraps around her. I twiddle my finger against it, not sure if she can feel it. Can you feel things through a bra?

She makes noises like someone about to sneeze. When I squeeze her breasts, she makes more; when I twiddle the side of the bra, she doesn’t make any. So I put my fingers in all the way through her shirt and feel up the dome of the bra—the highest point on her. An inch and a half above sea level.