Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“No! I’m just here because it helps me sleep. Don’t you remember when you were a little kid, sleeping in your parents bed was like, such a treat?”

“Well, my dad died when I was three.”

Shoot. That’s right. Some of us have actual things to complain about.

“Right, sorry, um, I—”

“It’s okay. I slept with my mom sometimes.”

“But you probably don’t anymore.”

“No, I do. Same situations as you, I bet.”

“Huh. What are you up to now?”

“Home on the computer.”

“Where’s Aaron?”

“Home on his computer. What do you want, Craig?”

I take a breath. “Nia, you remember the party that we had when we all figured out we got into Executive Pre-Professional?”

“Yeahhhh . . .”

“When you came to that party, did you know you were going to hook up with Aaron?”

“Craig, we’re not talking about this.”

“Please, c’mon, I have to know if I had a shot.”

“We’re not.”

“Please. Pretend I’m dying.”

“God. You are so melodramatic.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“I wore my green dress to that party, I remember that.”

“I remember too!”

“And Aaron was very nice to me.”

“He sat next to you in Scrabble.”

“And I already knew he liked me. But I had been putting off getting involved with anyone until I knew about high school, because I didn’t want it to distract me. And you and Aaron, you were like, in the running. You both talked to me. But you had that mole on your chin.”

“What?”

“Remember, the big hairy one? It was all pockmarked and gross.”

“ I didn’t have any mole! ”

“Craig, I’m joking.”

“Oh, right, duh.” We both laugh. Hers is full, mine empty.

“You promise not to take this the wrong way, Craig?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“If you had made a move, I would probably have, you know, gone along. But you didn’t.”

Death.

“See, it works out, though. Now we’re friends, and we can talk about stuff like this.”

“Sure, we can talk.”

Death. “Believe me, I get sick of talking with Aaron.”

“Why?”

“He’s always talking about himself and his problems. Like you. You’re both self-centered. Only, you have a low opinion of yourself, so it’s tolerable. He has a really high opinion of himself. It’s a pain.”

“Thanks, Nia, you’re very sweet.”

“You know I try.”

“What if I tried now?” I ask. Nothing to lose.

“To what?”

“You know. What if I just came over and said screw it and stayed outside until you came out and grabbed you and kissed you?”

“Ha! You’d never do it.”

“What if I did?”

“I’d smap you.”

“You’d smap me.”

“Yeah. Remember that? That was so funny.”

I switch phones from ear to ear.

“Well, I just wanted to clear that up.” I smile. And that’s true. I don’t want to leave loose ends. I want to know where I stand. I don’t stand anywhere with Nia, really, not more than friends. I missed an opportunity with her, but that’s okay, I’ve missed many. I have a lot of regrets.

“I’m worried about you, Craig,” she says.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I won’t,” I tell her, and that’s not a lie. What I’m doing makes a lot of sense.

“Call me if you think you’re going to do anything stupid.”

“Bye, Nia,” I say. And I mouth into the phone, I love you, in case some of her cells pick up on the vibrations and it serves me well in the next life. If there is one. If there is a next life, I hope it’s in the past; I don’t think the future will be any more handleable.

“Bye, Craig.”

I click END. I think it’s a little harsh how the END button is red.

I’m pretty stupid for thinking I could get any sleep tonight. Once I turn off the lights and put the cup aside, I get the Not-Sleeping Feeling—it’s kind of like feeling the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rear up in your brain and put some ropes around it and pull it toward the front of your skull. They say, No way, dude! Who did you think you were fooling! You think you were going to wake up at three in the morning and throw yourself off the Brooklyn Bridge without staying up all night? Give us a little credit!

My mind starts the Cycling. I know it’s going to be the worst that it’s ever been. Over and over again, a cycling of tasks, of failures, of problems. I’m young, but I’m already screwing up my life. I’m smart but not enough—just smart enough to have problems. Not smart enough to get good grades. Not smart enough to have a girlfriend. Girls think I’m weird. I don’t like to spend money. Every time I spend it, I feel as if I’m being raped. I don’t like to smoke pot, but then I do smoke it and I get depressed. I haven’t done enough with my life. I don’t play sports. I quit Tae Bo. I’m not involved in any social causes. My one friend is a screwup—a genius blessed with the most beautiful girl in the world, and he doesn’t even know it. There’s so much more for me to be doing. I should be a success and I’m not and other people—younger people—are. Younger people than me are on TV and getting paid and winning scholarships and getting their lives in order. I’m still a nobody. When am I going to not be a nobody?

The thoughts trail one another in my brain, running from the back up to the front and dripping down again under my chin: I’m no one; I’ll never make it in my life; I’m about to get revealed as a fake, I’ve already been revealed as a fake but I don’t know it yet; I know I’m a fake and pretend not to. All the good thoughts—the normal ones, the ones that have occasionally surfaced since last fall—scramble out the front of my brain in terror of what lives in my neck and spine. This is the worst it’ll ever be.

My homework swims in front of my closed eyes—the Intro to Wall Street stock-picking game, the Inca history paper, the ding-dong math test—they appear as if on a gravestone. They’ll all be over soon.

Mom climbs into bed next to me. That means it’s still early. Not even eleven. It’s going to be such a long night. Jordan, the dog who should be dead, climbs into bed with her and I put my hand on him, try to feel his warmth and take comfort from it. He barks at me.

I turn on my stomach. My sweat drenches my pillow. I turn over on my back. It drenches it in the other direction. I turn on my side like a baby. Do babies sweat? How about in the womb, do you sweat in there? This night will never end. Mom stirs.

“Craig, are you still up?”

“Yes.”

“It’s twelve-thirty. Do you want cereal? Some times a bowl of cereal will just knock you out.”

“Sure.”

“Cheerios?”

I think I can handle Cheerios. Mom gets up and gets them for me. The bowl is heaping and I tackle it with the ferocity that I think a last meal deserves—shoving it all in me as if it owes me loot. I’m not going to throw this up.

Mom starts breathing regularly next to me. I start to think practically about how I’m going to handle this. I’m taking my bike, I know that. That’s one thing I’ll miss: riding around Brooklyn on the weekends like a maniac, dodging cars and trucks and vans with pipes sticking out of them, meeting Ronny and then locking the bikes up by the subway station to go to Aaron’s house. Riding a bike is pure and simple—Ronny says he thinks it’s mankind’s greatest invention, and although I thought that was stupid at first, these days I’m not so sure. Mom won’t let me take the bike to school so I’ve never ridden over a bridge—this’ll be the first time. I don’t think I’ll wear my helmet.