Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

In a rare moment when Johnny and Bobby leave the phone open, I walk up to it with the phone card that Mom brought me twenty minutes after she left with Dad and Sarah. I pick up and hear the dial tone, dial the 800 number for the phone card . . . and then stop. I can’t do it. I just don’t want to deal with it.

People on the outside world don’t know what’s happened to me—I’m in a sort of stasis right now. Things are under control. But the dam will break. Even if I’m here just through Monday, the rumors will start flying, and the homework will pile up.

Where’s Craig?

He’s sick.

He’s not sick, he got alcohol poisoning because he can’t handle real liquor.

I heard he took someone’s pills and freaked out.

I heard he realized he’s gay and he’s coming to grips with it.

I heard his parents are sending him to a different school.

He couldn’t handle it here, anyway. He was always such a loser.

He’s freaking out in front of his computer. He can’t move or anything. He’s catatonic.

He woke up and thinks he’s a horse.

Well, whatever, what’s question three?

There were two messages on my phone when I came in, and now there are probably more, each one necessitating a call back, and the call back possibly necessitating another call back—Tentacles—leading me right back to where I was last night. I can’t go there, so I wait. I can wait five minutes. But then Bobby’s on the line. And then I wait another five minutes. And the messages are piling up. And this isn’t even counting e-mail. What sort of hellish assignments have my teachers e-mailed out?

“Excuse me, are you using the phone?” the giant black woman with the cane asks as I stare at it.

“Yeah, uh.” I pick up the receiver in my hands. “Yes. Yes I am.”

“Okay.” She smiles, rolling her gums, not showing teeth. I start dialing, enter my PIN, enter my own number.

“Please enter your password, then press the pound sign.”

I obey.

“You have — three — new messages. ”

One more than before. Not so bad.

“First new message: message marked urgent.”

Uh-oh.

“Hey, Craig, it’s Nia, I just, um . . . we talked and you were sounding really bad. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right, and since you’re not answering—it’s like two A.M., I mean, why would you be answering?—but I’m kinda worried that maybe you went and did something stupid because of me. Don’t. I mean, it’s sweet, but don’t. Okay, that’s it, I’m with Aaron, he’s being a total dick. Bye.”

“To erase this message —”

I hit 7.

“Next message.”

“Craig, it’s Aaron, call me back son! Let’s chill—”

I hit 7-7.

“Next message.”

“Hello, Mr. Gilner, this is your science teacher, Mr. Reynolds. I got your phone number from the student directory. We really need to talk about the lack of your labs; I’m missing five of them—”

7-7.

“End of messages. “

I put the phone down like it’s a dangerous animal. I pick back up, call home. Can’t stop now.

“Sarah, can you get the phone numbers of Nia and Aaron out of my cell? And look through the recent missed calls for something from Manhattan; I have to call my science teacher.”

“Sure. How are things over there?”

I look to my left. A Hasidic Jewish guy, complete with the white pants, yarmulke, tassels hanging off him, braided hair, and sandals, dashes down the hall toward me. Scraps of red food dot his dark beard, and his eyes are wild and unhinged. He says to me: “I’m Solomon.”

“Um, I’ve heard about you. I’m Craig, but I’m on the phone.” I cup the receiver.

“I would ask you to please keep it down! I’m trying to rest!” He turns and races away, holding his pants.

“Oooh! Solomon introduced himself to you!” hoots the woman with the cane. “That’s big.”

“It’s normal,” I tell my sister.

“Okay, here.” She gives me Nia’s and Aaron’s and the teacher’s numbers; I write them down on a scrap of paper that Smitty has given me. I should’ve known these before. Nia’s looks good written down—wholesome and useful. The science teacher’s looks jagged and hateful. I may not be able to call him until tomorrow.

“Thanks, Sarah—bye.”

I hang up and look toward the lady with the cane.

“Hey, I’m Craig,” I say.

“Ebony.” She nods. We shake hands.

“Ebony, it’s cool if I just make one more call?”

“Of course.”

I dial the 800 number, enter my PIN, dial Nia.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Nia, it’s me.”

“Craig, where are you?”

It’s funny how people ask that as soon as they get you on the phone. I think it’s a byproduct of cell phones: people—girls and moms especially—want to nail you down in physical space. The fact is that you could be anywhere on a cell phone and it shouldn’t be important where you are. But it becomes the first thing people ask.

“I’m at a friend’s house. In Brooklyn.”

I wonder, too, how many lies cell phones have contributed to the world.

“Uh-huh, Craig. I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean?” I wipe sweat off my brow. The sweat is starting again. This isn’t good. I was sweating down in the ER, but I wasn’t sweating at lunch.

“You’re not at any friend’s house. You’re probably at some girl’s house.”

I look at Ebony. She smiles and leans forward on her cane. “Yeah, totally.”

“I know you. Last night you had me on the phone; tonight you’re out hooking up with some girl.”

“Sure, Nia—”

“Seriously, how are you? Thanks for calling back. I was worried.”

“I know, I got your message.”

“I don’t want you to freak out over me. I think you just need some time to decompress a little bit, and not think about me, and think about someone else. Because, like, I know we might be good for each other, but I’m with someone else, you know?”

“Right . . . um . . . I wasn’t freaking out about you last night, actually.”

“No?”

“No, I was freaking out about, like, much bigger things. I was having kind of a crisis, and I wanted to reach out to somebody who understood.”

“But you asked me if we would ever have been able to be together.”

“Well, I was trying to clear that up because, y’know . . . I wanted to do something stupid.”

She drops her voice: “Kill yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“You wanted to kill yourself over me?”

“No!” I scowl. “I was just in a really bad place, and you were part of it, obviously, because you’re a part of my life, just like Aaron is a part of it and my family is a part of it, but I thought you could clear something up for me before I. . .”

“Craig, I’m so flattered.”

“No, you have the wrong idea. Don’t be flattered.”

“How could I not be? I never had a boy want to kill himself for me before. It’s like the most romantic thing.”

“Nia, it wasn’t about you.”

“Are you sure?”

I look down, and the answer is right there in my chest and it’s resounding. “Yes. I have bigger problems than you.”

“Ah, okay.”

“And you shouldn’t assume that everything is always about you.”

“Whatever. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Everything’s a lot better now, actually.”

“You’re acting like a total dick. Do you want to come out tonight?”

“I can’t.”

“Did Aaron call you? We’re having a big party at his house.”