Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

But I’m good enough to sleep. No shot necessary.

The next day is Monday and I should be at school.

I shouldn’t be eating with Humble and hearing about what his girlfriend used to do to him every time they passed a Burger King. I should be at school.

I shouldn’t be explaining to Ebony’s friend on the phone that what I drew was a map of a human brain and having her echo “He’s so good, Marlene, he’s so good.” I should be at school.

I shouldn’t be taking my Zoloft in line behind Bobby, who is dressed in my shirt for his interview. I should be at school.

I work up the courage to get to the phones at 11 A.M. and check the messages.

“Hey, Craig, it’s Aaron, listen, I’m really sorry, man. The truth is, I probably—well, I got in a big fight with Nia after you told me she was on pills and . . . I think I might have some of that depression stuff, too. Lately, I’ve been like, unable to get out of bed sometimes and I’m just . . . y’know, really sleepy and I lose my train of thought. So like, I probably called you the other night like that because I was projecting, that’s what Nia says, and I’m seriously interested in visiting you. Me and Nia are having problems.”

I call him back and leave a message for him. I tell him that if he feels depressed, he should go to his general physician first and get a referral to a psy-chopharmacologist and go through the process like I did. I tell him that it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I tell him I’m glad he called but I don’t know whether he should visit because I’m really sorting my stuff out here and I think I’d like to keep in here and the outside world as separate as possible. And I ask him what’s going on between him and Nia, whether they made up yet.

“Hello, Craig, this is Mr. Reynolds again—”

I call him back and leave a message that I’m in the hospital for personal reasons and that he’ll have his labs when I’m good and ready to do them. I tell him that I’ll provide any documentation from doctors—including psychopharmacologists, psychiatrists, psychologists, nurses, recreation directors, and President Armelio—that I am being cared for right now in a facility where the stresses of doing labs are not allowed. And I tell him that if he wants to talk to me again, he can call the number here, and don’t be alarmed if someone answers “Joe’s Pub.”

“Hey, Craig, this is Jenna, I’m one of Nia’s friends, and like . . . okay, this is really embarrassing, but do you want to hang out anytime soon? I heard about all this stuff you went through, like you’re in the hospital or whatever, and my last boyfriend was really insensitive about that stuff, because I kind of go through that stuff too? And so I thought you’d probably understand me, and I always thought you were cute—we met each other a couple times—but I always thought that you were so shy that you wouldn’t be fun to hang out with; I didn’t realize you were like, depressed. And I think that’s really brave of you to admit it and I just think we should hang out.”

Well. I call Jenna back and leave her a message that I can hang out with her next week maybe.

That’s it. The other messages are from Ronny and Scruggs and they’re about pot and I ignore them. I put the phone down without slamming it on my finger. Muqtada is right in front of me.

“I follow your advice. Come out of room.”

“Hey, good morning! How are you?”

He shrugs. “Okay. What is to do?”

“There’s lots of stuff to do. Do you like to draw?”

“Eh.”

“Do you like to play cards? ”

“Eh.”

“Do you like to . . . listen to music?”

“Yes.”

“Great! Okay—”

“Only Egypt music.”

“Huh.” I try to think of where I can get Egyptian music, or even what it’s called, when suddenly Solomon flops past in his sandals.

“Excuse me if you please I am trying to rest!” he yells at us. Muqtada takes one look at him and curls his face into a laugh, his glasses rising above his nose.

“What is the problem?” Solomon asks.

“Seventeen days!” Muqtada says. “Seventeen days the Jew will not talk to me! And now he does. I am honored.”

“I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to him,” Solomon points at me.

“Have you guys met?” I ask.

Muqtada and Solomon shake hands—Solomon’s pants fall down a little but he bows his legs to hold them up. Then he takes his hand back and stalks off. Muqtada turns to me: “This I think is enough for one day.” And he goes back into our room.

I shake my head.

The phone rings next to me. I call for Armelio. He scoots up, grabs the receiver, says “Joe’s Pub,” and hands the phone to me.

“Me?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

I take the phone. “I’m looking for Craig Gilner,” an authoritative voice says through the line.

“Ah, speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Mr. Alfred Janowitz, Craig. I’m your principal at Executive Pre-Professional High?”

“Holy crap!” I say, and I hang up.

The phone starts ringing again. I stand by it and ignore it, explaining to Armelio and everyone else who passes that it’s for me but that I can’t answer. They understand completely. It’s the principal. I was right. I’ve seen this guy before; he’s the one who greeted us on that first day when I was high with Aaron, and told us that only the best had been accepted and only the best would be rewarded. He’s the one who drops by classes and looks us over as we take tests and gives out chocolates as if that makes up for it. He’s the one who says “your school day shouldn’t end until five o’clock” and is always in the newspapers as the most no-nonsense principal around and now he’s on my ass because he knows I’m crazy and knows I haven’t been doing my homework. I never should have left that message for Mr. Reynolds. This is it. I’m being expelled. I’m out of school. I’m never going to go to high school again. I’m never going to go to college.

When the phone finally dies, I start pacing.

I was right all along. What was I thinking? You add up your little victories in here and think they count for something. You get lulled into thinking Six North is the real world. You make friends and have a pithy little conversation with a girl, and you think you’ve succeeded, Craig? You haven’t succeeded in the slightest. You haven’t won anything. You haven’t proven anything. You haven’t gotten better. You haven’t gotten a job. You aren’t making any money. You’re in here costing the state money, taking the same pills you took before. You’re wasting your parents’ money and the taxpayers’ money. You don’t have anything really wrong with you.

This was all an excuse, I think. I was doing fine. I had a 93 average and I was holding my head above water. I had good friends and a loving family. And because I needed to be the center of attention, because I needed something more, I ended up here, wallowing in myself, trying to convince everybody around me that I have some kind of . . . disease.

I don’t have any disease. I keep pacing. Depression isn’t a disease. It’s a pretext for being a prima donna. Everybody knows that. My friends know it; my principal knows it. The sweating has started again. I can feel the Cycling roaring up in my brain. I haven’t done anything right. What have I done, made a bunch of little pictures? That doesn’t count as anything. I’m finished. My principal just called me and I hung up on him and didn’t call back. I’m finished. I’m expelled. I’m finished.