Нед Виззини - It's Kind of a Funny Story

“I love you too,” Dad says. “Even though . . . eh . . . No. I don’t have any jokes about it. I just do.”

We separate and shake hands and he makes his way down the hall, waving without looking back.

“Good-bye Mister Gilner!” a chorus of those paying attention calls out.

I dip down next to Noelle, whisper in her ear. “That’s one; I gotta settle one more thing, and then I’ll see you in my room.”

“Okay.”

I walk down the hall and pop into my room, where Muqtada is putting his distinctive shape in the bed, turned toward the window, in his continuous dead reverie.

“Muqtada?”

“Yes.”

“You remember how you wanted Egyptian music?”

“Yes, Craig.”

“I got some for you.”

“You did?” He pulls his top sheet aside. “Where?”

“I got a record over,” I say. “You know we’re watching a movie, right?”

“Yes, I hear. This sounds very violent, no good for me.”

“Right, well, in the other hall, by where the smoking area is, I asked Smitty to put the Egyptian music.”

“And he did this thing?”

“It’s ready to go on right now. You want to hear?”

“Yes.” Muqtada pushes the sheets aside in a gesture of hope and strength and determination. It’s tough to get out of bed; I know that myself. You can lie there for an hour and a half without thinking anything, just worrying about what the day holds and knowing that you won’t be able to deal with it. And Muqtada did that for years. He did that until he needed to be hospitalized. And now he’s getting up. Not for good, but for real.

I walk with him out of the room, passing Smitty at the nurses’ station and nodding at him. He opens a door behind his desk and goes in to turn on the turntables, changing the PA music from the normal funky lite FM to the sounds of deep plucked strings, and rolling over it, a voice of dangerous clarity and yearning, hitting three ascending notes and then bending one beyond where I thought you couldn’t bend a human voice, sounding like a man drawn out and smacked to vibrate around a little.

“Umm Kulthum!” Muqtada says.

“Yeah! Uh . . . Who’s that?”

“This is Egypt’s greatest singer!” he yells. “How you find this?”

“I have a friend whose dad has some records.”

“This I have not heard in so long!” He’s grinning so much I think his glasses are going to fall off.

Armelio is playing solitaire in the back of the hall, by the smoking lounge. “You’re out of your room, buddy? What’s going on? Is there a fire?”

“This music!” Muqtada points up to it. “This is Egyptian!”

“You Egyptian, buddy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m from Greece.”

“The Greeks, they took all our music.”

“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.”

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?