It's Kind of a Funny Story

“I love my life,” Aaron said. “Bye, Mom.” We entered the elevator with our mouths full of cookies.

“Okay, so what were you saying? I love World’s Scariest Police Chases.” Aaron swallowed. “I love it when the guy is like”—Aaron put on a stern over-annunciated brogue—“These two-bit bandits thought they could turn a blind eye to the law, but the Broward County Sherrif’s office showed them the light—and it led them straight to jail.’”

I cracked up, spitting cookie bits everywhere.

“I’m good at voices. You want to hear Jay Leno blowing the devil? I got it from this comedian Bill Hicks.”

“You never let me finish about Paul Stojanovich!” I said.

“Who?”

The elevator arrived in Aaron’s lobby. “The pro ducer of World’s Scariest Police Chases.”

“Oh, right.” Aaron threw open the glass lobby door. I followed him into the street, tossed up my hood, and bundled myself in it.

“He was posing with his fiancée, for like a wedding picture? And they were doing it in Oregon, right next to this big cliff. And the photographer was like ‘Move back, move a little to the left.’ And they moved, and he fell off the cliff.”

“Oh my God!” Aaron shook his head. “How do you learn this stuff?”

“The Internet.” I smiled.

“That is too good. What happened to the girl?”

“She was fine.”

“She should sue the photographer. Did they sue him?”

“I don’t know.”

“They better. I would sue. You know, Craig”—Aaron looked at me steadily, his eyes red but so alive and bright—“I’m going to be a lawyer.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Screw my dad. He doesn’t make any money. He’s miserable. The only reason we even live where we do is because my mom’s brother is a lawyer and they got the apartment way back when. It used to be my uncle’s apartment. Now he does work for the building, so they cut Mom a deal. Everything good I have is due to lawyers.”

“I think I might want to be one too,” I said.

“Why not? You make money!”

“Yeah.” I looked up. We were on a bright, cold, gray Manhattan sidewalk. Everything cost so much money. I looked at the hot dog man, the cheapest thing around—you wouldn’t get away from him without forking over three or four bucks.

“We should be lawyers together,” Aaron said. “Pardis and . . . what’s your last name?”

“Gilner.”

“Pardis and Gilner.”

Okay.”

We shook hands, maintaining our stride, nearly clothesline-ing a frilled-up little girl walking in the other direction. Then we turned up Church Street and rented this reality DVD, Life Against Death, which had a lot of cliffs, as well as fires, animal attacks, and skydiving accidents. I sat propped in Aaron’s bed, him smoking pot and me refusing, feeding off him, telling him that I thought I was getting a contact high when really I was just feeling like I had stepped into a new groove. At cool parts of Life Against Death we paused and zoomed in: on the hearts of explosions, spinning wheels after truck crashes, and one guy freaking out in a gorilla cage and getting a rock thrown at him. We talked about making our own movie someday.

I didn’t go to sleep until four, but I was in some one else’s house, so I woke up early—at eight—with that crazy sleeping-at-someone-else’s-house energy. I passed Aaron’s father at his computer and grabbed a book off their shelf in the living room—Latin Roots. I studied Latin Roots all morning, for the test.

We kept doing it. It became a regular thing. We never formalized it, never named it . . . but on Fridays Aaron would call and ask me to watch movies. I think he was lonely. Whatever he was, he became the one person I wanted to stay in touch with after junior high. And now, a year later, I was in my kitchen holding my acceptance letter and wondering if he had one too.

“I’ll call Aaron,” I told Mom.

eight

“What up, son? Did you get in?!”

“Yeah.”

“Allriiiiiiiight!”

“Hoooooooo—ee!”

“Biyatch!”

“That’s right!”

“But you studied. I didn’t study at all,” he was like.

“True. I should feel lucky to talk to you. You’re kind of like Hercules.”

“Yeah, cleaning the stables. I’m having a party.”

“When? Tonight?”

“Yup. My parents are away. I have the whole house. You’re coming, right?”

“A real party? Without a cake?”

“Absolutely.”

“Sure!” I was in eighth grade and I had gotten into high school and I was going to a party? I was set for life!

“Can you bring any booze?”

“Like drinks?”

“Craig, c’mon. Yes. Can you bring?”

“I don’t have ID.”

“Craig, none of us have ID! I mean, can you take some off your parents?”

“I don’t think they have any . . .” But I knew that wasn’t true.

“They have something.”

I held my hand over my cell so Mom wouldn’t hear. “Scotch. They have a bottle of scotch.”

“What kind?”

“Jeez, dude, I don’t know.”

“Well, bring it. Can you call any girls?”

I had been in my room studying for a year. “No.”

“That’s all right, I’ll bring the girls. You want to at least help me set up?”

“Sure!”

“Get over here.”