It's Kind of a Funny Story

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.”

“Right. I’m probably not going to be partying for . . . like . . . a while. Like ever, maybe.”

“Is everything okay now?”

“Yeah, I’m just. . . I’m figuring some things out.”

“At your friend’s house.”

“Correct.”

“Are you like in a crack den, or something?”

“No!” I yell, and just then President Armelio walks up to me: “Hey, buddy, you want to play spades? I’ll crush you.”

“Not now, Armelio.”

“Who’s that?” Nia asks.

“Leave him alone, he’s talking with his girlfriend.” Ebony taps Armelio with her cane.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I whisper at her.

“Who’s that?”

“My friend Armelio.”

“No, the girl.”

“My friend Ebony.”

“Where are you, Craig?”

“I gotta go.”

“All right. . .” Nia trails her voice off. “I’m glad you’re doing . . . uh . . . better.”

“I’m doing a lot better,” I say.

She’s done, I think. She’s done, and you’re done with her.

“See ya, Craig.”

I hang up.

“I think that’s over,” I say to myself.

Then I decide to announce it to the hall: “I think that that’s over!” Ebony stomps her cane, and Armelio claps.