It's Kind of a Funny Story

“I deserve half-credit,” says Noelle, sketching out a flower to my right. She glances at me through the sides of her eyes. “You know I do.”

“You do,” I tell her, taking a break to look at her. I go back to the map. It’s flowing out of me.

“Is that somebody’s brain?” Ebony asks.

I look up at her, rolling her mouth and smiling down. I look at the map. It’s not a brain, clearly; it’s a map; can’t she see the rivers and highways and interchanges? But I see how it could look like a brain, like if all roads were twisted neurons, pulling your emotions from one place to another, bringing the city to life. A working brain is probably a lot like a map, where anybody can get from one place to another on the freeways. It’s the nonworking brains that get blocked, that have dead ends, that are under construction like mine.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding up at her. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is. It’s a brain.” And I stop my map in the middle—this was always a problem for me, finishing the damn things; I always ran out of energy before I got to the edge of the page—and draw a head around it. I put a nose and two paired indentations for lips and a neck running down. I draw the head so that right where the brain would be is this blob of city street map. I make a traffic circle the eye and bring down boulevards to lead to the mouth, and Ebony giggles above me, taps her cane.

“It’s so pretty!”

“It’s all right,” I say, looking down. I decide it’s done. I can do better. I put my initials in the bottom—CG, like “computer-generated”—and put the picture aside. I ask for more paper and start the next one.

It’s easy. It’s easy and pretty and I can do it. I can make these things forever. For the rest of arts and crafts, I make five.

I get so concentrated that I don’t even notice when Noelle leaves. I only find her note, sitting next to me, decorated with a flower, as I gather up my things from the room.

I’M TAKING A BREAK FROM YOU. CAN’T GET TOO ATTACHED. THE NEXT MEETING WILL BE TUESDAY, SAME TIME AND PLACE. DON’T BE WORRIED THAT IT’S SUCH A LONG WAIT. I THINK YOU’RE LOVELY.

I fold the note and put it in my pocket next to the other one. After arts and crafts is dinner, where Humble tells me he forgives me for getting him in trouble, and I thank him, and after dinner is cards with Armelio, who tells me that now that I’ve gotten a little experience under my belt, I might be ready for the big card tournament they’re having tomorrow night.

“Do you play with real money?” I ask.

“Nope, buddy! We play with buttons!”

I hang outside the lounge during cigarette break—I basically just follow the group; wherever they go, I go—and talk with Bobby about my day. Then I go into my room with my map/brain art. My bed hasn’t been made during the day—they don’t pamper you in Six North—but the pillow has returned to its normal shape, no longer dented in by my sweaty head, and when I lie down it lets out air in the most slow, soothing hiss I’ve ever heard.

“You are feeling better?” Muqtada asks.

“Quite a bit,” I say. “You’ve really got to get out of the room more, Muqtada. There’s a whole world out there.”

“I pray every day that someday I will get better like you.”

“I’m not that much better, man.”

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

thirty-three

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—”