It's Kind of a Funny Story (10 page)

fourteen

My parents are outside hearing me retch up the dinner I just ate with them. I look at the door; I think I can hear Dad chewing the last bite he took when he got up from the table.

“Craig, should we call someone?” Mom asks. “Is it an emergency?”

“No,” I say, getting up. “I’m going to be all right.”

“Um, hey, yeah, I told your mom not to make the squash,” Dad jokes.

“Heh,” I say, climbing to the sink. I wash out my mouth with water and then mouthwash and then more water. My parents pepper me with questions.

“Do you want us to call Dr. Barney?”

“Do you want us to call Dr. Minerva?”

“Do you want some tea?”

“Tea? Give the man some water. You want water?”

I turn on the light—

“Oh. He had the light off. Are you okay, Craig? Did you slip?”

I look at myself in the bathroom light. Yes, I’m okay. I’m okay because I have a plan and a solution: I’m going to kill myself.

I’m going to do it tonight. This is such a farce, this whole thing. I thought I was better and I’m not better. I tried to get stable and I can’t get stable. I tried to turn the corner and there aren’t any corners; I can’t eat; I can’t sleep; I’m just wasting resources.

It’s going to be tough on my parents. So tough. And my little sister. Such a beautiful, smart girl. Not a dud like me, that’s for sure. It’ll be hard to leave her. Not to mention it might mess her up. Plus my parents will think they’re such failures. They’ll blame themselves. It’ll be the most important event in their lives, the thing that gets whispered by other parents at parties when their backs are turned:

Did you hear about their son?

Teen suicide.

They’ll never get over it.

I don’t know how anyone could.

They must not’ve known the warning signs.

But you know what, it’s time for me to stop putting other people’s emotions ahead of my own. It’s time for me to be true to myself, like the pop stars say. And my true self wants to blast off this rock.

I’ll do it tonight. Late tonight. In the morning, specifically. I’ll get up and bike to the Brooklyn Bridge and throw myself off it.

Before I go, though, I’ll sleep in Mom’s bed for one final night. She lets me sleep there when I’m feeling bad, even though I’m too old—Dad’ll sleep in the living room. There’s plenty of space by her, and it’s not like we
touch
or anything; she’s just available to bring me warm milk and cereal. Tonight is something I owe her; her only son spending time with her before he goes. I’d be heartless not to. I’ll hug my dad too, and my sister. But I’m not leaving any notes. What kind of crap is that?

“I’m okay,” I say, unlocking the bathroom door and stepping out. My parents corner me in a hug that mimics the one at Aaron’s blowout party, when we were confirming that our futures were bright.

“We love you, Craig,” Mom says.

“This is true,” Dad says.

“Uh,” I say.

With Dr. Minerva I talk about my Tentacles and Anchors. Here’s something for you, Doctor: my parents are now part of the Tentacles, and my friends too. My Tentacles have Tentacles, and I’m never going to cut them off. But my Anchor, that’s easy: it’s killing myself. That’s what gets me through the day. Knowing that I could do it. That I’m strong enough to do it and I can get it done.

“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I ask Mom.

“Sure, honey, of course.”

Dad nods at me.

“I’m ready for bed, then.” I go into my room and pull out clothes to sleep in, stash another pile to die in. I’ll get them when I leave in the morning. Mom announces that she’s making some warm milk and it’ll help me sleep. I go to my sister’s room. She’s up, sketching a kitchen at her desk.

“I love ya, little girl,” I tell her.

“Are you okay?” she responds.

“Yeah.”

“You threw up.”

“You heard?”

“It was like
eccccccchhhh reeccccccch blacccchhh,
of course I heard.”

“I turned the water on!”

“I have good ears.” She points to her ears.

“You do good throw-up impressions, too,” I say.

“Yeah.” She turns back to her sketch. “Maybe when I grow up I could be like a stand-up comedian, and just get onstage and make those noises.”

“No,” I say, “what you could do, or what I could do, since I’m so good at it, is get up onstage and
actually
throw up, and people would pay to watch, like I was a professional vomit-er.”

“Craig, that is so gross.”

But I don’t think it’s gross. I think it’s kind of a good idea. How does performance art get started, after all?

Don’t let that distract you, soldier.

Right, I won’t.

You’ve made your decision and you’re sticking to it, is that correct?

Yes, sir.

The point of you being in this room is to say good-bye to your sister, is that not right?

Absolutely, sir.

I’m sorry to see it come to this, soldier. I thought you had promise. But you gotta do what you gotta do, and sometimes you gotta commit hara-kiri, ya know?

Yes, sir.

I hug Sarah. “You’re very sweet and smart, and you have great ideas. Stick with them.”

“Of course.” She looks at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re bad. Don’t try and fool me.”

“I’ll be all right tomorrow.”

“Okay. You like my kitchen?”

She holds it up. It’s practically a blueprint, with the swinging quarter-circles for doors and the sink and refrigerator outlined in crisp, bird’s-eye detail. It looks like something someone would pay for.

“It’s amazing, Sarah.”

“Thanks. What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to sleep early.”

“Feel better.”

I leave her room. Mom already has the warm milk for me and my place all set up in her bed.

“You feeling better?”

“Sure.”

“Are you
really,
Craig?”

“Yes, jeez, sure.”

“Lean back on the pillows.” I get in her bed—the mattress is firm and real. I scrunch my feet under the covers and savor that feeling—fresh linen over your feet, bunching up in little mountain ranges. That’s a feeling everyone can enjoy. Mom hands me the milk.

“It’s only nine o’clock, Craig; you’re not going to be able to go to sleep.”

“I’ll read.”

“Good. Tomorrow we’ll schedule something with Dr. Barney to help you. Maybe you need new medicine.”

“Maybe.”

I sit and drink the warm milk and think nothing. It’s a talent I’ve developed—one thing I’ve learned recently. How to think nothing. Here’s the trick: don’t have any interest in the world around you, don’t have any hope for the future, and be warm.

Damn, though. There’s someone else I should call. I pick the cell out of my pocket and flip it open to the name that’s all caps. I hit SEND.

“Nia?” I ask when she picks up.

“Hi, yeah, what’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

I sigh.

“Ohhhh.
Are you okay, man?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“At home. I’m in my mom’s bed, actually.”

“Whoa, we have bigger problems than we thought, Craig.”

“No! I’m just here because it helps me sleep. Don’t you remember when you were a little kid, sleeping in your parents bed was like, such a treat?”

“Well, my dad died when I was three.”

Shoot. That’s right. Some of us have actual things to complain about.

“Right, sorry, um, I—”

“It’s okay. I slept with my mom sometimes.”

“But you probably don’t anymore.”

“No, I do. Same situations as you, I bet.”

“Huh. What are you up to now?”

“Home on the computer.”

“Where’s Aaron?”

“Home on his computer. What do you want, Craig?”

I take a breath. “Nia, you remember the party that we had when we all figured out we got into Executive Pre-Professional?”

“Yeahhhh . . .”

“When you came to that party, did you know you were going to hook up with Aaron?”

“Craig, we’re not talking about this.”

“Please, c’mon, I have to know if I had a shot.”

“We’re not.”

“Please. Pretend I’m dying.”

“God. You are
so
melodramatic.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“I wore my green dress to that party, I remember that.”

“I remember too!”

“And Aaron was very nice to me.”

“He sat next to you in Scrabble.”

“And I already knew he liked me. But I had been putting off getting involved with anyone until I knew about high school, because I didn’t want it to distract me. And you and Aaron, you were like, in the running. You both talked to me. But you had that mole on your chin.”

“What?”

“Remember, the big hairy one? It was all pockmarked and gross.”

“
I didn’t have any mole! “

“Craig, I’m joking.”

“Oh, right, duh.” We both laugh. Hers is full, mine empty.

“You promise not to take this the wrong way, Craig?”

“Sure,” I lie.

“If you had made a move, I would probably have, you know, gone along. But you didn’t.”

Death.

“See, it works out, though. Now we’re friends, and we can talk about stuff like this.”

“Sure, we can talk.”

Death.
“Believe me, I get sick of talking with Aaron.”

“Why?”

“He’s always talking about himself and his problems. Like you. You’re both self-centered. Only, you have a low opinion of yourself, so it’s tolerable. He has a really
high
opinion of himself. It’s a pain.”

“Thanks, Nia, you’re very sweet.”

“You know I try.”

“What if I tried now?” I ask. Nothing to lose.

“To what?”

“You know. What if I just came over and said screw it and stayed outside until you came out and grabbed you and kissed you?”

“Ha! You’d never do it.”

“What if I did?”

“I’d smap you.”

“You’d
smap
me.”

“Yeah. Remember that? That was so funny.”

I switch phones from ear to ear.

“Well, I just wanted to clear that up.” I smile. And that’s true. I don’t want to leave loose ends. I want to know where I stand. I don’t stand anywhere with Nia, really, not more than friends. I missed an opportunity with her, but that’s okay, I’ve missed many. I have a lot of regrets.

“I’m worried about you, Craig,” she says.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“I won’t,” I tell her, and that’s not a lie. What I’m doing makes a lot of sense.

“Call me if you think you’re going to do anything stupid.”

“Bye, Nia,” I say. And I mouth into the phone,
I love you,
in case some of her cells pick up on the vibrations and it serves me well in the next life. If there is one. If there is a next life, I hope it’s in the past; I don’t think the future will be any more handleable.

“Bye, Craig.”

I click END. I think it’s a little harsh how the END button is red.

fifteen

I’m pretty stupid for thinking I could get any sleep tonight. Once I turn off the lights and put the cup aside, I get the Not-Sleeping Feeling—it’s kind of like feeling the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rear up in your brain and put some ropes around it and pull it toward the front of your skull. They say,
No way, dude! Who did you think you were fooling! You think you were going to wake up at three in the morning and throw yourself off the Brooklyn Bridge without staying up all night? Give us a little credit!

My mind starts the Cycling. I know it’s going to be the worst that it’s ever been. Over and over again, a cycling of tasks, of failures, of problems. I’m young, but I’m already screwing up my life. I’m smart but not enough—just smart enough to have problems. Not smart enough to get good grades. Not smart enough to have a girlfriend. Girls think I’m weird. I don’t like to spend money. Every time I spend it, I feel as if I’m being raped. I don’t like to smoke pot, but then I do smoke it and I get depressed. I haven’t done enough with my life. I don’t play sports. I quit Tae Bo. I’m not involved in any social causes. My one friend is a screwup—a genius blessed with the most beautiful girl in the world, and he doesn’t even know it. There’s so much more for me to be doing. I should be a success and I’m not and other people—younger people— are. Younger people than me are on TV and getting paid and winning scholarships and getting their lives in order. I’m still a nobody. When am I going to not be a nobody?

The thoughts trail one another in my brain, running from the back up to the front and dripping down again under my chin: I’m no one; I’ll never make it in my life; I’m about to get revealed as a fake, I’ve already been revealed as a fake but I don’t know it yet; I know I’m a fake and pretend not to. All the good thoughts—the normal ones, the ones that have occasionally surfaced since last fall— scramble out the front of my brain in terror of what lives in my neck and spine. This is the worst it’ll ever be.

My homework swims in front of my closed eyes— the Intro to Wall Street stock-picking game, the Inca history paper, the ding-dong math test—they appear as if on a gravestone. They’ll all be over soon.

Mom climbs into bed next to me. That means it’s still early. Not even eleven. It’s going to be such a long night. Jordan, the dog who should be dead, climbs into bed with her and I put my hand on him, try to feel his warmth and take comfort from it. He barks at me.

I turn on my stomach. My sweat drenches my pillow. I turn over on my back. It drenches it in the other direction. I turn on my side like a baby. Do babies sweat? How about in the womb, do you sweat in there? This night will never end. Mom stirs.

“Craig, are you still up?”

“Yes.”

“It’s twelve-thirty. Do you want cereal? Some times a bowl of cereal will just knock you out.”

“Sure.”

“Cheerios?”

I think I can handle Cheerios. Mom gets up and gets them for me. The bowl is heaping and I tackle it with the ferocity that I think a last meal deserves—shoving it all in me as if it owes me loot. I’m not going to throw this up.

Mom starts breathing regularly next to me. I start to think practically about how I’m going to handle this. I’m taking my bike, I know that. That’s one thing I’ll miss: riding around Brooklyn on the weekends like a maniac, dodging cars and trucks and vans with pipes sticking out of them, meeting Ronny and then locking the bikes up by the subway station to go to Aaron’s house. Riding a bike is pure and simple—Ronny says he thinks it’s mankind’s greatest invention, and although I thought that was stupid at first, these days I’m not so sure. Mom won’t let me take the bike to school so I’ve never ridden over a bridge—this’ll be the first time. I don’t think I’ll wear my helmet.

I’ll take the bike, and it’ll be a warm spring night. I’ll speed up Flatbush Avenue—the artery of fat Brooklyn—right to the Brooklyn entrance of the bridge, with the potholes and cops stationed all night. They won’t look at me twice—what, it’s illegal, a kid biking over a bridge? I’ll go up the ramp and get right to the middle, where I was before, and then I’ll walk out over the roadway and take one last look at the Verrazano Bridge.

What am I going to do about my bike, though? If I lock it up, it’ll just stay there at the side of the bridge, as evidence, and they’ll clip the lock or saw through the chain after a while. It’s an expensive chain! But if I
don’t
lock it up, someone’ll take it quickly—it’s a good bike, a Raleigh—and there won’t be any evidence that I was ever even there.

I can’t lose the bike, I decide. I’ll take the key with me when I go down, and Mom and Dad will know, then, where I’ve gone. The cops will find the bike and tell them. It’ll be harsh, but at least they’ll know. It’ll be better than not leaving anything.

What time is it? Time has stopped for me. Since I can’t sleep and I’m still sweating, I decide I can try something to knock myself out: push-ups. I don’t want to go to sleep, I just want to exhaust myself and rest a little bit so I can make the trip at the appropriate time, in an hour or so. I prop myself up in bed in proper push-up position, which is also proper sex position, I realize, and I haven’t even had sex—I’m going to die a virgin. Does that mean I go to heaven? No, according to the Bible, suicide is a sin and I go straight to hell, what a gyp.

I learned push-ups in Tae Bo. I’m good at them. I can do them on my fingers and my fists, as well as my palms. Here, next to my mom, in a scene that would look
very
weird if you filmed it from the side, I start to do them up and down—one, two, three … I move very, very slowly so as not to wake Mom up—she’s a heavy sleeper and doesn’t notice my exercises; her head is turned in the opposite direction. When I get to ten push-ups I start counting down: Five, four, three . . . until I finish at fifteen. I collapse in bed.

I’m so weak from holding down nothing but Cheerios in the last twenty-four hours, I’m beat. I’m cracked from fifteen push-ups. But I feel something in the bed. I feel my heart beating. It’s beating against the mattress, amplified, resounding not only in the bed but in my body. I feel it in my feet, my legs, my stomach, my arms. Beating everywhere.

I get on my palms again. One, two, three . . . My arms burn. My neck crinks; a bed isn’t the best place to do push-ups; you tend to sink in. This set is tougher than the last. But when I get to fifteen I keep going, to twenty. I strain and hold back a grunt on the final one and discharge myself to the mattress.

Badoom. Badoom. Badoom.

My heart is ramming now. It’s beating everywhere. It hits all the spots in my body, and I feel the blood pressuring through me, my wrists, my fingers, my neck. It wants to do this, to
badoom
away all the time. It’s such a silly little thing, the heart.

Badoom.

It feels good, the way it cleans me.

Badoom.

Screw it. I want my heart.

I want my heart but my brain is acting up.

I want to live but I want to die. What do I do?

I get out of bed, glance at the clock. It’s 5:07. I don’t know how I got through the night. My heart radiates
badoom,
so I stand and shuffle into the living room and pick a book off my parents’shelf.

It’s called
How to Survive the Loss of a Love;
it has a pink and green cover. It’s sold like two million copies; it’s one of these psychology books that people everywhere buy to get through break-ups. My mom bought it when her dad died and raved about how good it was. She showed the cover to me.

I looked at it just to see what it was about, and the first chapter said, “If you feel like harming yourself right now, turn to page 20.” And I thought that was pretty silly, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, so I turned to page 20, and right there it said to call your local suicide hotline, because suicidal thoughts were a medical situation and you needed medical help right away.

Now, in the dark, I open
How to Survive the Loss of a Love
to page 20.

“Every municipality has a suicide hotline, and they’re listed right in the government services section of the yellow pages,” it says.

Okay. I go into the kitchen and open up the yellow pages.

It’s a pain in the ass to find those government listings. I thought they were marked with green pages, but the green pages turn out to be a restaurant guide. The government listings are in blue at the front, but it’s all phone numbers for where to get your car if it’s towed, what to do if your block has a rat problem . . . Ah, here,
health.
Posion control, emergency,
mental health.
There are a bunch of numbers. The first one says “suicide” near it. It’s a local number, and I call.

I stand in the living room with my hand in my pants as the phone rings.