“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
—and to put her own finger in her mouth to test it out.
I hug her.
“What?” she asks, mouth clogged. “I don’t get it. It doesn’t feel the same at all.”
I pull back. “You’re so cool.” I look at her. “How did you get so cool?”
“Please,” she says. “We should go. The movie’s almost over.”
I hug her one more time and pull her down to the bed. And in my mind, I rise up from the bed and look down on us, and look down at everybody else in this hospital who might have the good fortune of holding a pretty girl right now, and then at the entire Brooklyn block, and then the neighborhood, and then Brooklyn, and then New York City, and then the whole Tri-State Area, and then this little corner of America—with laser eyes I can see into every house—and then the whole country and the hemisphere and now the whole stupid world, everyone in every bed, couch, futon, chair, hammock, love seat, and tent, everyone kissing or touching each other . . . and I know that I’m the happiest of all of them.
fifty
Mom and Dad are dressed up to bring me out; I’m wearing what I wore all the time in here—some khaki pants and my tie-dyed T-shirt and my dressy shoes, my Rockports, the ones that people complimented me on every so often, that made me feel like a professional patient. Mom never brought a change of clothes.
They’re here early because Dad has to work; he wanted to see me before he left. Mom is staying home today to see that I’m all right. Then, tomorrow, Friday, I’m back at school, but with the official notice that I can pop into the nurse’s office at any time if I feel depressed. I don’t really have to go to class for the next week; that’s school policy. I’m encouraged to go but they don’t want to overwhelm me. It’s a good deal.
It’s 7:45 A.M. I’ve taken my last vitals—120/80—and I’m standing at the crux of the hall by the nurses’ office, looking at the double doors I came in five days ago. It seems like five days; it doesn’t seem too long or too short; it seems like I spent the time here that I really spent. People are always talking about real-time—real-time stock quotes, real-time information, real-time news—but in here I think I had real-time real time.
Armelio shakes my hand a final time.
“Good luck, buddy.”
Humble says I should stay in a little longer.
“You’re gonna lose it on the outside, man.”
Bobby mumbles at me. It’s too early for him.
The Professor tells me to keep doing my art.
Smitty says he heard from Neil that I was thinking of volunteering and he hopes to see me sometime.
Jimmy ignores me completely.
Ebony says to be careful of liars and cheats and to always respect children.
Noelle pops out of her room at 7:50, just as breakfast is rolling in and my parents are stepping out of the nurses’ office where they were signing papers.
“I’m out in the afternoon,” she says. She’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. “Call me tonight?”
“Sure.” I touch her number in my pocket, next to her two notes that I saved.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling like I can handle it.”
“Me too.”
“You’re a really cool girl,” I say.
“You’re kind of a dork, but with potential,” she says.
“That’s all I’m trying for.”
“Craig?” Mom asks.
“Oh, hey guys, ah, this is Noelle. We got to be friends in here.”
“I saw you last night,” Dad says, shaking her hand.
“A pleasure to meet you,” says Mom. Neither of them takes a second look at the cuts on her face. My parents have some class.
“Good to meet you too,” she says.
“Are you still in high school?” Dad asks.
“Delfin,” she says.
“A lot of pressure, huh,” says Mom.
“Yeah.”
“I think they might have to change the whole system. Look, two people like you, smart young people, sent in here because of pressure.”
“Mom.”
“I’m serious. I’m going to write my congressperson about it.”
“Mom.”
“I’ll go,” Noelle says. “See you Craig.” And she dips her leg up behind her as she turns away and flicks a wave at me—that counts as a kiss, I think. If my parents weren’t here that would be a kiss.
“Are you ready?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. Bye, everybody!”
“Wait!” From down the hall, Muqtada moves forward as fast as he allows himself to, which isn’t very fast, sort of like a speed walk, and hands me the record.
“Thank you, Craig. This boy, your son,” he turns to my parents, “he has helped me.”
“Thank you,” Mom and Dad say.
I hug Muqtada and take in his smell one last time. “Good luck, man.”
“As you go through life, you think of me and hope that I am better.”
“I will.”
We separate and Muqtada migrates toward the dining room and the smell of food.
I look at my parents. “Let’s go.”
It’s incredibly simple. The nurses open the doors for us and there I am outside, looking at the “Shhhhhhhh! Healing in Progress” poster I saw when I came in. The bank of elevators stand sentry in front of us.
“Guys,” I tell them. “Can you go home yourselves, and I’ll walk after you in like one minute?”
“Why? Are you okay?”
“I just want to walk by myself a little.”
“Think things over?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not feeling . . . bad?”
“No. I just want to walk home myself.”
“We’ll take your stuff.” They grab the bag of old clothes and art I had with me, plus the record; wave, and take the next elevator down.
I wait for thirty seconds before hitting the button myself.
I’m not better, you know. The weight hasn’t left my head. I feel how easily I could fall back into it, lie down and not eat, waste my time and curse wasting my time, look at my homework and freak out and go and chill at Aaron’s, look at Nia and be jealous again, take the subway home and hope that it has an accident, go and get my bike and head to the Brooklyn Bridge. All of that is still there. The only thing is, it’s not an option now. It’s just . . . a possibility, like it’s a possibility that I could turn to dust in the next instant and be disseminated throughout the universe as an omniscient consciousness. It’s not a very likely possibility.
I get in the elevator. It’s big and shiny. There’s a lot to look at in the real world.
I don’t know what I’m going to do today, still. I’m probably going to go home, sort through my art, and then call everybody I know and tell them that I’m going to be switching schools and from now on they should reach me by phone instead of e-mail. But I also might go to the park—how come I never go to the park?—and throw a ball around with whatever kids are out there. Or a Frisbee. It’s a real day outside. There’s actual weather out there.