Noelle seems to be looking at me for comment. But I’m amazed at how she looks. New clothes: a pair of tight blue jeans cut down dangerously low and a sliver of white underwear sticking out above them. The underwear looks like it has pink stars on it—do girls’ underwear really have pink stars?—and I almost stare, before my eyes are drawn by the soft curve of her stomach to her T-shirt, which is wrapped against her with some kind of mystical female force, reading I HATE BOYS.
How come girls are coming to me dressed all hot all of a sudden?
Above the shirt is her face, bordered by blond hair pulled back, and highlighted by her cuts.
“Uh . . . Why’d you wear that T-shirt?” I ask. “Is that a message to me?”
“No. I hate boys, not you. And this is one reason why: they’re so arrogant. Why is that?” She stands with her hands on her hips.
“Well . . .” I think. “Do you want like, a real, honest answer?” My brain is working better than it did before. It has bagels and soup and sugar and chicken in it. It’s firing almost like it used to.
“No, Craig, I want a big, dumb, fake answer.” Noelle rolls her eyes. I think her breasts roll in synch with them. Girls’ breasts are so amazing.
“Wait, you didn’t ask a question!” I smirk. “One point for you.”
“We’re not playing the game, Craig. We were going to, but I’m too mad.”
“Okay, well, darn . . .” I start. “What were we talking about?”
“Why guys are so arrogant.”
“Right. Well, you know, we’re born into the world seeing that we’re just a little bit . . . We tend to have things a little bit easier than girls. And we tend to assume therefore that the world was built for us, and that we’re, you know, the culmination of everything that came before us. And then we get told that having a little bit of this attitude is called balls, and that balls are good, and we kind of take it from there.”
“Wow, you are honest,” she says, sitting down. “An honest asshole.” Yes! She sat down! “Who the hell was that girl?”
“A girl I know.”
“She’s pretty.” (It’s amazing how girls can say this and make it the most withering insult.) “Is she your girlfriend?”
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend. Never had a girlfriend.”
“So she was just a girl you were hooking up with in your room?”
“You saw, huh.”
“I saw everything: from out here to your roommate’s bed.”
“What, you were following me?”
“I’m not allowed?”
“Well, no—”
“You don’t like it?” She leans in. “You don’t like some poor little girl”—she throws on a Little Bo-Peep voice, fluffs her hair—“following big, manly Craig around the ward?”
“It’s not a ward, it’s a psych hospital.” But yes, yes I do like you following me around; yes, that’s awesome. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you. . . .” I think of the flashes of time with Nia, if I ever glanced down the hall or checked behind me.
“You were in a state of excitement; that’s why.”
“Well. You want to know who she was?”
“No. I lost interest.”
“You did?”
“No! Tell me!”
“Okay, okay, she was this girl I’ve known for a long time, and she came in here—”
“Just overcome with lust for you?”
“Yeah, sure, exactly; she came in overcome with lust and I took advantage of her.” I flick my hand. “No, what really happened is she came in here lonely and confused, I think, and thinking that she belonged in a place like this . . .”
“That was pretty funny when your roommate caught you. That kinda made the whole thing worthwhile.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“You’re never going to be a good cheater. You’re going to be one of those guys who gets caught on the first try.”
“Is that good?”
“You didn’t even close the door. How’d you know the girl?”
“She was my best friend’s girlfriend since we were like thirteen.”
“How old are you now?”
“Fifteen.”
“Me too.”
I look at her anew. There’s something about people who are the same age. It’s like you got piped out in the same shipment. You’ve got to stick together. Because deep down I believe my year was a special year: it produced me.
“So you macked your best friend’s girlfriend?”
“No, they broke up.”
“When?”
“Uh, a few days ago.”
“She moves fast!”
“I think,” I think out loud, “she’s just one of these girls who’s never really not had a boyfriend.”
“Sometimes we call those girls sluts. Do you think she had a boyfriend when she was eight?”
“Ew.”
“Maybe she was letting—”
“Stop! Stop! I don’t want to hear it.”
“It happens.” Noelle looks at me.
I nod, and pause, and let that sink it. It does happen.
“Um . . . how are you?” I ask.
“You think you’re really smart, don’t you?”
I laugh. “No. That’s one of the reasons I came in here, actually. Thinking I was dumb.”
“Why would you think that? You’re in a smart school.”
“I wasn’t doing well there.”
“What were you getting?”
“Ninety-threes.”
“Oh.” Noelle nods.
“Yeah.” I fold my arms. “I think you’re really smart. You probably get good grades.”
“Not really.” She puts her chin in her palms like someone in a painting. “You’re not very good at giving compliments.”
“What?”
“I’m smart! C’mon.”
“You’re attractive, too!” I say. “Does that work? You’re attractive! Did I say that already? I said it the other day, right?”
“Attractive? Craig, real estate is attractive. Houses.”
“Sorry, you’re beautiful. What about that?” I can’t believe I’m saying it. We’ll both be out of here in two days; that’s why I’m saying it. No regrets.
“Beautiful’s all right. There are better ones.”
“Okay, okay, cool.” I crack my neck—
“Ewwww.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that. Especially when you’re about to compliment me.”
“Fine, okay. What are better words than beautiful?”
She puts on a Southern accent: “‘Go-geous.’”
“Okay, okay, you’re gorgeous.”
“That sounds terrible. Do it my way: go-geous.”
I do it.
“You can’t even do a Southern accent? Oh my gosh, are you even from America?”
“Gimme a break! I’m from here!”
“Brooklyn?
“Yeah.”
“This neighborhood?”
“Yeah.”
“I have friends here.”
“We should meet up sometime.”
“You’re so terrible. Try some more compliments.”
“Okay.” I dig down deep. I got nothing. “Um . . .”
“You don’t know any more?”
“I’m not good at words.”
“See, this is why the math nerds don’t get girls.”
“Who said I was a math nerd? I told you my grades suck.”
“You might be one of those nerds who’s not smart. Those are the worst kind.”