Crazy

  CRAZY GLUE: You could be dead, for starters.

  You all are like my Greek chorus. Yeah, I'm a real live, walking Greek tragedy.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: To be accurate, since you're living in America, it would be an American tragedy, and we're your American chorus.

  Anyway! The point is I can't go see a shrink.

  AUNT BEE: What are you so afraid of, dear?

  I'm not afraid. Who says I'm afraid? It's just that there will be other kids there. I'm going to be wasting my whole lunch hour talking with a shrink and a bunch of psycho kids.

  CRAZY GLUE: Better than eating alone like you usually do.

  I don't need to see a shrink. Is writing "Cap'n" on my test really a reason for therapy? I don't think so. Oh, and I've got to lug this tray of hot food from the cafeteria with me because I'm on the free lunch program. I know nobody else in the group will have a tray. They'll know I'm on the program. They'll know we don't have any money. I mean look, people in the hallway are staring at me. Man, this is the pits. And we have to sit on the floor in there. That's what I heard. What are we, five years old?

  CRAZY GLUE: You had to do it. You had to write "Cap'n" on that exam.

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Not once but three times. She took off thirty points, plus five for the answer you actually got wrong and five points off for writing the wrong date, for a final grade of sixty. You failed, my boy.

  I couldn't help it. I don't know why, but I had to do it. I had to write "Cap'n."

  SEXY LADY: It's those impulses again.

  It was an easy test, too. Now I have to see a shrink because Old Silky feels I'm not coping well with Mom's death. What does she know about it? How am I supposed to cope? I'm doin' great!

  SEXY LADY: I think people who see shrinks are hot.

  CRAZY GLUE: Don't do it. Don't go. Ditch it. You've got too many secrets. What about your dad? Your mom always warned you not to draw attention to yourself. Now look at you—you're doing it left and right. You want everyone to find out about him? They'll haul him away and then where will you be? Homeless, that's where.

  AUNT BEE: Oh dear, Jason, I told you to be careful.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Are we all forgetting the letters? Jason, a young boy of fifteen, who pictures himself in some kind of Greek tragedy, can't navigate his own life to, well, save his life, and yet he's giving advice to other kids in the school newspaper.

  CRAZY GLUE: He's a Dear Abby! How ironic is that? Man, if anybody ever finds out, they'll hang him by his nostrils.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: He'll give himself away talking to a shrink. They're very good at prying secrets out of unsuspecting young people. They're sneaky. Whatever possessed you, son?

  The letters. Crap! I almost forgot about them. How was I to know that my letter to the editor would get other kids writing to me asking for advice?

  SEXY LADY: I think letter writers are hot!

  AUNT BEE: It was a very good letter, Jason. Let's see—how did it go?

  Dear Editor:

  I just wanted to get a few things off my chest. For instance, J.C. and T.F., get a room! I mean, every day you're in front of the lockers, rolling all over them and swallowing each other's tongues. Nobody can get to his locker without having to unhitch the two of you. Give it a rest for five seconds, why don't you? Try having a conversation for once. And M.V., what are you thinking? P.R. isn't going to ever, ever, ask you out. I know this for a fact. Give up already and find somebody worthy of you. You're beautiful and talented, and you have a really pretty laugh. If P.R. can't see that, then he's a jerk. He's a jerk, anyway. Besides, look to your left in English. Somebody over there likes you, and no, it's not me. I'm not even in your class; I just hear things. Also, a certain teacher says "well" a million times per class. If you don't know who you are, you do now. Find something else to say, or just be silent for a second and gather your thoughts. You're driving your students crazy. They can't concentrate on anything besides counting how many "well's you say. Finally, S.S., you're cool no matter what anybody thinks. Your parents are totally wrong about you; you'll make something of yourself. You just need to build up your confidence a little. I bet you'd be a good swimmer. You're built like a swimmer. You ought to try out for the swim team or get into karate if you have the money. Anyway, you're smarter than anybody gives you credit for. I know; I've been listening to you.

  Okay, that's it for now.

  A. Nonny Mous

  CRAZY GLUE: I always liked that signature. Very funny. A. Nonny Mous, ha, ha!

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  CRAZY GLUE: And now the kids just call you Mouse in their letters. How appropriate is that. You are such a total mouse!

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Not anymore, he isn't. This mouse is starting to have an edge.

  AUNT BEE: You're the mouse that roared. Isn't there a book by that name?

  I wish I hadn't done that. But I felt I just had to e-mail that letter to the editor before I went nuts. People are so thick sometimes. Since I'm invisible around here, people don't even notice what they say around me. I know practically everything that goes on in this school. Anyway, I think I'm getting grouchy in my old age.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Something's got hold of you lately. And that's what's going to get you in trouble in this group. You can't shut up anymore. Years of holding it in and now—look out, world, Jason is on the rampage.

  Oh, I'll keep my mouth shut in there. Only reason I'm going to this thing is because I have to or Old Silky will get the school to call Dad. I had to fake his signature on the permission slip.

  AUNT BEE: You write just like him. No one would ever guess.

  I swear, I'm just going to sit there, and if I have to answer any questions, I'll just lie. That's all. I'll just lie through my teeth.

  SEXY LADY: I think your teeth are hot. Very straight and white. If only you could get your father to brush his teeth and groom himself, he wouldn't look half so crazy.

  CRAZY GLUE: You're so going to screw up. (Laughter).

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  Okay, I'm here. Everybody be quiet.

  CRAZY GLUE: (Whispers) Enter the goob, wearing jeans that are way too short, a dark plaid shirt taken from his father's drawer, holes in his dingy white socks, and for that extra goob effect, his dad's old leather boat shoes—a perfect fit on the feet of his growing, and growing, son. How's the weather up there, goob?

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  SEXY LADY: I think tall men are hot.

  AUNT BEE: Leave the boy be, now. Can't you see he's nervous enough? I just wish you had some better food. I think it's malnourishment making you so cranky.

  Come on, everybody—be quiet. If I blow this, I'm out on the streets and my dad gets locked up in a loony bin. I've got to focus.

  CRAZY GLUE: Focus, everybody. Let's focus!

  LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh. (Nervous laughter).

  Chapter Four

  I STEP INSIDE Dr. Gomez's office and I'm hit by bright colors everywhere: reds, greens, yellows, oranges, a kaleidoscope of colors. The place is a mess. The desk is covered with papers and books and little gadgets, painted rocks with words on them like peace, and love, blah blah blah, and there's this one wall with a painting of birds and trees and mountains and sunshine, and painted in black is the line, "Somewhere over the Rainbow." The mural is by a girl in my class, Shelby Majors.

  CRAZY GLUE: What a showoff. She can never paint just a painting. It's always something huge. She's got that huge canvas hanging in the sophomore wing, too.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: It's a collage.

  AUNT BEE: It's a mess. I have to agree with Crazy Glue; she is a bit of a showoff.

  Hey, haven't any of you noticed, there aren't any windows in here? I don't think I can breathe in a room without windows. I'm starting to panic.

  LAUGH TRACK: Uh-oh! (Nervous laughter).

  "It's pretty busy in here, isn't it."

  I whip around to find Shelby Majors standing in the d
oorway behind me. The food on my tray slides to the right and I quickly straighten the tray, but my cling peaches dish soars. It lands upside down at Shelby's feet.

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  I squat and, with one hand steadying my tray, try to reach the peaches to pick them up with the other. "Oh jeez! I can't believe I did that."

  CRAZY GLUE: Good one, goob.

  "Oh, sorry, my fault for sneaking up on you like that. Let me help." Shelby kneels beside me and helps me scoop up the mess. If she weren't there, I'd put it all back in the dish and eat the peaches anyway. I'm that hungry. But now I drop them in the black plastic wastebasket I find beside Dr. Gomez's metal desk.

  Shelby grabs my napkin and dabs at the peach juice on the rug. She finishes with a big wipe, then wads the napkin and pitches it into the basket. "Oh well, at least it wasn't your spaghetti, right?"

  SEXY LADY: She's being nice, but she's still a showoff, remember.

  "What? Oh yeah." I check my spaghetti to make sure it's still on the plate. "Right." Focus, everybody.

  We both stand up and I notice I tower over her. She has to be just barely over five feet tall, maybe five two, and I'm five eight, at least last time I measured I was, which was a while ago, back when my pants actually fit me. She has a head of thick, rusty-colored hair, and she's got on a Yankees baseball cap that just kind of floats on top. I don't know how she's keeping it on her head. She's wearing some shapely flowery shirt thing, shorts or pants that come to her knees, and those clog-type shoes with no socks. It's January, people! It's fifteen degrees out, people!

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  "Anyway," Shelby says, "I was just saying, it's kind of noisy in here with all the stuff—all the colored walls and the shelves with the games and books and these flags"—she points to the red, green, orange, and purple flags hanging from the ceiling—"and the pillows on the floor. Even my mural's noisy, but I like it." She flops herself down on one of the pillows, sits cross-legged, and sets her bag lunch in her lap. "Notice there aren't any windows in here? I'm sure it's intentional. Like a cocoon, or a womb, right?"

  I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth when she says "womb." I check the door. I want to bolt.

  CRAZY GLUE: I told you you should have ditched.

  AUNT BEE: Sit down, Jason. She won't bite.

  SEXY LADY: I don't think she's pretty. All those freckles all over her face and arms and legs. Does anybody else think she's attractive?

  LAUGH TRACK: Yes!

  SEXY LADY: Okay, she's got big boobs, but boobs aren't everything.

  CRAZY GLUE: Yes, they are.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: I have to agree with C.G. on that one.

  "So sit down. The others will be along in a minute."

  Shelby pats the floor. "Dr. Gomez is usually a little late 'cause she's driving over from one of the other schools she works at."

  "Oh yeah? Well, okay," I say. I sit down on a large red pillow across from her, set my tray on the floor so it covers up the peach juice stain, and since I don't know what else to do, I twirl some spaghetti on my fork and take a bite. Then I notice Shelby unwrapping a roast beef sandwich. She pulls it out and mashes it between her hands.

  CRAZY GLUE: I know what you're thinking. Go ahead, say it.

  AUNT BEE: Shh. Don't say a word.

  CRAZY GLUE: Say it, goob!

  "So, uh—what are you doing there to that sandwich, cause like the cow's already dead."

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  Shelby laughs, too, only her laugh doesn't reach her eyes. Her eyes look tired, sad. "What, this?" She holds out her sandwich with the bread now pounded flat. "I like to flatten the bread so I get more of the roast-beef flavor and less bread flavor."

  "Why don't you just take the meat out of the bread and eat it plain, then?"

  "Oh, I like the bread, just not too much." She takes a bite and smiles.

  CRAZY GLUE: Okay, now we know why she's in therapy.

  LAUGH TRACK: (Laughter).

  CRAZY GLUE: She's even weirder than you are. That's what this group therapy is, a group for weirdos. You'll get labeled a weirdo and then what will happen to you? More swirlies? Shh!

  We sit across from each other saying nothing for about a minute, eating our lunches, and I keep catching myself staring at her—uh—legs.

  CRAZY GLUE: Right, her legs.

  SEXY LADY: She's not that hot.

  Shelby opens her mouth to speak, and since I figure it's probably something like "Knock it off, you perv," I stare down at my food and press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Then the door opens and two guys walk in. They're laughing, and behind them I see Dr. Gomez.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Notice they all have sack lunches.

  They say hi to Shelby and me, really casual-like, as if I've been in this group all along.

  I move my tray up off the floor, uncovering the peach juice stain, and set it in my lap before one of the guys steps on it.

  AUNT BEE: I know you're embarrassed about the tray of food, but remember, you need this meal. It's the most food you get to eat all day.

  LAUGH TRACK: Isn't that a shame?

  Dr. Gomez folds herself into a giant beanbag, spreads out a napkin on her lap, and sets a sandwich, pear, and carrot sticks on it. She flips her long thick braid behind her. Then she takes a bite of one of the carrot sticks and nods at me. "Does everyone here know Jason Papadopoulos?"

  Dr. Gomez smiles and I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth. I glance at the three of them staring at me and give a quick nod. There's Shelby, of course, and then there's Haze Horton, a junior. He's this lanky guy who always looks like he slept in his clothes all week and just woke up. He's got smudgy eye makeup with three white teardrops outlined in black that run from his left eye down his cheek. He also has a scraggly black beard and a voice that's about two octaves lower than mine. He's in my phys ed class because it was the only time he could fit the class into his schedule, so I know he can't play ball to save his life.

  CRAZY GLUE: He runs like a dork.

  Finally, there's Pete Funkel, also a junior. I feel a bit better seeing that he's in this therapy thing, too. Pete's an activist for animal rights and peace and stuff. He speaks up for what he believes. I really admire him for that. He's got a shaved head, which has something to do with his being a Zen Buddhist, but I don't know what.

  The three of them nod at me and Haze says, "Sure, we know Pope-a-Dope. How ya doin', man?"

  "All right," I say, then press my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

  AUNT BEE: Pope-a-Dope. The phys ed teacher calls you that, or the Popester. I wish he wouldn't. Now everyone's calling you that.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: He's just trying to make him feel included—one of the guys.

  AUNT BEE: Well, I wish he wouldn't try so hard.

  Pete puts his hands together like he's about to pray, bows his head toward me, and says, "Welcome."

  I mumble, "Thanks."

  CRAZY GLUE: Get out now! That Zen stuff is too weird.

  Dr. Gomez smiles this big smile so that her eyes squint up really small and friendly. She's got big dangling earrings on and this rainbow-colored skirt. She's just like her office, kaleidoscopic.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Great word—kaleidoscopic.

  "Jason," she says, turning her smile on me, "we always start these sessions by telling the group something that we're grateful for."

  CRAZY GLUE: Gulp!

  "Okay—uh-huh." I smile.

  CRAZY GLUE: Nice fake smile, there, goob. Are they going to force you to talk? Or will they just sit and wait for you until you say something?

  Shelby wrinkles up her nose. "It's one of Pete's Buddhist ideas. You'll get used to it."

  "And it's a good one," Dr. Gomez says, glancing at Pete. "It reminds us there's always something we can be grateful for, no matter what our situation." She turns to Haze. "Haze, why don't you start and we'll go around the room counterclockwise."

  I look from Haze to Pete.
r />   FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: That's right, Pope-a-Dope. You're third. What are you going to say?

  CRAZY GLUE: Make something up. Lie!

  I glance at the exit across the room. I want out. The bird in my chest is crashing up against its cage. I can feel the heavy thump, thump, thump of its feverish body inside, and I open my mouth, not to speak, but to let the bird out so I can breathe.

  Haze says, "Yeah, okay, I'm grateful for..." He pauses and looks up at the ceiling, his big Adams apple poking out of his neck from beneath his beard. "Yeah, all right, I'm ready." He looks at us. "I'm sooo grateful that Mr. Moon didn't ask us to turn in our homework today, because I didn't do it." He glances at Dr. Gomez. "Our house was a complete madhouse yesterday; I mean berserko."

  Pete says, "I'm grateful that my dad spent last night safe in a shelter." He bows his head at me, indicating it's my turn.

  "Who, me?"

  CRAZY GLUE: Way to buy some more time, jacko.

  AUNT BEE: Tell them how grateful you are to have that tray of food you're gripping so hard, and that you're happy to be in this nice warm room, and you're grateful you didn't have rain dripping through the cracks in your ceiling last night, and that your dear father is still safely at home, we hope.

  CRAZY GLUE: Do not listen to her. Lie!

  "I'm—uh—I—I pass," I finally say.

  Shelby slams down the last bit of her sandwich and yells at me. "What? No way, Pope-a-Dope. You can't come in here and listen in on our lives and just sit there. We're not a peepshow, you know. No passes! No passes!"

  While she's saying this, Dr. Gomez is trying to shush her, and Shelby turns her fiery gaze on her. "What? It's no fair. He can't just come here and spy on us."

  "Hey man, lighten up. He's not spying. He's just nervous and wants to check us out some more. Right, Dr. G?" Haze nods at her.

  Before Dr. Gomez can speak, Shelby jumps back in. "If he can't even come up with something to be grateful for, I mean, give me a break. It's not like he's telling us how many times a day he jerks off."

  "All right!" Dr. Gomez raises both her hands. She looks at me with this smile that I think is supposed to be friendly, but I can tell she's irked.