It's Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini Page B

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