Be More Chill

by Ned Vizzini

  See, I haven’t had dreams in years, or at least dreams I could remember, and I’ve never ever had sex in my dreams, ever, but tonight I conjure up an unimaginable pastiche of women and sex and money. Chloe is there, as is the blonde with pigtails from Dismissed, as is Christine, as are the women I saw on TV after Dismissed, during my push-ups. There are rich and famous beautiful folks everywhere and I’m talking to all of them, conversing with Keanu Reeves, actually, while Chloe makes out with my ankle (and a chick elf does too, with the other one). The setting is a garden, but the plants are all stringy muscle cells, tendons, and vein-vines, with nerves growing like bleached trees toward the ceiling. And the ceiling is really the apex of my skull and right up there is the gray pill, like the sun, with a smiley face painted on its side. “You are cool, Jeremy,” it says, finally moving its lips instead of just thinking to me. “You are so cool.”

  I am cool. The next day at school I prove it. First the squip tells me I have to wear the “I like the Pope/The Pope smokes dope” T-shirt because Eminem just died. That’s all they’re talking about on the radio as I walk past Mom.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” she says in the kitchen. Mom’s buried in her crossword. If she doesn’t finish it before she has to leave the house, she’s a failure. “How are you?”

  IGNORE HER. I get milk out of the fridge.

  “I said ‘How are you’—What are you wearing?” She stands up very quickly. “You cannot go to school with that!”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize freedom of expression didn’t exist in this house.” I’ve gotten pretty good at repeating what the squip says without missing a beat.

  “Freedom of expression doesn’t exist for minors, Jeremy, which is what you are.”

  TELL HER TO GO F_ _ _ HERSELF.

  No!

  THEN WEAR A DIFFERENT SHIRT OUT OF THE HOUSE AND CHANGE BEFORE YOU GET TO SCHOOL.

  Okay. That works. I leave Mom satisfied, wearing an alternate shirt, exit the house, and morph halfway across the field into the Eminem T-shirt, tall grass tickling my chest. I start singing to myself, one of those silly songs I wrote in my head in sixth grade, back when I wanted to be a rock star: “I’m the—I’m the—I’m the—I’m the—I’m the—man! Dun-dun-dun—”

  NO SINGING, PLEASE.

  No singing?

  YES. IT IS ANNOYING. IF YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE MUSIC IN YOUR HEAD, PLEASE MAKE IT RAP-SLASH-HIP-HOP, THE ACCEPTABLE MUSIC OF YOUTH CULTURE.

  How about this: shutdown.

  Phew. I keep the tune going as I cross the field. As I approach school, though, I get nervous and turn the squip on. I climb the stairs and Rich is at the top, hanging with a pack of fawning females. “Quality shirt,” he says as I approach.

  “Hello, Rich,” I nod, squip-prompted. I almost wave but the squip tells me that waving is one of the worst things you can do in any social situation; it makes people question your nonretardedness. “What’s up?”

  “You headed to class?”

  “Not in a rush.”

  “Huh.” Rich eyes me closely. Does he know? Maybe he’ll be pissed because I went through Rack to get my squip instead of paying him. Maybe he’ll want to kick my ass—

  DON’T WORRY. WORRYING RUINS YOUR POSTURE. DISPLAY THOSE PECS WE DEVELOPED LAST NIGHT.

  I jut my chest out.

  NOW WE’LL SETTLE THIS. ASK RICH IF YOU CAN TALK TO HIM ALONE FOR A SECOND.

  “Rich, can you come over here one minute? I gotta ask you something.” I lead my former tormentor to the other side of the school steps—the girls turn their heads at us like motion-sensitive cameras. Once I have Rich alone, I await instructions.

  SAY, “UP UP DOWN DOWN LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT B A START.”

  “Up up down down left right left right B A start.”

  Rich’s face lights up: “You got one!” He hugs me gruffly; he’s a little short for it, but I hug back.

  “Yeah, I got one. Is that like their secret code or something?”

  “I don’t know. They have their own way of communicating with one another; it’s pretty complicated. I’m stoked you got yours. But hey…where’d you get it?”

  “Well—”

  REACH INTO YOUR POCKETS.

  You want me to give him that other $100?

  YES. FINDER’S FEE. BELIEVE ME, IT’S WORTH IT.

  “I went and got it through the information you gave me, Rich, so I figured maybe you’d want a little bit of money for it.”

  “Hell yeah!” Rich puts his hand out. “You’re lucky I don’t beat your ass for not buying it through me, though.” He smiles.

  I hand him the money.

  “Seriously,” he lowers his voice, “thanks a lot. Things are kinda bad at my house.”

  I nod.

  GOOD JOB.

  “Let’s go back to the girls,” Rich says. “I’ll introduce you.”

  Rich leads me back to his cadre of females, arrayed at the top of the steps as if they are waiting for an audition and not for school. It’s a group I’m familiar with from afar: Abby and Brooke and Celine plus others, girls with slight but compelling variations on how a teenage girl should look: glitter, eyebrow rings, color contacts, lip gloss I can almost smell from here.

  “Everybody, this is my friend Jeremy,” Rich proclaims. His friend! Awesome! A bewildering number of hands—although it’s really just seven—get touched by my soft hand as I move around the circle saying hello. “Hi, ladies,” I say to all the girls.

  I make the mistake of shaking Celine’s hand but the squip keeps me in line for the rest of them—I slap instead of shaking, to denote sexual readiness. It’s a special, slow kind of slap; as my hand leaves each girl’s, my fingertips linger just long enough for heat to flow from my eyes to theirs. The squip keeps track of their names but doesn’t need to—these are people I’ve watched and envied since freshman year.

  “So…everybody hear about Eminem?” submits Tal, a tiny kid, one of the nongirls in the group.

  “Ick…” Abby pouts.

  BE JADED AND PROFANE.

  “I heard that s_i_ yesterday afternoon,” I say. “I’m surprised he didn’t get a_ _ _u _ _ _ _ to death.”

  The group chuckles! I never knew making people chuckle could feel so good. It’s not like some of them chuckle and others talk out of the side of their mouths about me—they all glitter in my humor.

  DISMISSED.

  “Anybody see Dismissed yesterday?” I offer.

  “Aw, that was a good one,” Rich chimes in.

  “Really? You’re into that show?” Unbelievable. Maybe my squip and Rich’s are teaming up.

  YES. MAYBE.

  “I’m totally into it—”

  “Me too!” Brooke pipes up, getting my attention.

  BROOKE! NOW! GIVE THE FORMER GIRLFRIEND STORY, the squip orders, and I go into a riff that we planned this morning.

  “I don’t like watching TV, but ever since I got out of this relationship?…” I say to Brooke. She nods. “I have to watch Dismissed just to distract myself from the pain, you know?” I keep my eyes heavily lidded, like I’m sad or stoned or broken in some way.

  “Awww,” Brooke looks down. She’s not bad looking. NO SHE’S NOT. “Who’d you break up with?”

  “Katrina.”

  “Katrina Lohst?”

  “Yeah.” That really is Katrina’s last name; it’s like a cosmic joke—

  “You never went out with Katrina!” a shrill, dry voice accuses me from across the circle. It belongs to Ibby—the only thing anyone knows about her is that she got in a romantic situation with a football guy on Middle Borough’s staircase and she was on her knees on one step while he was on the step above her and then the entire football team came charging up the stairs and she freaked out and popped off him and slid down on her knees and had to wear knee bandages for the next few weeks. “I don’t know what’s up with you, Jeremy. Like three days go you knew you were a loser and you didn’t butt into our conversations and stuff.”

  RETALIATION, the
squip advises before submitting a line.

  “Hey, Ibby,” I scuff my shoe on school property. “I heard there was this sale on kneepads at Tar-get.” I pronounce Target with the French ending the way the girls do.

  “F_ _k you.” Ibby leaves; one of her friends goes with her, but the other girls stay loyal to the cause.

  “I don’t know what’s up with that,” I say to the group, squip-prompted again. “It’s like some people just prejudge everybody and don’t give anyone a chance to be themselves, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Brooke smiles.

  “So you went out with Katrina too?” Rich asks me. That makes me wonder if he really went out with her, but the squip tells me that it isn’t important who did or didn’t go out with Katrina in this universe—it gives you status to say it, and it’s possible in so many universes, you might as well just say it.

  “Only a little,” I respond.

  “F_ _ _ that c_ _ _ _ _ _ _,” Rich spits. The girls jump; Rich was always a great curser, even before he got a squip. “So who’s going to class and who’s gonna hang with me in the dank and creepy spot?”

  “I’m out,” says Celine, as are Tal and this girl Jessica from my play.…_ _ _k, I totally forgot about the play!

  WHAT ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT? LINES?

  Oh, right. Abby and Brooke stick around so it’s just Rich, two girls and myself—an illustrious foursome—who make our way to the “dank and creepy spot” to do something dank and creepy. I hope.

  Wow. People are in class right now.

  YES, YES. DON’T MUSE SO MUCH. TAKE THE PIECE.

  Rich is passing me his pipe because we’re smoking pot outside school in some bushes. Who knew the dank and creepy spot would really be this dank and creepy? I can see the bike rack through a hedge and a few kids kowtowing to it, kneeling to lock up their rides as the late bell rings. The late bell! Jeez, how can I ever worry about the late bell again?

  JEEZ?

  Sorry.

  I take the pipe as it’s passed to me. I’ve never smoked pot before—

  AND YOU’RE NOT GOING TO NOW. IT IMPEDES COMMUNICATION PARAMETERS.

  What do I do, then?

  SMOKE NORMALLY; I’LL FILTER THE ACTIVE COMPOUNDS OUT OF THE CAPILLARIES IN YOUR SKULL.

  “Jeremy, you crackin’ out over there? You gonna hit it or not?”

  I pull with my lips, but no smoke comes into my mouth. IT HAS A CARB. PUT YOUR FINGER OVER THAT LITTLE HOLE. I do, then pull again. It works. I pass to Brooke, sitting cross-legged next to me, as I exhale carefully away from her face. Uck.

  So if I can’t smoke pot because of you, how come Rich is smoking?

  HE’S PROBABLY FILTERING AS WELL. HE HAS TO KEEP UP APPEARANCES. OR HE HAS HIS SQUIP OFF.

  That’s ridiculous. Do you stop people from drinking, too?

  ABSOLUTELY. YOU HAVE TO SHUT ME OFF BEFORE YOU DRINK. I’LL START ORDERING YOU TO KILL PEOPLE.

  Really?

  POSSIBLY.

  “So Jeremy, I’ve never seen you smoke before,” Brooke says, passing to Abby with experienced grace.

  DO THE DUST JOKE.

  “That’s because I’m so busy smoking dust,” I say. “You know, PCP? I chief that sh_ _ in a shed outside my house all day and have visions.”

  “Shut up!” Brooke hits me playfully. “You do not!”

  “Yeah, he does; I’ve seen him,” Rich nods, hitting. “Jeremy’s a madman, this kid.” Rich slips an arm around Abby; she blushes. Awww…

  DON’T YOU THINK YOU’D BETTER FOLLOW SUIT?

  Right, right. I look at Brooke. How to tackle this? There are so many parts of a girl’s body and they’re all so compelling. Do I put a hand on her leg?

  NO. SIT CLOSE TO HER SO YOUR LEGS ARE TOUCHING.

  I comply.

  NOW PUT YOUR HAND BEHIND HER AND START TRACING YOUR FINGERS UP AND DOWN HER BACK.

  This is impossible; this is impossible; this is not something I could ever do, but I look over at Rich and he’s already doing it so what the _ _ck, I do it. I put an arm behind Brooke and smile at her and she smiles back as I touch the little womanly dent between the side of her back and her hip. Then I start to trace up and down.

  “That’s nice,” she whispers.

  “Jeremy!” Rich barks. “You want this?”

  “No,” I say without looking at the pipe. Brooke shakes her head too. My fingers curl and uncurl on her back. KEEP LOOKING HER IN THE FACE. YOU’RE DOING FINE. Her eyes are pretty, green I think, and one strand of hair has fallen over them. NOW LEAN IN. YOU’VE GOT THIS. YOU’VE GOT THIS LOCKED UP. My body leans forward tiny degree after tiny degree and there I am, with my lips wetting themselves on Brooke’s, kissing. My first kiss!

  DON’T MESS THIS UP! PART HER LIPS SLOWLY WITH YOUR TONGUE. HAVE YOUR HAND GRAB HER BACK. DON’T LET IT JUST REST ON HER. YOU’RE THE MAN; YOU HAVE TO LEAD THIS.

  Gosh, people’s mouths taste so weird. It’s like, well, I guess I expected Brooke’s to taste better than mine or at least different. You get used to the way your own mouth tastes and you get so obsessed about other people’s that when you finally get to one, you think it’ll taste like something, something beside pot smoke, you know, like chocolate maybe? Her tongue traces lines on mine and I put my other hand on her leg, just holding it there, trying to put my tongue in deeper.

  DOING OKAY, DOING OKAY. RUB HER BACK.

  Damn! Brooke’s mouth is big! Now it’s all the way open and I’m in there licking away—it’s like a never-ending cave! Wow!

  WOULD YOU SHUT UP AND CONCENTRATE?

  Brooke’s hands are in my hair; I hope my dandruff isn’t attacking her too much. I open my eyes, which have been closed the whole time—not because I was told to close them, just naturally—and her eyes are open too, curious, twinkling. We both laugh and pull apart at our accidental eye contact. Then we keep kissing.

  “Mgmmmph,” she says.

  TAKE YOUR TIME, the squip says. BUT IN SIXTY SECONDS YOU’RE GOING TO WANT TO START TOUCHING HER BREASTS. OTHERWISE SHE’LL GET OFFENDED.

  Okay. Brooke has very small breasts; that was something I noticed back on top of the steps.

  THAT’S WHY YOU’VE GOT TO MAKE SURE TO TOUCH THEM. OTHERWISE SHE’LL FEEL BAD. IT DOESN’T MATTER IF THEY’RE SMALL; WHAT’S IMPORTANT IS THAT THEY HAVE NIPPLES ON THEM. GIRLS LIKE THEIR NIPPLES.

  I move my tongue back and forth and up and down and in and out—I even move it a little bit in four-dimensional space, since I take so much time. Heh-heh. I bet I’m moving in 5D space too, like hyperspace, like I’m a hyperspace kisser—

  NOW, JEREMY! NOW! NOW!

  My hand moves up Brooke’s leg to her chest.

  FEEL THROUGH THE FABRIC OF HER SHIRT. SEE IF YOU CAN FIND A NIPPLE. IF YOU’RE DOING YOUR JOB, IT SHOULD BE HARD. IT’S ABOUT THE SIZE OF A PENCIL ERASER. YOU KNOW HOW YOU CHEW PENCIL ERASERS IN CLASS? LOOK FOR SOMETHING THAT SIZE.

  Assuming that you’re going by, uh “stage right,” I’m feeling Brooke’s right breast. “Oh…” she says very quietly, disconnecting herself from my lips. “Oh…” It sounds like a bad oh, but she’s not offering any resistance so I keep palming until a small nub—just like a pencil eraser; good job, squip!—makes itself known by sliding across my hand.

  NOW HERE’S THE TRICK. NEVER RUB THE NIPPLES UP AND DOWN. ALWAYS BACK AND FORTH. AND STOP KISSING HER MOUTH. KISS HER NECK.

  I comply and Brooke leans back and makes little breathing noises that sound like baby horses with allergies. I use my index finger to rub the unseen but compelling nub back and forth, slowly at first, then really really fast, then kind of fast, then slow and hard, then really really fast again. It’s fun.

  TIME FOR THE SHIRT TO COME OFF. THEN YOU CAN KISS THE NIPPLES; THAT’S HIGHLY EFFECTIVE. USE YOUR OTHER HAND.

  I look back—Rich is lounging on the ground and Abby is licking his belly button, just like Samartha was doing at the dance. That must be his thing. I make some slick squipped eye contact; he understands, leading Abby out of the dank and creepy sp
ot so Brooke and I are alone. I bet he has a backup spot.

  GREAT JOB. NOW BOTH HANDS FOR THE SHIRT.

  My other hand was in the dirt—pretty useless, huh? I pick it up and pull the lower lip of Brooke’s shirt over her navel (with a ring, whoop-de-doo) and then her solar plexus. Finally, in one of those epic moments that I thought only happened on your deathbed, her shirt is up by her neck and her breasts are splayed out! Damn! Although they’re not really “splayed out,” they’re more like “laid out,” like two little hotcakes from McDonald’s with cookies-and-cream nuggets on the top of each one. They are much smaller in person than they were under the shirt; they look like they belong to a ten-year-old. Boy.

  “One of your nipples is pierced,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah,” Brooke smiles. “Just got it done.”

  GO! GO!

  I bury my face on Brooke’s breast, “stage left” this time, aiming for the ring. I want to stick my tongue through it, this crazy metal sexy thing—

  “Aaaaa! Jeremy! Ow! Stop!”

  UH-OH.

  I look up. “What?”

  “It’s infected! You can’t lick it.”

  “It’s infected?” I squint at the nipple placed at the end of my nose. Jesus, it’s all purple and yellow around the part where the hoop goes through the skin! And green! “Oh man, I’m sorry, what did I do?”

  RETREAT! RETREAT! DISEASE! RETREAT!

  I pull my head back; Brooke grabs her shirt in a fist and swishes it over her breasts. “I wasn’t sure if—”

  YOU COULD HAVE TOLD US.

  “You could have told us—I mean, me—I mean, wait.” I stand up, brush myself off and then kneel down next to her. “I wouldn’t have…uh, does it hurt?”

  “Of course it hurts, and I just got it; I don’t want it to close up.…”

  UH-OH. BAD SITUATION HERE, JEREMY.

  “I’m sorry, okay?” Brooke says.

  TALK TO HER A LITTLE BIT. BE KIND—

  “Brooke, no, I’m sorry.…” I put my bony arm around her and lie down, pull her with me so she’s resting on my stomach and I’m resting on the ground with the pot ash and Starburst wrappers.