Be More Chill. Ned Vizzini

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      At lunch I seek out my best friend Michael Mell. Michael sits in a different place in the cafeteria every day—sometimes the indoor part with the long formica tables, sometimes the outdoor part with the scarred picnic benches and giant bees—but you can always spot him because he’s a tall white boy with a white-boy Afro and huge headphones. They have a cord coming off them that’s spiralled like an old phone cord. The headphones let him plunk down anywhere, with the jocks or Warhammer nerds or at one of the girl tables (although Michael only sits with Asian girls). No one bothers him when he has them on because he’s obviously got important things on his mind.

      “What’s up?” I say as I approach. Michael doesn’t listen to a thing in those headphones during lunch. He just likes how they feel on his head.

      “Mmmmgph,” he says, wolfing down a fish patty sandwich with cheese and chocolate milk. “‘Sup?”

      “Big problems,” I say.

      I pull the chocolate Shakespeare out of my pocket (it’s wrapped in Victorian era style foil), plop it on the table and prop my elbows up to either side of it. “I don’t think I can give this to Christine.”

      “Mmmmrrrr, yuh.”

      “Michael.”

      “Yuh.”

      “You want to finish that?”

      Michael smiles and lets chewed fish-cheese roll through the gap in his teeth. It plats on to the tray in front of him.

      “Crackhead,” I laugh. “People are going to see you.”

      “Uh-nuh,” Michael says; his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as his food slides away. “Yeah, so, ah,” he drinks milk, wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist. “What’s with Christine? You pussying out?”

      “Yeah, well.” I haven’t touched my food. “It’s bad.”

      “What’s bad? I totally know how it is. Did you say something dumb to her?”

      “Well, no, but people think I did. Which is basically the same thing.”

      “No,” Michael says, working on an orange cream icecream bar now. “You doing something and people thinking that you did it are actually really different.”

      “Well, people think I gave her a letter.”

      Michael’s body rocks. He grins: “‘I’ve got your letter! / You’ve got my song—’” I punch him in the shoulder. “Ow!”

      “No Weezer, OK?”

      “I’ll try. Michael folds his hands. “So who thinks you wrote Christine a letter?”

      “Jenna Rolan. She also said I was her ‘new stalker’.”

      “You’re such a girl.” Michael gets up and slides his tray into a nearby garbage can. “So what? Does Christine care? That’s who’s important, right?”

      “Yeah, she’s who’s important, but she’s not the only thing that matters in this whole…situation,” I say, making circles with my hands to emphasise “situation”. “It’s like, do I still give this to her or not? Will it seem too stalkerish?”

      “Jeremy.” Michael fixes buttons on his shirt. “That chocolate Shakespeare is genius. She’s gonna love chocolate, because everybody does, except for those weird people who only like chips”—Michael glances one table away at a redheaded girl eating chips—“and she’s in a Shakespeare play with you, so obviously she’s gonna like Shakespeare.”

      “But what if she thinks I’m an obsessed loser?” I start in on the bean salad in my tray. It came cold but feels colder.

      “Dude,” Michael says, “think of how you’ll feel if you don’t give it to her. Think of how you’ll feel at home tonight, jerking off, having missed your chance.”

      “Oh yeah. Well, duh, I’ll feel like…” Like I do all the time, like I feel whenever I can’t dial a phone number or dance at a dance or hold a hand right. Like I’m used to feeling. “Like shit.”

      “Right, so give it to her—”

      “Yo, tall-ass, could you maybe sit or move from the garbage can?” Rich says to Michael. Rich has come on the scene; that’s what he does best. He’s shorter than us but very built. He has blond hair with a streak of red in the back, like a rooster. Michael moves aside and Rich dumps his whole tray, including the actual tray, into the trash. He eyes us.

      “What? Punks.”