Certifiably Insane

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, a small smile dancing on his lips. Mrs. Anderson, the second grade art teacher, clenched her mouth shut into a thin, white line to keep herself from scolding him. Had I been the one leaning back, she’d have been all over me, taking away my watercolors, basically screaming at me. I steamed in silence, furious at the new kid who was ignoring all the rules and getting away with it. In silent protest, I, too, tipped backwards, my feet dangling and kicking the underside of the table as Michael was doing.

“Curtis!” Mrs. Anderson said sharply. “Put your chair on the ground this instant or the next chair you’ll be sitting on is the one outside Mr. McGinley’s office! And get back to work on your self portrait!” My mouth opening in shock at the unfairness of it all, I slammed the chair legs to the ground, a thunderous noise echoing around the art room. All heads turned towards me in shock, the silence deafening to my ears, a red flush creeping up around my neck and cheeks. I skimmed my classmates’ faces, from Paul’s gaping mouth, drool sliding down his chin to Luke’s look of pure terror to Mackenzie and her utter contempt to Michael. Michael, with a smirk on his face, seemingly laughing at me, sneering as if he knew that I was about to get in trouble because of him.

“Curtis Drake Matthews!” Mrs. Anderson broke the silence in this hushed voice that sent shivers tingling down my spine. Her voice was emphasizing every syllable, straining to keep her furious yells choked down. “Come here.” Trembling, I worked to keep the streams of tears away, swallowing and clamping my teeth together, purposefully disobeying to protest the unfairness. “Now!” she loudly said, her anger finally getting the better of her when I stayed firmly planted in my chair. “I’m sick and tired of you going out of your way to break every rule I’ve made and never follow any directions! Yeah, I know about your claim to fame, of singlehandedly breaking every rule that your last year teacher had. We teachers do talk to one another, you know, Curtis. Mrs. Benson was quick to inform me of your antics. How you stole Mason’s phone to break the ‘No texting in class’ rule because you yourself didn’t have one. Or how you purposefully got the class a pet fish, and then tormented it at every chance you got to break her ‘Leave the class pet alone’ rule because she forgot to take it off the list when the previous class turtle died. Or how you brought Mrs. Benson a mug of coffee from home only to hit it with a baseball in order to break the ‘Whatever you do, never spill my coffee’ rule because Mrs. Benson started to drink only tea. So, yeah, Curtis, I know all about you. You are not going to do this to me. You are out of control!” I was close to tears by that point, realizing my previously perfected way of pushing buttons one at a time and well spaced hadn’t worked for the first time in my years of education, as my teacher was absolutely fuming, well past the point of snapping.

Shuddering in fright, I slowly proceeded to the front of the classroom, Mrs. Anderson beet red, her veins throbbing, her curling, vicious snarl prominent. She grabbed me by the shoulder and together, her shoving me along, we made our way into the hallway, now seeming incredibly daunting. As I walked along numbly, the hallway seemed to be much wider and elongated, the door at the end, the maple wood door, large and dangerous. Each step felt like it was a mile, each different colored checker on the carpet a country. As we passed by the windows, the normally bright and cheerfully waving trees appeared to be violently shaking, their branches sharp, the surrounding sky a gloomy gray. That fifty meters felt like the longest walk of my life, and the ever growing maple wood door was looming, signifying the utter terror and horror to come. And Mrs. Anderson’s grip on my shoulder was like an eagle’s talons gripping a quaking mouse that would soon meet its demise of being teared apart.

It turned out to be not even half as bad as I imagined, Mr McGinley merely firmly scolding me, which was quite easy to tune out. For punishment, all I got was a ‘detention,’ which was just missing recess, and made to apologize to Mrs. Anderson, which turned out to be the much harder punishment.

I had clenched my teeth, looking down at the ground, and mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Like every adult in the history of mankind, she was quick to sternly respond, “For?”

To which I turned my face up at hers, and grumpily whispered, “For leaning back in my chair and then coming down too quickly.” I was quick to add, “Hardly worthy of a severe punishment, but whatever teachers say just has to be right,” in a sneering voice, my eyes never leaving her flashing ones.

“Young man, unless you want me to arrange another visit with our dear friend Mr. McGinley, I’d advise you to lose the attitude.”
“Well, if he really is ‘our dear friend,’ by all means, do so,” I smartly responded under my breath. For a second grader, I was really mouthy, as well as bright, despite not being good at ‘people’ skills, and my responses were unlike what most teachers expected from me, and so, at that point, Mrs. Anderson just shook her head and stormed off.

For the next couple of days, I was still seething at how Michael kept on getting away with everything, although I only saw him in art. It was the next class when I exploded legendarily.

We were supposed to be drawing farm animals and I was working on making a cow. I was proud of how it was coming, actually behaving myself for once, when I happened to look up, and noticed that Michael was just staring off out of the wall-to-wall window that overlooked a wooded area. He appeared to be looking at a hummingbird.

Unable to contain my anger, which was actually jealousy at how easy it was for MIchael to get away with anything and everything, I suddenly burst out with, “Mrs. Anderson! Michael’s not doing the assignment! He’s looking at the hummingbird!”

“Curtis! Mind your own business!” she scolded, eyes flashing.

“That’s so unfair! This is dumb! If he doesn’t have to draw a stupid cow then I’m not either!” I then threw my black crayon to the floor before stubbornly putting my feet up on the table, as Michael was, and stared out the window.

“Curtis! Out in the hallway this instant!” she said, emphasizing her words with an edge on each syllable, rising from her chair, her veins once again throbbing, her eyes once again flashing.

“And what if I don’t?” I protested loudly, looking at her directly, arms crossed.

“Mr. McGinley’s. Go,” she said, losing all her patience.

“And I suppose Michael can just sit there, not doing anything? Oh, wait. No need to ask. He can get away with everything. The rules don’t apply for him. Sorry, Mrs. Anderson. I completely forgot.”

“You don’t know what-” she started, before being cut off by Michael.

“Mrs. Anderson, it’s okay,” he broke in, clearing his throat.

“It’s not okay! You get away with everything I get in trouble for! If I did what you do, I’d be suspended! It’s not fair! You don’t do your assignments, you lean back, you put your feet on the desk, you never answer when you’re called on! You never do anything!” I burst out, furious.

“Look, Curtis! I do do my assignments!”

“No, you don’t! You just sit in your chair, staring out the window!”

“I’ve done every single one! I made a self portrait, just like you did. And I made a farm animal, just like you did. A pig.”

“No, you didn’t! You never even got any paper!” I yelled at him, letting all of my bottled emotions at him out all at once after being inside me brewing.

“Just because you didn’t see me do it doesn’t mean I didn’t!” he said, matching my volume. Mrs. Anderson was at a loss about what to do, her mouth gaping, her eyes wide, her cheeks pale. But she eventually decided to let us work it out.

“Well, then, how did you make it? Did you make it using your mind?” I mocked him.

“Yeah, idiot! Of course I made it in my mind! How else am I supposed to?”

“Don’t call me an idiot, idiot!” I shouted. “And, oh, how else are you supposed to make a pig other than in your mind? Hmmm, that’s hard! Maybe with a pencil on paper like every other human!”

“Maybe I’m not like other humans! And I’ll call you an idiot if I want to!” That left me stunned for a brief moment. How was he different from other humans?

“Oh, so you’re an alien whose hands don’t work? No, wait, I know! You’re so dumb you don’t even know what a pig is so you can’t draw one!” Our classmates were just as shocked as Mrs. Anderson, but smiling and laughing at our screaming match. By then, other teachers were crowded around the doorway, looking in agape as our art teacher put a fingers to out lips, wanting us to work through it. Or scream through it.

“Yeah, great logic! I’m not an alien or an idiot like you! I’m blind! I can’t see! So, yeah, I don’t draw! I can’t! But you’re right, I actually don’t know exactly what a pig is. I just have a vague idea. But I do do the assignments, and I get away with stuff because I’m blind! So just shut up!”

“What?” I asked, stunned.

“I’m blind, Curtis! I can’t see! My eyes don’t work! Or are you so dumb you don’t know what blind is? Who am I kidding? We already know you’re an idiot!” he burst out furiously, straining to be as loud as he could.

“Well, I think you’re the idiot! What kind of a person can’t see?”

“That was mean,” he said quietly. For the first time that day, I actually felt bad, maybe even for the first time in my life. I mentioned I was terrible at ‘people’ skills, and it was so bad that I never knew or cared about the impact that I had on other people.

“I’m sorry!” I yelled.

“Hey, haven’t you ever been told not to make fun of the disabled?”

“Yeah, but never to not make fun of idiots! And you’re an idiot, and your dumbness overpowers your disability, so there!” I said, once again not thinking.

“You’re terrible to make fun of me in that way! But in a weird way, I still want to be your friend! You’re literally the first person who’s ever insulted my blindness, caring about me more than my disability! Everyone always tiptoes around me, and it’s terrible, as they are afraid to speak what they really want to because they’re afraid of hurting me! Like our teachers do! Like everyone does!”

“You’re the last person I’d want to be friends with! I don’t like idiots! And I don’t care about you at all! And that includes your blindness!”

“Well, as my mom tells me when I’m out of control, aren’t you a piece of work?”

“Maybe I am! What are you going to do about it?” At that point, we were beet red, screaming just for the sake of screaming. We had these ridiculous furious expressions, although Michael couldn’t see mine, but we both were panting in exertion, taking heaving gulps of air.

And then, strangely, we both burst out laughing, at our stupidity, at each other, at the ridiculousness of the situation, but mostly at ourselves. We must have sounded like cackling lunatics, our sides aching, the most hysterical laughs bursting from our mouths, occasionally yelling out cries of, “Idiot!” For a good fifteen minutes, we couldn’t control ourselves, actually scaring some of our more nervous classmates, the others ogling in wonder and delight. The teachers were astonished, as I’m almost positive nothing like this had ever happened in Schultz Elementary, for having two 2nd graders engaged in a screaming match, one blind and the other socially lacking nonetheless, would have been a sight to see anywhere, but especially in the rundown, boring town of Cedarville. That day was the first but most certainly not the last time our classmates, teachers, and innocent bystanders labelled us as “certifiably insane.”

But, that day, I realized it wasn’t so much that I was socially awkward, but more that I needed a friend who was as intellectual and yet as idiotic as I was. Because Michael, with his blindness, idiocy, and insanity, became my first friend. We became inseparable, constantly whispering to each other and randomly bursting into bouts of laughter at the smallest things, whether a teacher’s mispronunciation or a strangely shaped leaf on the ground or one of his ‘head drawings,’ for which I had to describe the smallest detail of a common object.

We talked about everything, most of the time our conversations labelling us as “certifiably insane”--as our 2nd grade audience did first--if anyone was as to overhear just a sentence. We continued to insult each other and to get in pointless screaming matches every day, earning ourselves hundreds of odd stares each week, especially when I poked fun at his blindness. Then, Michael got all the pity, me the cold glares, and he just put on a sad face, only me reading the satisfied smirk plastered behind the trembling blind boy act. We called each other idiots, took out our anger on one another (both violently and verbally), but at the end of each day, we never said goodbye without having the same unstoppable fits of laughter. He’s weird and an idiot, but I wouldn’t trade him for any other person. In fact, I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s completely insane, ridiculous, makes fun of everything I say or do, and whacks me with his cane that I failed to notice in 2nd grade every time I annoy him, but I treat him similarly, constantly throwing things at him and then laughing because he can never tell until the moment of impact, and then easily dodge his crazed, aimless punches. You might think our relationship was completely twisted, but to us, it’s just what we needed. I love him for insulting me, screaming at me, and having insane thoughts. And he loves me for just the same reasons. You might not understand it, like all of our conversations, but just get that it’s true.

Michael and I, we agree we make the strangest but the best pair of best friends ever. We may have debated the actual reasons why in shouting matches, but this is my story, not his. I have accurately concluded how you know you have a best friend, although Michael might beg to differ. But he does know in his heart that I’m right. Because best friends, they’re people you can always make up with, they’re who you can be weird with, they’re who you can make fun of and know they won’t care. Because, you see, you know you’ve found yourself a best friend when together, you earn more stares, and make more people run away from you in terror, than a crazed unicycling clown (it happened, don’t ask). Because you know you’ve found a best friend when every day, you hear hushed whispers about the two of you and questions about your mental health. Because you know you’ve got a best friend when you have more scars than hugs from them, more insults than compliments said by them, more rude faces than smiles aimed at you, but all you feel for them is love. Because you know you’ve got yourself a true best friend when together, you’re “certifiably insane.”