Maybe He's Mental by Allison Stillerman

Since Allison Stillerman considers her novel, Maybe He’s Mental, absurdist, maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Jamie in the chapter that follows, doesn’t realize that his best friend Peter is imaginary.

Maybe He’s Mental

An excerpt by Allison Stillerman

“I thought you were gone,” Jamie explained sorrowfully, eyes crinkling and one side of his mouth scrunching up like a drawstring pouch. “You weren't there when I needed you. The only people I had were that weird guy in the scrubs and some teacher with paint on her shoulders.”

“Sweetiecakes, you have more paint, blood, soot, dirt, and chloroform on you than someone who just got dragged through a vat of paint, blood, soot, dirt, and chloroform. I don't really think you're quite in a position to criticize other people's hygiene,” Peter informed him, eyebrows raised.

“Your hair is messy,” Jamie joked, chuckling weakly and trying to smile. Peter put his hands on his hips.

After they had stared at each other for a bit, Peter discreetly smoothing his already-impeccable hair and Jamie wishing he didn't have to try so hard to be cool, asked awkwardly, “So, where did the teacher-lady and the doctor-y guy go?”

“They're dead, Jamie.” Peter's voice was a monotone. “The woman died of blood loss after trauma to the head and feet; the man wandered onto the highway and got hit.”

“What?” Jamie asked in disbelief, trying to sit up and falling back on the lumpy bed with a moan. “Owwwwwwwww.”

“Oh, suck it up, you big baby. That hole is barely big enough to be considered a wound.” Peter snorted, all semblances of respect for the dead gone. “Just because you got hit in the stomach with a flaming piece of a car door doesn't mean you can act like a sissy.”

“Owww...” Jamie continued, oblivious to Peter's snide comments. “Peter, if this is a hospital, shouldn’t there be doctors?”

“You don't need a doctor,” Peter scoffed. “You've got me, and my godlike good looks radiate health and healing.”

Jamie fidgeted uncertainly.

“No, seriously.” Peter nodded his head, laughter dropping off of his face like a teardrop made of cement. “You don't need any of this namby-pamby medical nonsense. We're going to get you out of here; all of these chemicals are probably bad for you.”

“Peter, I can't walk.” Jamie didn't understand why Peter didn't realize this; there was a hole in his stomach. Where skin used to be. And it hurt.

“Yes, you can,” Peter insisted. “Your brain is just telling you that you can't, but really you're perfectly fine. You can take a five minute rest, because you’re a sissy, but then we’re leaving.”

“Peter, I'm really not sure--”

“Shut up!” Peter yelled, stomping his foot and wincing when he stubbed his toe on the padded plastic chair. “Just take your damned break, and then we're out of here.” A nurse was pushing a cart past Jamie's open door, and he was surprised that she hadn't noticed Peter's outlined plans for Jamie's escape.

Wincing, Jamie cringed and obeyed, lying patiently in the hospital bed and wishing that the sheets weren't so damn scratchy and that the hospital gown didn't have Velcro in the back, as the sharpish edges were digging into his spine.

Five minutes of tapping his foot and pacing later, Peter decided that is was time to leave, and yanked all of the needles out of Jamie's arm with a flourish, seven tiny new holes leaking blood from Jamie's arm appearing as he yelped.

“Enough dilly-dallying!” Peter announced grandly, scattering the clear tubes on the floor and letting their contents leak onto the tiling. “It's time to go!”

“Peter, I really don't think—” Jamie began, but was cut off when he found himself sliding out from under the flimsy bed-covers that the hospital had provided and over the clearly too low bedrail, letting his upper body dangle over the edge. “Peter!” Jamie wailed, floundering for a few seconds before realizing that floundering was causing him to slide towards the floor at an alarming rate. After a moment's struggle, he freed his arm from underneath him and stuck it out towards the floor, the heel of his hand connecting painfully with the tiles, since his depth perception had been slightly off in his panic. “Peter, help me up!”

Peter, who really should have been assisting Jamie, just stood next to the bed with his arms crossed, and laughed at Jamie's predicament. “Jamie, get your ass up; we have to go before the nurse comes around to check on you.”

“Peter, in case you haven't noticed, I don't have a ton of choice where my ass is at this particular moment,” Jamie wheezed. The bar of the bed was pressing into his wound, and even though the doctors had him doped up, and he was heavily padded and bandaged and whatnot, there was an ache that cut through the haze of pharmaceuticals, a sharp pain that was preventing him from thinking particularly rationally. It was because of this block to his judgment that he decided that releasing his grip on the bed and allowing himself to slide over the rail and onto the floor tiles might be a good idea.

Two minutes, a lot of pain, and an obscene amount of swearing later, Jamie was sprawled uncomfortably on the floor of his hospital room, his hospital gown hitched up to his upper thighs, which left him extremely thankful that he didn't have a roommate.

“Okay, now what?” he asked Peter, voice strained as if someone were sitting on his windpipe. “Seriously Peter, I don't think I can walk.”

“Yes, you can,” Peter insisted. “You're lying to yourself. Now get up off the floor, pull down your nightie, and let's go!”

Grunting, Jamie pushed himself up onto his elbows so that he was in the position his gym teacher kept telling him was the “yoga seal” even though Jamie personally thought it was more like a beached porpoise. Drawing his knees up underneath him, he scooted into a sitting position, using the side of the bed (its first useful application since he had arrived at the hospital) as a handle so that he could heave himself upright more easily.

“See, you're standing!” Peter said happily. “Walking will be no problem at all!”

“Will you hold my hand?” Jamie asked hopefully, wobbling back and forth like a jack-in-the-box on a particularly loose spring. “For support?”

Peter's good mood sprouted wings and flew away, probably to find someone who was in general happier, leaving Jamie with a cold, stern, and uptight best friend. “No. Let's get walking.”

Jamie tentatively extended his left foot forward about six inches, carefully shifting his weight onto it and nearly falling forward onto his face. “This doesn't seem like a fantastic idea,” he started again, but Peter just rolled his eyes and began to walk out of the room.

About the Author

Allison Stiller is a 15-year-old student at The Commonwealth School in Boston. She enjoys her English and Bible-as-History classes. She has participated in the strenuous writing challenge, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), four times.

Among Allison’s favorite authors are John Green and Neil Gaiman.