by Arne Svingen
“I’m so glad that you’re going to sing for me today,” she exclaims.
“Am I?”
I look over at Mom.
“You need to practice singing in front of people.”
Mom has heard me singing in the bathroom countless times. There’s good acoustics in there. I lock the door, close my eyes, and sing as loud as I can. And it’s fine, even though I know Mom’s outside the door. It would make Mom happy if I sang for Grandma. And Grandma would be thrilled. Even I would be pretty pleased.
“I can try.”
Grandma sits down on the sofa and tells me about the bus journey and that she won some coffee at bingo yesterday. Mom opens the bags from Burger King and puts the food onto plates. The room is filled with a delicious smell. One burger for Grandma, two for me, and six for Mom.
“So, a little song for your supper?” Mom asks, and smiles.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Imagine that I’m in the bathroom. And then I sing.
It might just be starting problems. I mean, after all, I haven’t warmed my voice up. But it just gets worse and worse. I screech like a broken loudspeaker, and every note cuts through the room like a runaway lawnmower.
A pair of curious eyes and it’s as if my vocal cords get knotted and someone has poured gravel down my throat. I don’t dare open my eyes to see my grandmother’s sad expression. She’s bound to say something nice afterward, pure lies, in the way that only well-intentioned grandmothers can lie. I stop singing and just stand in the middle of the floor in my own darkness. My voice is not intended for anyone other than me. Sorry.
I open my eyes. No one claps.
“Good, Bart,” Grandma says. “Now, I’m hungry.”
Instead of becoming stuck in a bog of lies, Grandma moves on.
“Those burgers look good,” she says with enthusiasm. I’ve got a smart grandmother.
Of course I’ve dreamed about standing onstage and soaking up the applause and jubilation. The feeling is presumably better than fantastic. But it’s not going to happen. The good thing about me is that I just accept that not everything works out in this life. Only idiots believe that everything turns out well.
What I hope is not going to happen, happens as soon as we start supper. Grandma asks about Mom’s job at Telenor. There’s a lot that’s good about the job. She’s making her way up the ladder. At least, that’s what Mom and I have agreed. I’ve googled Service Level Manager several times to find out what they do. But the English words that explain it are not ones we learn at school, and Google Translate doesn’t always make sense. But I’ve written down some words on a piece of paper.
Mom tells a story about a colleague who dressed up as a cell phone for a party. I don’t think Grandma fully understands it either.
“Evidently Mom’s really good at analyzing voice flows,” I offer as soon as Mom’s finished the story.
Mom and Grandma look at me. I look down at the piece of paper.
“Yesterday you said something about investigating proactive people being more fun than securing customer complaints.”
Grandma sends Mom a questioning look, and for a moment I think it looks like she’s smiling. Mom looks at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
“I don’t think he quite understands,” Mom says.
“Well, it’s good that you’ve got a job like that, at least,” Grandma says, then adds: “Even if you don’t have any qualifications.”
She looks over at me with the same strange expression.
“I’m really proud of her,” I add.
If Mom had just checked on the Internet, we could have agreed what she did at work. Does Grandma really believe that she does level servicing and manages four people, and that two of them are called Alf?
“Does that mean you’ll be moving soon, then?” Grandma asks.
“Yes, we’re moving,” Mom says.
There’s often an odd tone to Grandma’s questions. As if she’s a bit sad when she asks them. Mom asks us to keep eating while the burgers are still warm.
Grandma talks about her nice neighbors while we eat. I drop out of the conversation and look forward to Grandma leaving, so I can sing in the bathroom. After we’ve eaten, I surf the Internet to find something about singers who can’t sing for anyone except themselves. I find a story about the Philippine authorities that fine people for singing the national anthem out of tune, but nothing to help me. So I play a game instead to pass the time.
“Mom told me about the end-of-year show. I’m coming, as Mom has to work late,” Grandma says before she goes.
“Very good,” I say.
Grandma always comes to things at school. She never asks why Mom always works late when there’s something at school.
“Do you need anything?” Grandma asks as she stands at the door.
“No, we’ve got everything we need,” Mom assures her.
“Maybe I could give Bart a hundred kroner, for something special?”
“There’s no need, really. He’s just gotten his pocket money.”
“You’ve got something on your shoe,” I say, and point to some dirty paper tissue that’s stuck to the sole of her shoe.
“Oh, it’s probably something I took in with me from the stairs . . . I mean, the street. They don’t wash the streets anymore. No one cares what the town looks like anymore.”
“No, it’s not very good right now,” Mom agrees.
When Grandma’s gone, Mom has to sit down on the sofa. It’s started to creak ominously.
“Jesus, that woman goes on,” Mom says.
“I think she’s all right.”
“You’ll get pocket money soon, Bart. But the welfare money doesn’t come until the twentieth.”
“I don’t need money for anything right now.”
I lock myself in the bathroom. The notes pour out like cut glass and I feel the song surging up from somewhere in the depths of my lungs and stomach. It’s a bit like I’m two people: the one who damages eardrums and the one who sings and makes mothers proud. I don’t think the two have ever met.
When I come out, Mom gives my back a gentle rub.
“Don’t think about it,” she says. “It’s good to be able to sing for yourself.”
“Mhm.”
“And it’s really nice to listen . . . through the door.”
“I have to go to boxing.”
“Knock ’em dead.”
Flyweight. That’s the class they’re training me for. It might as well be called gnatweight. It’s for people who weigh between 108 and 112 pounds. Right now, I weigh 80 pounds. The advantage of being so small is often that you’re fast. So my coach says. One day that will surely be to my advantage too.
“Good work, Bart. Now you can do fifty sit-ups.”
There’s nothing wrong with the coach. He just wants me to be someone who can keep up with the other runts in flyweight. Sometimes, late at night under the comforter, I dream that I’ll grow like a dandelion over the next few years and suddenly be on a level with Muhammad Ali and knock out the competition from far-flung countries. The dream makes me sweat.
“Come on, Bart. Where’s the speed?”
Boxing is often called the noble art of self-defense. But it’s actually all about knocking out your opponent.
“Good effort.”
That’s me. Good effort. I always give my all. Even though that’s nearly never enough.
I do a couple rounds sparring with Christian. We’re the same age, but he’s still a head taller than me and has muscles that I was never given. But he’s nice enough. We train well together and he never tries to floor me when the coach has his back turned.
At training, we never talk about people who’ve been turned into vegetables by boxing. It’s all about the great fighters, heroes who have taken and given a beating and taken home prize belts that don’t fit any pants.
Except for a few ehs in class, I don’t notice any signs that I’m brain-dead.
“How’s it go
ing?” Christian asks when we’re sitting on the plastic chairs by the wall.
“Okay.”
“Your eye’s all right again.”
“Yep.”
“Did anyone bother you at school?”
Apart from being friends on Facebook, I don’t really know Christian. The question is a bit of an uppercut.
“Eh, no.”
“Good. Because if they do, just let me know.”
“Oh, right.”
Quite a fascinating thought, really. Christian appearing and beating up people like August and Johnny.
The teacher always says something about pissing in your pants to keep warm. Which helps there and then, but Christian can’t show up every day to give the boys a going-over.
Christian gets up and starts to hammer the punch bag. I keep myself happy with some shadow boxing.
“Have you got a minute?” the coach asks toward the end of the session.
I lope after him into the office and sit down on a worn wooden chair. There are black-and-white photos of boxers like George Foreman, Sugar Ray Leonard, and Ali, of course, on the wall. A long time ago, the coach explained to us that Ali was the greatest and would always be the greatest.
I wipe away the sweat with my arm and start to take off my boxing gloves. The coach leans back and looks at me long and hard.
“I wish everyone loved each other as much as everyone loves me. Then the world would be a better place.”
I look up at the coach.
“It was Ali who said that. You know, the one who also said he would float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.”
That’s the coach’s favorite quote. It’s the last thing he says to his boxers before a fight.
“The shiner looks better.”
“Yes.”
“Bart, I’ve been thinking. Are you sure that you want to continue with the boxing?”
“I come to all the training sessions.”
“You do. There’s nothing wrong with your commitment. I just thought . . . well, maybe another sport would suit you better.”
“Like what?”
“The possibilities are endless. Ski jumping, perhaps.”
“Ski jumping?”
“Yes, you’re quite thin, you see. Or something totally different. Curling.”
Mom wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if I started ski jumping or curling. How can I defend myself with a curling stone? It must be the coach’s way of telling me that my boxing sucks from here to the moon. But I can’t stop. Mom couldn’t take that.
“Has Mom not paid?” I ask.
“Yes, she has. Absolutely.”
“But wasn’t it Muhammad Ali who said that a person who doesn’t dare in this life will never achieve anything?” I wonder.
“Eh, yes, perhaps it was,” my coach replies.
“Well, then I can’t give up now.”
“That’s a very good attitude. But boxing is a sport where you actually have to punch people.”
“And?” I say, pretending that I don’t know where this is going.
“And you don’t punch.”
“But I’m a good guard.”
“That’s great. But you do have to punch sometimes.”
“What if . . . if I start doing it soon?”
“Obviously, that would be an advantage. So you don’t want to think about anything else? Handball’s supposed to be fun.”
“I like boxing.”
“That’s good. It’s a good sport. I’m really happy that you like boxing.”
Coaches are supposed to make you good. Not encourage you to take up another sport. I almost tell him that.
“Great. So we’re agreed, then,” I say instead.
“And you’ll start punching soon?”
“Yeah, any day now.”
I leave the office and go to the changing room. Of course I know he’s right. A fight where one of the opponents doesn’t even try to punch would be totally unequal. But the coach once told us about a fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman somewhere in Africa. Ali wore Foreman out by dancing around the ring and avoiding his opponent’s punches. When Foreman was completely exhausted, Ali took his aim and nearly punched him out of the ring.
I’m probably not quite there yet. But I will be.
I believe.
Mom stays at home in the evening and we watch a documentary on TVNorge about the tallest woman in the world. She lives in China and lies in bed most of the day. Which doesn’t exactly make you happy.
When I go to bed, I think that it was a bad idea to give Ada the CD. She should at least have signed an agreement that no one else would be allowed to hear it. I get so annoyed with myself that I lie there awake until Mom falls asleep with the TV on. Once I’ve turned it off, I lie there and listen to the sawmill in her mouth. An unease starts to grow somewhere deep down inside me. As if I’ve done something without having any idea of the consequences.
And I fall asleep before I have time to think about shooting stars that aren’t airplanes or UFOs.
My fourth chapter
Mom got up at the same time as me. She made pancakes for breakfast. It’s been a long time since she’s done that. It doesn’t matter that we’re out of sugar and syrup. Because we’ve got bacon. It crunches nicely when I chew.
“Here’s twenty kroner for your lunch,” Mom says, and presses the coin into my hand.
I’ve explained to her plenty of times that the school doesn’t sell lunches and no one is allowed to leave the playground. But it’s the thought that counts.
“Thank you, will do.”
At school, Ada comes over before the bell’s even rung.
“Is it really you singing?”
That actually gives me an unexpected opportunity to lie my way out of everything. To say that it was something that I found on the Internet. Scrape the ground with the tip of my shoe and admit that I did it to impress her. Maybe laugh it off and just ask if she really thought it was me.
But then there’s a glow about her.
“Yes, it’s . . . me.”
“You should perform at the summer show!”
I had actually guessed that she might suggest this. And I had thought hard about which illnesses and excuses might stop people from asking. But somehow I can’t bring myself to say any of it to Ada. I don’t know that want is a good-enough reason, but it’s the best half truth I can think of.
“I don’t want to.”
“Of course you should. Everyone will be super impressed.”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t say to anyone that I don’t want to.”
“Can’t even I convince you?” she asks with a smile.
For a fraction of a second, it’s tempting to say, Yeah, since it’s you who’s asking and you’re smiling with all your teeth, I’ll do it. But that’s not going to happen. It would be a disaster and Ada would never talk to me again. I shake my head.
“Sorry. Can I get the CD back?”
“I’d like to listen to it again.”
“But you won’t play it for anyone, will you?”
“But it’s so good. And no, I won’t.”
“I have to play it for my grandmother, you see.”
I don’t know whether that’s a lie or not. Maybe I should, so that Grandma realizes that I can do more than just pollute her ears.
We stand there on the playground. Why hasn’t the bell rung yet? No Man’s Land is standing some way off, looking in my direction. Ada waves to some friends, but they don’t come over. Should she really be standing here with me?
“Will you sing for me sometime, maybe?” she asks suddenly.
“Take some earplugs.”
“You’re funny, Bart.”
“Might be better if you came with me to boxing one day.”
Ada bursts out laughing.
“You do boxing. Yeah, right. I can just picture it.”
I have no intention of convincing Ada that I do boxing, but I do wish she wouldn’t laugh so hard.
She starts to tell me that Lise in our class has secretly dated someone who does boxing. But I mustn’t tell anyone. Why is she telling me this? Then she says that Lise likes boys with muscles. But apparently that’s a secret too.
Finally the bell rings and we head toward the classroom. The anxiety in my stomach has caught fire and someone keeps fueling it with paper and dry wood.
I couldn’t even begin to tell you what we did in the next class. My brain was miles away and didn’t return until the bell rang again. I like taking a vacation during class, but it does mean that I have to work harder on the homework.
We’re going to practice for the summer show in the next class. Anyone who’s not taking part has to do PE instead. I put on my sneakers.
* * *
During break, after a couple of games of dodgeball, I register that something’s different. It feels like I’ve suddenly gone Day-Glo or have got eczema. A couple of the cool guys nod to me, like we’re old friends.
Something’s changed during the PE class, and it’s got nothing to do with my dodgeball skills.
I notice Ada. She looks really upset. Like she’s done something I’ve asked her not to do. Fear squeezes my bones.
We go back into the classroom, and when I ask how the rehearsals went, she replies without looking at me: “Good.”
Ada has long, dark blond hair and a nose that’s straight as a ruler. Her eyes are as brown as the teacher’s leather bag and her smile would melt ice. But that smile is very well hidden right now.
The teacher comes in and immediately starts to talk passionately about the end-of-year show. There’s no end to how impressed he is with Class A. They’ve got rising stars in several categories.
“It’s fantastic that so many of you have already signed up,” he says, then pauses. “But I also want to say that modesty is a sign of quality. We can all feel unsure as to whether we’re good enough or not. But if you’ve got talent, it’s actually not that easy to keep it under wraps. Talent has a power of its own. Sooner or later, it will out.”
He pauses again. I realize he’s looking at me. And his look tells me more than those stupid words.
“Bart,” he continues. “I really want you to sing in the summer show.”
Everyone stares at me. I look over at Ada. She looks down at her desk.
