by Arne Svingen
“That was lovely,” Ada says after the meal.
“Glad you liked the food,” Mom says.
I think that’s the kind of thing moms should say. After Ada has said thank you, silence sinks over the table. Mom smiles and rubs her thighs. I can’t really ask Ada to my room. And Mom can’t go anywhere other than the bathroom and that might seem a bit odd.
“I should really go home,” Ada says suddenly.
“Yes, and I should do my homework,” I say.
“It was nice having you visit,” Mom adds.
“See you tomorrow, Bart.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
She gets up. I want to say something to make her laugh on her way out. People think they’ve had a good time when the last thing they do is laugh.
“Did I tell you my mom went to Kingston?”
“Jamaica?”
“No, she wanted to.”
If you say something stupid, they’ll just remember how stupid the whole visit was. Someone has frazzled my brain.
“Bye, Linda,” Ada calls on the way out.
Mom gives her a wave from the sofa.
“Come again, whenever you like,” Mom says.
I follow Ada out into the hall.
“You mustn’t come again,” I mutter.
“I like your mom.”
We don’t meet anyone on the stairs. She gives me a hug, which makes my cheeks burn even more, and I forget to say bye. Or maybe I do. For a moment it feels like some of this has never happened. That I’m living in my own little bubble. Where girls from school actually come to see me.
I follow her at a distance in case someone decides to mug her on the way out. The state of the floor by the mailboxes brings me back to reality. There are some leaflets with footprints all over them. I see the remains of a couple of dirty syringes over by the wall. There’s an oven mitt and bits of an old camping chair on the stairs. I’ve stopped being surprised by what people leave lying around.
And then I remember the revolting paper under Grandma’s shoes, and she forgot herself and said that it was probably something from the stairs, then quickly corrected herself and said the street. I think about what Ada said about the apartment at least being nicer than the hall. What sort of comparison is that? I go back up and find a blank piece of paper. As I’m writing, Mom comes over and stands behind me.
“Sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“That we live here and that . . . well, it’s not always easy to have friends over.”
“She won’t tell anyone.”
Mom pats me on the back while she reads what I’ve written.
Do you want to live in a trash pile? I live on the second floor and would be very happy if you could help me tidy up on Sunday at 5 p.m. It’s my birthday. I’ll be 13. Bart.
“It might help,” I say.
“That’s great. Really good. But Bart . . .”
I look up at Mom.
“What is it?” I ask.
“If we lived anywhere else, people would definitely come. But . . . I’m afraid the people who live here—”
“There’s no harm in trying,” I interrupt. “Will you come?”
Mom continues to rub my back.
“You know what the doctor says.”
“Yes, I know.”
My sixth chapter
Later in the evening, Mom goes out. She promises not to be late.
I’ve hung two posters up in the hall. When I’ve finished my homework, I sing for a while. Someone knocks on the wall and it feels good. They’ve heard me.
Mom hasn’t come back by the time I go to bed. I lie there thinking about Ada. Or to be more precise: I lie there thinking about what Ada is thinking. Hardly surprising that I can’t get to sleep.
But I must have dozed off at some point, because when I open my eyes and see Mom sitting on the edge of my bed, I was in the middle of a dream about Ada, two tigers, and a shooting star.
“Oh, hi,” I mumble.
“I’ve decided,” Mom says.
“Good,” I say, and pull the covers up over my head.
“We’re going to move, son.”
“Great . . .”
“Lovely, lovely boy. You deserve to live in a normal place with normal neighbors.”
“Can we talk about it in the morning?”
“I just wanted you to know that I’ve . . . well, I’ve decided, my lovely boy. Do you want me to sing for you? Hush-a-by-baby?”
“Not now.”
“You’re so good, Bart. I just wanted to tell you that. Just wanted you to understand. Lovely boy. You’re everything to me.”
“Great.”
“You’re so . . .”
She hiccups. She turns, aims for the sofa, and hits the mark.
I’m not thinking about Ada anymore. Through half-open eyes, I look over at Mom, who has already started the motor saw in her mouth. Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to have your own room. I’d have pictures of Muhammad Ali and Bryn Terfel on the wall. A desk and a reading lamp over the bed. And a key to lock the door wouldn’t be a bad thing.
* * *
In the morning, I only just manage to keep my eyes open when the alarm goes off. Mom is fast asleep with her mouth open and her clothes on.
We’ve got bread, jam, cheese, and milk. My lunch box is so full that I can hardly get the lid on.
Out in the hall, I find one of my posters on the floor. All crumpled up. I go back into the apartment and get more tape. Then I flatten the paper against my thigh and hang it up again. At the bottom I write: Please leave this up.
I’m met at the school gates by Ada.
“Come with me!”
She doesn’t ask, she orders. I follow her down the corridor and into the basement. This is where the changing rooms, woodwork room, and music room are. She opens the door to one of the bathrooms at the end of the corridor and pulls me in. My back knocks into the sink. She locks the door behind us. I breathe in Ada through my nostrils and am sure that she’s honey melon today. She didn’t smell like that yesterday. We’re standing far too close. I hold my breath and try to keep claustrophobia at bay. What’s going on now?
“Sing for me,” she says.
“I can’t sing in here.”
“I want to hear what it sounds like.”
“Why?”
“Just try singing.”
I should have hoofed it straight back out. Left her with some comment about not wanting to stand there and make a fool of myself. But it’s Ada who’s asking. She’s not doing it to laugh at me. At least, I don’t think she is.
I close my eyes. Try to think I’m in the bathroom at home. Picture the shower curtain, the cabinet with all the pills in it, and the mirror that’s too high opposite me. There’s a catastrophic drought going on in my mouth and my throat is performing some weird kind of self-strangulation act. I tense my stomach muscles, take a deep breath, and sing to burst an eardrum. It’s hideous. Just as awful as it will sound if I go out onto the stage for the summer show.
I’m about to stop when Ada takes my hand. Slips her fingers through mine. She has a warm hand. I don’t open my eyes. Instead I keep singing and suddenly something happens that’s impossible to explain. Suddenly my voice returns from the spiky wilds and the notes are pure as water from a glacier. The more I sing, the better it sounds.
I’m singing for Ada. In a dirty school bathroom. And it sounds good. Not fantastic, but definitely good enough to be part of the summer show.
I stop abruptly and open my eyes.
“You sing really well.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s not?”
“I mean . . . well, yes.”
We look down at our entwined hands. I let go as if I’ve had an electric shock.
“I don’t know what happened,” I say.
“I think you can do it.”
We’re standing very close. Too close. It’s like I suddenly have problems breathing. I kno
ck my back on the sink again.
“Sorry, but we can’t really hold hands onstage.”
I open the bathroom door and walk back toward the stairs.
“Wait, Bart. There’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“I just need . . .”
There’s air and space and people on the playground. I stand at the edge and breathe deeply. So it really is possible. Not only was another living person there when I sang in tune, but she was standing right next to me. Are magic hands what are needed, or can I do it without holding on to someone? Before I can think any further, August comes over.
“What’s up?”
I give a brief nod. Does he know that I’ve been in the bathroom with Ada?
“Is it true what they’re saying, or what?”
“What’s that?” I ask, and don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
A couple of the other boys are standing at a distance watching. August raises his eyebrows. Whatever it is, it’s coming now.
“That you live in a slum and your mom weighs three hundred pounds.”
My body feels like it’s been filled with cement.
“No,” I say in a hard voice. “It’s not true.”
“What does she weigh, then?”
“Around one thirty.”
And as I say it, I’m pretty sure that it’s true. It’s the only way I can make it sound convincing.
“Oh, right.”
No one knows how much their mom weighs. Especially not if it’s a skinny wisp of a mother weighing 130 pounds. So August just nods. Part of me hopes that’s it. That he realizes that Ada is spreading vicious lies and that this never needs to go any further. That Ada’s told August in a moment of weakness. That it’s all a stupid misunderstanding. That the boys over there haven’t overhead anything. That I might be able to hire a tall thin lady who can say that she’s my mom, and that we live in a normal building where people clean the stairs once a week.
Another part of me knows that this is just the beginning.
“Hmm, I think I can smell mold,” August says, and walks off.
Almost right after, Marita comes over with a worried expression on her face and wonders if it’s as bad as they say.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Do you live in . . . public housing?”
“If a four-bedroom apartment with a balcony and three fireplaces is called public housing, then yes, I guess I do,” I reply.
“Three fireplaces?”
“Well, one’s a wood-burning stove.”
A couple of other people come over to ask the same thing before we’re herded into the classroom. I can’t see Ada anywhere. Where is she? The class starts and Ada’s place remains empty. Maybe she’s scared? No one wants someone who collects mass murderers as an enemy. And now there’s absolutely no doubt: Ada can’t keep a secret.
My mind is flooded with a massive amount of thoughts. I actually want Mom to come with all her pounds to the summer show and everything else at school. I don’t need to live in a four-bedroom apartment with two fireplaces and a wood-burning stove. But you walk the line every day. A few more pushes and then Bertram and I will swap places. The only thing that can outweigh the fact that I live in a slum and my mom is a sumo wrestler is if I can sing so that people’s jaws drop at the summer show.
The teacher tells us that the last hour of the day will be used for rehearsing. Anyone who wants to can use the auditorium during the breaks as well.
I really do try to follow the lesson. It’s about the Norwegian language. A language that I speak and should know more about. But I don’t learn anything today. When the bell rings, I stay sitting where I am until the teacher asks me to go out for some fresh air.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you sing later,” he says as I pass him.
Out on the playground, it’s not all about me. The others are talking about another sensation. Apparently Bertram was rapping in the auditorium and apparently he’s as good as Snoop Dogg. His artist name is Femmer’n, a kind of Norwegian version of 50 Cent.
I look around. Bertram is not hovering on the edge of the playground. He’s standing right by us. Like he’s on his way in and someone else has to go out.
There’s also a rumor that Class B have choreographed a dance that will give the audience a heart attack.
Not long ago, I saw a movie about the French Revolution on TV. It was almost as if I knew what it felt like to have your head under the guillotine. A great big sharp blade that was coming for your neck and soon your head would be hanging on a pole at the edge of the playground.
It gets harder and harder to follow the classes as the day goes by. It’s like I’m not wired the right way. Everything will be all right, I normally tell myself. What kind of bullshit is that?
Not.
* * *
I stand on the stage. It’s real. Even if it is just the splintered old stage in the school auditorium. It’s the last class of the day and we’re supposed to be rehearsing for the summer concert and I know that I should be anywhere other than here. And yet here I am, standing in the middle of the stage, swallowing air.
The teacher smiles at me and asks something I can’t make out. Ada has not shown up yet. The others are staring at me in anticipation. It doesn’t matter that my mom’s as big as a barrel and I live in a building that’s falling down, if only my singing is fantastic.
“I suggest you sing the same piece as on the recording.”
“What?”
“It’s Mozart.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I like classical music. I’ve downloaded it.”
“I need to warm up my voice first.”
“Oh yes, I suppose you do.”
“I’ll just go down to the changing room to do it.”
“Okay, we’ll run through something else in the meantime.”
I go down to the changing room, then down the hall and into the office. There I ask the lady for an address and she gives it to me on a yellow Post-it note. Then I rush as fast as I can out the door that’s farthest away from the auditorium and don’t look back.
I’ve never thought about it before, but the neighborhood around the school is very varied. There are old buildings and new buildings and an elegant area with big and small houses. I’ve heard people say that people with and without much money live here. There aren’t many areas like this left in town. And when I stand in front of Ada’s house, I can see that there really are differences.
I have to double-check the number and read the name on the mailbox. Ada doesn’t live in a palace, but it wouldn’t surprise me if a butler in uniform opened the door.
The woman who does open the door is more like a suitably weary mother with expensive jewelry.
“Is Ada in?” I ask.
“She is. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
“I haven’t been here before. We’re in the same class.”
“And you are . . . called . . .”
“Bart.”
“Ah yes, I’ve heard about you. Ada had supper with you.”
Has Ada told absolutely everyone about me and Mom?
“Could I speak to her?”
“Just go along to her room. Fourth door on the left down the hall.”
Fourth door on the left? We have one door into the apartment and one to the bathroom.
I take off my shoes and walk past a big living room, an enormous bathroom, and a closed door before I find myself standing in front of the fourth door. I lift my hand to knock on it, but it stops midway between my body and the door. Am I angry and disappointed? Should I act as if nothing’s happened? Yell at her and then leave? Turn into the crazy mass murderer she thinks I am? I’ve got no plan. My feelings are at war and no one is winning.
I guess it’s not possible to change. I’m generally positive about life. No one is evil. The world is a cool place. Or can I change everything?
Before I have time to knock, Ada is suddenly
standing in the doorway. Not because she has telepathic abilities, but more likely because she was on her way to the bathroom or to fry some quail eggs in the kitchen.
“Oh,” is all she says, and she swallows, making a loud gulping noise.
“I just came by,” I say. She doesn’t answer, so I keep going. “Like you came to see me yesterday.”
The air goes out of her like she’s got a puncture.
“Shall we . . . ?” she says, and points to her room.
“Nice room,” I say, and peer in. “Nice house . . .”
“You don’t need . . .”
It’s the day for unfinished sentences. The kind that are loaded without you having to say all the words. Some might say there’s a trace of sarcasm hidden in what I say. Maybe there is. Right now I don’t have the brain power to find out.
Ada sits down on the chair in front of her desk. I can’t be bothered to even begin describing all the computer stuff, iPods, and other gear in her room. Put it this way: it’s not been cheap to furnish Ada’s room.
“Are you ill?” I ask.
“Not very.”
I look out the window to stop myself from staring at all the stuff in her room. There’s a trampoline and a badminton net in the backyard. But no swimming pool.
“Listen, Bart, I know . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to tell Lise, but I’m not very good at keeping secrets. Lise wanted to know where I’d been and I didn’t want to lie to her. She’s my best friend, you see. And maybe she didn’t realize that she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone else. I think maybe I forgot to say. Suddenly she’d sent a text to Gabriel, who knows August really well. I understand if you’re mad at me. I just . . . didn’t think.”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation.”
“But I wanted to explain, or at least try. You see, I don’t think I like secrets. Does everyone at school know?”
I shrug. Then something strange happens. It’s like there’s an explosion somewhere at the top of my nose. Have I suddenly got a deadly disease?
