by Arne Svingen
We go out, and there’s a bike standing there. It doesn’t look brand-new, but almost.
“I filed off the bike frame number myself,” Geir whispers. “But I bought the lock in a shop.”
I don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug, so I don’t do either. Someone has lost their bike. And I’ve gained a bike. Suddenly I realize that I’m standing there hugging the lock.
“You deserve it,” Geir says. “No one else in the building has done anything about tidying the place up. Well, we’d better get started. Plenty to do.”
“Um, yes. This is my grandma, Lillian. She’s going to be the boss,” I say, pointing at Grandma, who is standing in the doorway looking a bit nervous.
It doesn’t take long before she’s gotten over her nerves and is ordering everyone around. Some are sent down into the cellar, others up to the attic, and three people are given the stairs. We should really have a Dumpster, but we put all the trash in the cans instead. I’ll call the city council from my new phone on Monday and ask if they can come and pick it up.
“People can be real pigs,” Geir says, as he holds out a bucketful of whole and broken syringes for me to see.
Just to be clear, it’s not only drug addicts who live here. There’s a woman from Somalia helping us clean up, and two Kurdish boys, and a man who must be about the same age as Grandma who tells us he’s lived here since he was twenty. Geir says that a few of them are also on methadone, which he explains is a kind of drug for people who want to get off heroin.
They say it’s the thought that counts. One man washes and cleans a spot by the mailboxes over and over again. A woman in skintight jeans keeps asking where she should put all this shit, but she never has anything in her hands.
We’re at it for over two hours. Someone has even found some paint in the cellar and gets rid of the graffiti by the mailboxes. It’s still not the nicest building in town, but some of the helpers say that they almost want to come home now.
I thank everyone afterward and shake each person’s hand before pushing my bike around the streets. I wish I could just hop on and pedal off, but I think I’ll leave learning to ride for another day.
Do you see the world differently when you’re a teenager? It feels pretty grown-up to have organized a cleanup and to shake everyone by the hand. But it’s only snotty-nosed kids who can’t ride a bike.
I feel like I’m split, but think I can live with it.
* * *
When I get home, Grandma has baked the chocolate cake that Mom was going to make. It tastes even better when Grandma makes it, because she buys all the right ingredients. After all the cleaning and my walk with my bike, I could probably have eaten the whole thing, but I have to save some space for dinner.
“How about coming to stay with me for a few days?” Grandma asks.
“Do you know how far it is to school?” I ask with my mouth full of cake. “And boxing.”
“You’re right. And you might want to go out with your friends after school . . .”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“You don’t?”
“I want to be honest now. I want to tell you the truth about my life.”
“Honesty is . . . well, not something I’m used to. But there’s Gudleik, and he needs food and . . .”
“You could take your parrot with you, since Mom’s not here.”
“Yes, yes, I could do that.”
It’s not hard to see that Grandma’s a bit worried about living here. She looks around at the piles of magazines, clothes, and a couple of boxes full of I don’t remember what. Someone shouts something out on the stairs.
“Most of the people who live here are nice, at least ninety percent,” I say, and regret it immediately.
If as many as ten percent are dangerous, this isn’t somewhere you’d want to stay. But it’s true, after all. Once we left our shopping bags outside the door for two minutes, and when we went back out to get them, they’d been stolen. And Mom was once threatened by a guy out in the hall, and the police are called so often that one time I said there was an empty apartment they could use as an office.
“Ninety-nine percent,” I said, rounding it up. A little white lie has to be allowed. “Ninety-nine and a half.”
“It’s fine, Bart. I can stay here for a few days. But if Mom is in the hospital any longer, we’ll have to think about going to my place. Agreed?”
“Yes. You can have my bed, and I can sleep on the sofa.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
After dinner, we go up to Grandma’s place to get Gudleik. On the bus back, he says Where are my panties? over and over again. The passengers laugh.
“I’ve no idea where he got that from,” Grandma says with unusually red cheeks.
Then Gudleik follows up with: Do I look fat in this?
* * *
I don’t know how to describe the evening. I miss Mom, of course. Now that there’s nothing else going on, I think about her all the time. I’ve got a thousand questions, but Grandma can’t answer any of them. No one can answer most of them. That sort of question is really annoying.
I’m going to demand that the doctors make her better than before. And I’m going to tell Mom that she has to get her act together. Do I sound mean when I say things like that?
I sit on the sofa and watch TV, and Gudleik makes comments all the time. She looks ugly in that dress.
“Was it a strange birthday for you?” Grandma asks.
“Apart from Mom, it was quite . . .”
The word good stops halfway. How can a day be good when my mom has ended up in the hospital?
“Strange, yes,” I say instead.
“There will be better birthdays, just wait and see,” Grandma reassures me.
“I’ve just sent my first text message.”
“Who to?”
“A girl in my class who doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut about anything.”
I said I was going to be honest with Grandma. I found Ada’s number on the Internet, and the text that it took me ages to write says: Got a cell phone for my birthday. Now you can warn me in advance. Bart.
“Do you like her, then?”
“We live in two separate worlds. And it’s a bit weird when the two worlds meet.”
“Opposites attract, they say.”
“We’re just friends. Or, at least, I think we’re friends. I guess I have to find out.”
“How romantic, Bart.”
Sometimes grandmothers can make you sick. Gudleik says he’s looking for his panties again.
I go into the bathroom and sing. Even though Grandma is sitting right outside the door, it sounds just as good as it did this morning. When I come out, she claps and gives me a hug that hurts my nose.
“You’ve got a fantastic voice.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re so . . .”
“That’s enough.”
My cell makes a kind of swallowing noise. Ada writes: Cool. Qpsa? Wot about smr shw? #-)
I guess that she’s talking about the summer show. I haven’t given it a thought all day. I haven’t even thought about what’s going to happen when August and his buddies tell people about this weekend.
Things have happened, I reply to Ada.
Wot? she asks seconds later.
It’s as if Grandma reads my mind when she asks: “Do you want to stay at home tomorrow?”
No doubt I sound like a chicken, but I nod slowly.
“We can go up to the hospital,” Grandma suggests.
There’s no point in putting it off, but right now I think I need a break, preferably several years.
“Okay.”
The next instant I have an idea. The kind that just pops up when you least expect it. I write to Ada: Tell you later. But I will sing at show. :-)
“I need to go to boxing tomorrow,” I say to Grandma.
“With that nose?”
“It’s important.”
* * *
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The stupid thing about ideas is that they can steal your sleep. And Grandma’s snoring is different from Mom’s. And Mom has made hollows in the sofa that don’t fit my body.
Luckily Gudleik shuts up as soon as Grandma puts a blanket over the cage.
When Grandma wakes me up, I’m exhausted. . . . The breakfast table is groaning under all that’s on it, and Gudleik says, This is the best day of your life.
Grandma has called the hospital and can tell me that Mom has regained consciousness, but is still very weak.
“We can take some flowers,” I say.
“Yes.”
“If we’ve got enough money.”
“Of course we have.”
Grandma is not that old. She had Mom when she was very young and still together with Granddad. I’ve never met him. People tell me he moved to Sweden because alcohol is cheaper there. Grandma gets a disability allowance because she’s in so much pain and gets tired so quickly. She worked in a Narvesen convenience store, selling cancer sticks, as she calls them. Even though she smokes herself.
I’ve visited Mom in the hospital before, but she’s never been in a coma. It feels weird to be sitting on a tram in a wrinkled shirt and suit pants. When I come into her room, it smells clean and funny and Mom looks like she’s asleep. She doesn’t make a sound, and for a moment I think she’s dead, but when I touch her arm, I can feel that it’s warm. Grandma goes in search of a vase for the flowers. Mom doesn’t wake up, even when Grandma drops the metal vase on the floor.
“We’ve got a meeting with the doctor,” Grandma tells me.
He sits in a cramped office and says a lot of things that I don’t think I understand. But I do understand some of it: Mom has to change her lifestyle. She has to eat better food and lose weight. Exercise more, or at least walk more. She has to get better at taking her medicine. But most important of all, she has to reduce what he calls her alcohol intake.
“So she shouldn’t get drunk so often,” I say.
“Preferably not at all,” the doctor points out. “If she drinks, this could happen again. And it could be fatal.”
“Fatal?”
“She might die.”
The doctor looks at Grandma and asks: “Does he stay with you?”
“No, I’m staying with him.”
“I mean normally. Is it you who looks after him?”
“No, he lives with his mother.”
“I see.”
The doctor jots something down in his papers. He asks if I have any questions, but suddenly I don’t have any left. Certainly not that the doctor can answer.
Afterward, when we’re sitting by Mom’s bed, Grandma seems upset.
“She’s just sleeping,” I explain, as I’m not sure whether she thinks that Mom is still in a coma or not.
“I know. I just . . . I think he might contact Social Services.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes.”
We’ve had visits from Social Services before. Mom doesn’t like them. But I think they’re just doing their best. So I’m always extra happy when they come round. It must be a year or more since they were there last.
On the way home from the hospital, I get another text message from Ada: Wassup? U @ home?
I think she’s asking if I’m at home.
I am sick. I look down at the text, decide to delete the I am and instead write: Mom is sick.
My tenth chapter
When I get to boxing, I go to speak to the coach first. He studies my nose from different angles.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I’ve starting fighting.”
“Did you hit?”
I shake my head.
“Is it okay if I ask the others if they want to take part in a boxing demonstration at school?” I ask.
“A demonstration?”
“A pretend fight. It would be good advertising for the sport.”
“I’m not sure that boxing needs advertising.”
“But I need advertising. For me. Otherwise I’m going to have to sing, and I can’t sing. Not at the summer show, anyway.”
The coach looks pensive. He’s clearly not convinced.
“I’d thought about reading quotes by Muhammad Ali while the others demonstrate the noble art of boxing. And then give a bit of boxing history.”
“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.”
“And then I’ll tell the school what I do. I thought that maybe some of the kids wouldn’t bother me if they see the boxers I hang out with.”
The coach looks at me closely.
“Does this have anything to do with your nose?”
“Maybe.”
“Come on, let’s ask the others.”
The others don’t say yes right away. Muhammad Ali and boxing history don’t interest them as much as they do the coach. But when I tell them it’s actually for me, Christian immediately says: “Of course we’ll do it. No one’s allowed to bother Bart.”
It turns out that only Christian and Robert can do it, but two is actually perfect.
“That’s great,” I say.
I don’t have to do any training today because of my nose. But I stay and watch the others. I read somewhere that you have to train for about 10,000 hours to be really good at a sport. I figure I’ve done about 40 hours of boxing so far. And I’ve only just started to punch. So that means I’ve got 9,960 hours left until I might perhaps fight in the Norwegian championship. And I’ve already got a broken nose, a black eye, and ringing in my ears.
I might perhaps want to use those 9,960 hours on something else. But I can’t see myself in old-fashioned costumes with a big opera belly either. Maybe I’ll do something that you don’t need to spend 10,000 hours practicing to become good at. A mailman?
On the way home I sing. With no sound, but with my whole body and exaggerated mouth movements. I probably look like a lunatic, but I don’t often meet people I know around here. The volume is up so high the sound is like wind in my ears. I stop on the bridge over the main road, look out over the town, and hold the note for a long, long time.
I’m exhausted when I get home, even though I haven’t done any training or even used my voice. I lie in front of the TV and watch a documentary about people with rare diseases. No matter how bad things seem, there’s always someone who has it worse. Which is quite comforting, even though I don’t want anyone to suffer.
“Do we have to watch this?”
“Yes, this evening, we do.”
* * *
The school gates might as well be the gates to hell. Step inside and someone with horns and a tail will dunk me in warm water and give me eternal wet pants. I assume that nothing particularly nice is going to happen here today, but I can’t help smiling as Ada comes toward me.
“Nice to see you,” she says, then stops. “What happened to . . . ?” she asks as she puts her hand to her nose.
“Walked into . . . no . . . I didn’t walk into anything. August broke it.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He turned up at my place with Gabriel and Johnny to check out where I live and to see if my mom is as fat as they say.”
“What? They—” she exclaims in a loud voice.
“And then I tried to punch August because he said something horrible about Mom, but I just punched the air. And he didn’t.”
Ada starts to breathe heavily as she tries to find the right words; her eyes get narrow and flicker. As if she was sad, angry, and desperate all at the same time.
“B-but . . . ,” she stammers.
“Yeah, it’s all pretty shitty.”
“Is there anything I can do? Because it’s kind of my fault.”
A good question, really. Ada’s on the inside. No one would ever think of bothering her. If I could hold her hand, maybe kiss her on the cheek, I think she might even promote me a rank or two. But of course I can’t ask anything as crazy as that. But another idea pops into my head. At first it feels evil. But the more I think about it
, the more convinced I am that it’s suitably evil—and well deserved.
If it works.
“Could you spread a rumor?” I ask.
“Course I can.”
“Could you say that Mom is in the hospital?”
“You mean all I have to say is . . . that your mom’s in the hospital. Should I say why?”
I think for a moment.
“Say that August pushed her down the stairs.”
“What? Did he?”
“Rumors aren’t always true. Mom is in the hospital, but not because August pushed her down the stairs. She managed to get there all by herself. August is bound to boast about my nose, but maybe not quite as much if there’s a rumor going around that he pushed my mom.”
Ada smiles.
“You’re not like the others, Bart. I think you’re . . .”
“Evil?”
“No, you’re just different.”
“Is different good?”
“Better than evil.”
Ada goes off to spread the rumor and I’m left standing alone on the playground. Everyone who walks past stares at my face, like I was an exhibit or something. I let them look. They’ll get used to me walking around with an enormous bandage in the middle of my face soon enough. But right now, I’m headline news.
The bell rings and I head toward the classroom. When the teacher comes in, he spots me immediately. The questions are easy to predict. What happened? Did someone hit you?
Everyone in the class knows I’m lying when I say that I fell when I was dusting the ceiling light.
“Are you sure you should be at school? Because your grandmother called to say that your mother is in the hospital.”
I see the reactions all around me. For the rest of the class, this confirms the rumor that August pushed my mom down the stairs.
“It’s fine. I’m going to visit Mom after school.”
“But,” the teacher starts, “but you can still sing, can’t you?”
“Yes, no problem.”
It’s almost like he heaves a sigh of relief.
“Great. That’s good. Excellent. Good. And I hope your mom gets better. Say hello from me. From all of us, actually.”
“Will do.”
* * *
The break is unlike any other. A couple of girls come over and ask how I am. I can’t decide between good or bad, so I say that I can take a lot of pain.
