“Holy shit,” I say. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Angela says. “Maybe because that fat-ass in your apartment threw him out.”
“How does he make it to work?” I ask.
“How could he go to work—on all fours? He got fired.”
“He was a . . . ”
“Cab driver. Good job. Always worked nights. And I had peace and quiet here.”
I look around, forgetting the math for a minute.
“Who takes care of the household here?” I ask. “I thought he cooked and ironed.”
“Household?” Angela looks at me, bewildered.
“Yeah, I mean, everything’s cleaned up.”
“Only my room’s clean. Nobody cleans the rest of the place. I don’t have time. I have to study.”
I laugh.
“What?” Angela says angrily. “It’s enough that I do the shopping and cook. What else should I have to do? You have it good, that fat old lady does everything.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say automatically. “Anyway, she’s not old. She’s only thirty-seven.”
“So? My father’s thirty-six and he ain’t young.”
“What?” I blurt. “I thought he was at least fifty.”
“Listen,” says Angela, “are you here to talk about my father?”
I hunch over a piece of paper with an equation on it.
As I’m leaving I look around furtively. There are three other doors off the hallway. They are all closed. Behind one of them is Grigorij. I hold my breath but can’t hear anything. I can’t believe he’s been lying here every morning and I didn’t realize it. I thought he had avoided being around when I was there. Now I also notice that there are dust bunnies the size of tennis balls in the corners. And that the winter jackets are still hanging in the entryway.
“Where are all the empty bottles?” I ask.
“In the garbage,” says Angela in an irritated tone. “What would possess you to ask that? Do you expect me to leave them sitting around? You sure are curious. It’s not like your place was always dry.”
“It was, actually,” I say blankly. “Even Vadim. At least compared to everyone else around here. How long will your father keep doing this?” I ask. “When does it stop?”
Angela doesn’t look at me. She looks at herself in the mirror. She’s pretty plump—about twice as wide as me. She’s wearing hot pants that cut into her light skin and a leopard-print bikini top.
I notice for the first time that she has a piercing in her belly button. Steel-colored with a blue stone in it. When she’s sitting down there are folds on her stomach and you can’t see her belly button.
It also occurs to me that it would look better on me.
“When he dies, I guess,” says Angela, and turns away from the mirror.
“What do you mean?”
“You just asked when my father would stop. And I’m saying he’ll stop when he drinks himself to death. Are you leaving now? I have to meet someone.”
I walk out with my books under my arms. I find myself wondering why a feeling of shame is once again washing over me.
Then suddenly I’m all pissed off.
Maybe I’ve looked in the mailbox one too many times. There’s still nothing for me in it. All of a sudden I can’t take it anymore.
I never wanted to wait around for anything like that—a postcard, a text message, a call. I’m not one of those stupid girls. It’s not the end of the world for me if some asshole doesn’t stay in touch. Nobody to blame but himself. Or the post office. The mail can take weeks. And he’s not going to write the first day of his vacation, the jerk.
Sascha doesn’t wait around.
But she is waiting right now.
I’m starting to hate myself for it. As well as the person who hasn’t written. I’m not sure which one I mean. Volker and Felix have merged into one single person who is enjoying himself on an island somewhere, looking out at the ocean, letting white sand trickle between his fingers, cracking open coconuts or whatever, and all the while not thinking about me at all.
I decide to stop running to the mailbox all the time. And not to get on the phone when they’re back and call me. If they call. They can kiss my ass.
I ride my bike downtown to return some books to the library. I check out a couple new ones and sit down outside on a warm stone wall. Behind me a briar of dark-pink dog roses are in bloom and it annoys me that they are thriving so prettily when I feel so miserable.
I don’t notice at first when someone addresses me. I often don’t get it when someone tries to chat me up.
“Did you leave your hearing aids at home?” says the person. I look up and can’t help but smile.
What I see: blond, blue eyes, sunburn on the face and upper arms. Male.
I stop smiling and my eyes return to my book.
“Hello? I guess I’ll have to talk a little bit louder.”
I have to smile again.
All of a sudden he sits down beside me, so close that I shift away a little.
“Hot,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“The wall, I mean. Doesn’t it burn your legs in those shorts?”
I look at my legs. So does he, intently.
I look back at my book.
“I keep asking myself whether we know each other,” he says, his gaze still lowered.
I close the book.
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” I say.
“So,” he says cheerily, “have we met somewhere before?”
“I’m not sure if it was you,” I say. “But one time when I was downtown on my bike, my chain came off. I squatted down to put it back on and suddenly there was someone standing next to me offering to help me. I thanked him without looking up, then I did look up—and you know what?”
“What?”
“Turns out he was—how should I put it?—he was an exhibitionist.”
“Huh?” His jaw drops. “He . . . his pants . . . ?”
“Yep.” I lift my face up toward the sun. It’s fun to make somebody uncomfortable right off the bat. “To put it in the most genteel way, he exposed himself.”
“And he looked like me?” he asks.
“No idea,” I say. The best part is that it’s all true—the bike chain, being downtown, everything. And all I can remember is the person had blond hair not entirely unlike this guy here. “I wasn’t really looking at his face.”
“What were you looking at?” he says flatly.
I shrug my shoulders. If I were in his place, I could think of a thousand funny retorts in the time he just sits there staring at me. But that’s all he does—sit there thinking about my words. Or maybe about something completely different.
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he finally says.
“Too bad,” I say. He looks at me blankly, not getting the joke.
How should he know what I’m thinking. How should he know that the fog I had managed to banish for a little while is back again, filling me from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. It’s probably about to waft out of my mouth. I shut my lips tight.
I’ll make a last desperate attempt to cast it off. I’ll go out with anyone who talks to me right now, and do anything—the dirtier the better. If I piss myself off, it’ll make me feel better.
That’s what I’m thinking as I look the guy over. He’s not unattractive. The best thing about him is his gleaming white T-shirt that’s clearly just been ironed. I’d love to know whether it smells good like fresh laundry. He could almost be nice if he wasn’t so slow on the uptake.
Still, nobody else has chatted me up, so I’ll take what I can get.
“What did you want anyway?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“What did you want from me? Did you want to ask me something?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Ask something, right. Do you want to come to the city fair tonight?” He says it quickly, looking past me. It’s not a very effective approach. I look rig
ht at him and he seems to get a bit uncomfortable as I hold his gaze.
“Why?” I ask. “Why did you want to ask that?”
“Just because,” he says, glancing at me briefly and then looking away again.
City fair, right, of course, I think. Rollercoasters, cotton candy, haunted house. What else. A merry-go-round where they spray you with water. Upside down, spun around like in a washing machine. Betting who will puke first.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twenty-four.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, why?”
“What do you do when you are not at the city fair?”
“I’m a college student.”
“Engineering?”
“No, I dropped out of that. Computer science.”
“Here at the technical college?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Where there are a hundred and thirteen boys and two girls?”
“Five girls. So?”
I don’t answer. I think. He’s not exactly a thrill a minute. But this fog isn’t too much fun either.
I’ve got to get out of here. Maybe the city fair will be just the ticket.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Volker. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Really? Volker?” I ask, intrigued. It’s as if someone has found a secret password in my mind and revealed it to him.
“Yeah, why?”
“No way. Hardly anybody your age is named that,” I say, though now I’m having a hard time talking.
“Do you want to see my ID?”
“Yes,” I say.
“What, right now?”
“Yes.”
He reaches into his pants pocket and fishes around, unable to find it at first. Then he shows me his driver’s license. That tips the scales.
“We can meet up tonight,” I say. “But not at the fair. Let’s meet in North Park. Do you rollerblade?”
“A little,” he mumbles. He doesn’t look thrilled. “I’m not very good.”
“Perfect. Me, too. Eight o’clock at the main entrance? In rollerblades?”
“Okay,” he says, doubt written all over his face. He’s probably already regretting having chatted me up. Maybe he won’t even show up.
But if he does—well, then I’ll be out with a Volker tonight.
He does. From the first glance two things are clear. One, from the way he’s holding on to the metal fence it’s obvious he’s very shaky on skates. Two, he doesn’t appear to be exactly bursting with anticipation.
It changes a bit when I skate up to him and grab hold of him.
“Nice dress,” he says, nearly losing his balance in the process of saying it.
I don’t like dresses. I almost never wear them. But sometimes they’re very practical, I think, though I don’t say any of this, as he’d probably hop out of his rollerblades prematurely.
We take a spin around the park. He holds my hand as we do—not because it’s romantic but because otherwise he’d fall. It’s tough to skate that way, with our sweaty palms clamped together. And my arm gets stiff because I have to hold the guy upright.
We do all the things you’re supposed to do on a first date—if you are in the fifth grade. We don’t talk. We stop at an ice cream stand where, in line, he finally lets go of my hand and I shake out my arm. I don’t bother to conceal my relief.
We eat our ice cream on a bench and crumble up the ends of the cones and toss them to the pigeons. Then I drag him deep into the park where couples are scattered around the grass. His hand is even stickier now from the ice cream. I would love so much to be able to wash my hands.
He stumbles at one point and pulls me down with him. Then once we’ve both gotten up again and lumbered over to each other, he kisses me. Out of the blue. I barely manage to spit out my gum. Afterwards he seems very happy, and I am happy, too, because he ate mint ice cream and the flavor makes me think of something far away and pretty.
I figure he’s ready. So I pull him to a patch of lawn that’s still free, behind a lilac hedge in full bloom. As I let myself fall to the grass, he stays upright, looking around as if he’s lost his way in the dark woods.
“What’s up? I say. “Are you worried about ticks? Or mites?”
“N-n-no,” he answers. I hadn’t realized he stuttered a little. Maybe he hadn’t done it earlier.
It takes all my self-control not to laugh.
“Are you really twenty-four?” I ask.
“Just turned,” he says.
“Can you help me get these heavy things off?” I ask.
“What things?”
“The rollerblades.”
“I’ll try,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Man, it’s hot here.”
He kneels down and gives me another kiss. Then he starts working at the buckles of my inline skates. Finally he has my foot in his hand and asks, “What are you laughing at now?”
“It tickles,” I say.
He lets go of my foot and lies down next to me. He plucks a blade of grass and starts to run it along my arm, from my fingertips, past my elbow, up to my shoulder, and on to my collarbone. I wonder whether he thought that up himself or saw it in a movie. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face. It tickles.
Then he traces the same route with his pointer finger. Collarbone is once again the last stop.
He looks into my eyes. I look away so as not to laugh. Then I turn back to him and we make out in the soft grass for a little while—until he starts working at my arms again.
I’m dying to ask him whether all computer science students are so hesitant, but I contain myself.
I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in some daisies. I feel the blade of grass on the back of my knee. It heads down toward my feet, as if this guy has never heard of the practical aspects of a skirt. But then again where would he have heard about it, with only five girls in his department.
It dawns on me that the night isn’t going to go according to plan unless I push him along a bit. Not that this is so awful, but I just don’t have forever. Back home I’ve just started reading interviews with the American surgeon Robert White, who wanted to transplant heads. It worked on monkeys.
I turn onto my side, prop myself up on my elbow and look pensively at the guy in front of me. Short blond hair, pale face, light eyebrows. He’s chewing on this sorry blade of grass and blinking his eyes nervously.
“What’s the deal with you, Volker?” I ask.
How can it be so difficult to say a name? It’s just a word. The most painful word in the world.
He frowns.
“You mean, how far along am I towards my degree?”
“That, too,” I say. “Do you not find me attractive?”
“Of course I do,” he says quickly. “Very. Lie back down.”
I fall expectantly onto the grass and look up at the sky, and then feel his hand on my arm again. And once again he stops at my shoulder.
I really have to use every ounce of restraint not to flinch and giggle.
“You are so thin,” he says quietly. “Incredible. I really like that. How do you do it?”
I forget to eat, I think to myself, annoyed. Not to please you, you wax-faced jerk. But because I usually have other things on my mind. I think of Clara, the anorexic girl in my class who comes home once in a while between stays at the clinic. And Katharina, who wears long sleeves in the heat of summer because she constantly cuts her arms with her father’s razor. Not to try to kill herself, just to cut lines in her skin.
But in summer—or in gym class—the long sleeves stick out a lot more than a few slits would. There’s something creepy about the long sleeves because they are clearly concealing something. Katharina seems to know this, too. Sometimes she looks proud of the reaction she gets.
I don’t understand either one. Starving yourself or cutting yourself. I mean, it’s idiotic to take out your anger on your own body. And pointless. It should be enough to be the
target of everybody’s ridicule.
I have to consider the fact that what I’m doing right now is not so very different.
But I don’t want to quit halfway through. If I get up this minute and go home, it’s possible that I might end up grabbing for a razor blade in the bathroom and testing that out. What a feeling. If Katharina does it so often, maybe it would do me some good.
It’s getting cooler.
“Listen,” I say, irritated, “is it possible you’re shy?”
“Me?” He opens his mouth and forgets to close it again. “Why would you think I’m shy?”
“I don’t want to lie around here in the grass all night, you know.”
“Where would you rather be?”
I look at him for a long time. We just don’t understand each other.
Suddenly he flushes, turning red beneath his sunburn, and begins to stutter again.
“It’s j-j-just a little f-f-fast for me,” he says. “I can’t just do it straight away.”
“You can’t? How long do you need?”
“Oh, man. I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
“You don’t like me?”
“I do. A lot. You have an amazing body and nice skin, darker than mine.”
“Yes, which is why I never get sunburned. Get that god damn blade of grass away from me. Please.”
He tosses the blade of grass onto the lawn, thinks for second, then leans over and kisses me. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see him. I try to imagine it is someone else. I guess Felix was right. All men are the same. If I keep my eyes closed, this guy isn’t even here.
In that case the only person here is the one I picture. I put together an image of Volker’s face from my various memories, building it like a mosaic from countless shards. But it slips away from me. I’m not sure anymore what he looks like. I can’t picture his face anymore. And the more desperate I become trying to piece it together, the more details fade.
To distract myself, I try to figure out when the right moment is to alert this college kid to the condoms in my bag.
Just then my mouth is freed again.
“Have you overexerted yourself?” I ask. Immediately I’m upset with myself. I could have asked him that afterwards. If I scare him off too quickly, I’ll feel really lonely and ugly.
Broken Glass Park Page 16
