Stephanie de Velasco: Tiger Milk

No idea, says Jameelah, I don’t like acid.

The painter is still sitting in the gazebo smoking. I’m about to put my head down and sleep but then on the other side of the playground the door to the gym opens and Anna-Lena runs out heading in the direction of the girls’ bathroom holding something under her jumper. I peek back at Jameelah again, she’s stopped playing tic-tac-toe and is staring out the window like she’s in a trance. I hold my hand to my stomach, grimace, and raise my hand.

Say you know the answer, says Struck.

No, I say, I’m feeling really sick.

Struck raises her eyebrows.

Really Frau Struck, I need to go to the bathroom.

Well off you go.

I run down the steps and out across the playground to the girls’ loos and quietly push the door open. Somebody is throwing up in one of the toilets, throwing up and crying. I creep into the next stall, crying, puking, then silence, then crying and puking again and silence again, over and over again until something is being taken out of a packet, but it doesn’t sound like a box of tampons, more like some kind of medicine or something from the pharmacy, and then the sound of somebody peeing. As quietly as possible I climb up on the toilet seat and peer over the stall. There’s Anna-Lena holding a pregnancy test in her hand.

What are you doing, I ask even though it’s pretty obvious.

Paralyzed with fear she looks up at me, I jump down from the toilet and knock on the door to her stall.

Open up.

No, she says, get out of here.

Open up, I say, otherwise I’ll go get the janitor.

The lock rotates from red to green. Anna-Lena is sitting on the toilet seat cover, her face swollen from crying and her hair caked with vomit and snot, Frieda Gaga not looking so freshly laundered. No matter what else happens, I think, I’ll definitely mark this day with a red X on my calendar.

Show me the test, I say.

Leave me alone, says Anna-Lena.

I go over to the sink and pull a huge ball of paper towels out of the dispenser and then the door to the bathroom opens. It’s Jameelah, she stands there with her hands on her hips and glares at me.

What’s going on here, she asks.

I point my thumb at the stall.

She might be pregnant, I say.

Who? By who?

No idea, good question.

Jameelah rushes over to the stall.

Is it true, she says but Anna-Lena doesn’t answer.

I asked if it’s true!

What business is it of yours, says Anna-Lena.

Where’s the test, says Jameelah but Anna-Lena puts her hand behind her back.

Jameelah gasps.

Fuck your test, whose is it, but Anna-Lena squeezes her lips tight as if that will help somehow.

Who was it, says Jameelah again shoving Anna-Lena’s shoulder and then grabbing her and shaking her, whose is it, she says, but when Anna-Lena still doesn’t answer Jameelah grabs her hands from behind her back, holds her wrists, and shoves her up against the wall of the toilet stall.

Let me go, screams Anna-Lena, you’re hurting me.

Shut your mouth, Jameelah screams pressing her harder, look me in the eye do you hear me, look me in the eye and tell me it’s not what I think it is!

What is going on, I wonder, Islam will rule the world it says next to Anna-Lena on the wall, and beneath that, Men are like toilets either taken or full of shit, Look it’s Nutella and Here I sit and contemplate shall I shit or masturbate , and by the time I reach masturbate I finally get what this is about, it’s about Italy and Anna-Lena and Lukas.

Oh no, I whisper.

Jameelah slowly lets go of Anna-Lena’s wrists and sinks to the toilet seat. Anna-Lena crouches down and covers her face with her hands and as she does the pregnancy test falls out of the back pocket of her trousers and onto the floor. I look at the results and there are two stripes, two parallel pink stripes. That’s what life looks like at the very beginning, when it’s still invisible to the naked eye.

Jameelah bends down and picks up the test and examines it as if it’s hers, then she drops it back onto the floor. She puts her hands together in her lap and they sit there like two people who have broken up but didn’t really want to.

Give me some toilet paper please, says Anna-Lena standing up slowly.

Toilet paper, I say looking her up and down, screw toilet paper! You slept with your own cousin, man if that’s not some medieval shit, I say, and always bothering us and writing love you my angel on our rucksacks and not meaning it at all, if that’s not totally sickening, I say, that’s a thousand times more sickening than blackheads and spiders and herpes all put together.

With a long howling sound Anna-Lena lets herself sink to the floor again.

And stop fucking crying, I say but the crying just gets louder.

Anna-Lena, says Jameelah.

Ah come on, I say, forget it.

Anna-Lena, says Jameelah shaking her, Anna-Lena, she says again and shakes her harder but Anna-Lena just cries louder and louder.

If somebody comes in right now we’re fucked, I say.

Smack her one, says Jameelah.

What?

You should smack her one. Like you did to me on the street the other day.

Really?

Yeah, says Jameelah, do it.

With pleasure, I say making a fist.

No, says Jameelah, just slap her.

Why?

Because you hit hard.

Sorry about the other day, sorry about everything, I say.

Shut your mouth, says Jameelah, and smack her.

Got it, I say and a second later Anna-Lena gets one across the face.

With one hit the sobbing stops.

Are you two out of your fucking minds, screams Anna-Lena.

Oh stop acting like that, says Jameelah, a teacher could come in at any moment and then you’d have to tell them the whole story.

She grabs Anna-Lena and tries to lift her up.

Come on help me.

Together we pull Anna-Lena over to the sink. Jameelah pulls a bunch of paper towels out of the dispenser, wets them under the faucet, and hands them to her.

Here, clean up your face.

Obediently Anna-Lena wipes her face.

What do I do now, she says softly.

You have to go to the doctor, I say, then you have to wait three days and then you can get rid of it.

No, says Jameelah, you have to talk to your parents.

No, I say, she doesn’t have to, there’s mandatory confidentiality.

Jameelah rolls her eyes.

Man there’s no confidentiality if you’re under sixteen, you can’t do it on your own, you have to get your parents to sign off, how is it that I’m the only one who knows this stuff? Any idiot can fuck but why can’t you people use condoms?

I look at the floor. How does she always know this kind of thing, I wonder, but the fact that I didn’t use a condom with Nico she has no way of knowing, but still, I think, I’m not going to sleep with anybody else without a condom and next week I’m going to get a library card, even Orkhan and Tayfun have library cards, but that’s just so they can go annoy the librarians when they get bored, but I won’t annoy anyone there, I think, I’m going to take something out every week until I finally know more than Jameelah.

I can’t tell my parents, says Anna-Lena, if they find out they’ll take me out of school and put me in some nunnery in Bavaria, they want to send me there already.

Jameelah looks at the clock.

Come on, she says, we’re going to Kottbusser Tor.

Kotti? What are we going to do there, asks Anna-Lena.

We’re going to see my mother, says Jameelah, she’ll help you.

I’ve never been to see Noura at the clinic. They only operate on women, women who are pregnant and don’t want the baby, or women who don’t want to get pregnant at all. They also get some women who have shoved things up their backsides or in the front and can’t get them out on their own. Jameelah once told me there’s a special box where they collect the things that have been surgically removed from women, everything from screwdrivers to fluorescent light bulbs all of which they have apparently accidentally fallen on. I always find it funny but Jameelah, Anna-Lena and I don’t talk as we walk down Oranienstrasse toward the clinic and I don’t feel like laughing.