Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Sandra’s eyes are watery. ‘You mustn’t say it to anyone, you have to promise—’

‘No, Jesus—’

‘I’ve been seeing him for two weeks.’

‘But,’ Malene takes a quick look around at the dwindling number of pupils around them, ‘we need to go in—’

Sandra retains her grip on Malene’s sleeve. ‘Do you think I’m gone in the head?’

‘No,’ says Malene, ‘but … I mean, he’s seventeen, he’s — well, it’s not so much his age as — y’know … people say things about him, stuff…’

‘Yes. But I love him.’

Love him

Malene feels the thumping of a pulse in her ear. ‘We need to go in,’ she says, avoiding her eyes, ‘but … you know what people say?’

Sandra relaxes her grip on her jacket, her eyes narrow.

‘I mean,’ Malene goes on, ‘as long as you know what you’re doing. Then it’s probably all right. If you … love him.’

Sandra wipes her forehead. ‘I do,’ she says. ‘So, what is it they say about him?’

‘Weell … you know … you do know, right?’

Sandra nods.

‘Don’t say any more. I love him.’

Malene has seen this prim, proper girl every day since first class. She’s always had a naïve look about her, but also balance and poise. Now everything’s off-kilter. Malene shudders. She becomes suddenly aware of wanting to feel like that too and it scares her. Because she’s never thought about it before, about wanting to go out there, out there on that sea where everyone can drown.

‘Look,’ — Malene pushes yearning to one side — ‘we need to be getting in, but are you sure that he’s not just using you, I mean … what about him, does he love you?’

Sandra suddenly gives a start, a look of panic filling her eyes, she looks like she’s about to keel over.

Malene turns to look. There’s a moped coming down the street towards the school. A tall boy with a black helmet, black jeans and a leather jacket riding it.

Sandra gasps for breath, and drags her fingers like a claw from her forehead to her chin. ‘Sorry, Malene, I … talk to you later, okay? I won’t forget this. You won’t say anything, will you? I’ve got to—’

Sandra rushes off towards the boy, who’s pulling up by the bicycle racks. Malene stands looking at her. She recognises that knock-kneed run from PE class, the one people snigger at, one hand under her tits, the other swinging through the air.

Daniel pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair. Sandra throws her arms around him.

Can’t stand here. I’ll get a demerit.

She loves him.

Malene opens the doors and dashes down the corridor, a sudden burning feeling having come over her, a sudden uncertainty; I want that too . She stops for a moment — religious studies? Art and crafts? Pull yourself together, Malene, it’s Norwegian … she’s out of breath as she enters the classroom. Malene nods to the teacher, is conscious of being spared a demerit by a whisker and hurries to her desk.

‘Thank you, Malene,’ Mai says. ‘Nice of you to join us.’

Mai Jensen Bore is fairly young, and she’s a canny, kind teacher. She was off for almost six months last year, for what some claim was an operation on her uterus, while others maintain she had ME, or CFS, which Mira said was the proper name, because that was what her mother had; she lay on the sofa for nearly two years and didn’t have the energy to do anything. But you’d never know it to look at Mai. She teaches Norwegian and social science and she’s one of the most popular teachers, the girls look up to her and the boys make gestures to one another when she walks by in the corridor.

Mai switches on the digital blackboard, clicks on Wikipedia and says something about continuing on today with some texts by contemporary writers. ‘You’ll all recall we read a short story by Frode Grytten—’

‘Pussy Thief!’ shouts one of the boys.

‘That’s right, Jokki, Pussy Thief,’ says Mai without blushing, ‘and you’ll also remember we talked about Tove Nilsen. Well, today we’re going to take a look at something by Johan Harstad, the Stavanger writer who’ll also be paying us a visit in two weeks’ time, so that’s something to look forward to…’

Malene smiles at Mai, tries to follow what she’s saying, Johan Harstad, writer, point of view. But she can’t manage to concentrate. Her head is full to bursting. Sandra and Daniel Moi, Dad and his eyes, the mess in his room, his crying, Tiril, whom she slapped last night…

Malene looks around. There’s a growing disquiet in the classroom, a buzz and murmur spreading throughout. People turn to one another and whisper. Mira has stood up and gone to the window. More and more people get to their feet to follow her. Mai has stopped talking about Johan Harstad and even she’s walked over to take a look. Malene cranes her neck.

‘Jesus,’ one of the boys exclaims. ‘Check it out!’

‘Wicked,’ says another. ‘Yeah, baby!’

‘Whoop whoop!’ a third calls out.

Malene stands up to look out. Sandra is standing by the moped making out with Daniel Moi.

‘All right, everybody,’ Miss Jensen Bore says, ‘let’s try to settle down, okay?’

Malene holds her breath. The white sun shines on Daniel’s moped. His hands are around Sandra’s waist. His head is bowed down towards her and he looks like he’s going to eat her alive.

Take him, Malene urges.

The house is situated at the end of a cul-de-sac, close to the rail-track, and anybody would have difficulty guessing what colour it is any more. It hasn’t seen a lick of paint since Thor B. Haraldsen leaned the ladder against the wall in the early seventies and ran a brush across the planks. It could do with new windows, six of them have condensation between the double glazing, the ground around needs to be drained, it’s got so damp in the laundry room that the boxes of old clothes down there will soon decompose.

Mum drank herself to death in this house, lying there at the end like a dung heap with a death rattle, hardly a tooth left in her head. Dad moved to Houston a few years later, telling his kids to be positive in life and since then things have hobbled along in their own lopsided way. Jan Inge’s reputation spread over half the city, people called him Videoboy. Some dodgy characters began hanging around the house and he started to rent her out when they came to visit. He let them eat crisps and watch video nasties which they paid for by putting cartons of stolen Marlboros on the table, and in this way it developed into a little community in a run-down part of Stavanger, a little company where people have come and gone and which today is comprised of her, Jan Inge, Rudi and Tong.

It wasn’t that horrible, she thinks.

Having all those boys on top of her.

But it wasn’t good either.

It was just something she was forced to do.

The house lies a few hundred metres from the old Riksvei 44, the main road into Stavanger city centre, which goes from Sandnes, through Forus, Gausel and Hinna. The stretch of it passing near to where Cecilie lives is called Hillevågsveien. For a long time it was a dismal area of the city. While the oil ran down through the region and lubricated Stavanger, added lustre, it was as though Hillevåg was forgotten. Nobody pumped money into Hillevåg. The whole suburb, along with its small factories, car showrooms and wholesalers, was left to lie and rust. And these grey streets have been Cecilie’s streets. This is where she’s bought her cigarettes and cinnamon buns, the treats she brings with her down to the quay behind the grain silos, while she looks out at the oilrigs lying in the sea at Jåttåvågen.