Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

That sank in. Sandra can’t help who she is. Sandra can’t do anything about where she comes from: Sandra’s one of us now.

‘Hey, Shaun!’

She continues walking towards him. People are looking now. They begin to flock around.

‘Oh oh! Emo alarm!’ says Bunny’s little brother loudly. He’s standing together with Fredrik and Hassan in front of the tree by the gymhall.

‘Hey, Shaun,’ she repeats. ‘Hey! Shaun the Sheep! I’m talking to you!’

Tiril stops right in front of him. Bunny’s little brother stands there sneering but she notices he can’t meet her eyes. She maintains a steady gaze.

‘Something on your mind, Amy Lee?’

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘there is.’

‘Hey! The emo actually has a mind! Word!’

Bunny’s little brother raises the palm of his hand to Hassan and they high-five.

‘See these?’ Tiril lifts her hands and holds them in front of his face. ‘Can you read?’

‘Funny.’ Shaun’s gaze sweeps across her fingers. ‘Love hate, wow, scary.’

She lowers her voice, brings her face right up to his: ‘You’re a loser, Shaun Payne, and you know it. You’re going to end up smoking crack in a couple of years. You think you’re hot shit because your family comes from the US but you’re not. We don’t buy that crap. You’re from a shithole where people think the death penalty is the solution to their own problems and invading other countries is the solution to other people’s problems; you’re a lowlife and an idiot; you’re the only person I know who’s managed to get busted swiping stuff in Spar twice in two weeks. Jesus, look at yourself, you’re the same height as a wheelie bin and you still get clocked trying to steal chocolate. You can’t open your mouth without coming out with something stupid. What’s wrong with you? Can’t you do anything other than slag people off?’

Bunny’s little brother’s face is red, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, tries to grin but can’t quite manage. Tiril whispers: ‘Shaun? You’ve bad breath. You hear me? Loser. Have you got a crush on me?’

He swallows; she sees his Adam’s apple rise and fall.

‘Well, have you?’

‘Jesus,’ he says, but there’s a tremor in his voice.

‘These are my hands,’ Tiril says, clenching her fists. ‘The next time you say a fucking word about my sister, or Sandra, or me, I’ll plant them in your face. And when I get my period — and that won’t be too long — I’m going to smear blood all over your ugly mug. And tomorrow I’m going to stand in the gym hall and sing, and I won’t forget one single line. And you are never, you hear me, never going to get so much as the tiniest little piece of me.’

She turns on her heels. Starts to walk. A crowd of people have gathered round. Nobody says a word. She sees Malene standing amongst them, and behind her, Sandra. She gives them a quick nod.

From behind her comes the sound of laughter. It grows louder the further away she gets. She slows down. She closes her eyes.

‘Emo bitch!’

Bunny’s little brother.

‘Emo slut! Do you think you can talk to people like that and get away with it?’

Oh, you stupid little shit.

You couldn’t let it go, could you?

Tiril turns. Thea makes an attempt to restrain her but Tiril runs at him, her fist raised, and when she punches him as hard as she can in the face, she connects cleanly.

She is so beautiful.

She’s behind a desk, dressed in a white lab coat; she could be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. She’s slim, but in a strong way, her skin golden and Egyptian, her mascara moss green, her nails are painted, her lipstick is deep red and she’s wearing her hair up.

Cecilie feels like a hedgehog, she wants to turn around and go back out the door, run down to the fjord and never come back.

The lighting in the room is low. There’s a chandelier with yellow twirly light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a pale pink candle on the woman’s desk radiating warmth over her smooth, wrinkle-free hands. The scent of essential oils, plants, lavender and herbs pervade and a piano and panpipe version of ‘Für Elise’ is sneaking out of speakers someplace.

Cecilie’s stomach feels cold and her palms are sweaty; she needs to pee but the woman behind the desk looks up, smiles and says, ‘Hello, welcome, you must be Cecilie?’

A peeping sound like that of a bicycle brake escapes her mouth as she emits a ‘yes’, in an attempt to keep her lips from opening too wide and revealing her yellow teeth.

The woman gets to her feet and walks round from behind the desk, her whole being still smiling. The corners of Cecilie’s mouth twitch when she sees her green eyes. Fine green rays spread out across the iris, and in her left eye, below the pupil, she has three or four red flecks resembling tiny pearls.

‘Lovely to see you, Cecilie — is this your first time with us?’

‘Yes…’

The woman motions with her hand towards a coat stand and Cecilie begins removing her jacket even though all she wants to do is leave.

‘Your hair really is a fantastic colour, I envy you that!’ She glances at a sheet of paper lying on the desk. ‘Cecilie Haraldsen. Classic skincare treatment, wasn’t it?’

‘Ehh … yeah,’ Cecilie brings her hand to her hair, awkwardly, ‘I thought I’d…’

‘Für Elise’ is replaced by the strains of ‘Imagine’, also being played on piano and panpipes. The beautiful woman seems to be strewing something across the floor as she gestures towards a hemp basket with pink, sea-blue and white slippers in it.

‘Feel free to take off your shoes and slip into a pair of these,’ she says, letting out a gentle laugh that almost seems to materialise, like a colourful ball rolling over the floor and up the walls. ‘Just heaven.’

‘Okay…’

Cecilie bends down, self-consciously, and takes off her shoes. Two old, worn-out black socks. She curls her toes and tightens her lips.

‘Good, Cecilie, this is what we’ll do. You come along — silly me, I forgot to introduce myself, I’m Hege…’

Cecilie gives her clammy palm a quick brush of her thigh and takes the woman’s hand. Warm and soft, like everything else in here.

‘I just have to say,’ she says, smiling again, ‘that hair colour. Smashing! Now, we have eight cubicles in all and if you’ll just follow me down here then we’ll see what we can do.’

‘Okay…’ Cecilie blushes and raises, without meaning to, her hand to her hair.

‘Are you married, Cecilie? Kids?’

Cecilie looks away, shakes her head.

The woman smiles, almost conspiratorially, and says: ‘Still not too late to have a few little ones, but all the same, we have to admit we are of a certain age, and we need to look after our skin—’

‘We do, yeah…’

‘But a boyfriend — you do have a man, Cecilie?’

‘I do, yeah…’

‘And of course he wants to see you looking nice, hm? It’s just the right time for you to take care of yourself. You deserve it.’

Cecilie follows on the heels of the beautiful woman into what she’d called a cubicle — a small room containing a bed at an angle with a pillow covered in a towel at the head. There’s a small stool with wheels beside it and a shelf along one wall. Beneath the shelf stands a small table with an assortment of skincare products, bottles and jars on it. And once again a pale pink candle, the same music as out in the reception, the same soft smells, and a strange looking contraption on wheels.

The sight of the bed makes Cecilie nervous — is she supposed to undress?

‘Now, Cecilie, here we are. Everything okay? Good. You lie down and make yourself comfortable. You can take off your sweater — leave your bra on — and then just relax. There you go.’