Charlotte gikk fra skolen, opp mot busstoppet. $\quad$ Snøen lavet ned, rolig og forsiktig — nesten idyllisk. Det minnet om noe man kunne sett i en Disney-film, eller en romantisk komedie, eller … hun hadde nylig sett en merkelig, merkelig film om kreft (i det minste _trodde_ hun den handlet om kreft). Hva het den igjen? Der hadde det vært noen veldig vakre scener med veldig vakker snø som lavet ned mens paret nøt sine siste velfungerende dager sammen, før hun ble for syk til å gå ut, for syk til å stå opp, for syk til å spise for syk til å leve. $\quad$ *The Fountain*, het den. Hva var greien med fontenen? Sikkert en metafor for noe eller noe sånt. $\quad$ Hun så opp mot himmelen. Fulgte fnuggene med øynene. Lot dem falle i ansiktet hennes. Hun hadde god tid til bussen gikk enda, ti minutter, akkurat for lite tid til å bare vandre ned til bussterminalen men akkurat for mye tid til å bare gå opp på busstoppet med en gang. $\quad$ Det var kaldt. Hun hadde på seg en inntilsittende dongeribukse (heldigvis med litt stretch i seg — hun hatet inntilsittende dongeribukser uten stretch) og en jakke fra Moods of Norway hun hadde fått til jul av moren. Hun ville ikke egentlig være her ute (*trikset er å holde seg i bevegelse*, tenkte hun, mens hun sto og så opp mot himmelen, så snøfnuggene danse i en tilsynelatende uendelig, kaotisk men likevel merkelig koordinert dans) men det var bedre enn å være der inne, og risikere å treffe på *han*. *Han* var Christian. Hun pleide å være forelsket i ham. Ganske lenge, faktisk — lenger enn hun hadde innrømmet for han i hvert fall. Han fikk øynene opp for henne også en gang i høst, like etter skolestart. Hun merket endringen ganske godt — man har tross alt et ekstremt våkent blikk for sånt når man er forelsket. $\quad$ *Forelsket.* $\quad$ Ordet smakte bittert i munnen hennes. Hun lot et snøfnugg lande på tungen, som for å lindre smaken. $\quad$ De kysset første gang på Halloweenfesten — et vakkert kyss, et vakkert minne (eller, det pleide i hvert fall å være det), hun hadde vært på vei til å gå (broren satt nede i bilen sin og ventet på henne, akkurat som avtalt) og Christian hadde løpt etter når han hadde hørt at hun var på vei ut, ned trappene fra stuen hvor festen fortsatt var i full gang, i stor nok fart til å nesten velte henne overende når han rundet hjørnet inn til gangen hvor hun holdt på å ta på seg jakke og skjerf. Han lo, grep om henne, holdt henne fra å falle. Hun lo også. Så ham dypt i øynene. Hun hadde spilt _hard to get_, men beste hadde visst en stund hva som holdt på å skje, og begge hadde visst at den andre visste. Han hvisket «*unnskyld*». Hun kysset ham. $\quad$ Han ble nok litt overrasket — hun likte å se for seg at han hadde jobbet hele kvelden med å manne seg opp til det øyeblikket, og idet han skulle endelig kysse henne, kom hun ham i forkjøpet. Det hadde gitt henne en merkelig tilfredsstillelse.     *Gotcha.* Det var den gangen. De hadde ikke møttes, selv om de kanskje burde ha gjort det, men de smilte til hverandre litt ekstra dypt når de så hverandre i gangen på skolen deretter. Flørtet litt mer åpenbart. Hun satt noen ganger på fanget hans i friminuttet — hun hadde likt å sitte på fanget hans, og det så ut til at han likte å ha henne der også. Alle visste at de «holdt på» … men likevel hadde hun holdt tilbake. Hun forsto ikke helt hvorfor selv — hadde hun ikke vært *forelsket*? Jo, hun hadde jo det. Kanskje det var et instinkt, et av de dype medfødte instinktene vi alle har arvet fra våre reptilske forfedre. At noe, *ett eller annet*, ikke helt stemte. At det var lurt å avvente. Se det an. $\quad$ Det er lett å komme med slike påstander i ettertid, i etterpåklokskapens lys. Likevel, hvis det *var* et instinkt der, visste det nok ikke engang selv hvor rett det skulle få. $\quad$ Ine i klassen hadde bursdag i desember (Charlotte, som selv var født i juli, husker hun lurte på hvordan det var å vokse opp med bursdag i desember, med bursdagen så tett på jul, yngst i klassen, ingen feiringer å se frem til om sommeren). Det var en liten feiring, mest jenter fra klassen, noen gutter. Christian, som gikk i b-klassen, var i utganspunktet ikke invitert, men Charlotte hadde spurt om hun kunne ta ham med og Ine hadde sagt (etter litt for mye *uuuh, du og _Christian_?* og påfølgende blunking, hvorpå Charlotte hadde bare himlet med øynene og tenkt *Følger du virkelig _så_ lite med?*) at det gikk fint. De avtalte å møtes på bussen, og dra dit sammen. Hun husket, nå som hun tenkte tilbake på det, at han hadde forsiktig grepet hånden hennes på bussen. Det hadde fått hjertet hennes til å banke litt hardere enn før. Hun grep tilbake. $\quad$ Stemningen var god. De satt for det meste i en sofa, ved siden av hverandre, han med armen over skulderen hennes, dypt i hver sine samtaler. Sammen, men individuelle. Det var fint. Det begynte å føles som et forhold, og det Charlotte hadde tenkt at kanskje det var på tide at det ble det. Kanskje det var på overtid. $\quad$ Christian hadde fått broren til å kjøpe vodka til ham — Vikingfjord, som han insisterte på å kalle det — som han blandet til sterke drinker med appelsinjuice. Charlotte, som drakk Smirnoff Ice selv, syntes det smakte heslig. Hun lo, og sa hun kunne ikke forstå hvordan han orket å drikke det. Han svarte at det er fordi dette er en drink for ekte menn. $\quad$ *Ekte menn. Hva er en ekte mann?* tenkte hun. *Når blir en gutt en mann, eller en jente til kvinne?* Moren hadde sagt *nå er du blitt kvinne* den gangen hun hadde fått mensen, men hun visste at det bare var et uttrykk. Hun hadde vært tolv. Tolvåringer er ikke kvinner … og hun trodde ikke syttenåringer var menn heller. $\quad$ Christian hadde blitt full. Han spydde på badet før klokken var slått midnatt, og hun sto utenfor, bekymret, plutselig ikke så brisen lenger som i ste, plutselig ikke så fristet til å drikke mer. Når han endelig låste opp og hun spurte *Går det bra?* hadde han bare smilt; et fårete, beruset smil, og for første gang fant hun seg selv *frastøtt*. Han luktet en vemmelig blanding av oppkast og tannkrem — han hadde sannsynligvis prøvd å skjule ånden ved å spise tannkrem, sikkert rett fra tuben, og hun hadde tenkt at hadde det vært *hennes* tannkremtube hadde hun faktisk kastet den. Han hadde tatt tak rundt skuldrene og presset leppene sine mot hennes. $\quad$ Hun dyttet ham vekk. $\quad$ «*Æsj,*»  sa hun, lavt nok til at bare han hørte det. «Du har nettopp *spydd.*» $\quad$ «Tannkrem,» snøvlet han, og pekte mot munnen sin. Det fårete gliset spedte seg over ansiktet hans igjen. Han så faktisk *stolt* ut over å ha kommet på denne geniale løsningen. *Tannkrem.* $\quad$ «*Kom her*,» sa han, og grep tak i henne igjen. $\quad$ «*Nei*,» sa hun, men denne gangen kom hun seg ikke løs. Han dro henne inn på badet, lukket døren bak henne. Hun vurderte å skrike, men lot være — hun ville ikke skape noe drama, og han var bare idiot fordi han var full. Han fortjente ikke å bli anklaget for noe annet enn det.  $\quad$ «Hva?» sa hun, med ryggen mot badedøren. Hun så med et stikk av kvalme at han hadde glemt å trekke i snoren etter sin lille seanse der — hele doskålen var som spraylakkert av magesyre, og små biter av hva enn han hadde til middag lå og fløt i bunnen, men hun sa ikke noe. Hun var sint, og hun var *ekstremt* frastøtt, men hun var også, for første gang, redd.  $\quad$ Han låste døren bak henne, tok ut nøkkelen, puttet den i lommen. Tok tak i skuldrene hennes igjen. Beskuet kroppen hennes, målte henne opp og ned, begynte å gnikke seg inntil henne. $\quad$ «Jeg syns det er på tide at vi … du vet …» begynte han. $\quad$ «Hva? *Puler?*» Hun lo. «Glem det. Du er full, og du er ekkel.» $\quad$ «*Ekkel*?Syns du jeg er *ekkel*?» spurte han. Den sensitive tonen i stemmen hans var forsvunnet. $\quad$ «Ikke *sånn* ekkel, jeg mener—» $\quad$ «Aner du hvor lenge jeg har ventet? Hvor lenge må jeg *vente*?» Han hadde begynt å heve stemmen nå. $\quad$ Hun kunne ikke tro dette. Hun klarte ikke å la være å le, selv om det var et *helt* upassende tidspunkt å begynne å le på.  $\quad$ «*Ler* du av meg?» $\quad$ «Jeg mener, du må vente mye lengre dersom du ikke *skjerper deg umiddelbart*. Slipp meg ut av badet.» $\quad$ «Nei, la oss gjøre det, nå … her inne,» sa han, med senket stemme igjen nå. Prøvde å få henne på gli. $\quad$ «Nei. Slipp meg ut.» $\quad$ «Aner du hva du gjør med meg? Noensinne hørt om *blå baller*? Det er det du gjør, du gir meg *blå baller.* Men det er vel sånt som bare *menn* forstår seg på.» $\quad$ «Du er ingen mann.» $\quad$ Han frosset. Munnen åpen, øynene vide.  $\quad$ «Hvis du virkelig tror at du kommer til å komme noen som helst vei med dette, så er du ikke mann. Du er en umoden liten drittunge som ikke klarer å kontrollere—» $\quad$ Slaget kom brått og uventet. Sjokk og smerte skjøt opp fra den venstre skulderen hennes. Hun gispet. Tok seg for. *Hva i helvete??* prøvde hun å si, men ingen ord kom ut. Munnen hans var snurpet tett. Øynene hans var fylt til randen av tårer. $\quad$ Han slo igjen. Knyttet neve. Traff fingrene hennes der hvor hun fortsatt holdt seg for. Hun skrek. Ropte etter hjelp. Sank sammen på gulvet i sjokkert gråt. Musikken stoppet. Ine banket på baderomsdøren. Prøvde å åpne. Ropte etter henne. $\quad$ Han hadde åpnet til slutt. Forsto på et tidspunkt at han hadde gått over streken. Et øyeblikk var hun sikker på at han heller kom til å hoppe ut vinduet enn å åpne døren og forklare seg. Charlotte hadde ikke klart å reise seg. Hun hadde grått. Ine hadde løpt inn til henne, mens en av de andre jentene spurte Christian hva som skjedde. Han hadde ikke sagt noe, bare gått; gått fra badet, gått fra festen, gått fra konsekvenser, gått fra ansvar. $\quad$ Hun tok seg på skulderen. Fortsatt vond. Fingrene også. Det var en uke siden nå. Legen hadde sagt at ingenting er brukket, men du må gi det tid. Prøv å la hånden hvile, ikke bruk den til noe som gjør vondt. $\quad$ *Det kunne vært verre,* tenkte hun med lukkede øyne, ansiktet fortsatt vendt mot himmelen. *Det kunne vært ansiktet.* $\quad$ Den umiskjennelige lyden av bussen som kom over haugen nådde ørene hennes. *Jaja*, tenkte hun, *bare en uke til juleferie.* Hun begynte å gå opp mot busstoppet. $\quad$ *Lurer på hvilken skole jeg skal velge.* (Tid: én time og tre kvarter) --- #### Engelsk gTranslation 12023-09-04, lett redigert: Charlotte walked from the school, up towards the bus stop. The snow lay down, calm and careful — almost idyllic. It was reminiscent of something you might see in a Disney movie, or a romantic comedy, or … she had recently seen a strange, strange movie about cancer (at least she thought it was about cancer). What was it called again? There had been some very beautiful scenes with very beautiful snow falling as the couple enjoyed their last functioning days together, before she became too sick to go out, too sick to stand up, too sick to eat too sick to live. The Fountain, it was called. What was the deal with the fountain? Probably a metaphor for something or something like that. She looked up at the sky. Followed the fluff with her eyes. Let them fall on her face. She had plenty of time until the bus left, ten minutes, just too little time to just walk down to the bus terminal but just too much time to just go up to the bus stop straight away. It was cold. She wore tight-fitting denim pants (luckily with a bit of stretch in them — she hated tight-fitting denim pants without stretch) and a jacket from Moods of Norway that her mother had given her for Christmas. She didn't really want to be out here (the trick is to keep moving, she thought, as she stood looking up at the sky, watching the snowflakes dance in a seemingly endless, chaotic yet strangely coordinated dance) but it was better than to be in there, and risk bumping into him. He was Christian. She used to be in love with him. Quite a long time, in fact—longer than she had admitted to him anyway. He also gotten his eyes up for her sometime in the autumn, just after the start of school. She had noticed the change quite well — after all, you have an extremely watchful eye for such things when you're in love. In love. The word tasted bitter in her mouth. She let a snowflake land on her tongue, as if to soothe the taste. They kissed for the first time at the Halloween party — a beautiful kiss, a beautiful memory (or, at least it used to be), she had been about to leave (her brother was sitting down in his car waiting for her, just as agreed) and Christian had run after when he had heard that she was on her way out, down the stairs from the living room where the party was still in full gear, at a speed fast enough to almost knock her over when he rounded the corner into the hall where she was putting on her jacket and scarf. He laughed, grabbed her, kept her from falling. She laughed too. Looked him deep in the eyes. She had been playing hard to get, but both had known for a while what was going on, and both had known that the other knew. He whispered "sorry". She kissed him. He was probably a little surprised — she liked to imagine that he had worked all evening to man himself up to that moment, and when he was finally going to kiss her, she got ahead of him. It had given her a strange satisfaction. Gotcha. That was that time. They hadn't met much after, although perhaps they should have, but they smiled at each other a little extra deeply when they saw each other in the hallway at school afterwards. Flirted a little more obviously. She sometimes sat on his lap at recess—she had enjoyed sitting on his lap, and he seemed to enjoy having her there, too. Everyone knew they were “a thing” … but still she had held back. She didn't quite understand why herself — hadn't she been in love? Yes, she had. Perhaps it was an instinct, one of those deep innate instincts we all inherited from our reptilian ancestors. That something, something or other, wasn't quite right. That it would be wise to wait. See how it goes. It is easy to make such claims afterwards with the benefit of hindsight. Still, if there was an instinct there, it probably didn't even know how right it was going to be. Ine from her class had a birthday in December (Charlotte, who herself was born in July, remembers wondering what it was like to grow up with a birthday in December, with the birthday so close to Christmas, the youngest in the class, no celebrations to look forward to in the summer). It was a small celebration, mostly girls from the class, some boys. Christian, who was in the B-class, was not initially invited, but Charlotte had asked if she could bring him and Ine had said (after a little too much ooohh, you and Christian? and subsequent winking, after which Charlotte had only rolled her eyes and thought Do you really pay that little attention?) that it was OK. They agreed to meet on the bus and go there together. She remembered, now that she thought back on it, that he had gently grabbed her hand on the bus. It had made her heart beat a little harder than before. She had grabbed it back. The mood was good. They mostly sat on a couch, next to each other, he with his arm over her shoulder, each deep in conversation. Together, but individual. That was nice. It was starting to feel like a relationship, and Charlotte had thought that maybe it was time for it to be. Maybe it was overtime. Christian had gotten his brother to buy him vodka — Vikingfjord, as he insisted on calling it — which he mixed into strong drinks with orange juice. Charlotte, who drank Smirnoff Ice herself, thought it tasted awful. She laughed and said she couldn't understand how he could bear to drink it. He replied that it is because this is a drink for real men. Real men. What is a real man? she thought. When does a boy become a man, or a girl a woman? The mother had said now you are a woman when she had gotten her period, but she knew it was just an expression. She had been twelve. Twelve-year-olds aren't women … and she didn't think seventeen-year-olds were men either. Christian had gotten drunk. He threw up in the bathroom before the clock struck midnight, and she stood outside, worried, suddenly not as tipsy as just before, suddenly not so tempted to drink any more. When he finally opened up and she asked Are you okay? he had only smiled; a sheepish, drunken smile and for the first time she had found herself repulsed. He smelled like a foul mixture of vomit and toothpaste — he'd probably tried to hide his breath by eating toothpaste, probably straight from the tube, and she'd thought to herself that if it had been her tube of toothpaste, she'd actually have thrown it away. He had grabbed her shoulders and pressed his lips to hers. She pushed him away. "Argh," she said, low enough for only him to hear. "You just vomited." "Toothpaste," he snorted, pointing to his mouth. That sheepish grin spread across his face again. He actually looked proud to have come up with this ingenious solution. Toothpaste. "Come here," he said, grabbing her again. "No," she said, but this time she couldn't break free. He dragged her into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She considered screaming, but didn't—she didn't want to cause any drama, and he was just being an idiot because he was drunk. He didn't deserve to be accused of anything other than that. "What?" she said, her back to the bathroom door. She saw with a pang of nausea that he had forgotten to flush after his little session there - the whole bowl was like spray-painted with stomach acid, and little bits of whatever he had had for dinner were floating at the bottom, but she said nothing . She was angry, and she was extremely repulsed, but she was also, for the first time, afraid. He locked the door behind her, took out the key, put it in his pocket. Grabbed her shoulders again. Looked at her body, measured her up and down, began to snuggle up to her. "I think it's time we … you know …" he began. "What? Fuck?» She laughed. "Forget it. You're drunk, and you're disgusting.” "Disgusting? Do you think I'm disgusting?" he asked. The sensual tone of voice was gone. "Not like that, I mean—" "Do you know how long I've been waiting? How long must I wait?" He had started to raise his voice now. She couldn't believe this. She couldn't help but laugh, even though it was a completely inappropriate time to start laughing. "Are you laughing at me?" "I mean, you're going to have to wait a lot longer if you don't pull yourself together immediately. Let me out of the bathroom.” "No, let's do it, now … in here," he said, his voice low again now. Tried to soothe her. "No. Let me out." "Do you know what you're doing to me? Ever heard of blue balls? That's what you do, you give me blue balls. But I guess that's the kind of thing that only men understand.” "You are no man." He froze. Mouth open, eyes wide. "If you really think you're going to get anywhere like this, then you are not a man. You're an immature little bastard who can't control—” The blow came suddenly and unexpectedly. Shock and pain shot up from her left shoulder. She gasped. Took hold of it. What the hell?? she tried to say but no words came out. His mouth was snarled shut. His eyes were filled to the brim with tears. He struck again. Fist. Hit her hand where she was still holding on to her shoulder. She screamed. Shouted for help. Collapsed on the floor in shocked tears. The music stopped. Ine knocked on the bathroom door. Tried to open. Called after her. He had finally opened. Realized at some point that he had crossed a line. For a moment she was sure he would rather jump out the window than open the door and explain himself. Charlotte had not been able to get up. She had been crying. Ine had run in to her, while one of the other girls asked Christian what happened. He hadn't said anything, just gone; gone from the bathroom, gone from the party, gone from consequences, gone from responsibility. She touched her shoulder. Still hurt. The fingers too. It was a week ago now. The doctor had said that nothing is broken, but you have to give it time. Try to rest your hand, don't use it for anything that hurts. It could be worse, she thought with her eyes closed, her face still turned to the sky. It could have been the face. The unmistakable sound of the bus coming over the hill reached her ears. Oh well, she thought, only one week until Christmas break. She started walking up to the bus stop. I wonder which school I'll choose.