by me,” I say.
As we walk down the hall, his size strikes me again. He’s wearing a crumpled T-shirt and baggy dark pants.
“Do you guys have electric lighting?” I ask.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we seem to be constantly in the dark.”
“It’s nice.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really?” He starts to feel around on the wall.
I wave my hand. “Forget it. It can’t be too many more miles to your room, right?”
“Nope. It’s walking distance.” He stretches his arm out and opens a door right in front of me.
“Here’s where I live,” he says. “Have a look.”
I’m impressed and stand there taking it in.
It is a gigantic room—at least five times as big as my room at home. The bed is a wide, low space piled high with blankets and pillows. On his desk is a computer. There are two keyboards in front of the computer, and two video game consoles. The stereo display blinks. There’s a TV hanging above the bed—right now it’s showing news.
“Not bad,” I say. “But all these electronics—don’t they give off radiation?”
“What do you mean?”
“Electromagnetic radiation. Isn’t it supposed to be bad for you?”
“I’m unhealthy enough already,” he says, laughing. “A bit of radiation isn’t going to kill me.”
“And such a massive bed—you could play soccer on it.”
“Yeah—and other games.” He grins at me.
I turn away.
“I’m going back to my room,” I say and then correct myself. “To the guest room.”
“Yeah?” he says, disappointed. “And then what?”
“Then I’ll go to sleep,” I say, even though I think I’ll go read.
“Hmm,” he says. “Should I show you the way?”
“Thanks, but I’ll find it, I think.” Now that I know I’m not going to bump into a woman in a negligee, I feel much more at ease. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t only hate men. Maybe I hate women, too.
I can’t get up the courage to ask him where the other bedroom is.
“Is Volker your father?” I ask timidly.
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t think anything. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” he says. I have the impression he’s following me with his eyes as I walk out.
I wander around the house a little. The wood floors creak underfoot. Here and there a carpet muffles the sound of my footsteps. The place smells like dust and vanilla.
I think I’ve figured out which door is his. Just a feeling. I stand in front of it and try to think. Then I realize how stupid I’d look if the door opened and I was standing there. So I go back downstairs quickly and quietly and slip into my bed. I look at my phone. No calls and no text messages.
I fall asleep with a half-eaten apple in my hand.
In the morning, sun pours through the slits of the blinds.
I know this feeling from when I was five years old and stayed with my grandmother—pure, unadulterated joy, when everything you sense hints at even more happiness. The clatter of dishes, the light, the buzz of bees, voices in the kitchen, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and warm cinnamon on the rolls my grandmother had just taken out of the oven.
I lie there for a long time taking it all in. It’s different from that time, but somehow very similar. I look at my phone. It’s just after ten.
I get dressed and comb my hair. It’s finally dry. There’s a mirror on the wall above the armoire. I look warily at myself in it. I don’t look anything like my mother. Even ignoring the difference in hair color, she was stronger looking and had different facial features. Everything about her was different. Not even my eye color is right. And my eyes are small, and I squint a lot because I’m a little shortsighted—and when I get upset.
I toss my hairbrush into my backpack.
It doesn’t take me long to find the kitchen. I had stumbled upon it last night. It’s one of those kitchens that opens onto the living room. There’s a guy sitting at the table with a T-shirt on that reads “Apocalyptica” on the
As we walk down the hall, his size strikes me again. He’s wearing a crumpled T-shirt and baggy dark pants.
“Do you guys have electric lighting?” I ask.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we seem to be constantly in the dark.”
“It’s nice.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Really?” He starts to feel around on the wall.
I wave my hand. “Forget it. It can’t be too many more miles to your room, right?”
“Nope. It’s walking distance.” He stretches his arm out and opens a door right in front of me.
“Here’s where I live,” he says. “Have a look.”
I’m impressed and stand there taking it in.
It is a gigantic room—at least five times as big as my room at home. The bed is a wide, low space piled high with blankets and pillows. On his desk is a computer. There are two keyboards in front of the computer, and two video game consoles. The stereo display blinks. There’s a TV hanging above the bed—right now it’s showing news.
“Not bad,” I say. “But all these electronics—don’t they give off radiation?”
“What do you mean?”
“Electromagnetic radiation. Isn’t it supposed to be bad for you?”
“I’m unhealthy enough already,” he says, laughing. “A bit of radiation isn’t going to kill me.”
“And such a massive bed—you could play soccer on it.”
“Yeah—and other games.” He grins at me.
I turn away.
“I’m going back to my room,” I say and then correct myself. “To the guest room.”
“Yeah?” he says, disappointed. “And then what?”
“Then I’ll go to sleep,” I say, even though I think I’ll go read.
“Hmm,” he says. “Should I show you the way?”
“Thanks, but I’ll find it, I think.” Now that I know I’m not going to bump into a woman in a negligee, I feel much more at ease. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t only hate men. Maybe I hate women, too.
I can’t get up the courage to ask him where the other bedroom is.
“Is Volker your father?” I ask timidly.
“What did you think?”
“I didn’t think anything. Goodnight.”
“Sleep well,” he says. I have the impression he’s following me with his eyes as I walk out.
I wander around the house a little. The wood floors creak underfoot. Here and there a carpet muffles the sound of my footsteps. The place smells like dust and vanilla.
I think I’ve figured out which door is his. Just a feeling. I stand in front of it and try to think. Then I realize how stupid I’d look if the door opened and I was standing there. So I go back downstairs quickly and quietly and slip into my bed. I look at my phone. No calls and no text messages.
I fall asleep with a half-eaten apple in my hand.
In the morning, sun pours through the slits of the blinds.
I know this feeling from when I was five years old and stayed with my grandmother—pure, unadulterated joy, when everything you sense hints at even more happiness. The clatter of dishes, the light, the buzz of bees, voices in the kitchen, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and warm cinnamon on the rolls my grandmother had just taken out of the oven.
I lie there for a long time taking it all in. It’s different from that time, but somehow very similar. I look at my phone. It’s just after ten.
I get dressed and comb my hair. It’s finally dry. There’s a mirror on the wall above the armoire. I look warily at myself in it. I don’t look anything like my mother. Even ignoring the difference in hair color, she was stronger looking and had different facial features. Everything about her was different. Not even my eye color is right. And my eyes are small, and I squint a lot because I’m a little shortsighted—and when I get upset.
I toss my hairbrush into my backpack.
It doesn’t take me long to find the kitchen. I had stumbled upon it last night. It’s one of those kitchens that opens onto the living room. There’s a guy sitting at the table with a T-shirt on that reads “Apocalyptica” on the
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