like it was scented with summer jasmine.
âCome on,â the woman says.
Anna bends down to push her books back into her schoolbag. On the roadway the chemistry textbook has been torn apart under car wheels. A few pages of formulae drift along the footpath in the wake of passing cars.
âLeave the books,â the woman says.
But she canât. âDo you have any idea how much it costs to pay for your schooling and the uniform and the books?â her mother says whenever she complains about school. âJust thank your lucky stars we didnât send you to the local high school.â
She scoops the books into the bag. Tucked inside is her Hello Kitty purse. Before she lifts the bag, she empties the coins from the purse and holds them out to Jesus on the flat of her palm.
âSuffer the little children to come unto me,â he calls, his arms wide, waiting to embrace her.
âIâm sorry,â she says. She slips the coins into his pocket, then steps back and heaves the schoolbag to her shoulder.
The tram rocks toward them with its familiar whine.
âGo! Catch this one,â the woman says. She gives a push and Anna takes off at a run, pounding along the footpath, her bag banging against her back. She makes the next stop just in time to swing up on the tram and looks back to see the woman walking quickly away. The Lord Jesus Christ stands alone, arms at his sides, hair hanging over his face, greatcoat trailing on the ground. He lifts his hand to her one last time and she presses her palm against the glass in reply.
When she gets home her mother follows her up the stairs, demanding to know why sheâs late. Anna slams the bedroom door behind her and hides the E for tomorrow night. Marcoâs sent her a text but she doesnât want to read it yet. She plugs her music player into the speakers with the volume as loud as it can go, and she lies flat on her back on the bed, still in her school uniform. Her breathing is shallow and her heart skips fast, then slow, then fast. Music roars around her like a hurricane. There might be some sounds outside her door, a mother shouting or a phone ringing, but that doesnât matter.
âCunt cunt cunt cunt cunt,â she shouts, flying with the music. âCunt cunt cunt cunt cunt.â
O n e G o o d T hi n g
âIf you were my sister,â I asked Klara Fuchs, âdo you think weâd still be best friends?â
âOh, Natalie, of course we would,â she said, and I believed her.
We were in love, the way that primary-school girls fall in love with each other. When I look back now I realise that Klara was thin and brittle like a bunch of sticks held together with cloth. But at the time I thought she was perfect. She wore bright striped dresses that her mother had made, and matching single-colour cardigans. She wore long white socks every day. She smelled different from everyone else, tart and spicy like an exotic fruit. The first night I stayed for tea at her house and they served me sauerkraut I recognised the smell. Sometimes, in school, we held hands under the desk. I remember the sensation of her hot sticky fingers entwined in mine.
I was an only child. Klara had a sister and a brother. Her sister was nine years older than us, almost an adult. She only ever spoke to us to point out how annoying we were. Klaraâs brother, Dieter, was thirteen. As much as I wished Klara was my sister and could live with me at my house, I wished Dieter was not her brother and that I had never met him.
If Dieter found a drawing we had done, he ripped up the paper. If he caught us playing in the mud, he smeared the mud over our faces. If he caught us at the swimming pool, he tried to hold us under. He might always be around a corner, so we had to speak softly. He might find the spell we had written to ward him off, so we ate the paper.
When I sat opposite him at the dinner table, smiling politely as I tried to chew my serve of sour
âCome on,â the woman says.
Anna bends down to push her books back into her schoolbag. On the roadway the chemistry textbook has been torn apart under car wheels. A few pages of formulae drift along the footpath in the wake of passing cars.
âLeave the books,â the woman says.
But she canât. âDo you have any idea how much it costs to pay for your schooling and the uniform and the books?â her mother says whenever she complains about school. âJust thank your lucky stars we didnât send you to the local high school.â
She scoops the books into the bag. Tucked inside is her Hello Kitty purse. Before she lifts the bag, she empties the coins from the purse and holds them out to Jesus on the flat of her palm.
âSuffer the little children to come unto me,â he calls, his arms wide, waiting to embrace her.
âIâm sorry,â she says. She slips the coins into his pocket, then steps back and heaves the schoolbag to her shoulder.
The tram rocks toward them with its familiar whine.
âGo! Catch this one,â the woman says. She gives a push and Anna takes off at a run, pounding along the footpath, her bag banging against her back. She makes the next stop just in time to swing up on the tram and looks back to see the woman walking quickly away. The Lord Jesus Christ stands alone, arms at his sides, hair hanging over his face, greatcoat trailing on the ground. He lifts his hand to her one last time and she presses her palm against the glass in reply.
When she gets home her mother follows her up the stairs, demanding to know why sheâs late. Anna slams the bedroom door behind her and hides the E for tomorrow night. Marcoâs sent her a text but she doesnât want to read it yet. She plugs her music player into the speakers with the volume as loud as it can go, and she lies flat on her back on the bed, still in her school uniform. Her breathing is shallow and her heart skips fast, then slow, then fast. Music roars around her like a hurricane. There might be some sounds outside her door, a mother shouting or a phone ringing, but that doesnât matter.
âCunt cunt cunt cunt cunt,â she shouts, flying with the music. âCunt cunt cunt cunt cunt.â
O n e G o o d T hi n g
âIf you were my sister,â I asked Klara Fuchs, âdo you think weâd still be best friends?â
âOh, Natalie, of course we would,â she said, and I believed her.
We were in love, the way that primary-school girls fall in love with each other. When I look back now I realise that Klara was thin and brittle like a bunch of sticks held together with cloth. But at the time I thought she was perfect. She wore bright striped dresses that her mother had made, and matching single-colour cardigans. She wore long white socks every day. She smelled different from everyone else, tart and spicy like an exotic fruit. The first night I stayed for tea at her house and they served me sauerkraut I recognised the smell. Sometimes, in school, we held hands under the desk. I remember the sensation of her hot sticky fingers entwined in mine.
I was an only child. Klara had a sister and a brother. Her sister was nine years older than us, almost an adult. She only ever spoke to us to point out how annoying we were. Klaraâs brother, Dieter, was thirteen. As much as I wished Klara was my sister and could live with me at my house, I wished Dieter was not her brother and that I had never met him.
If Dieter found a drawing we had done, he ripped up the paper. If he caught us playing in the mud, he smeared the mud over our faces. If he caught us at the swimming pool, he tried to hold us under. He might always be around a corner, so we had to speak softly. He might find the spell we had written to ward him off, so we ate the paper.
When I sat opposite him at the dinner table, smiling politely as I tried to chew my serve of sour
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