even before we’d started. I picked up the skipping rope and thought about imminent death. Teacher was just about to introduce us, but I reckoned we might just as well get it over with, and slammed down the needle.
The music started off with a clatter. By God, but we jumped around! The floor sagged and the heavy needle pattered at the defenseless vinyl like a woodpecker’s bill. Niila’s nervousness made him so stiff-legged that he kept losing his balance, crashing into the teacher’s desk, bumping against me, then staggering back into the blackboard and bending the chalk shelf. I threw myself wholeheartedly into the catastrophe, stopped miming, as the record sounded like a box of nails being shaken, and instead started yelling out in home-made English. I was bawling so frenetically that even the eraser-throwers lost the plot. I was trying simultaneously to prevent Niila jumping about so much he smashed the record player. As the needle was jumping back and forth, there was no sign of the song ever coming to an end. Niila tossed his head so violently that his shoulder strap came loose and the guitar flew into the wall map, making a deep dent close to Jyväskylä, and despite my bellowing I finally managed to hear Teacher shrieking. Niila got tangled up in the skipping rope and tumbled stiff-legged into me like a moose. We collapsed into the record player, the pickup arm fell off, and at last silence fell.
We lay there in a heap. Niila was winded and could only breathe in, not out, he was hiccuping and gasping as his lungs filled up to burstingpoint. My lip tasted of blood and salt. It was so quiet, you could have heard a mouse sneeze.
Then the girls started clapping. Hesitantly but approvingly. The boys were muttering enviously, and a big lump of eraser bounced off my head.
And it dawned on me that it hadn’t been a complete disaster after all.
* * *
The next few days were hectic. Niila was given a good hiding at home when it became known what he’d done, but he said bravely that it had been worth it. I was also threatened with a fate worse than death by my big sister when she saw her ruined record. I escaped by the skin of my teeth after agreeing to a Draconian installment plan by which she would take all my pocket money for the foreseeable future.
The reaction of the girls at school was more thought-provoking. Like most lads of my age I considered myself to be ugly and shy, with straggly hair and a potato of a nose and skinny forearms. But now, Niila and I started getting looks. Shy, fleeting glances in the lunchtime cafeteria line, quick smiles from clusters of girls outside the home ec room. We were invited to join their skipping games, and shyly agreed to do so. We were called ladykillers by the envious boys. It was all most bewildering and a bit frightening.
All the time we kept on practicing in the garage, tunes I’d heard on the radio then reproduced from memory. Niila jumped around with the piece of hardboard, and I sang. It sounded less awful than before as I’d learned not to strain my throat, but to sing from deeper down in my chest. My voice became steadier, and occasionally sounded a little bit like music. Niila started smiling inwardly and giving me friendly digs. We sometimes paused in between numbers, discussed the relationship between girls and rock music, drank lemonade, and felt nervous.
Things came to a head a few weeks later when a girl who lived in Strandvägen arranged a party. After sodas and popcorn, we played Consequences. Before Niila and I could get away, we’d been kissed todeath, and I got together with a girl for four days before I put an end to it and gave her back the necklace and brass ring and the photograph of her in her lace blouse and her Mum’s lipstick.
Not long after that, it was all over. The girls found more exciting things to do, and got together with boys from the big school. Niila and I suddenly found ourselves in a backwater, and although we tried for ages to
The music started off with a clatter. By God, but we jumped around! The floor sagged and the heavy needle pattered at the defenseless vinyl like a woodpecker’s bill. Niila’s nervousness made him so stiff-legged that he kept losing his balance, crashing into the teacher’s desk, bumping against me, then staggering back into the blackboard and bending the chalk shelf. I threw myself wholeheartedly into the catastrophe, stopped miming, as the record sounded like a box of nails being shaken, and instead started yelling out in home-made English. I was bawling so frenetically that even the eraser-throwers lost the plot. I was trying simultaneously to prevent Niila jumping about so much he smashed the record player. As the needle was jumping back and forth, there was no sign of the song ever coming to an end. Niila tossed his head so violently that his shoulder strap came loose and the guitar flew into the wall map, making a deep dent close to Jyväskylä, and despite my bellowing I finally managed to hear Teacher shrieking. Niila got tangled up in the skipping rope and tumbled stiff-legged into me like a moose. We collapsed into the record player, the pickup arm fell off, and at last silence fell.
We lay there in a heap. Niila was winded and could only breathe in, not out, he was hiccuping and gasping as his lungs filled up to burstingpoint. My lip tasted of blood and salt. It was so quiet, you could have heard a mouse sneeze.
Then the girls started clapping. Hesitantly but approvingly. The boys were muttering enviously, and a big lump of eraser bounced off my head.
And it dawned on me that it hadn’t been a complete disaster after all.
* * *
The next few days were hectic. Niila was given a good hiding at home when it became known what he’d done, but he said bravely that it had been worth it. I was also threatened with a fate worse than death by my big sister when she saw her ruined record. I escaped by the skin of my teeth after agreeing to a Draconian installment plan by which she would take all my pocket money for the foreseeable future.
The reaction of the girls at school was more thought-provoking. Like most lads of my age I considered myself to be ugly and shy, with straggly hair and a potato of a nose and skinny forearms. But now, Niila and I started getting looks. Shy, fleeting glances in the lunchtime cafeteria line, quick smiles from clusters of girls outside the home ec room. We were invited to join their skipping games, and shyly agreed to do so. We were called ladykillers by the envious boys. It was all most bewildering and a bit frightening.
All the time we kept on practicing in the garage, tunes I’d heard on the radio then reproduced from memory. Niila jumped around with the piece of hardboard, and I sang. It sounded less awful than before as I’d learned not to strain my throat, but to sing from deeper down in my chest. My voice became steadier, and occasionally sounded a little bit like music. Niila started smiling inwardly and giving me friendly digs. We sometimes paused in between numbers, discussed the relationship between girls and rock music, drank lemonade, and felt nervous.
Things came to a head a few weeks later when a girl who lived in Strandvägen arranged a party. After sodas and popcorn, we played Consequences. Before Niila and I could get away, we’d been kissed todeath, and I got together with a girl for four days before I put an end to it and gave her back the necklace and brass ring and the photograph of her in her lace blouse and her Mum’s lipstick.
Not long after that, it was all over. The girls found more exciting things to do, and got together with boys from the big school. Niila and I suddenly found ourselves in a backwater, and although we tried for ages to
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