See You Tomorrow (23 page)

Bunny's bloody little brother. He is such an unbelievable
douche-bag.
What does he want? Every single day it's one thing or the other. Tiril just wants to lamp the guy. After all, he is only a dwarf – he looks like a little duplo man. Are his parents retarded? Were they on heroin when they conceived him? If it's not something about her clothes then it's her make-up, and if it's not that then he's poking or prodding her. Jesus, he's annoying. He can't pass by her without bumping into her or making some moronic comment – the other day he
spat
in her hair during music. She was trying to follow what the teacher was saying about the difference between major and minor, really interesting as a matter of fact, and then she felt something wet in her hair and heard Bunny's little brother's toady laughter behind her. Christ, how much of a mongo can you possibly be?

Here he comes now, with the wigger walk, the crappy hoodie and the unlaced trainers, and those eyes of his, blinking nonstop, is there something wrong with them? Soon be able set your watch by the pint-sized reject. Lunch break. Pling, and he appears: ‘Hey, Hanna Bad Karma, been talking to your sister, have you? She's suddenly all best mates with Daniel Moi's slapper!'

Tiril's just about to open her mouth, just about to tear into him.

‘Don't even bother, like,' says Thea.

Tiril extends her middle finger, narrows her eyes as much as she can and says: ‘What is your problem?'

‘AIDS!' shouts Bunny's little brother. ‘Do you want it? Come on, I'll smear it all over your tits!'

Thea takes a hold of Tiril. ‘Lets go. Just ignore him.'

Jesusfuckingchrist. Tiril just stands there, even though Thea's
expression is imploring her to move. What is with him? There's definitely something wrong with him. God, she's glad she's not in the same class. Tiril feels her heart pound, feels it thump with wicked clarity when he talks about Malene. That's how it's always been. She and Malene might argue like mad, fall out all the time, like yesterday when Malene clobbered her, but if someone says a bad word about her sister then Tiril flies off the handle. She'll clench her fists, go for them and beat the shit of them.

‘Come on,' says Thea once more. ‘Just drop it.'

‘Just let him stand there shooting his mouth off?'

‘No, but … don't bother your ass, like.'

Tiril makes her way towards Bunny's little brother. She walks as quickly as she can. The silver chain, which loops from her hip down the outside of her thigh, jingles in time with her strides. Little bastard. He can say what he likes about her singing, can call her an emo until he pukes, but no way is she going to listen to this. There have been rumours flying all around the school since this morning, loads of people saying one thing and the other about what happened. Some are saying Daniel rode into the schoolyard, got off his moped and hit Sandra, while others are saying he snogged her, some people are saying he grabbed her between the legs, others that he bawled her out, but Malene was there. And Malene told her, loud and clear: ‘We're the only ones who know anything, Tiril. Understand? Suddenly we – you and me – are the only ones Sandra has. Do you understand? She loves him. He loves her. No snitching, okay? Sandra isn't like we thought she was.

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.’

Cecilie pulls the sweater off over her head, turning it inside out, her pulse climbing, shivering as she folds it before lying down on the bed.

No other girl has seen me like this since PE at school, she thinks.

‘Now we’ll just put this little hairnet on,’ the beautiful woman says. ‘Oh, you seem to be a little tense today, try to relax. That’s it. You’re a tad pale at the moment, don´t you think?’

‘Weell, maybe a bit, yeah…’

The woman smiles and leaves the room but returns after a few moments. She’s carrying a bowl of water. She puts it down on the little table and dips a cloth into the water, wringing it afterwards. She places the cloth on Cecilie’s face and begins wiping her skin gently while talking about a purifying cream she’s going to apply, one with several functions – it peels and cleanses as well as acting as a tonic.

‘You know, Cecilie,’ she says, removing the cloth and moistening her own hands with the purifying cream. ‘We need something pure, simple and effective. We only use ecological products here. Adverts will always try to convince you to buy the cheaper ones but they’re just stuff and nonsense. When we get a little older we…’

Cecilie shuts her eyes.

The beautiful woman begins to touch her. Soft fingers smear
on a light cream and massage Cecilie’s skin in gentle, circular motions.

Cecilie’s breathing becomes shallow.

Nobody has ever touched her like this.

The beautiful woman talks and talks while she cleanses her skin but Cecilie can’t follow what she’s saying. All she can focus on is how unpleasant it feels to have someone touch her in this way.

When she’s finished with the cleansing, the woman wheels the big contraption closer. It’s a steam machine, and she positions it above Cecilie’s head, pretty much like a large hairdryer.

‘Now, Cecilie. You just lie there, okay? Do you feel a little more loosened up now?’

‘I … wha?’

‘Your muscles, have they loosened up a bit?’

‘Ehh … yeah…’

The woman runs her hand across Cecilie’s shoulder and smiles.

‘Stressful time at the moment, perhaps? At work?’

‘Suppose…’

Her fingers leave her skin.

Don’t touch me.

‘What do you work at, Cecilie?’ the woman asks and turns on the machine, the steam rushing into Cecilie’s face.

Touch me.

‘Work?’ Cecilie clears his throat, blushes, sweats. ‘Well, I … work in a video store.’

A video store? Why did she say that?

‘Ah, well, there you go,’ says the beautiful woman, ‘you’re on your feet all day. That can be tough, standing so much. Tough on your back, tough on your shoulders. It’s only proper you’re taking a little time out for yourself. Good. Have you done any yoga?’

‘Yoga?’

‘Try to get into a yoga frame of mind. Is it hot? Try to imagine you’re becoming soft and heavy all over, that you’re accepting all the peace and relaxation you can get. Don’t worry if you find it a little bit difficult to breathe, that’s quite normal, it’s the steam – just turn your head ever so slightly away. Okay, Cecilie?’

‘Okay’.

I need to pee, Cecilie thinks.

I want a smoke, Cecilie thinks.

A gush of heat hits her face.

Touch me.

In a little while, after the beautiful woman has left the room with the bowl of water and returned with it again, the steam machine is turned off and wheeled away from her face. The woman cleanses Cecilie’s skin once more and once again she touches her and again she tenses up, from her feet all the way up to her neck.

She hears the woman’s voice: ‘Okay, Cecilie, peeling.’

‘Huh?’

‘Peeling,’ says the beautiful woman, opening a small jar and scooping a thicker cream on to her fingertips. ‘You may as well throw out all those expensive creams if you don’t peel the skin.’

Are you going to put your hands on me again?

Cecilie looks at her. Doesn’t she realise who I am?

‘There’s no doubt,’ the woman continues, her hands moving slowly towards Cecilie’s face, ‘we all face stress and strain in our daily lives and that affects our skin, giving rise to impurities and blemishes. Do you use sun factor fifty? I do. Skin cancer is a real danger in the Nordic countries, you know. The skin needs to breathe – cosmetics block our pores and cause a build-up of grime, which is why you need to use mineral make-up.’

Her hands hang in the air in front of Cecilie.

Is she not going to touch me again?

‘Mineral ma—’

‘The skin is better able to absorb it and it contains fewer particles than cream. Doesn’t it feel lovely? Can you sense the dialogue between you and your body?’

‘Huh?’

The woman smiles. She just smiles.

You’re so beautiful, Cecilie thinks, not quite understanding why everything turned out this way, why this woman should have the life she has while Cecile is stuck with her own life.

The woman spreads the coarse cream over Cecilie’s face, it feels like grains of sand and causes a slight burning sensation.

‘Does it feel okay? Some people find it a little bit rough, a tad prickly.’

No, Cecilie thinks, I only feel your fingers.

‘Okay, great, now for a little tonic…’

She’s touching me.

‘And some serum…’

Even softer motions, a light tapping on the skin.

‘Anyway, Cecilie,’ the woman says after a few moments of silence, ‘now we’re ready for a face mask, a moisturising mask with hydralin acid – which our bodies produce less of the older we get – and collagen, to build the skin back up. Okay?’

I can’t breathe, Cecilie thinks, nodding with her eyes closed. With calm movements and supple hands, the woman applies a cream with a faint odour to her face and places cotton wool pads on her eyes.

‘Now you just lie there and relax for fifteen minutes while the mask takes effect. I’m stepping out for a little while. What about this fantastic weather we’re suddenly getting? You know, I just have to say again, that hair colour of yours? Smashing. I’ll be back soon. Think about something nice, Cecilie, think about the nicest thing you have.’

The beautiful woman leaves. Cecilie can feel the movement of her fingers across her skin, like an echo.

The nicest thing I’ve got?

Dad. The SodaStream.

The nicest thing I’ve got?

Rudi. Tong.

The nicest thing I’ve got?

Fags and cinnamon buns.

The nicest thing I’m going to have: my kid.

The music coming through the speakers changes. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ has been playing since ‘Imagine’ ended, now the lapping of waves and the chirping of birds can be heard and the lighting above Cecilie’s head is dimmed.

She falls asleep.

Cecilie dreams, she dreams in strong colours – she dreams of Tong.

She’s woken up by the sound on the CD of the waves and the birds jumping. Cecilie’s body feels hot; she pictures Tong, hears his breath in her head and she feels sweat form under her hairline. The CD has caught on a loop in the middle of a wave breaking on a beach; she hears a machine out in the hallway – a coffee machine? – and then voices. Two woman talking. Slightly disoriented from having slept for a few minutes in the middle of the day, she gathers herself, and then catches bits of what the voices are saying. It’s the skincare woman and another girl: ‘Yeah, everything’s so expensive now…’, ‘…we’re going to re-landscape the whole garden next year…’, ‘…oh, poor thing…’, ‘…a complete wreck, I think she’s a drug addict…’

Cecilie pricks up her ears.

‘…you think?’, ‘…oh, yeah, poor thing…’

The CD stops, the jumping subsides, and the skincare woman re-enters the room. Her smile is just as warm as it has been the entire session.

‘Wonderful, Cecilie, now just wait. We’ll cleanse ever so slightly again, apply a little tonic and serum, a few drops of oil and some eye cream – and believe me, you’re going to look great.’

The skincare woman wrings the cloth over the bowl and brings it to Cecilie’s face.

Cecilie keeps her eyes shut. Her lips taut and pressed hard together.

‘There. Try to relax. Hm? How do you feel?’

Cecilie opens her eyes.

‘Cecilie?’

She can’t manage to say anything.

‘Is everything all right … are you crying?’

Cecilie turns her head away. She looks at the wall. She brings her hand to her eyes, runs a finger beneath the bottom lid of her right and left eyes and realises she’s crying from both. And then she says: ‘You’re not the only one with a child. I’m going to have a child, too. And I’m not a junkie. But my boyfriend will steal your car while you’re asleep. He’ll beat up your husband when he doesn’t pay up what he owes. I’m not pretty, I’m never going to be, and you’re only lying when you say how nice my hair is. I
listened to you talking, I can hear that you never tell the truth. You might well walk around thinking you’re gorgeous and you and your friends might well think you know everything about everyone, but you’re all just fucking high-heeled heifers, and I, I need a smoke and I need a cinnamon bun.’

Cecilie gets up, puts her feet on the floor. The beautiful woman stands in front of her, fright in her eyes.

‘Shall we…’ she says, clearing her throat, ‘shall we schedule another appointment?’

‘Your CD is scratched,’ Cecilie says and walks out of the room.