Broken Glass Park (11 page)

His face relaxes.

“I’m sixteen,” he says. “I thought you were more like fifteen.”

“Tough to tell in the dark.”

“True. You could be in your late twenties.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot.”

“No, I mean, it really is tough to tell. Lots of girls look older than they are and lots of adult women look young.”

I shrug my shoulders. I’m not interested in discussing this topic. But Felix apparently is.

“Recently Volker brought one home,” he says, “who looked to me like she was in her early twenties. But she was thirty-six! Somebody from the office. Susanne.”

“Mahler?” I ask meekly.

“Do you know her?” he asks, elated. “How? Do you have something to do with the paper?”

“No, not really,” I say. “Is she here a lot?”

“Susanne? Twice. About three months ago. Then never again. Why do you ask—is she married or something?”

“No idea,” I say wearily. “I don’t give a shit about Susanne.”

“Got it,” he says. “I don’t either. Do you want to see my room now?” he asks again. It seems childish to me.

But I like children.

“Fine 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 back. I have a hard time squaring him with the guy I met last night. I have to think for a moment before his name comes back to me. Felix. Latin for “happy.”

I’m surprised to see that in the light he has strawberry blond hair and freckles. With the sun on it, it looks like his hair is on fire.

I stare at him in wonder for a few seconds. Then he flinches and starts to turn around toward me.

“Good morning,” I say. I clear my throat and try again. “Good morning.”

“Hello,” he answers quickly.

Something about him is different from last night. He looks at me for a second and turns back away from me. He seems tense.

“Have a seat,” it occurs to him to say. “What would you like to eat?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, there’s the butter and jam, there’s the cheese, and here’s the milk. Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes.”

“And here’s the orange juice.”

“Thanks.” I sit down. He passes everything to me—the basket of bread, the plates, a knife, the coffee pot, a cup—until the area in front of me is totally packed. I take my elbows off the table.

“Thanks,” I repeat.

“We also have Nutella.”

“I don’t eat it. Thanks.”

“You don’t eat Nutella?” Now he sounds a little bit like he did last night. “How is that possible?”

“I’m not big on sweets.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Why?”

“I can eat half a jar of Nutella in one sitting.”

“Go ahead then. What’s so bad about that? I’ve heard alcoholics don’t like to eat sweets. And the other way around—that people with a sweet-tooth have a lower risk of becoming boozers. So be happy.”

He looks surprised. “Where did you hear that?”

“I can’t remember. Read it somewhere.”

As I’m spreading butter on a piece of bread, I notice him stealthily trying to check me out. I look up and he glances away.

“Where is . . . ”

“Volker?” volunteers Felix.

“Yeah.”

“He has a meeting this morning. Said I should look after you.”

“And you are.”

“Yep.” He stares at the tabletop.

Then I get it.

“Felix,” I say, “what did your father tell you about me?”

He looks away. Bingo.

“Go ahead,” I insist. “I’m not going to flip out. I won’t even get a bit upset.”

He remains silent.

“Come on, Felix. Did he tell you about . . . about my mother?”

Felix nods and looks over at me. “Why are you laughing?” he says, appalled.

“I always laugh when I shouldn’t,” I say. “Let me guess what he told you. He said that my mother was shot by my stepfather. That it created quite a furor. A huge story that made headlines all across the country. That I’m a poor little orphan—but a smart one, and one whose story is well known. And that you shouldn’t bother me with questions. Am I right?”

Felix goes so pale that his freckles stand out. “That’s not the way he said it,” he mumbles hoarsely. “It was that you . . . that your . . . that . . . there was a family tragedy or something. What you said . . . is that . . . is that all true?”

I sigh. “Where was the cheese again?” I ask. “I’m not into jam.”

Felix jumps up and nearly knocks his chair over.

“Here,” he says, still looking at me in shock. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s the same for most everybody,” I say. “You’re in good company.” I smile encouragingly at him. He grimaces back.

“Hey,” I say. “Life is beautiful. Sometimes. You know who you look like?”

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “The guy who plays Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies.”

“Yes, but more in the later movies. When he had long hair.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Yeah,” I say seriously. “Because of my mother. She loved Harry Potter. Like loads of people. She couldn’t wait for each new installment. And then . . . you know . . . I had to watch the last movie . . . without her.”

I stand up and walk to the window.

When I turn around, big Felix looks very small sitting in his chair. He looks at me fearfully. I sit back down. Felix fidgets in his seat like Anton.

I try to imagine what Anton is doing right now.

“I have to make a quick call,” Felix says, getting up.

I nod, lost in my thoughts, trying to picture the scene at home.

A few minutes later I grab the John Irving book out of the guest room, lean it up against the juice bottle and read while finishing my breakfast.

That’s how Volker Trebur finds me.

He really scares me. I don’t hear him come in. He’s carrying a big box of groceries, puts them down on the table with a sigh, and bends to see what book I’m reading.

I jump.

“Did I startle you?” he says, smiling. “Enviable concentration power.”

“Hello. No, not startled.”

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, very well.”

He sits down opposite me and shakes his hands. “Heavy box,” he says. “I’m Volker.”

“Sascha.” I close the book, suddenly thinking it’s rude to have it open with him there. I start to load the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Sascha,” he repeats pensively. “I don’t want to pry, but what was wrong at home?”

“What do you mean?”

“You needed to get away so badly. Does that happen a lot?”

I gather the dirty forks and knives. I try to shrug my shoulders.

“There was unpleasantness,” I finally say, but it doesn’t sound very convincing.

“Are you eighteen already?”

“Almost. Seventeen and two months.”

“Does your guardian know where you are staying?”

“My guardian,” I say, “doesn’t know a thing, unfortunately. Not a thing. I can go where I want. I said I was going to a friend’s place. They can reach me on my mobile if there’s a problem at home.”

“So,” says Volker, reaching out and breaking off a piece of a croissant that’s in the bread basket, “you think it’s all right for you to be here?”

“I don’t think it,” I say. “I know it. Family services are never going to try to charge you with kidnapping.”

“Uh-huh. Very comforting.”

“I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

“That’s ridiculous.” And then, after a pause: “You’ve already met Felix.”

“Yes. Last night.”

“Yes, I heard. Thank goodness I sleep with earplugs in. Though I think I still felt the vibration.”

“What vibration?”

“From the TV when you stepped on the remote.”

“Oh, yeah, that,” I say. What did I think he meant?

“Monday is a holiday,” says Volker Trebur.

“Yeah?” I say indifferently. “Which one is it now?”

“May Day—first of May.”

“Aha.”

“But Tuesday you have to be back at school.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Are you going to skip?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Do you want to get a doctor’s note?”

I sigh.

His eyes are laughing. “Am I getting on your nerves?” he asks.

“No,” I say and lose myself in his gaze. “But I must be getting on yours.”

“Not in the slightest,” he says seriously. “And I think Felix is pleased.”

“Not anymore,” I say. “I gave him the whole tragic family history over breakfast. He’s still in shock.”

Volker Trebur’s face tightens. “He didn’t . . . ”

“He didn’t ask a thing, no. I told him on my own. I just assumed he already knew.”