	RodMer Short Story Package DD The Matter eith Annika
by Merike Lugus	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Here is Short Story Package DD a short story by Merike Lugus.

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This is the fourth in a series of five stories about an immigrant girl, Annika, who ended up in Germany, then Sweden and then Canada after WWII. This was not an unusual route for tens of thousands of DP's, or Displaced Persons, as they were called.

Annika is now perhaps fifteen. Her sense of alienation from life in Canada is complicated by lively hormones and hidden feelings towards her mother.

THE MATTER WITH ANNIKA

Approximately 6,700 words

Death by humiliation. It happens to Annika every Monday morning. Latin class is in session and Mrs. Wilson won't let Annika sit down. The class is hushed. And yes, Annika is mortified. And yet, she lets the drama repeat itself week after week. In every other class she's invisible in the last row, rarely called on because she's always got the right answer.

Please translate the first paragraph on page forty-three, Mrs. Wilson repeats.

I can't, Annika says, her voice edgy. She's on her feet holding the book in front of her. The page seems so far away and an angel is looking down at the tall girl in the navy sweater, her skinny legs rigid, her toes up against the confines of her shoes.

Well, just try, Mrs. Wilson sighs,

I can't, Annika repeats. By this time it's true: she can no longer see the words.

Mrs. Wilson allows a full minute to lapse before she asks, Didn't you do last week's homework?

No.

Mrs. Wilson stretches her neck towards her and Annika feels the hot beam of her gaze. When she lifts her head Mrs. Wilson is a scrawny old bird in her blurred vision. Her thoughts swirl like dust specks.

Why not? Mrs. Wilson is shaking her head slowly and sadly.

Annika shrugs.

Later she'll mull over the scene and wonder why it always happens with Mrs. Wilson, the gray-hair-in-a-twist, motherly, most concerned teacher in the school. The only woman teacher, for that matter, except for the basketball coach. The problem is not with the Latin, she knows, because she's interested in etymology and notions like gravitas and veritas. Although, the Greek history text came up with an even better idea: hubris. The word grabbed her attention immediately: The Greeks had problems with defiance? pushing their luck? And so they seemed younger, wilder, more muscular and bristling with curly black hair. They were dreamboats while the Romans waddled about in their togas. Anyone who needed to invent a word like hubris had to know about the oceans inside, the need to reach the other shore no matter the risk of drowning.

She'd rather be learning Greek if it were an option. Latin somehow belongs to her mother, who can still rattle off sentences from her school days. Every once in a while she comes out with an expression like qui fugiebat rursus proeliabitur, and Annika knows that a little lesson is about to follow. The lesson never relates to anything going on in her life as far as she can see, but she waits through it. Her brother, on the other hand, waves her off. Yeah, yeah, tempus fugit like a bastard.

But there's something about Mrs. Wilson herself, Annika has to admit, that brings out a stubborn resistance in her. Perhaps it's her worried look, or the way she wants to be helpful. Or the hurt in her eyes when Annika disappoints her, as she always does. Annika meets Mrs. Wilson's sympathetic look with a cool one.

Oh, do give up, lady!

She's been on her feet for what feels like an hour when the silence is shattered by a terrible clanging outside. The iron wheels of a street-car screech to a halt. Car tires squeal. Oh my god! someone shouts. The tumult rises to the second floor window of the stalled Latin class.

Only Mrs. Wilson appears not to hear as she bores her eyes steadily into Annika's. The other students are stirring. Someone looks out the window, whispers back to his friend. Soon a siren is heard in the distance. Annika knows she'll be allowed to sit down soon or Mrs. Wilson will lose control of the class completely.

Near the end of the class there's a knock on the door and the principal enters. Full of gravitas, Annika thinks. He tells Mrs. Wilson something in confidence, then asks for Miranda to come to his office. All eyes turn to lovely Miranda near the front of the class, who now stands up hesitantly. The principal puts a hand on her shoulder as he guides her to the door. Immediately the room is filled with murmured speculations. Because Miranda is smart and gentle and kind, least likely to screw up, the trouble must be of an unusual kind. The terrible noise of screeching wheels is still fresh on everyone's mind. All heads turn to Mrs. Wilson.

Class, I have something to tell you. Something terrible has just happened. Miranda's mother has been in an accident.

Where? When? As if they couldn't guess.

Just now.

In the ensuing silence, Annika distinctly remembers there had been another sound. In her moment of humiliation there had been nothing else to do but listen to the world outside. But the thump they had all heard, if it had any meaning, was too terrible to name. And later, too terrible to mention. No one did.

At the lockers, Annika waits her chance to break into the circle of friends protecting Miranda. The word is out, though no one can name the source, that Miranda's mother is dead. Her friends don't let her believe it, but while Miranda tearfully waits for her father to come and pick her up, no rumour to the contrary arrives from anywhere. When Annika's chance comes, she puts her hands on Miranda's shoulders, her cheek on hers, like everyone else, and tells her how terribly sorry she is. She would like to be a closer friend to Miranda because she likes her, but Miranda already has enough close friends.

Sincerity is always suspect, its chemistry unstable. It bonds too readily with other feelings, making its integrity easy to challenge. And Annika is doubting hers. Her sympathy is not the real thing. She suspects she's a phony.

On her way home for lunch she finds herself crying. It's so sad to lose a mother. She tries to put herself in Miranda's shoes but sympathy eludes her. To the contrary, she feels that Miranda is somehow lucky. Her grief is for herself, not Miranda.

It's while she's smearing butter on her bread that she can no longer deny it. She's jealous of Miranda. Jealous of her circle of friends, of the outpouring of sympathy. No one put their arms around her, no one comforted her. She feels ashamed. Her thoughts make no sense. Her mother is not dead. She loves her mother. Every night she tries to stay up until she knows she's safely home.

Grief comes in waves throughout the day as though she, not Miranda, had suffered the loss. And guilt comes too. She tests out the idea of her own mother lying dead on a cold sidewalk and the idea fascinates her. She must be inhuman. A monster. But then comes the memory of her mother which never fails to fill her with tenderness. Annika is small and sitting in her lap and is looking up at the curve of her cheek. The down on it is very fine and silvery against a cold light. This is the most beautiful sight in the world. This is the most perfect moment. When was she last sitting in her lap? It must have been on a train, in another country. She can feel the rhythm of the wheels as she's gently jostled, her mother's arms around her.

The cheek against the light. The feeling of perfect harmony. True memories. The rest she has reconstructed. In particular that the lap she was sitting on was green. She never tires of hearing her mother tell how she had only one skirt, a green woolen one, and how the front of it needed mending so many times that the skirt became unrecognizable. And why did it need mending? Because of Annika's weight, her childish pushing and pulling and testing of legs.

And then everything came to a stop. For a while her mother seemed to disappear altogether, and now even when she's home she's far away.

Wicked, wicked Annika, feeling sorry for herself. Perhaps Mrs. Wilson has seen into her cold heart and that's why she punishes her weekly. But then, all Annika has to do is her homework. End of punishment. But she won't.

Annika finishes her salami sandwich and glass of milk.

All afternoon the talk is about Miranda's stupendous loss. The subject towers like an ogre in the doorway of every class. Yet what is there to be said? Annika looks around in the history class and notices that some students keep their eyes down, as she does, and don't participate in the discussion. Like Denuta, for instance. She and Denuta had been born in the same country. Denuta had lost both parents when their ship was bombed on its way to safety.

In the last row by the window, the newly arrived Italian girl stares at the tree branches outside. It's possible that she doesn't understand what has happened to Miranda's mother. She seems to live in another dimension, as if on a movie screen. She is older, with the figure of a grown woman, and looks like Gina Lollobrigida. Her name happens to be Gina, too. Considering Gina, Annika has at last found need for the word voluptuous. And pulchritude. Until now she's imagined pulchritude as something heavy to be carried in a suitcase. When Gina first arrived at the school, it had been Annika's job to show her around for a week. Gina had followed her like a sleepwalker, seeing nothing. Annika can't think why anyone would want to leave Italy where the sun is always shining and people are happy. Therefore, Gina's sad silence is a mystery to her. Even the rumour that circulates about her is mysterious. They say that Gina's' father still bathes her. The rumour has engendered a lot of private speculation: at what age does it cease to be appropriate to bathe a child? Sixteen is far too old. Gina looks twenty.

And then there is Rachel. Quiet, short, dark haired Rachel, who had broadened Annika's view of history. Five years ago Annika had stood at the threshold to Rachel's living room. Inside the darkened living room, Rachel was negotiating with her mother and father for permission to take her new friend up to her room to play.

They had questions that made Annika feel much too fair and much too tall. What was Annika's nationality? Where had she been during the war? What was her father's occupation at the time? As she finally followed Rachel to her room to, she caught a glimpse of her parents sitting in the semi-darkness, her father wearing a long scarf around his neck and a little round cap at the back of his head. Rachel had been embarrassed by the lengthy interrogation and explained in an off-hand way about what had happened in Poland, about the death camps, while Annika listened, astonished that such horrors had been happening around her when she'd been a baby.

Now in the tenth grade, Rachel has discovered that she's gifted in mathematics. The word genius is being whispered. The genius is pulling her further into isolation, though she's confided to Annika that what she most passionately wants is a boyfriend, to get married and have children. It isn't so much her own idea, she confesses, but it might make her parents happier. Annika can't picture herself married. The idea of having children hasn't even entered her mind. She would give a lot to be a genius in mathematics.

Jakob sits in front of Gina and also stares out the window. Tall, gaunt, his life and origins are obscure, but occasionally he sidles up to Annika to show her a poem he's written, or to make some confession, as for example, that he can't see the difference between a Jesus or a Hitler. What does Annika think?

There is a deep tunnel of sadness in every classroom. Those who must walk through it eventually bump into each other. Outside, they recognize each other by small signs, sometimes by an inappropriate intensity, sometimes a deathly seriousness or a sudden shared smile over some outrageous or absurd hypothesis. They know the world can come to an end at any moment. Things explode for no particular reason. On this day that Miranda's mother dies, they glance at one another, unsurprised, unshocked by what they always knew had to happen to someone sooner or later.

Eventually their attention turns back to literature and the consolation of shared experience, or algebra, the consolation of abstract purity, or history, the consolation of perspective. Annika battles through the rest of the day feeling as if she's been orphaned. From high, the angel looks down at her. What is the matter with Annika?

She dawdles on the way back home. Stops at a dress shop, tries on a beige nylon blouse, stops by at a friend's house only to discover she's already left for her tap-dancing class.

When she gets home she's relieved to hear her father talking to someone else. He won't be looking for reasons to pick on her. It's Robbie Brown, the only fellow worker he can tolerate and whose sense of humour takes him out of his private world. Robbie's heavy Scottish accent keeps him entertained. The joke is that people understand his own English better than Robbie's.

They're talking fast and loud and almost simultaneously. She can make out her father's opinions. He goes on and on about Nixon and why he should some day be president. He's the only one who understands what the 'Commies' are up to. There's nothing Annika hasn't heard many times. What Robbie has to say is not clear, though his opinions are equally loud. A bottle of Scotch sits between them on the table. When it's empty they leave the house and Annika knows he won't be back until after she's asleep.

She fixes herself a sandwich and spreads out her homework on the dining room table. Her brother comes and leaves, fussing with a handful of bologna, stuffing it between two pieces of bread. "Don't forget to do your homework!" he says cheerily from the door. It's their private joke. They know from friends that this gets said in other people's homes. As for themselves, all that is expected is that they get good marks. How they come by them is their own business.

Much later when she's in bed she hears the key rattling in the front door. Her mother is safely home. By the time her father returns she's almost asleep, but is aware of the hushed interrogation going on downstairs. Her father sounds happy and starts to sing a few bars of an old folk song. The song is quickly aborted by her mother's sharp reprimand.

The next morning Annika feels tender. If someone looks at her the wrong way she'll collapse. There's no way she can go to school or face anyone feeling like this.

She rarely has a plan when she plays hooky, just gets on a streetcar and goes. Sometimes she ends up in the lobby of the Royal York hotel, nestled on one of the couches, watching people checking in and out. In case anyone should be looking, she crosses and re-crosses her legs impatiently as if she's waiting for someone and that person ought to arrive momentarily. When she's tired of sitting she gets up suddenly and rushes to the door as if the dear friend has at last appeared. On warmer days she takes the streetcar to High Park, where she has discovered the wolves and deer and camels behind high chain link fences. Later in the afternoon the cinemas are open.

Today she finds herself in the Eaton's department store, wearing her low party heels, nylons, a bit of lipstick and her mother's only pair of leather gloves. She feels tragic, like the heroine of a sad story, perhaps a heroine whose mother has died. From afar she sees the reflection of a tall young woman of undefined age, who could indeed pass for the tragic heroine. This pleases her. Act normal, she tells herself. And why not? She has twenty dollars in her pocket, which makes her, potentially, a real customer.

She wanders about the cosmetic counters sadly running a finger over smooth tubes of lipsticks, pausing to look at her face in a round mirror, adjusting the quality of the look in her face to sad but not gloomy, melancholy but not despairing, then drifts towards the hats and gloves and purses. No one at school carries a purse. Everyone carries a zippered binder across their chest, books piled on top. She doesn't really need a purse. But she explores them all the same, feeling the smoothness of the leather, or the textured softness. Smart looking women in Vogue magazine know how to carry them, and Annika has studied the smart women. They are more self-assured than the love-comic heroines. She admires their confidence, which apparently comes from wearing the clothes of famous designers.

One purse in particular catches her eye. It's a bit larger than the others, with two straps just long enough to let it dangle over the arm. Mostly it's the colour that draws her in, delicious, like creamy milk chocolate. Casually she picks it up, explores the interior which is a paler, creamier chocolate. Made in Italy. She can smell Italy. It smells like skin soaking up the sun. She admires the fine stitching made by hands so far away. Casually she turns over the price tag. One hundred and fifty dollars. Wow. So this is the finest that money can buy. Her hands begin to sweat and she puts it down, not wanting to blemish it.

Going towards the escalators she passes saleswomen chatting or tidying their counters. No one is watching her. In the mirror along the escalator going up she sees herself again and wonders if a purse would look out of place. She doesn't know. Other women carry purses as casually as she carries her books. So...

As she wanders about the racks of dresses on the third floor, feeling abandons her body. Her heart is a machine, pounding and pounding. The floor under her feet has disappeared.

On her way back down, she pauses at the top of the escalators, one foot hovering over the spot where new steps emerge. The lay-out below is simple. The purses are in front of a high partition, meaning they are not in full view. The doors to Queen Street are close by. The escalator seems to take forever to descend, but at last her toe slides onto the last step. Carried by wings, she finds herself back at the purse counter. The price tag is small and rips off easily. She slips the bag over an arm, takes it to the mirror, tries on the casual slouch of the Vogue models. No one is watching. No one stirs. Her wings carry her through the doors and onto Queen Street where, as luck would have it, a streetcar is waiting just for her.

She drops a ticket in the box and asks for a transfer. The car is almost empty and she goes past the center doors and sits by the window. The streetcar lurches forward a few inches and comes to a stop. Annika looks up, fully expecting someone to come running down the aisle to arrest her. No. The light has turned red, that's all. When it turns green again the car clatters along in the most ordinary way.

The world is big and bright. She regards a lone figure huddled by the window near the front of the car and feelings of goodness and sadness and love rush back into her. She is overflowing with feelings. A cat outside is rummaging through the contents of a torn bag, and she aches with feelings. All this feeling seems to be coming from the soft brown purse sitting in her lap. She is bursting with joy and relief and a continued sense of tragedy knowing there is no one she can tell about her adventure nor the feelings that are close to exhausting her.

Gingerly she opens the flap of the purse and puts her hand inside. It's heavenly soft, still warm from Italy. What will she do with it? She doesn't care. She takes her twenty dollars from her pocket and slips it into the little zippered pouch inside the purse. Now it belongs to her.

You're a thief, she whispers. She'll deal with that another day.

Where will she go next? Nothing seems to matter. She'll ride all day, back and forth, back and forth.

At the next set of lights she sees a familiar figure waiting at the streetcar stop. His leather collar is up against the wind. His bare hand comes out from his pocket to flick at the curl of hair hanging over his forehead. It's Chester. Why is he not in school?

He deposits his ticket and looks down the aisle. Annika deliberates whether to look up or not to look up; to smile or not to smile. She barely knows him. Nobody really does, though many girls are mad about him. He probably doesn't even know about the locker-talk, that his nickname is Blue Eyes. Or about the hypotheses as to how he got the scar, the curve of boomerang from the corner of his lip to his cheekbone. Sexy is his other nickname, uttered in dreamy whispers. Annika has to admit there is something sexy about the scar. Wild and dangerous. Just as there's a hint of something mean in his eyes.

Their eyes meet and quickly drop. Annika expects him to ignore her, so she's surprised when he plops down beside her.

Hi. You're Annika, right? That's what he says every time they find themselves side by side, whether in the auditorium or cafeteria or gym.

Yeah. Hi. She figures he's letting her know it takes effort to remember her name from one time to the next. She doesn't mind though, and is a bit surprised that he does remember, because he's a year ahead of her and the girls she's seen with him are a year ahead of him.

There is a long silence, and then they both speak at once.

So, are you playing hooky?

I see you're not at school today.

He shrugs. Yeah, I'm playing hooky.

She laughs. Me too.

Who writes your notes? he asks, glancing at her.

Annika catches the humour in his eyes. An impossible blueness. She wants to look again to verify what she'd seen. Could that be a black ring around the blue of the iris?

I do, she says, deciding to be bold, clutching her purse protectively. What about yours?

My guardian, he says. The way he says it, she knows he's making a joke.

You don't live at home?

Yeah I live at home, he says, then makes that sweeping motion across his hair which the girls say is so dreamy. Annika takes it in, then decides it's not the gesture itself but the angle of the head. Like in the posters of matadors when they sweep their red cape to the side as the bull charges. Annika follows in the direction of his eyes, away from him, afraid to look at him but wanting to.

So, how does someone like you get away with it? he asks. Writing your own notes, I mean.

Someone like me? Annika smiles. She catches a glimmer of the mystery confronting him. I don't know, she says. I did it once and no one said anything. My parents ... um, it's always a lot of trouble, so I don't like to bother them.

They both look out the window. They're not far from Bathurst, where Annika would normally transfer. She doesn't really want to get off the streetcar. For one thing, she's suddenly conscious of the purse being a stolen item and she doesn't want to bring it into full view. Also she likes sitting next to Chester, aware that her triumph, if she were to tell anyone of this chance meeting, (and she might), would be judged according to the length of time she manages to be next to him.

Where're you goin', he asks.

Oh, just...around.

I'm going to High Park, he says. You got any better plans?

It sounds like an invitation, but she isn't sure. She looks at his hands capping his knees. They're large, raw from cold, the nails chewed on. She wants to tell him he's not dressed warmly enough, that he should have worn gloves, brought a scarf. Of course she knows the exposed neck is a part of his style. The sweater under the jacket looks warm enough.

So, you want to come or not? He laughs. Another joke. Then that searing glance. The ring around the iris is not black, but a sort of dark turquoise.

Sure, she says. What do we do there?

Uh, you know, just walk. I usually go say hello to the camels.

They begin at the southern end of the park and walk north. Neither knows exactly the way to the animals, but there is time to kill.

I guess you heard about Miranda's mother, Annika says.

Yeah.

Must be awful for her.

D'ya really want to know what I think?

Well, sure. Annika looks up, caught by something in his voice.

Truth is, the old lady's gotta go sometime, right? So what's the difference? She'll get over it. Wish it had been my old lady. He winks at her, a big grin on his face. You might as well know I'm terrible, he says.

I don't know you're terrible.

They walk in silence for a long time, Annika exquisitely aware of his nearness, scanning her thoughts for something to say that would make him pleased he'd asked her along. Everything seems childish, or square, or gives too much away. Just the thought of what her life revolves around makes her despair. Silence seems preferable to revealing the utterly boring truth. So they continue in silence. She's too shy to ask why he's playing hooky, though that's the question she settles on as the safest.

Then she thinks of Gina, of asking Chester if he thinks Gina is beautiful, if he'd like to go out with her. Gina seems more of a match for Chester, more beautiful, more mysterious, more exotic, more mature, more experienced. The thought is beginning to depress her. Besides, it's not as though Gina is something in her pocket that she can casually offer. The train of gloom keeps circling.

What if I told you I steal things? he says.

In the excitement of walking with Chester, she's forgotten the purse she's clutching close to her chest. She's been carrying it just like she carries her zippered binder. Has he guessed what she's been up to, she wonders uneasily.

You steal things? Why would you want to tell me that?

I don' know. 'Cause it's true. 'Cause here we are, playing hooky. You look like the kind of.... He cocks his head to the side. Forget it. Forget I even mentioned it. He looks irritated. They walk in silence again.

Annika thinks he thinks he's made a mistake asking her to the park. Maybe she should ask what sort of things he steals. She puts her nose against the leather and inhales Italy.

What're you smiling about? he says.

I don't know, she says.

Aw, come on, I tell you I steal stuff and you think it's funny?

No-o... it's not funny... it's that--no, I can't tell you. Annika's face is red.

Aw, come on, I told you something, so...

Well, what if I told you...that I steal things?

You? He laughs. You with high heels and gloves and a fancy purse...and a face like --

She holds up the brown purse like it's a catch of fish.

He stops in his track, raises his eyebrows as if to reappraise her. You stole that?

This morning. Funny, I almost forgot.

He takes the purse, looks inside, weighs it, smells it. You gonna keep it?

I guess so, she shrugs. She hadn't really thought about it, how she would bring it home, where she would hide it.

I could sell it for you, get some money, you know. More useful.

Annika looks confused. I don't want money, she says, hugging the purse possessively.

Suit yourself. Me, I want lots of it.

What for?

So's I can get outa here.

Annika's heart sinks. For a moment she'd felt she might actually be somewhere, walking with Chester, and it's only a place he wants to get out of. They reach the top of a hill from where various paths can be seen. It's a crisp day, a cold sky against red and brown and yellow leaves everywhere.

I think the camels are that way, Annika points. A haze of fencing in the distance is just coming into view.

They reach the wolf compound first. A wolf comes to a halt by a tree and looks over its shoulder at them.

Chester takes Annika's arm, pulling her to slow down. Let's just watch from here, he says.

O.K. The place where his hand touches feels warm. The wolf turns slowly, lowers its head and stares directly at them.

Without thinking, Annika whispers, It's got eyes just like yours.

I am a wolf, he says with a little laugh. The ba-ad wolf

Annika looks at him, wondering if he takes anything seriously.

Come on, he says, let's go.

Don't you like wolves?

I just don't like where they are, he says. They never get used to us, you know. He looks straight into Annika's eyes, as if searching for something. Impulsively he leans towards her and brushes his lips against her cheek. His breath is warm on her, the touch so light it makes Annika shiver.

Sorry, he says, letting go of her arm.

No, she says quickly. I liked it. It's like a butterfly.

Soon they reach the edge of the camel compound and come to a stop. One camel moves away while another raises its head high to acknowledge their presence. They stand silently watching it for a long time, Annika's mind on the sort-of kiss, wondering if he's regretting it at that very moment. The camel turns its head in perfect profile and slides its eyes sideways to look at them.

He looks like Diefenbaker, Annika says. That's her mother's opinion. Diefenbaker's face is appearing in the papers a lot and her mother makes fun of it.

Chester digs his hands deep into his pockets, mulling over something.

Don't get any ideas, he says. First of all, you don't want to be mixed up with someone like me.

Oh, don't worry about me, she protests, too quickly. I'm not getting any ideas. She touches the spot where the butterfly had landed. It still tingles. Anyway, what's wrong with someone like you?

I'm cruel, he says. He faces her directly and she sees now what gives him the mean look. It's the hairs between his eyebrows, faint, but just enough to suggest a scowl. But he grins like a child.

I don't believe you, she says.

I could walk away right now, he says. Just leave you standing right there.

Is that what you've been thinking of? she asks.

Crossed my mind. His head swaggers, his lower lip curls out.

She looks down, rolls a pebble under her toe. Well, first of all, what makes you think I want to get involved? Anyway, she adds hastily, I don't know if that proves you're cruel. Maybe scared. Yeah, I'd think you were afraid of something. She's surprised to hear her own words. They feel smart. They seem to hit Chester square in the face.

He scowls, looks as if he's about to contradict her, then his expression softens to a shy smile Yeah, you're probably right, he says.

Annika smiles, kicks away the pebble.

So why d'you like the camels anyway? she asks.

Oh, I dunno. I guess 'cause they don't care. Look at him. He's proud and he don't need you and if you make him mad he'll spit.

Annika looks at the camel wondering how she feels about it. She looks at Chester looking at the camel, his collar pulled up, shoulders hunched, teeth clenched from cold. Dreamboat, she thinks.

You've never been kissed before, have you.

He says it so matter-of-factly that it doesn't even occur to Annika to 'keep 'im guessing', the locker-girls advice on most matters having to do with boys.

Nothing that counts, I guess, she says. Nothing that ever made her feel anything, she thinks. Technically, yes, she's been kissed. A dry kiss. Cold lips taking a stab at her in the dark. She may as well have been kissed by a grapefruit. The aftermath had been a nagging suspicion that she might be one of those frigid types that got talked about. Frigid at fifteen. How did those locker-girls know all this? Does it show on your face when you've kissed someone but didn't feel anything? But then, the easy type was bad too.

He faces her, takes her gloved hands in his. The purse slides down, weighs uncomfortably on her wrist. She takes the discomfort, looks into his eyes. This time he brushes his lips against her lips.

I won't hurt you, he whispers.

She pulls back instinctively, knowing he could, but his lips press harder. They are cold but soft and Annika's face is burning. And it's not just her face, which she takes as proof that she's not frigid.

He pulls back suddenly and looks at her like he's appraising her and liking what he sees.

I can't believe I'm kissing a thief, he says.

Annika can scarcely believe it herself.

That night while scrubbing her face over the sink, Annika goes over the complications of her life. Her homework's done, all except Latin, of course. She needs to write herself a note to explain why she missed school today. She smiles, thinking of Chester, wondering how he'd get his note.

Nothing got promised. She couldn't give her phone number because...well, she didn't want to tell him about her father, the things that made him angry. Or the stupid comments she'd have to suffer from her brother if he listened in, which he surely would.

Anyway, at the last moment he hadn't given her his number either. Because he 'had' someone. And then he had apologized if he'd misled her.

Not really, Annika had reassured him, rather stupidly, she thought as she brushed her teeth. Of course he'd misled her -- even without any real experience with guys, she knew that much. But if she's ever to get another chance to kiss him, she figures she'd better be the understanding type. She'd liked kissing him and thought she was getting the hang of it. And she liked the secret between them. Two secrets, really. Now she could burn the ears off the locker-girls, if she chose, which she wouldn't, because she'd promised Chester. But she knew what she knew and no one could take that from her.

What she couldn't have known, though, was how much she'd be thinking of him. How much she'd miss him. Already she's aching, tracing his lips in the dark privacy of her mind, summoning the precise colour of his eyes, the precise angle of his head. Suddenly it means something that he had at least asked for her number. She weighs this against the unknown competition. It's not much. But she sinks into his words. He'd called her sweet.

Oh god, let me be mature, she prays. O god! she's suddenly certain that sweetness is not what will get her closer to Chester, and every part of her is on fire. Her mind plays stop and go: he's out of her league, she'll do anything to make him kiss her again, he will hurt her, she doesn't care ... but then ...

There's something about Chester makes her think he's going to get into trouble. He's in the principal's office a lot. There was something about the way he had examined the stolen purse. It had seemed ... professional. As though he could guess its price. Some blackness will creep up on him, obliterate him before she even gets a chance to ... what?

She's weepy again and even as the tears swell, she smiles because now she's just like the heroines in the love comics, waiting for the telephone to ring, except that hers never will because she didn't give him her number. She smiles because she believes that misery is the first symptom of love and this must be proof that she loves him. And because she loves him, she'll protect him from whatever is lurking in the future. She'll be there to catch him when he falls.

One moment she's a tower of strength, the next a puddle of tears. She's sure of it that he will fall, and she must be there when it happens, no matter what. She's stopped believing in God and hasn't thought about Jesus for years but now, there he is, the vision of an all-loving, all-forgiving Jesus. She would pray for God to exist so that Jesus could exist because Jesus would love Chester as much as she does at this moment. Then there's all that stuff about hearts and what's in them and she knows that fundamentally Chester's is good, just as her own is. She knows all this is true even if there is no God, and if there is no Jesus she will play the part herself.

Crawling into bed, she remembers the purse and takes it out from under the bed and turns off the light. In the darkness she opens the flap, slips her hand into its rich interior, pulls the suede lining inside out and pushes it back with her fist. Life in a kangaroo pouch must be soft and warm. She pulls it up to her face and inhales. The act of stealing seems abstract, not at all like something she would do. Yet there it is. The hundred and fifty dollar purse. Someday she will go to Italy.

Her mother's key is in the door and Annika begins to weep again. She's afraid her mother might hear her crying, but she doesn't stop because she's even more afraid she might not. Through sobs and snivels she listens to the sounds of her mother hanging up her coat, opening the refrigerator door, then a drawer for a fork and knife. A chair scrapes across the floor. She pictures her mother eating in silence, rinsing off the dishes. Finally she hears her steps on the stairs and in a flash she dries her tears and pulls the purse deep under the covers. Her mother's steps end just outside her door.

There's a light knock just before her mother opens the door a crack.

Is everything all right? I thought I heard you crying.

There is a long interminable silence. Annika, scarcely breathing, is thinking: if you heard me crying, what took you so bloody long getting up here. A long fuse is slowly burning towards her while her back is up against the wall. Mrs. Wilson is standing outside with her mother, still waiting for Annika to read out her Latin translation. Can't they see what is happening? What do they expect her to do? Blow up? Disintegrate? Melt into the floor? Oh, do give up, lady.

Were you crying? her mother asks again.

No, no, no! Annika concentrates on plugging the exits for the explosion about to happen. But she's not a match for it and the sobs blast out into the room.

What is it? Did something happen? Her mother sits down by the edge of the bed.

No-o-o... Between sobs, Annika grabs at something from the molten mass inside her and tries to shape it into something.

Mira-an-da's mo-o-ther died.