I hurried toward the arena. The girls’ practice would be over any minute. With any luck I would find Amina there.
Normally, I love walking into the arena. This time, when I pulled open the door and my nostrils filled with the stuffy smell of late summer sweat, all I felt was discomfort. A few teenage boys in their workout clothes were hanging around in the cafeteria, and a woman breezed past me on her way to the parking lot. My discomfort suddenly became overwhelming. The looks, the questions—the fact that everyone knew. Because they did, didn’t they? Everyone had so many opinions, they thought they knew, they had ready-made theories. My brain was clouded and my heart was pounding all the way up in my throat. I couldn’t stand the thought of being forced to encounter people I knew.
I stumbled back out to the bike racks and hid behind a tree. There I stood, my back pressed against its rough trunk, shielded from the world and furious at the situation.
After a while, the girls streamed through the door. Amina’s teammates. I peered out without revealing my hiding spot.
At last Amina came toward the bike rack. She secured her gym bag to the luggage holder and was just about to bend over and unlock her bike when I said hello.
“You scared me!”
She leaped back.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I tried to call, but…”
“My phone got stolen.”
She coiled the cable lock in her basket and backed the bike out of the rack.
“Can we have a chat?” I asked.
“I have to go home,” she said without looking at me. “I’m ridiculously busy and school starts in four days.”
“I can walk with you for a bit,” I suggested. “If you walk your bike.”
She sighed and guided her bike with both hands on the handlebars, moving so fast that I had to jog to keep up.
“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” I asked.
“What? We are talking.”
I followed her onto the pedestrian bridge over Ringv?gen. Amina’s eyes were fixed on a point far ahead and she was still striding at full speed.
“Do you know something, Amina?”
She didn’t respond.
“Please, you have to tell me everything,” I said.
“I don’t know anything!” she snapped. “I told the police everything.”
I took a few quick steps and came up alongside her.
“You knew that Stella was spending time with Christopher Olsen, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said curtly as we walked into City Park.
“Were they a couple? Did Stella have a relationship with that man?”
We had just passed the café when she stopped and looked at me.
“No, nothing like that. They met each other out a time or two and knew each other sort of in passing. That was all.”
Her eyes flashed in the half darkness. She had taken one hand from the handlebars, and the bike wobbled.
“Had you met him too?” I asked.
She turned around again, took a firm grip on the handlebars, and pushed the bike ahead of her down the gravel path.
“Amina!” I said, my voice overly harsh. “Stella is in jail! Have you ever been in a jail? Do you know what one of those cells looks like?”
I almost got run over by a jogger with headphones who muttered “fuckin’ old people” at me as I tried to catch up again. Amina slowed down a tiny bit. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks, and my heart ached. My first instinct was to embrace her like a child, like the child she still was to some extent. Instead I begged her to forgive me.
“I’m not doing so well, Amina. This is all driving me crazy.”
“I know,” she said between sobs. “I feel like shit too.”
“Please tell me,” I begged.
31
Amina and I have always had a special relationship. There have been times when Amina preferred to turn to me instead of her parents. I’m quite sure I know things about her that no other adult is aware of.
It was almost four years ago now. Late autumn, after confirmation; the girls were in ninth grade and we were on top of the regional standings for senior girls.
One morning, I discovered Roger Arvidsen standing on the steps of the church hall. He looked dejected and confused in his fur hat.
Roger Arvidsen looked older than he really was. He had recently turned fifty, but poor hygiene and bad genes combined with a sedentary lifestyle, smoking, and constant coffee-drinking had made him look old. He looked in poor shape, with brownish teeth, multiple chins, and dirty fingers. The neighborhood kids called him the Monster.