The first few days at camp flew right by. We hardly even had time to think about the bottles at the bottoms of our bags. One late evening I snuck out to the woods with a few guys and smoked three cigarettes in a row and coughed almost until I threw up. Some people hooked up even that first night and made out under the blankets in our dormitory.
There was a lake where we went swimming every day. One morning, Robin was standing there squinting out over the water for a long time, in up to his knees as the sunbeams glittered against his wet chest.
The other girls ran up to the shore, giggling. The lake was still way too cold to stay in for longer than fifteen minutes or so.
I waded slowly past Robin, met his gaze, and smiled. I knew he kept watching me as I continued up to the beach. I took an extra-long time bending over to pick up my towel.
A little further up, in the grass, stood two of the counselors, smiling. I tossed my wet hair and swept the towel around my body before padding back up to camp.
I really should have been surprised, even shocked, to see Dad there. But all I felt was an aching sadness.
He stood there like everything was normal and gave me a hesitant smile. He couldn’t even let me have this. Not even this.
I told him to go to hell. Then I ran all the way up to the buildings.
That was when I made up my mind.
A self-fulfilling prophecy, Dad? If chaos was what he was expecting, then chaos he would get.
50
“How are you feeling today?” Shirine asks cautiously.
I don’t respond.
She places a new book on the desk in front of me.
“This one isn’t quite as depressing as The Bell Jar.”
I read the back cover and flipped through it absentmindedly.
“I loved it when I was your age,” says Shirine.
It seems to be about a seventeen-year-old named Holden who thinks most people are idiots. I like the English title better than the Swedish one: The Catcher in the Rye.
“What happened yesterday?” Shirine asks.
Apparently she heard about my night in the observation cell.
“Nothing.”
I don’t want to talk about it. To be honest, I don’t think Shirine quite understands how things work in here. She’s not dumb, that’s not what I’m trying to say. She’s not even na?ve. I just think that if you try hard enough to keep your eyes closed you can keep living in denial for as long as you want. Shirine has formed her own impression. She knows how she wants things to be and she basically turns her back on or looks away from anything that contradicts that impression. Swedish jails are good places. People still have rights and are taken care of while waiting to stand trial. In Shirine’s world, bullying, assault, and the abuse of power are things you only see in movies.
“I understand that you’re having a tough time,” Shirine says.
She doesn’t understand shit.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up with the book on my pillow. Fuzzy images from the night linger behind my eyelids and I have trouble telling the difference between what I read and what I dreamed. I feel like Holden when he wakes up on the couch in the home of his old teacher and the old guy is sitting there stroking his hair. I stand by the sink for a long time, splashing cold water on my face.
It feels really nice when breakfast arrives. The guards are cheerful, and for once the coffee doesn’t taste like goat piss.
I’m paging through the book a little as I eat, trying to figure out how far I got before I fell asleep, when the door behind me opens again.
One of the older guards, a woman who looks like she should work at a preschool, peers in with bright eyes and a cheery smile.
“Your lawyer is here, Stella.”
“He’ll have to wait. I’m having my coffee.”
She stares at me, perplexed, without saying anything. At last I get up with a heavy sigh, fold my open-faced sandwich over on itself, and stuff it into my mouth before drinking the last slurp of coffee.
My feet drag as I walk between the guards to the room where Michael Blomberg is waiting.
“I have good news,” he says, shaking my hand. “The prosecutor has approved a visit from your parents.”
My insides seize.
“What do you mean, approved? Who applied for it?”
Blomberg smiles and pokes himself in the chest.
“Yours truly.”
“But…”
The snake of worry twists in my belly. Mom and Dad.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say.
Blomberg leans toward me, concerned. His face goes fuzzy and I feel dizzy.
“What do you mean?”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.