Chapter 29
When we stop at Rasmus’s dock, he holds out his hand to help me ashore. I pretend not to notice and climb out by myself instead.
?sterman sets out again, and I watch the boat leave. Hanna and Isabelle sit with their heads demonstratively close to each other. We haven’t made eye contact since lunch.
My shirt still has a pink stain right in the center.
“So . . .” says Rasmus.
Suddenly, it feels a little awkward between us. I stamp my feet and pump my arms to try to warm up.
Dad sounded worried on the phone when I asked if I could hang out with a friend after school instead of going straight home. At first I thought he was going to say no, but he agreed. As long as I promised to call when I wanted to come home so he could pick me up.
“It’s so cold,” says Rasmus with vapor billowing from his mouth. “Shall we go straight up to the house?”
He starts to climb the wide paved path, and I follow. I wonder what it looked like here before their house was built.
Everything looks so neat and well designed, nothing like where we live, where there’s only a plain dirt track covered in pine needles leading from the dock to our house.
“Is anyone home?” I ask.
“Dunno. Mom, probably.”
Their house is huge and very unusual. It doesn’t look anything like the typical archipelago homes, the traditional wooden houses on Haro and Runmaro with flaking red paint and white trim.
This building is all metal and glass, with sharp edges and weird angles.
It’s like a spaceship that has accidentally landed on Earth.
When we get to the top of the hill, Rasmus notices that I’m staring.
“Dad designed it,” he says apologetically. “He’s an architect. Most people don’t think it really fits in around here.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I say with a shrug. “It’s nice.”
He smiles over his shoulder and opens the front door.
As we come into the hallway, someone is having a loud and intense conversation on the phone, but it stops the moment Rasmus slams the door behind us.
“Rasmus?” says a woman’s voice.
“Hi, Mom.”
Light footsteps approach from around the corner.
At first, I don’t think that the woman who appears looks anything like Rasmus, but then I notice a few similarities.
Same nose, same straight eyebrows. But it’s her hair that really stands out and demands all the attention: big, bright-red curls.
My tangle of whitish hair must look even more washed out next to the vibrancy of hers.
She’s wearing a black shirt and baggy black pants. A necklace with a poison-green stone hangs around her neck.
“Hello!” she says cheerfully. When she smiles, I notice she has the same dimples as Rasmus. “My name’s Linda. I’m Rasmus’s mom.”
“Tuva . . . is my name,” I say.
She smiles even wider.
“Are you in the same class?” she asks.
“Yes.”
I really wish I could think of something good to say, something clever and charming and witty to make her like me. But my mind goes blank.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” she asks with a quick glance at Rasmus.
“Do we have any cinnamon buns left from yesterday?”
Linda gathers her red hair at her neck, twists it into a knot, and takes a pencil out of her pocket.
“I think so,” she says, securing her hair with the pencil. “Check the freezer; I think your dad put them in there.”
She stops Rasmus on his way to the kitchen to ruffle his hair. She plants a little kiss on his forehead too.
My mom would never do that.
“Lovely to meet you, Tuva,” his mother calls after us.
Rasmus microwaves a few buns and pours two glasses of milk. He takes his time, almost dragging his feet.
I wonder if he already regrets inviting me over.
He stands still for a few moments as though deep in thought. Then he looks up from under his bangs and says:
“Shall we go up to my room, then?”
Rasmus’s room is big, much bigger than mine, and one wall is just a giant window facing the water. A month ago I would have given anything for a window with a view like that. Now I turn away. There’s a painting hanging on the opposite wall, something abstract with lots of colors.
“My aunt made that,” Rasmus says with something like an apology in his voice.
It’s streaked with red, purple, and green. The colors are so bright that they almost hurt to look at. But I like it.
“What’s her job?” I ask, sitting down on the black swivel chair at the desk. “Your mom, I mean.”
Rasmus sits down on the bed, which is also a lot bigger than mine and has iron-gray sheets. It’s unmade. Mom would go crazy if I didn’t make my bed before I left for school.
“She writes for various weekly magazines,” he says. “That’s why she can work from home.” He shrugs. “She thinks this is a more creative environment. She’s inspired by the archipelago, she says.”
He doesn’t sound very happy about it.
“We used to have a summer house out here. That’s how Axel and I first became friends. Then they decided to move out here for good, bought this plot of land, and built a new house.”
“Do you like living here?”
“It’s alright, I guess. My older siblings stayed in the city. They’ve both graduated high school already. I’m the youngest. I’d rather live with them . . .” He shrugs. “It’s not like anyone asked me what I thought. Mom had already made up her mind.”
“I understand,” I say, even though it’s not really true.
“It was different when we lived in Stockholm,” Rasmus continues. “I had loads of friends there, played on a soccer team. Didn’t have to take a boat to get around. I just took the subway.” He laughs. “Weird, isn’t it? Missing the subway, of all things.”
He reaches for his glass of milk.
“I get so sick of my mom sometimes. She has all these ideas, and then everyone else just has to go along with them. Dad doesn’t say anything. He just does whatever she wants. You know what it’s like.”
Do I? I have no idea what it’s like to have a flame-haired mother who enthusiastically welcomes friends into our house and kisses me on the forehead when I come home from school.
I squirm a little in my chair.
“You always seem so happy,” I say instead.
Rasmus rolls his eyes.
“Nobody likes a whiner. It’s easier to smile and pretend.” Then he adds reluctantly: “This thing with Axel . . . It’s so awful, but in a way it’s kind of a relief. At least now I’m allowed to be angry. And show people that . . . I get sad too.”
It’s blustery outside. The short pine trees near the shore are bending in the wind. There are small white geese on the sea.
“Now I don’t have to pretend to be happy all the time,” he says softly.
I run my fingers through my hair. It’s all over the place, as usual, almost like it has a life of its own.
“Thank you for defending me,” I say without looking at him. “In the cafeteria.”
I get the feeling that Rasmus is blushing. He leans forward and straightens the cover on the unmade bed.
“They’re your friends, after all,” I say, breaking off a piece of cinnamon bun. “It was brave of you.”
“I don’t think they’re my friends anymore.”
Rasmus grins and I smile back.
“Did you notice that the police didn’t talk to me today?” I say.
“Mm-hmm. I was wondering about that.”
“Hanna and Isabelle told them I did it. You don’t suppose they’ll believe them?”
Fear flutters in my chest but Rasmus just scoffs loudly. “Believe Hanna and Isabelle? No way.” He has finished his first cinnamon bun and is reaching for another.
“Do you think we should talk to that policeman, Officer Henriksson?” I ask. “Tell the truth?”
I don’t dare look at Rasmus.
“I don’t know.”
“He might believe us.”
“Would you believe us if you were him?” he asks, then takes a big bite of his bun.
I think of that dark shadow squatting on my chest and those whispering things in my dream.
I can’t shake the feeling that there was something familiar about those eyes . . .
“Probably not,” he answers his own question.