I met the bus up in the mountains at Bláfjöll. I hid the hat in my pocket because I wasn’t sure if it was in fashion. But it was so cold up on Bláfjöll that I had to put it on. That’s when I found out that it definitely wasn’t in fashion. Everyone started to laugh and whisper to each other as soon as they saw me. They also made fun of my pants. All the kids had cool ski pants with padding. The girls immediately began to tease me.
— Are those jodhpurs?
— No, ski pants.
— Why are they so stupid?
— They’re my Mom’s.
— You’re wearing your Mom’s pants?
— Yeah, so?
— Isn’t your Mom like a hundred years old or something?
— No.
— You wearing her bra, too?
Everyone started laughing. I was a dork. But I couldn’t escape. The bus wouldn’t return until the evening. I was forced to stay out all day in the pants and hat. I knew nothing about skiing. I went up in the chair lift but when I got to the top I got so scared I walked all the way down the slope on my skis and everyone looked at me as they passed, skiing.
I stayed inside the lodge the rest of the day and drank cocoa with Rubber Tarzan. He didn’t even have ski stuff. He was just wearing the same clothes as always. And it was almost as bad to have his company as to be rejected by the others.
What a lousy day.
On the bus on the way home someone started calling me Jónsi Norway.
— Jónsi Norway?
— Shuttup.
— Are you wearing your Mom’s panties?
I cursed Mom and Dad all day in my head. When I got home, I threw myself at Mom. I began to cry. I demanded cool clothes like everyone else. I’m no longer a dork. I want to be like everyone else. I want to be cool.
~ ~ ~
Everyone is dressed very cool. The boys are all in black T-shirts and jeans with turn-ups — even the complete dorks. Some are in black shirts and black jeans, like John Travolta. Some even have black leather jackets.
The only boy completely out of place is Rubber Tarzan. He’s the biggest dork at school. He’s tiny and has messy red hair he never combs. He hasn’t dressed in anything from Grease. He’s wearing a sweater and velvet pants. He’s not even wearing sneakers, just black boots.
I feel sorry for him. His father is a loser and his mother is disabled and has to lie in bed all the time. He lives in Blesugróf. It’s a poor area and those who live there are called lice-rats. One time, a few parents got together and gave his mother some used clothes their children had grown out of. But they didn’t ask their kids first. And then Rubber Tarzan came to school in a new coat which one kid recognized as his own.
— Hey, that’s my old coat! What are you doing in my coat?
— It’s not your coat. It’s mine.
— No way! It’s got my name written inside.
Rubber Tarzan is poor. He smells bad, too. And he’s annoying and stupid. Nobody wants his company. I sometimes played with him when I was younger because I had no one else to play with.
It was strange to go to his house. His home is ugly and dirty. Sometimes his dad was drunk in the middle of the day and would harangue us with some nonsense or other.
Rubber Tarzan also has a sister who is mentally ill. When we were at his home, she sometimes ran around buck naked and screamed really loud. It was really more awkward than funny.
Rubber Tarzan keeps trying to walk home from school with me. I don’t want him to. I do my best to make it clear that I don’t want to be his friend. I wish I’d never spoken to him. He’s such a big dork that I can’t afford to be seen with him.
He comes right up to me when he sees me and grins.
— Hi, he says, smiling happily and beaming his crooked teeth.
— Hi, I reply, indifferently.
— What’s the name of the woman in Grease?
— Olivia Newton John?
— No, Olivia Nineteen Tons!
I smile awkwardly. This joke is months old. Rubber Tarzan is childish and still plays with Action Man. He stands with us. He’s not going anywhere. It’s unbearable. Kristján Þór is not really all that cool, either. Some kids think he’s retarded. He also doesn’t mind Rubber Tarzan. I wish that I was in any other group but this.
The girls are wearing short dresses and have curled their hair. Some are wearing tight black pants, red heels, and black shirts just like Olivia Newton John after she’d finished her transformation. I don’t see Ásta anywhere. People are drifting in. The gym’s still being decorated and they’re playing songs from Grease. No one has started dancing yet.
I get rid of Rubber Tarzan and Kristján Þór and go into the bathroom to check my getup. My top has come untucked. I look more like Tintin than anyone from Grease. I silently curse my appearance. I wish I didn’t have red hair. I wish I had black hair and didn’t wear glasses. I add more brilliantine to my hair. I look at the earrings. I’m not going to put them in before the dance starts. I’m going to wait for exactly the right moment.
I intentionally avoid Kristján Þór and Rubber Tarzan. Kristján Þór looks questioningly at me. I nod to him, friendly like we don’t really know each other. He knows I’m brushing him off and he’s pissed. That’s annoying. But that’s life. You can’t be a dork forever. I don’t have any other friends here but Kristján Þór, but I’d rather be alone than with him and Rubber Tarzan. They’re standing alone in the corner, like they don’t belong. They’re still holding their carrier bags with the treats inside. I shudder to think that I was once like that. All they want for themselves is to pick their noses and play chase.
Ásta hasn’t made an appearance. I daren’t ask her annoying friends about her. Ingibjörg, one of the teachers, comes through the door.
— Alright kids, let’s go into the hall!
The would-be greasers pack into the gym to the thumping sound of music:
You’re the one that I want, you are the one I want, ooh ooh ooh, honey!
I roll with the crowd, making sure to keep away from Kristján Þór and Rubber Tarzan. I puff myself up and sing along with the song like a tough guy:
— Jora voneravon!
Or just: Oh, oh, oh! Jora voneravon! Oh, oh, oh!
Ásta has turned up. She’s saying something to her friends. I watch them all look at me and laugh. It’s impossible to know whether it’s love or pure contempt. Still, at least she’s not irritated with me. That’s a relief.
The music stops.
— Everyone who wants to be in the group dance come up! shouts the teacher.
The developmental differences between the genders become howlingly clear. In just the past year, the girls have changed from giggling little girls into small, sedate women. They arrange themselves expectantly in a row. Opposite them, several boys mill about, looking around in the air, hands in pockets. Most of the guys are still sitting on the floor talking. Several have started playing with balls and climbing the bars, hanging from the ropes or even playing chase. The teachers shush them. I’m no longer a simple-minded child. I join one of the rows. The teacher claps her hands together and the dance begins.