What kind of shock?
From the tampon. Pepi told us about it at school, he said that you can die from tampons. You get some kind of toxic shock and then you’re done for. It’s right there on the box, there’s a warning on every package.
You’re not going to get toxic tampon shock, I certainly know better than Pepi.
Are you sure?
I’m sure. You can sleep in my room tonight and I’ll keep an eye on you.
Okay, says Jessi pulling down her underwear. You just shove it in?
Yep, I say, just shove it in.
It is easy, says Jessi looking at me with surprise.
See. It gets easier too, at some point you’ll be able to put a tampon in while standing at a bus stop or in class without anyone noticing. Just takes practice. And Rainer doesn’t have to know, it’s none of his fucking business, you hear me.
Jessi nods, pulls up her underwear, and sits down on the toilet seat cover.
Do you know, I say, that you didn’t used to want to sleep in Mama’s bed when she had her period?
I know. I thought the brown stains on her nightgown were disgusting, says Jessi pointing toward the tampon, why don’t you feel it?
No idea, that’s just the way it is, it’s normal.
That’s good.
Yeah, I think so too.
I’m hungry, says Jessi.
There’s nothing to eat, I say.
Yes there is, in the refrigerator there’s a plate that says For Nini from Noura Eid Mobarak. Are you hungry too?
I shake my head.
Go get the plate, I say, but be quiet, I need to go out again.
What if I get toxic shock?
You won’t. Lie down in my bed, I won’t be long.
I go back into my room, gather the clothes off the floor, and look down at the corner of the carpet where something is sparkling, but it’s not what I’m looking for. I open all my drawers and my jewellery box, rifle through the pockets of my jackets and trousers, I crawl around on all fours and look under my desk and my bed and then something occurs to me. Quietly I get the key to the basement out of the drawer in the hallway and go downstairs. With my phone I light up the storage space looking for the guitar case. In the little compartment inside is the ring. I go back upstairs and put the ring in an envelope.
Dragan I write on the front, and on the back flap, Visegrad.
I’m tired, the usual condition during eighth or ninth period. Frau Struck is blathering on about the citric acid cycle and diagramming some crazy shit on the chalk board and talking nonstop. Her mouth, that thick pink rubber band, doesn’t stand still for even a second. The more complicated something is, the faster Struck tries to explain it, and the fewer questions you’re allowed to ask, I know how it is so I just let it go. Normally Jameelah and I play city-country-AIDS during eighth and ninth period but now I sit next to Amir and he takes notes the whole time, what a kiss-ass, it’s like he knows I’m completely lost.
Out the window I can see a man in paint-splattered clothes re-painting the white lines of the basketball court in the playground. When he’s finished he goes over to the mushroom-shaped gazebo and has a smoke. It makes me think of Nico who is out in the city somewhere in paint-splattered clothes painting something and stopping for a smoke now and then. I look back at Jameelah as inconspicuously as possible. She’s playing tic-tac-toe by herself and doesn’t notice Struck coming toward her desk.
Wake up there, says Frau Struck snapping her fingers in Jameelah’s face, explain this chemical reaction to me.
What, says Jameelah.
This, says Struck going back up to the chalk board and slapping the right side of it with her T-square.
No idea, says Jameelah, I don’t like acid.
The painter is still sitting in the gazebo smoking. I’m about to put my head down and sleep but then on the other side of the playground the door to the gym opens and Anna-Lena runs out heading in the direction of the girls’ bathroom holding something under her jumper. I peek back at Jameelah again, she’s stopped playing tic-tac-toe and is staring out the window like she’s in a trance. I hold my hand to my stomach, grimace, and raise my hand.
Say you know the answer, says Struck.
No, I say, I’m feeling really sick.
Struck raises her eyebrows.
Really Frau Struck, I need to go to the bathroom.
Well off you go.
I run down the steps and out across the playground to the girls’ loos and quietly push the door open. Somebody is throwing up in one of the toilets, throwing up and crying. I creep into the next stall, crying, puking, then silence, then crying and puking again and silence again, over and over again until something is being taken out of a packet, but it doesn’t sound like a box of tampons, more like some kind of medicine or something from the pharmacy, and then the sound of somebody peeing. As quietly as possible I climb up on the toilet seat and peer over the stall. There’s Anna-Lena holding a pregnancy test in her hand.
What are you doing, I ask even though it’s pretty obvious.
Paralyzed with fear she looks up at me, I jump down from the toilet and knock on the door to her stall.
Open up.
No, she says, get out of here.
Open up, I say, otherwise I’ll go get the janitor.
The lock rotates from red to green. Anna-Lena is sitting on the toilet seat cover, her face swollen from crying and her hair caked with vomit and snot, Frieda Gaga not looking so freshly laundered. No matter what else happens, I think, I’ll definitely mark this day with a red X on my calendar.
Show me the test, I say.
Leave me alone, says Anna-Lena.
I go over to the sink and pull a huge ball of paper towels out of the dispenser and then the door to the bathroom opens. It’s Jameelah, she stands there with her hands on her hips and glares at me.
What’s going on here, she asks.
I point my thumb at the stall.
She might be pregnant, I say.
Who? By who?
No idea, good question.
Jameelah rushes over to the stall.
Is it true, she says but Anna-Lena doesn’t answer.
I asked if it’s true!
What business is it of yours, says Anna-Lena.
Where’s the test, says Jameelah but Anna-Lena puts her hand behind her back.
Jameelah gasps.
Fuck your test, whose is it, but Anna-Lena squeezes her lips tight as if that will help somehow.
Who was it, says Jameelah again shoving Anna-Lena’s shoulder and then grabbing her and shaking her, whose is it, she says, but when Anna-Lena still doesn’t answer Jameelah grabs her hands from behind her back, holds her wrists, and shoves her up against the wall of the toilet stall.
Let me go, screams Anna-Lena, you’re hurting me.
Shut your mouth, Jameelah screams pressing her harder, look me in the eye do you hear me, look me in the eye and tell me it’s not what I think it is!
What is going on, I wonder, Islam will rule the world it says next to Anna-Lena on the wall, and beneath that, Men are like toilets either taken or full of shit, Look it’s Nutella and Here I sit and contemplate shall I shit or masturbate, and by the time I reach masturbate I finally get what this is about, it’s about Italy and Anna-Lena and Lukas.
Oh no, I whisper.
Jameelah slowly lets go of Anna-Lena’s wrists and sinks to the toilet seat. Anna-Lena crouches down and covers her face with her hands and as she does the pregnancy test falls out of the back pocket of her trousers and onto the floor. I look at the results and there are two stripes, two parallel pink stripes. That’s what life looks like at the very beginning, when it’s still invisible to the naked eye.
Jameelah bends down and picks up the test and examines it as if it’s hers, then she drops it back onto the floor. She puts her hands together in her lap and they sit there like two people who have broken up but didn’t really want to.