The Reunion

The relaxed feeling seeps away and the familiar pains in my shoulders and stomach return. My hand shakes as I put out my cigarette.

Olaf notices. His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t speak. I’m grateful to him for that.

12 (#ulink_193373ca-b8be-5993-bc3c-631897a7956a)

I’m twenty-three and I haven’t had a boyfriend, apart from Bart. When I was a student I noticed plenty of boys and they noticed me too, but one way or another a night out never developed into a relationship. It was my fault, I’ve since realised. I just don’t like being hugged, or feeling a possessive arm around my shoulder, or being pushed against a wall to be kissed. I feel like pushing them away.

The psychologist I saw during my depression tried to find out if I’d had a sexual experience in my childhood, something that disturbed me. She was quite convinced of it; all my symptoms pointed in that direction. But she didn’t find anything in our sessions and eventually let it drop. Everything there works as it should. It’s just that since Bart I’ve not come across anyone worth bothering with, or who was interested in me.

The first time I became conscious of sexual feelings was when I was around fourteen. A film based on a book had recently been on at the cinema. I’d been really taken by it. It was the story of a forbidden love affair between a girl and a much older man. I wondered whether the book would be as beautiful and got it out. In the film the sex scenes had been quite subtle; in the book they were anything but. I lay on my bed with flushed cheeks. My body seemed to have a life of its own.

Even though my parents never interfered with what I was reading and wouldn’t have forbidden it, I hid the book in my wardrobe. I was embarrassed by what it brought out in me.

From then on, I couldn’t look at boys in the same way. I wasn’t interested in the boys in my class who were mostly a head shorter than the girls, but I watched the older boys who Isabel hung out with. Bart de Ruijter was one of them—the best looking and most popular boy in school.

He was two years above me, the same age as Olaf and Robin. He belonged to the group they hung around with a lot. Of course I’d noticed him before, but I’d thought I didn’t stand a chance. Why would he pay any attention to such an unremarkable, shy girl? Yet he did.

It was at the school Christmas disco when I was fourteen. I didn’t want to go, but my parents knew it was on so it was impossible to stay home. The idea that I was different would have hurt my parents. Having them feel sorry for me seemed more painful than the disco itself.

My father dropped me off and gave me some money to get a taxi home. He could have picked me up of course, but that was the last thing I wanted.

I mingled with my classmates and tried to stay away from Isabel’s gang, but they were everywhere, shrieking and laughing. I danced with no one in particular, like everyone did. The music was pounding. In the middle of a song the whole group appeared on my right, some of them rolling their eyes. Isabel was copying me dance and trying to get Bart to join in. Bart and I barely knew each other and I saw him turn from Isabel to me with a look of non-comprehension. Isabel pulled a sulky face and made a few clumsy dance moves, which the others laughed at. I felt myself blushing and my movements became even more wooden.

‘Yep, I’m on a diet,’ Isabel said, and ran her hands over her hips. ‘I’ve already lost two kilos.’

‘Really?’ Bart said. ‘Then they must have sunk to your arse.’

Everyone burst out laughing and Isabel kicked Bart in the shins. I caught his wink.

After a while, they all went outside and I stayed behind. Then Bart was standing opposite me, smiling. He offered me his hand and pulled me towards him. We danced. We drank. Alcohol was banned but many students had brought small bottles of whisky with them and were adding it to their cokes. There was something intimate about the way we poured shots of whisky into our glasses and drank it huddled close together so the teachers couldn’t see what we were doing. The butterflies in my stomach got stronger.

As the evening progressed I lost more of my shyness; the whisky must have contributed. Isabel’s group came back but didn’t notice anything about us because we had separated and were dancing with the others.

The evening was almost over when we came together again. That’s to say, Bart gripped my elbow, led me from the dance floor and we went outside. At the beginning of the evening he’d been a stranger and now we were walking with our arms around each other to a deserted corner of the bike stand. Then we were kissing, hard. He was a fantastic kisser. I barely knew what I was doing.

‘Open your mouth a bit more,’ he said. The sensation of his tongue slowly exploring my mouth was breathtaking. I was kissing the most popular boy in school!

Just then it struck me that this might be a practical joke. I didn’t know in which way I was being teased but I opened my eyes and looked past Bart to check if the others were around. The bike shed was empty. Bart’s hand moved to my trouser zip, but I pulled it off. He didn’t mind.

‘No?’ he said. ‘Okay.’

We kissed some more and then finally walked hand in hand back to the main entrance. I was in seventh heaven. The party was over. Most people had already left. The group had also gone, probably into town.

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Bart had said goodbye and gone off to find them. But instead he asked me where my bike was. When I told him that my father had brought me, he got his bike, a rickety old rust bucket, and said, ‘Hop on the back.’

He took me home. It was a ten-kilometre ride, and for him another lonely ten kilometres back. At the front door, we said goodbye so slowly that an hour passed before I finally slipped inside. I lay in my bed with a thumping head, in no fit state to sleep. Bart, Bart, Bart, the voice inside sang.

I hoped that things would be different from now on. Bart would defend me, protect me and draw me into the group. Isabel would treat me with respect and we would be friends again. It would even be enough if she left me alone.

I’d forgotten that the Christmas holidays had begun and that there’d be no school for two weeks. But Bart would call me and we’d meet over the holidays and spend them together.

He didn’t call.

For two weeks I moved between hope and despair. Christmas passed me by totally and on New Year’s Eve, I looked outside at the fireworks in the starry sky and made a half-hearted wish that he’d show up in the new year.