Hexo

9

I couldn’t ignore Tschick from the very start. Nobody could. Tschick was an Asien, and he looked like it. Wagenbach dragged him into class after Easter, and when I say he dragged him, I mean it. First session after Easter: history. Everyone tacked on their chairs, because, if there’s an authentic asshole, it’s Wagenbach. But I would say asshole is an overstatement, actually, Wagenbach is ok. His classes are ok and at least not dumb like the most, for example Wolkow. You don’t need to concentrate on Wagenbach’s classes. And you can still do good on it, because, Wagenbach really can tear one apart. Everyone knows that. Even those who haven’t met him. Before a five-grader enters class, they already know: watch out for Wagenbach! With him, it’s total silence. With Schuermann, there will be at least five phone rings during one session. Patrick even managed to set a new ring tone on his class — that’s six, seven, eight tones one after another, until Schuermann asked for a little silence. And he didn’t do him either. But with Wagenbach, if a phone rings, the owner can’t reach recess alive. There are rumors that Wagenbach used to keep a hammer on his desk to smash phones. I don’t know if that’s true.

Wagenbach came in with his ugly suit on and his brown bag under his arm just as usual, and behind him dragged this boy, who reminded me of a coma. Wagenbach put his bag on the table and turned around. He waited with a frown, until the boy finally got in, and said: “We have a new classmate. His name is Andrej —”

And then he looked at his notepad, and then he looked at the boy again. It was clear that the new student should’ve said his name. But the boy stared at the middle aisle into nothingness and didn’t say a single word.

And maybe it’s not important to write about what I thought when I saw Tschick for the first time, but I’m gonna say it anyway. I had a really bad feeling when he stood beside Wagenbach there. Two assholes on a stage, I thought, even though I didn’t know him at all and didn’t know whether he was an asshole. He was Russian. He was middle height, wore a muddy white shirt which had a missing button, 10 euro jeans from Kick and brown, not in shape shoes that looked like dead rats. Other than that, he had high cheek bones and slits for eyes. These slits are the first thing you see about him. Looked like a Mongolian , and you never know where he’s looking. His mouth was slightly opened on one side, it looked as if an imaginary cigarette can be tucked in there. His arms were strong and had a huge scar. His legs relatively thin and his head rough-edged. Nobody giggled. Not when it’s Wagenbach’s class. But I had a feeling that without Wagenbach, still no one would giggle. The Russian simply stood there and looked somewhere with his Mongolian eyes. And he completely ignored Wagenbach. That was practically impossible.

“Andrej,” Wagenbach said, stared at his notepad and moved his lips silently. “Andrej Tsch … Tschicha … tschorff.”

The Russian mumbled something.

“Pardon?”

“Tschichatschow.” The Russian said without sparing a glance at Wagenbach.

Wagenbach fiddled his nostrils with the air. That was an iconic move of him. Nostrils in the air.

“Great, Tschischaroff, Andrej. Do you want to introduce yourself to us? Where you come from, what your previous school is?”

That was standard. When new students came into class, they had to say where they came from and things like that. And now, Tschick’s the first exception. He turned his head to the side, as if he’s just noticed Wagenbach at this moment. He scratched his throat a bit, turned himself back to the class and said: “No.” Somewhere, a needle dropped to the floor.

Wagenbach nodded stiffly and said: “You don’t want to say where you come from?”

“No.” Tschick said. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay then. Then I’m gonna do the favor, Andrej. I have to introduce you to the class out of politeness.”

He looked at Tschick. Tschick looked at the class.

“I take your silence as consent.” Wagenbach said.

And he said it in an ironic tone, just like every other teacher when they say something similar.

Tschick didn’t answer.

“Or do you oppose?” Wagenbach asked.

“You can start.” Tschick said and gestured with his hand.

Somewhere in the girl’s block, a giggle came out. You can start! Insane. He pronounced every syllable individually with a really strange accent. And he still stared at the back wall. Maybe he even shut his eyes. It was hard to tell. Wagenbach made a face that asked for silence. Though it was already completely quiet.

“So…” he said, “Our new classmate’s name is Andrej Tschicha…schoff. And we can tell from his name that our guest comes from the vast Russian land, which Napoleon robbed from the east — and soon returned, as we’ll see today. Just like Karl the seventh before him. And Hitler after him.”

Wagenbach fiddled with his nostrils again. The movement didn’t make any impression on Tschick. He didn’t react.

“Andrej came to Germany with his brother four years ago, and – don’t you want to say it yourself?”

The Russian made a sort of noise.

“Andrej, I’m speaking to you.” Wagenbach said.

“No.” Tschick said. “I don’t want to tell it.”

Giggles. Wagenbach nodded squarely.

“Ok then, I’ll say it if you don’t oppose, it’s strangely weird though.”

Tschick shook his head.

“You don’t think it’s unnormal?”

“No.”

“Well, I find it strange.” Wagenbach emphasized. “And also surprised. But to make it short – we’re gonna shorten it a bit here. Our friend Andrej comes from a German family, but his mother tongue is Russian. He is a formulator, as we can see, but he’s just learned German in Germany and should earn our understanding in certain…areas. He entered a special school four years ago. Then switched to a secondary school because his grades allowed him to do so, but he didn’t stay for long. Then another secondary school, and now he’s with us, and all that in just four years. So far all correct?”

Tschick rubbed his nose with his hand, then he fiddled a bit with them. “Ninety percent.” He said.

Wagenbach waited for more. But nothing more. The other ten percent remained unknown.

“Well then.” Wagenbach said, surprisingly friendly. “And we’re obviously very excited about what comes next…but you can’t stand here for a whole day, it was very nice to talk to you. I would suggest you sit at the desk at the back, because it’s the only free one. Right?”

Tschick went through the middle aisle like a robot. Everyone looked at him. Tatjana and Natalie had their heads together.

“Napoleon!” Wagenbach said and made a dramatic pause in order to take out a pack of paper tissues from his bag and blow his nose with it. Tschick was halfway, and on the trail he came, there was a smell that almost blew me away. An alcohol smell. I sat three seats from the aisle and still could put together his drink list for the last twenty-four hours. My mother smelled like that when she had a bad day, and I thought, maybe that was the reason why he didn’t look at Wagenbach the whole time and hardly opened his mouth, because of the smell. but Wagenbach caught a cold. He couldn’t smell anything whatsoever.

Tschick sat at the last free desk way back. Kallenbach sat here at the start of the year, the class bully. But when it became clear that he’s just gonna disturb everyone 24-7, Mrs. Pechstein switched him to the first row after a few days so she could have some control over him. And now, this Russian was sitting here, and I wasn’t the only one that had the feeling that Mrs. Pechstein wasn’t gonna approve of it. He was a different type of bully, that was obvious, so they constantly turn to him. After his meeting with Wagenbach, everyone knew: something’s gonna happen, and it’s getting intense.

But then nothing happened for the whole day. Tschick was greeted by every teacher and had to spell his name in every session, but other than that, total silence. Also the next few days, it was really a surprise. Tschick always came to school with his wrinkled shirt, doidn’t make any noise during class, always said “Yes” or “No” or “I don’t know” when he was called, and that was it. He didn’t make friends with anyone, and he didn’t even try to do so. He didn’t stink of drinking anymore, but still, whenever you looked into the back row, you always had the impression that he had somehow passed out. The way he sat there slumped over with his slit eyes, you never knew: was he sleeping, was he a bitch, or was he just very laid back?

But after then, it stinked once a week. Not so bad as the first time, but always once a week. There are some of us that have already drunk before - I don’t belong to that - , but stinking like that on the next day, that was new. Tschick would always chew mint gum, so you could always tell which phase he was in.

Other than that, we really didn’t know a lot about him. The fact that he had been in a special school and then came here was absurd enough. And then this clamot. But there are people that defend him, they said that at least he wasn’t dumb at the end of the day. “At least he’s not as stupid as Kallenbach”, I said sometime, because I was one of them. But I defended him, to be honest, only because Kallenbach was standing there and he got me on my nerves. You couldn’t really tell from Tschick’s speech, whether he was genius, or stupid, or something in between.

And obviously there were rumours about his past. From Siberia, from Moscow – everyone said something different. Kevin said Tschick lived in a camping car with his brother somewhere near Hellersdorf, and this brother of his was a weapon smuggler. Someone else knew that he was a raper, and they lived in a 40-room-villa which belonged to the Russian mafia, and also someone said he lives in a tall house facing the North See. But, to be honest, those were just rumours, and they only spread because Tschick hardly talked to anyone. And so he slowly got forgotten. Or at least as forgotten as you can be if you show up every day in the same bad shirt and cheap jeans and sit in the class idiot’s seat. The shoes made of dead animals were at least replaced by white Adidas, which someone immediately knew were freshly stolen. And maybe they were. But the number of rumors stopped increasing. They just invented the nickname Tschick, and for everyone who found that too easy, he was called the special needs student, and then the Russian topic was over for the time being. In our class, at least.

It took a little longer in the parking lot. In the mornings, the senior students stood in the parking lot in front of the school, and there were a few who already had cars, and they found this Mongolian incredibly interesting. Guys who had been stuck five times and leaned in the open driver’s door of their car so that everyone could see that they were the owners of these tuned junk cars, and they made fun of Tschick. “Are you scoundrels again, Ivan?” And that happened every morning. Especially one guy with a yellow Ford Fiesta. For a long time I didn’t know whether Tschick noticed that they were talking about him and that they were laughing at him, but at some point he stopped. I was busy locking up my bike and I heard them making bets loudly about whether Tschick would hit the door to the school building, the way he was swaying - they said: how the damn Mongol sways - and Tschick stopped and went back to the parking lot and towards the boys. All of them were a head taller and a few years older than him and they were grinning like crazy at the way the Russian arrived - and walked past them. He headed straight for the Ford guy, who was the loudest of all, put his hand on the driver’s door and spoke to him so quietly that no one else could hear him, and then the grin slowly disappeared from the Ford guy’s face and Tschick turned around and went into school. From that day on, they didn’t call after him anymore.

I wasn’t the only one who had seen this, of course, and after that the rumors that Tschick’s family was really the Russian mafia or something like that never died down, because no one could imagine how else he had managed to completely pull the plug on the Ford idiot in three sentences. But logically, that was nonsense. Mafia, utter nonsense. That’s what I thought, anyway.

8

There are many things I can’t do. But when I can do something, then it’s high jump. I mean, I’m not an Olympics athlete or something, but I’m unbeatable in high jump and long jump. Even though I’m one of the shortest, but I can jump as high as Olaf, who is one meter ninety tall. I set a record for our junior high earlier this year, and I was very proud. We were on the high jump field, and the girls were sitting over there on the grass, and Mrs. Beilcke was giving them a lecture. That’s their PE class: Mrs. Beilcke gives them a literal lecture and they sit there scratching their ankles. They also don’t run all over the field like Wolkow.

Wolkow is our PE teacher, and he also likes to give lectures. Every PE teacher that I’ve seen likes to spit out an unbelievable amount of words. With Wolkow, Mondays are for bundesliga, Tuesdays mainly also bundesliga, Wednesdays champion’s league and Fridays come the joyful anticipations of bundesliga and the analytics. In summer, Wolkow can also give out some opinions about the Tour de France, but it’s mostly about doping and quickly back to more important topics, why you don’t dope in football. Because it doesn’t have any use. That’s Wolkow’s true thoughts. And that hasn’t interested anyone so far, but the problem is: Wolkow only talks when we are jogging on the field. He’s in super conditions, he’s definitely seventy, but is immer briskly ahead and keeps chattering and chattering. And then he always says: “Men!” And he says nothing for the next ten meters and then: “Dortmund.” Ten meters. “Can’t handle it.” Ten meters. “Home record. Am I right?” Twenty meters. “And van Gaal, the old fox! It’s no walk.” Param, param. “Any thoughts?” A hundred meters. And obviously no one’s gonna say anything, because we’ve already ran twenty kilometers, and only Hans, the Nazi, the team captain, the one who’s behind us all sweaty and out of breath, sometimes shouts: “Ha-ho-he! Hertha BSC!” And then it’s too much for Wolkow himself, Wolkow the Babbler, and he skipped an extra turn so taht Hans can catch up, and then he raises his index finger and shouts with his trembling voice: “Simunic! Joe Simunic!”

And only that can get one excited about high jump. Maybe we only did high jump on that day, because Wolkow had an extremely sore throat and couldn’t jog and babble at the same time, but only jog. When Wolkow had a middle level sore throat, he babbles a bit less. When he’s dead, class is cancelled. But when he comes down with a bad sore throat, he just jogs quietly around the field.

He records our jumps in his little black notebook during high jump and always compares them with the numbers from the last year and says that we’re five centimeters higher before. The girls sat near the field, just like I’ve said, and listened to Mrs. Beilcke. But actually they obviously didn’t listen to her, but they’re looking at us.

Tatjana was at the back with her best friend Natalie. They were whispering. And I sat as if I were on burning coal. I seriously wanted to come up before Mrs. Beilcke finished her babbling. Wolkow also started the competition just on time: First one meter twenty, whoever didn’t pass was out. Then five centimeters higher each time. Only Heckel got eliminated on one twenty. Heckel has a fat tummy, he’s already had that since year five, and to match it, two sticks for legs. It’s not really a surprise that he couldn’t jump a single centimeter off the ground. He isn’t especially good in any subjects, but he sucks especially in PE. He’s also dyslexic, that means his spelling errors in German essays don’t count. So he can make as many mistakes as he wants. Only the contents and the style counts, because it’s a disease and he can’t do anything about it. But then I have a question, what can he do about his stick legs? His father is a bus driver and looks just like him: A ton with two sticks. It’s clear that Heckel is also a high jump dyslexic, and how high he reached shouldn’t count, still only the content. But it’s not a known disease, so he’s still horrible at PE, and all girls giggled when the fat lump threw himself forward and landed in the face.

By one forty, the field was starting to clear up. By one fifty, there were only Kevin and Patrick, Andre with a good amount of effort, and obviously me. Olaf was sick. When Andre threw himself over the bar, girls starting cheering, and Mrs. Beilcke looked serious. When it came to one fifty-five, Natalie screamed: “You’re gonna make it, Andre!” A very stupid encouragement, because he’s definitely not gonna make it. On the other hand, he flew under the bar, which often happens in high jump when you tilt too much to the front. He rolled under and tried to save it with a joke. But it was too old. No one laughed. Next up, they cheered Kevin on. Kevin the math genius. But he also didn’t pass one sixty. And then there was only me. Wolkow put a sixty-five on, and I already knew it during the sprinting, it was my day. It was the day of Maik Klingenberg. I had this feeling of triumph when I was jumping. But I didn’t jump, I sailed over the bar like a plane, I floated in the air, I hovered. Maik Klingenberg, the athlete. I think, if I could give myself a nickname, it would be aerofloat. Or air Klingenberg. But unfortunately you’re not allowed to give yourself nicknames. As my back sank into the soft mat, I heard a few handclaps on the boys’ side. And complete silence on the girls’. When I bounced up again, I first looked at Tatjana, and Tatjana was looking at Mrs. Beilcke. Natalie also. They didn’t see my jump wahtsoever. It didn’t interest them, what the psycho sleeping pill was doing. Aerofloat my ass.

It really made the day for me, even though I wasn’t that interested in it. Like high jumping could interest me for a milisecond! But if Andre came over a one sixty-five or even tried one, the girls were gonna run around the field waving pom-poms. And they didn’t spare a single look at me. I didn’t interest anyone. If I managed to interest anything, then the question: Why weren’t anybody looking at air Klingenberg acing the school record, and why did everybody look at a flour bag roll under the bar? That was a shit of a school, and that was a shit of a girl, and there were no other. I always thought that, until I knew Tschick. And then something changed. And I’m gonna tell you about it right now.

7

And after that, I’ve been called psycho. For a year long. Even in class. Even, when the teacher was there. “Go, psycho, play! You can do it, psycho! Nice catch!” And it finally stopped when Andre came into our class. Andre Langin. The beautiful Andre.

Andre was popular. He made a girlfriend in our class on the first day, and then he switched every single week, and now he’s with a Turkish girl, who looked like Salma Hayek, from the class next to us. He also got close to Tatjana for a bit, that, was different for me. They chatted with each other for a few days, in the hallway, in front of the school gate, even in classes. But I believe they didn’t get together after all. Because, from some point on, they didn’t talk to each other anymore, and then I heard, just like how Andre Patrick said, how men and women don’t fit together, really scientific stuff from the stone age. And I hated him because of it. I hated him from the very first moment, but it wasn’t easy. Because, he’s not the brightest candle right now, but he’s also not hollow. He can be nice, and there’s something laid-back about him, and his looks, just like I’ve said, are really good. But he’s still an asshole. He only lives a street away from us, in the Wald Street 15. Where only assholes live. The Langins have a huge house there. His father is a politician or something like that. And my dad said: Big man, this Langin! Because he’s also in the FDP right now.

But I actually wanted to say something else. When Andre first came to us, we went hiking somewhere south from Berlin. A practical trip to the woods. I was far behind everyone and enjoyed the nature. Because, we had a herbarium back then, and I was interested in nature for a while. In trees. I wanted to be a scientist or something. But not long, and then came the thing with the trip, where I wandered behind the others, and looked at the habitats and the environment in peace. Then I realized that I didn’t give a shit about leaves and habitats and stuff. Laughter came from the front, and I could tell the laugh of Tatjana Cosic apart, and two hundred meters behind them, Maik Klingenberg was studying a load of leaves in the nature. Wasn’t really nature, just some pathetic wood, with three warning signs every ten meters.

We eventually stopped at a three hundred year old white beech, which was planted by a Frederick the Great, and the teacher asked who knew what kind of a tree that was. And nobody knew. Except me of course. But I wasn’t really hyped that I knew it was a white beech out of all those people. I could’ve said it: My name is Psycho, and I have a problem. Simply the fact that we were standing around the tree and no one knew its name was depressing enough. And I’m getting to the point slowly. This Frederick the Great also was generous enough to set up a few benches under the tree, so you could sit there and have a picnic, and we did exactly that. I sat at the same table as Tatjana. I was across from Andre, the pretty Andre, both arms over the shoulders of Laura and Marie. As if they were great friends, but only as if. He’s only about a week in our class. But the two weren’t against it. On the other side, they were really honored and didn’t dare to move a milimeter, like they were afraid they could scare his arms away. And Andre said nothing for the whole time, only looked across with his sleepy look, and then he looked at me again and said this after thinking for a long time: “Why is he called psycho? He’s totally boring.” Laura and Marie laughed for the joke, and because that was such a success, he repeated it again: “Really, why is the sleeping pill psycho?” And after that I’m Maik again. And it’s even more horrible than before.

6

And I still haven’t explained why they called me psycho. Because, just like I’ve said, I’ve been called psycho for a bit. No idea what that’s supposed to mean. But one thing is clear: It means I didn’t get along with all of them. But in my opinion, there are some that could also be called that. Frank could’ve, or Stöbcke with his lighter, they’re definitely a lot more disturbing than me. Or the Nazi. But the Nazi is already Nazi, they don’t really need another name. And of course there’s a special reason for me to have this nickname. This reason was from Schuermann during German essays in the sixth class. The theme was keyword-prompted essay. Just in case someone doesn’t know what that is, these essays go like this: you get four words, for example “zoo”, “monkey”, “waiter” and “hat”, and then you have to write something with these four words. Very original. All that stuff. The words that Schuermann came up with were “vacation”, “water”, “rescue” and “god”. It’s definitely doubled in difficulty compared to the zoo and the monkey, and the main difficulty was obviously god. Aside from Ethik, and sixteen atheists including me, and also those who protested, they didn’t really believe god. At least I believe. At least not in the way people who believed in god believed it is, who couldn’t hurt an ant and are really happy when one dies because they’ll go to heaven. Or those who drive a plane and crash it into the World Trade Center. They really believed god. So this task was extremely hard. Most people started with the word vacation. Small families going to Côte d’Azur, surprisingly meets a horrible storm face to face and scream “oh god” and get saved and stuff. I could’ve also written something of the kind. But when I sat there fore this task, I felt, in the first hand, that we didn’t go on holidays for the last three years, because my dad’s always planning his bank robs. It didn’t disturb me a bit, I really don’t want to go on vacation with my parents either.

I chose to stay in the basement and carve boomerangs. A teacher of mine from the primary school taught me how to do it. He’s a total expert in the field of boomerangs. His name was Bretfeld. Wilhelm Bretfeld. He even wrote a book about it. Maybe two. But I only found that out when I was out of primary school. But after that, I met good old Bretfeld on the lawn again. He was practically standing on the cow lawn behind our house and was throwing his boomerangs, hand-carved boomerangs – and that was something I didn’t know worked. I only thought it would appear on screen. But Bretfeld was the total professional, and then he showed me all about it. I found that somehow exciting. Also because he carved and painted that all by himself. “Everything that’s round on the fornt and sharp in the back can fly.”,he said, and then he looked at me through his glasses and asked: “What’s your name again? I don’t remember you.” What surprised me the most, was this long-flying-boomerang. That was one of his own creations, they could fly for minutes, and he founded that. Across the world, when someone throws a long-flying-boomerang and it keeps flying for five minutes in the air, then a picture will be taken, and on it: based on a design by Wilhelm Bretfeld. He is therefore practically world famous, this Bretfeld. And he was standing behind out house last summer and showing me all about that. Really a good teacher. I didn’t notice it when I was in primary school.

So, I sat in the basement for the whole summer and carved boomerangs. And that was a great summer vacation, a lot better than going on a holiday. My parents were almost never at home. My dad was busy going from creditors to creditors, and my mom was on the beauty farm. And I wrote about that in my essay: my mom and the beauty farm. Keyword-prompted essay from Maik Klingenberg.

I was allowed to read on during the next hour. or I had to. I didn’t want to. Svenja was first, and he read all this shit with the Côte d’Azur, which Schuermann found really great, and then Kevin read the same thing but with the North See, and then came me. My mom on the beauty farm. It wasn’t really a beauty farm. Even though my mom did look better every time she came back. But it’s a clinic. She’s alcoholic. She’s been drinking for as long as I can remember, but the difference is, it was a fun thing before. Alcohol made everyone funnier, but when you pass a certain border, people turn tired or aggressive, and when my mom ran across the apartment with the kitchen knife again, I stood on the steps with my dad, and he asked: “How about the beauty farm again?” And then the summer began, when I was in year six. I love my mom. I have to say that, because, what’s about to come, might throw shade on hre. But I’ve always loved her, and I still love her. She’s not a typical mom. That’s what I like most about her. She can be, for instance, very humourous, most moms can’t do that. And the name beauty farm was a joke my mom made up.

Earlier on, my mom played a lot of tennis. My dad also, but not so good. When my mom was still fit, she won the club championship every year. And she also won them with a bottle of vodka drunken, but that’s another story. Every time I, at that time a kid, was on field with my mom, she would always sit on the club terrasse and drink cocktails with miss Weber and Mrs. Osterthun and Mr. Schuback and the others. And I sat under the table and played with cars, and the sun shined brightly. In my memories, it was always sunshine at the tennis club. I saw five pairs of white tennis shoes, I saw the underwear under the short tennis skirts, and I collected the corks that fell from above. I was allowed five ice-creams, ten colas per day. And then Miss Weber says from above: “Next week at seven again, miss Klingenberg?”

And my mom: “Of course.” And miss Weber: “I’ll bring the balls.”

And my mom: “Of course.”

And so on. Always the same conversation.

But here and there, there was another entertainment. It went like this:

“Next week on Saturday, miss Klingenberg?”

“I can’t, I’m out of town.”

“But your husband has a game?”

“Yeah, he won’t leave. I’m going.”

“Ah, where are you going then?”

“To the beauty farm.”

And then always, always, always, someone who didn’t know that would come to the table and say this deliberately: “That’s obviously not necessary for you, miss Klingenberg!” and my mom would tilt her Brandy Alexander and say: “Good joke, Mr. Schuback. It’s an alcoholic clinic.”

Then we would return home hand in hand, because my mom couldn’t drive the car anymore. I carried her heavy sport bag, and she said to me: “You can’t learn a lot from your mother. But you can learn these from her. First, you can talk about anything here. And second, don’t give a fuck about what others think.” That excited me. Freedom of speech. And crap on everyone.

Arguments came later. Not really an argument principally. But an argument about whether my mom really gave a fuck about it.

This beauty farm. How it works exactly, I don’t know. Because I’m not allowed to visit my mom, she doesn’t want that. But when she’s back from it, she always said some crazy things. Therapy mainly consisted of zero alcohol and talking. And water treading. Sometimes also gymnastics. But gymnastics can’t do much. They just chatted most of the time and threw a ball of thread all over the place. Because, who had the ball, had the permission to speak. I had to ask five times, whether I heard correctly or is that some sort of a joke with the ball. But that’s no joke. My mom didn’t find it funny or exciting, but I found it, to be honest, surprisingly exciting. You’d have to imagine it: Ten grown-ups sitting in a circle and throwing a ball of thread. Behind them, the room was full of wool, but that wasn’t the point. The idea was to create a network of conversations. From this you can see that my mother wasn’t the craziest person in the institution. There must have been much crazier people.

And if someone thinks that wool balls are not crazy enough, then they’ve definitely heard nothing about paper boxes. Everyone in the clinic had a paper box in their rooms. It hanged under the ceiling, with the opening faced up, and you had to throw notes in like a basketball hoop. Notes, on which you’ve written wishes, stuff you want to say, intents and such. When my mom had wishes or intents, she basically wrote them on a piece of paper and went practically Dirk Nowitzki: dunking. And the bizarre thing was, nobody reads those stuff. That’s not the point of it. The point was, you write them out and then they’re there and you can see them: My wishes and problems and the whole thing is in this box up there. And because there box was so important, you also had to name it. It’s written on the box with a marker, and then almost everyone had a box with “god” written on it hanging in their rooms. Because, therapists recommended that. But you could call it however you want. An old lady called hers “Osiris” and someone else “Big Ideas”.

My mom’s box was “Karl-Heinz”, and then the therapist came to her. At first, he wanted to know whether that was her father. “Who?” My mom asked, and the therapist pointed to the box. My mom shaked her head. And then, the therapist asked who that should’ve been, this Karl-Heinz, and my mom said: “The box there.” And then the therapist wanted to know what was my mom’s father’s name. “Gottlieb”, my mom answered, and the therapist went “Aha!”.

And I wrote all of that in my essay. In order to bring up the word “rescue”, I added the thing with the kitchen knife, and because I was in the mood, I also included the part where she mistook me for my dad on the next day. That was the longest essay I’ve ever written, at least eight pages, and I could’ve written part two and part three and part four if I wanted to, but looking at how it came out, part one was more than enough.

The class was filled with excitement during reading. Schuermann asked for silence and said: “Ok. Ok. How long do you have left? Ah, that long? It’s already enough, I would say.” And then I didn’t need to read the rest. During recess, Schuermann made me stay so he could finish reading my essay, and I stood next to him especially proud, because that was such an amazing success and because Schuermann wanted to read it to the end personally. Maik Klingenberg, the writer. And then Schuermann flipped my work upside-down, looked at me and shook his head, and I thought that was an approving headshake, kinda like “how can a sixth-grader write such great essays?” But then, he said: “Why are you grinning so much like that? Do you still think it’s funny?” And then it became clear to me, that it wasn’t such a success. At least, not with Schuermann.

He stood up and went to the window and looked outside. “Maik”, he said, and then he turned to me again. “That’s your mother. Have you thought of that?”

Obviously I made a huge mistake. But I didn’t know which one. But it’s clear to Schuermann, that I’ve made a big mistake with this story. And it was also somehow clear that he thought it was the most embarrassing essay in the history of the world. But I didn’t know why that was, he didn’t tell me, and to be honest, I still don’t know to this day. He just kept repeating that it was my mother, and I said that it was clear to me that my mother was my mother, and then he suddenly got loud and said that this essay was the most disgusting and repulsive and shameless thing he had come across in fifteen years of teaching and so on, and that I should immediately tear out these ten pages from my notebook. I was completely devastated and of course immediately grabbed my notebook like a complete idiot to tear out the pages, but Schürmann held my hand and shouted: “You shouldn’t really tear it out. Don’t you understand anything? You should think. Think!” I thought for a minute, and to be honest, I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it to this day. I mean, I didn’t invent anything or anything.

5

I didn’t have nicknames before. I mean, in school. But other than that, still none. My name is Maik Klingenberg. Maik. Not Maiki, not Klinge or other random shit, always just Maik. Except in year 6, where I was called Psycho for a bit. It’s not really exciting when you’re being called Psycho. But it didn’t last long, and I became Maik again.

When you don’t have any nicknames, there are usually two reasons. Either you’re boring as hell and just doesn’t manage to get any, or you don’t have any friends. If I were to choose one from the two for myself, I would, to be honest, like to have no friends than to be boring as hell. Because, if you’re boring, you automatically have zero friends, or you only have friends that are more boring than you.

There is a third possibility. It can be because you are boring and you don’t have any friends. And I’m afraid that’s my problem. Ever since Paul moved away. Paul was my friend from kindergarten, and we meet up almost every day, until his mom decided she wanted to live in nature.

That was about the time I came to junior high, and it didn’t make my life easier. I rarely see Paul from then. I would have to travel half of the world with the tram and then do another six kilometers with a bicycle. Other then that, Paul changed out there. His parents had divorced and he went crazy. I mean, really crazy. Paul now lives in the woods with his mother and is lost in the swamp. He always had this tendency to become lost in the swamp. You always had to push him. But nobody pushed him out there anymore and he is completely lost in the swamp. I’ve visited him at most three times. And every time, he was so depressed, I never wanted to go back. Paul showed me the house and the garden and the forest and a perch in the forest, which he always sat on to observe wildlife. Only thing, there are obviously no animals whatsoever. A sparrow would come by every two hours. And he even has a book about that. It was early in the year, just when GTA IV came out, but Paul wasn’t interested in that anymore. Only this rubbish. I had to sit on the perch with him for a whole day, and then it’s too boring for me. I secretly flipped through his book one time, just to see what was in it, because, there are a lot of random shit in there. Stuff about his mom and coded stuff, and there were drawings of naked women, very horrible drawings. No, I don’t mean anything against naked women, naked women are great. But these drawings definitely weren’t, they are just horrifying, and there were a few pages about animal observation and the weather in between. Paul saw wild boars, leopards and wolves at the end, wolves with a question mark, and I said: “It’s literally the outskirts of Berlin – leopards and wolves, are you really sure?” And he just grabbed the book from me and looked at me, like I was the wrong one. And then we didn’t see each other that often. It’s been three years. That was at some point my best friend.

I didn’t know anyone at school first. I’m not really good at knowing new people. And that hasn’t been a big problem for me. Until Tatjana Cosic came. Or until I noticed her. Because Tatjana was always in my class. But I first noticed her in year 7. Why is that so, I do not know. But in year 7 I fell for her head to toe, and then the whole thing started. And now, I should somehow start describing Tatjana. Because if not, everything after this will make no sense.

Tatjana’s first name is Tatjana and her last name is Cosic. She is fourteen years old and has a height of 1.65 meters, and her parents also have the same last name Cosic. I don’t know their first names. She comes from Serbia or Croatien, you can tell it from the name, and her family rented a white house with many windows. As you can see: I can’t go on for too long, but the surprising thing is, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Because, I don’t know Tatjana. I know her like everyone in the same class as her would. I know how she looks like, what her name is and that she’s good at PE and English. And so on. That her height is 1.65, I knew that from the physical exam day. Where she lives, I knew that from the telephone book, and I practically know nothing else. And I can logically also describe her appearence and her voice and her hair and all that. But I know, that’s not it. Because, everyone can describe her appearence: She looks super. Her voice is also super. She is just super. Everyone can do that.

4

The doctor is a lot less talkative. “That’s just a piece of meat.”, he says, “Muscles,”, he says, “are not bad, that’s gonna grow. Maybe a few dents and scars.” He says, “that’s gonna look sexy.” and he says that every day. Every day, he looks at the dressing and says that a scar will stay, that it’s not bad, that it’s gonna look like I’ve been through war later on. “Just like you’ve been through war, young man, women are gonna respect that.”, he says, and it’s supposed to have a deeper meaning, but I don’t really understand that, and then he usually blinks at me, I would blink back, although I don’t understand a thing.

Finally, the man helped me, so I’m gonna help him.

Our conversations became a lot more pleasant later on, most importantly, because they’ve turned a lot more serious. But, it’s just a conversation. When I can limp again, he brings me into his room, in which there is a desk and no medical equipments, and then we sit face to face like firm bosses that are negotiating our next deal. A model of the upper human body made out of plastic, from which the organs can be taken out of, is on the desk. The upper arm kinda looks like a brain, and from the stomach, the colors kinda flake off.

“I must talk to you.”, the doctor says, and that is logically the dumbest start for a conversation that I know. And then I wait for him to start speaking first, but that’s unfortunately a part of this start, where you say I must talk to you, and then doesn’t speak at first. So the doctor stares at me, then lowers his gaze and opens a green cardboard folder. Or doesn’t open it, but opens it, like I imagine him cutting open a patient’s abdomen. Not the best sight, very complicated, and serious.

After that, it’s a lot less interesting. Down to the ground, he just wants to know where the wound on my head , on the front right corner, came from. Also where the other scars came from – from the roads, like I’ve said, okay, he already knew that–, but the one on the head, I fell from the chair when I was in the road police station.

The doctor holds his hands together. Yeah, that’s definitely not gonna come into consideration: fell from a chair. In the police station.

He nods. Yeah.

I nod too.

“We’re alone here,” he says after a while. “I know,” I say like an idiot and wink first at the doctor and then, just to be on the safe side, at the plastic torso.

“You can talk about everything here. I’m your doctor, and I’m sworn to secrecy.”

“Yeah, ok.” I said. He said something similar a couple of days ago, I get the meaning now. He’s sworn to secrecy, and he’s expecting me to tell him something and then he can keep my secret. But what? How cool it is to piss in your pants out of fear?

“It’s not just the way you acted. It’s a breach of duty of care. They shouldn’t have relied on your information, you understand? They should have looked into it and, above all, called the doctor immediately. Do you know how critical that was? And you say you fell off your chair?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, but we doctors are suspicious people. I mean, they wanted a lot out of you. And I, as your doctor…”

Yeah, yeah. God. Secrecy. It’s kinda clear. But what does he want to know? How I fell from the chair? He shook his head at first, then he moved his hand a tiny bit – and then it became clear to me, what he wanted. My God. Always this shit. Why doesn’t he just say it?

“No, No!” I shout and circle my hand in the air, as if I’m chasing a swarm of bugs away. “Everything’s true! I sat on a stool and my pants were folded up, and then I saw that and then the dizziness and stuff. No external influences.” Great word. Knew that from the scene of the cirme.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Yes. And the police were really nice. I even got some water and a tissue. Just because of dizziness and falling over.” I stand up from the desk and deliberately limp towards the right for two times.

“Ok.” the doctor said slowly.

He scribbled something on a piece of paper.

“I just wanted to know. Still irresponsible. Blood…you really…doesn’t look like that.”

He shut the green folder and looked at me for a long time. “And I’m not sure, maybe it doesn’t work for me – but I’m interested now. You don’t have to answer if you don’t like it. But – what were you planning? Or where?”

“No idea.”

“Just like I’ve said, you don’t have to answer. I’m just asking out of interest.”

“I would tell you. But when I’ve told you, you’re not gonna believe it. At least I think so.”

“I believe everything you say.” He smiled, friendly.

“It’s wicked.”

“What’s wicked?”

“It’s…we wanted to go to Walachei. You see, you’re gonna find it strange.”

“I don’t think so, I just don’t understand. Where?”

“Walachei.”

“Where should that be?” He looks at me full of interest, and I gather that I’m turning red. We didn’t deepen the conversation. Finally, we shaked hands like grown-ups, and I’m somehow pleased, that I didn’t have to trespass his secrecy.

3

You have to admit, you can say a lot about hospitals, but you can’t say it’s not nice in there. I always liked staying in hospitals. You do nothing for the whole day, and then the nurses come. They are all super young and super friendly. And they wear this short, white overall, which I find great, because you can just see what underwear they have on. Why I find that good, I don’t have a single idea. Because, if someone were running on the streets with this white overall on, I would say it’s just foolish. But when it’s in a hospital, it’s cool. Only my opinion. It’s kinda like in a mafia film, where one of the gangsters always keeps quiet for a minute before they answer. “Hey!” A minute of silence. “Look at me in the eyes!” Five minutes of silence. In real life, it’s just weird, but not in a mafia.

My favorite nurse is Hanna, she comes from Libanon. She has short dark hair and wears normal underwear. And that’s also great: normal underwear. Other ones often look a little bit sad. When you don’t have the figure of Megan Fox, it can look a little despairing. I don’t know, maybe I’m a pervert: I like normal underwear.

Hanna is actually only a nurse student, that means she’s an intern or something, and when she enters my room, she always knocks the door with two fingers at first, which I find very, very polite, and she makes up a new name for me every day. At first, I was Maik, then Maiki, then Maikipaiki, at some time, I already started thinking: old pie. But that wasn’t the end. Then I was called Michael Schumacher, then Attila the King of the Huns, then pigkiller and finally the sick rabbit. I would stay at this hospital for another year just for that.

Hanna changes my dressing daily. That hurts a lot, it also hurts Hanna, you can see it from her face.

“The main thing is for you to have fun.” she always says that when she’s finished, and then I would say that I’m gonna somehow marry her later or something like that. But unfortunately, she already has a boyfriend. Sometimes, she just comes and sits at my bed, because without those I get practically no visits, and it’s really a leisure activity that we do. A real adult activity. It’s always easier to talk with women like Hanna than girls my age. If someone can explain why, please call me, because I don’t get it.

2

The doctor is opening and closing his mouth like a carp. It took a few seconds for words to come out. The doctor was shouting. Why is he shouting? He’s kinda screaming at the small woman. And then, the uniforms got mixed up, a blue one. A police that I didn’t know. He rebuked the doctor. From what did I actually know that that’s a doctor? He’s wearing a white overall. Can also be a baker. But he has a metal lamp and a “listening thing” in his pocket. What should a baker do with this listening thing, listen to bread? Now that’s definitely a doctor. And now, the doctor’s pointing towards my head and roaring. I fumble with my legs under the sheets. They’re dry. Doesn’t feel all pissed and bloody. Where the hell am I?

I lay on my back. The ceiling is yellow. I turn to the side: big, dark windows. Other side: white plastic curtains. Hospital, I would say. That also fits the doctor. And yeah, the small woman is also wearing a overall with a writing block in her hand. And which hospital? Maybe the charity? Nah, not a single idea. I’m probably not in Berlin. Maybe I could ask, but no one’s paying attention on me. Because, the police doesn’t like it, when the doctor’s shouting at him, so he shouts louder back, but then the doctor gets even louder – and then, you’re starting to get interested in who’s right. Clearly the doctor and not the police, and I’m so exhausted and also somehow happy and tired, cushioned by happiness and slept again, without saying a single word. The happiness, I learned later, is called valium. They gave me quite a big dose.

When I woke up again, it turned bright. The sun is in the big widow. My footpads were being scratched. Aha, another doctor, a different one this time, and he also has a nurse. No police. Only that the scratching of my footpads is not so comfortable. Why is he doing that?

“He’s awake.” The nurse said. Not so emotional.

“Ah, aha.” The doctor looked at me. “How are you feeling?”

I wanted to say something. But the only thing that came out was: “Pfff.”

“How are you doing? Do you know what your name is?”

“Pfff-fah?”

What kind of a question is that? Do they think I’ve turned insane? I look at the doctor, and he returns the sight, and then he goes above me and puts a lamp in my face. Is this interrogation? Should I say my name or something? Is it the torture hospital here? And when can he stop trying to keep my eyes open, or at least do something to show that he’s interested in my answer? But I didn’t say anything. Because, when I was still thinking about if I should say Maik Klingenberg or just Maik or Klinge or Attila the King of the Huns – my father always says that, when he’s only had bad news for the whole day, then, he drinks a bunch a beer and addresses himself on telephone as Attila the King of the Huns – I mean, as I’m still thinking if I should say something in this situation, the doctor said something like “four here” and “three there”, and I fell asleep again.

1

First, there was the smell of blood and coffee. The coffee machine is there on the desk, and the blood is in my shoe. To be honest, it’s not only blood. When the elderly said “fourteen”, I peed my pants. I sat diagonally on the stool without moving the whole time. I was dizzy. I tried to think about how Tschick would be like when a “fourteen” hit him in the face, and then I peed my pants out of fear. Maik Klingenberg, the hero. I don’t really know where the hype came from. It was clear that the whole thing came to an end. Tschick definitely wouldn’t piss himself.

Where is Tschick? I didn’t see him on the road, like him with one leg bouncing into a bush, but once I think about it, he has to fight against it. You can’t go far with only one leg. I definitely couldn’t ask the police. Because, if they didn’t see him, it is logically better to not even mention the thing. Maybe they didn’t see him after all. And they’re not gonna get a word out of me. Then they can torture me. Although the German police, I believe, aren’t allowed to torture people. That can only happen on TV or in Turkey.

But sitting in the police station all dirty and blood-covered while answering question from others just isn’t it. Maybe torturing would be a bit better, then I would at least have an explanation for all this excitement.

The best thing to do is keep your mouth shut, Tschick said taht. And I see the same. Now, where everything is pointless. And I don’t care about a single thing. Well, almost. Tatjana Cosic, for example, isn’t “a single thing”. Even though I haven’t thought of her for a really long time. But when I sit on this very stool and look at the road outside and with the older police standing by the coffee machine back there for five minutes, filling water and dumping it out, reaching under the counter and trying to see what’s wrong when every literal dumbass can clearly tell that the plug of the extension cable isn’t plugged, I have to think about Tatjana again. Because, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. Although she has nothing to do with the whole thing. Am I speaking a bit unclear? Sorry for that. I’m gonna try later. Tatjana doesn’t come up in the whole story. The most beautiful girl in the whole world has no role in this. On the whole trip, I always imagined that she could see us. How we stomped through the corn field. How we stood on the rubbish pile with a bunch of hoses in our hands like the last two fools in the world… I always imagined that Tatjana was behind us, and she was seeing everything we saw, and she felt excited just like we did. But now, I’m only glad that was something I made up.

The police took a piece of green tissue from the tissue box and gave it to me. What should I do with it? Mop the floor? He squeezes his nose with two fingers and look at me. Oh, nose sneezing. I sneezed my nose, and he smiled. That, I could tell apart from torture. I look around the floor. The whole station was laid out with green linoleum, just like the entrance hall in our school. It smells a bit like that. Piss, sweat and linoleum. I can see our PE teacher, Wolkow, in a training suit, springing across the hall, seventy years old, and training: Let’s go, boys! Hop, Hop! The noise from his smacking steps on the ground, and the giggling straight out of the girl’s toilet. I can see the high windows, the benches, the rings on the ceiling. I can see Natalie and Lena and Kimberley enter the hall from the side entrance. And Tatjana in her green training suit. I see her reflection on the hall floor, The glittering pants that girls always wear, and the upper piece. And that half of them do gymnastics with wool pullovers on and at least three have a medical certificate. Hagecius-Middle-School Berlin, eighth class.

“I thought, fifteen?” I said, and the police shaked his head.

“No, fourteen. Fourteen. What’s up with the coffee, Horst?”

“The machine’s broken.” Horst said.

I want to speak to my lawyer.

That was the sentence, that I had to somehow say. That’s the right sentence in the right situation, just like how everyone knew from the TV. But it’s so easy: I want to speak to my lawyer. They’re gonna laugh their heads out. The problem is: I don’t know what this sentence menas. When I say, I want to speak to my lawyer, and they ask: “To whom you want to speak? Your lawyer?“ What should I answer then? I haven’t seen a single lawyer in my life, and I also don’t know, why would I be needing one. I don’t know what’s the difference between an attorney, a lawyer and a prosecutor. I’ll just take that it’s something similar to a judge, but he stands on my side and knows more about laws than me. But practically everybody in the room knows more about laws than me. And I could naturally ask them. But I know, if I ask the younger one, whether I need such a lawyer right now, he’ll just call out to his colleagues: “Hey, Horst! Horshi! Come over here! Our hero wants to know whether he needs a lawyer or not! Look at him. Blood shed all over the floor, pissed himself just like a world champion and – want’s to speak to his lawyer!” Hahaha. Then they’re gonna laugh until they’re broken. And I find my experience already horrible enough, I really don’t need myself insulted. What happened, happened. And nothing more. The lawyer can’t do anyting about that either. Because only a psycho could try to deny that we’ve been crap. What should I say? That I stayed at home, in our pool the whole week, you can ask the janitor? That pork sides fell from the sky like crazy? I really can’t do much know. I can still pray to Mecca and shit myself in the pants, other than that, options really are limited.

The younger, who actually seemed nice at first, shook his head again and repeated: “Fifteen is nonsense. Fourteen. You’re responsible for crime from fourteen.”

Somehow, I should feel guilty and remorseful and stuff like that, but, to be honest, I don’t feel anything. I’m just crazily dizzy. I’m scratching myself by my calf. Only there, where my calf was, isn’t anymore. A red stripe is across my hand. That’s not my blood, I said earlier, when they asked me. There are random shit laying on the street ready for people to mess around with, and I really thought that wasn’t my blood. But if it isn’t my blood, where is my calf?

I roll up my pants and look at what’s under me. I had just a second to stare at the scene. If I saw that in a movie, I’m gonna feel horrible, and in fact, I am kinda nasty right now, in this surprisingly quiet road police station. I saw my reflection on the linoleum, and then it banged, and I’m going.

Wednesday

Today, it snowed for the first time this year and school was closed. We originally had a math test, but with the whole school guide thing, I’ve been slacking off a bit. So I was extremely happy.

I called Rupert and told him to come. We’ve been wanting to build the biggest snowman in the world for a couple few years.

And when I say the biggest snowman in the world, I mean the it. We want it to be in the Guinness records.

But every time we wanted to start the project, the snow starts melting, and winter is officially gone. This year is the perfect chance.

We began as soon as Rupert arrived by rolling out some balls. In my plan, the balls should be at least three meters high, if we actually want to break the world record. But they are turn heavier as we keep rolling. And we have to take a break now and then.

When we were pausing, mom came outside and wanted drive to the supermarket, but our snowball was in the way. So she did us a favor.

Ach! It’s heavy!

After the break we went on with the rolling, until we were unable to make the balls any bigger. Then we carefully observed our piece of work for the first time, and saw, what a catastrophe we’ve created.

The snowball was so heavy, dad’s garden, which he planted last autumn, stuck onto it.

I hoped for a few more centimeters of snow to cover up the scene of the crime, but the snow suddenly stopped.

Our plan the build the largest snowman in the world is starting to fall apart. But I thought of a better plan for the snowballs.

When it snows, the kids always comes onto Whirley Street to snowboard.

That means, tomorrow, when the kids come out again, I and Rupert will teach them a lesson.

Thursday

When I waked up today, the snow had already started to melt. So I called Rupert and said that he should come straight to me.

When I was waiting for Rupert, I watched Manni trying to build a snowman out of the few bits of pieces we left when we were rolling our giant snowball.

It was really a tragic play.

I can’t think of anything more unlucky than dad looking out of the window right that moment.

Dad was ALREADY a bit angry at me, because I ruined his lawn, so I knew right then: angry he is! I heard the garage door go up. Dad came, armed with a snow shovel, and I was thinking, I should find a better place for my grave than this.

But dad didn’t come towards me, but toward my snowball. And in less than a minute, my work turned to nothing.

In a few minutes, Rupert came. I thought, maybe he would think it’s funny.

But he was really excited about rolling the thing down the street, because he suddenly turned sour. And the unbelievable happened: Rupert was angry to ME, because of something MY DAD did.

If my teacher, Mrs. Levine was there, she would probably say that the whole thing had an “ironic” touch.

Thursday

I and Rupert decided to create our own comic. After school he went to mine and we started with the work.

We created the characters with ease. But when it went on to the part when we had to make up jokes, we could’t go on.

Suddenly I had an idea.

I found a comic with the character saying “oh mama” every single time.

So we didn’t have to think about the lines anymore, and could concentrate on the pictures.

I did the writing and drawing for the first few comics and Rupert colored them in.

If you step on a crack, it’ll bring you back luck!

Ok, whatever.

Hey Timmy, your mom tripped on a banana peel and p.s. She’s dead.

Oh mama!

To be honest, the quality of the comics quickly went down when Rupert did the writing.

I’ve been waiting for a hamburger for three hours.

Finally! A hamburger, please!

Sorry, burgers are out.

Oh mama!