Unspoken Read Free Page A

toilet.
    The pounding changed into a rhythmic thudding, a monotonous banging against the basement window. No one in the building would hear his cries for help. Not in the middle of the night on an ordinary weekday. Could the person or persons out there break the window? It would still be impossible to get in because the window was much too small. He had locked the door—he was sure of that.
    All of a sudden there was silence. Every muscle in his body was on edge. He listened for sounds that weren’t there.
    For almost an hour he sat in the same frozen position before he dared to stand up. The hasty movement made him dizzy, and he staggered and saw flashing white stars in the dark. He had to go to the bathroom right now; he couldn’t hold it any longer. His legs could barely support him.
    When he opened the door he realized instantly that he had made a mistake.
    Fanny studied herself in the mirror as she ran a comb through her shiny hair. Her eyes were dark brown, and her complexion was also dark. A Swedish mother and West Indian father. Mulatto, without having a trace of typical African features. Her nose was small and straight and her lips narrow. Raven-black hair that reached all the way to her waist. Some people took her to be Indian or North African, while others guessed that she came from Morocco or Algeria.
    She had just stepped out of the shower and put on underpants and a big T-shirt. Freshly scrubbed with the stiff brushes that she bought at Åhléns department store. They tore at her body and made her skin tender. Her mother had asked her what she needed brushes like that for.
    “For scrubbing myself. They make you a lot cleaner. And it’s good for the skin,” she replied. She explained that the smell from the horses clung to her. The shower had become her best friend.
    She turned sideways and studied her thin body in profile. Her shoulders drooped. If she straightened her back, her breasts stuck out and seemed even bigger. That’s why she always walked slightly bent over. She had developed early. By the seventh grade, she already had breasts. At first she had done everything she could to hide them. Big, baggy shirts helped.
    The worst was in gym class. Even though she wore a sports bra that flattened out her breasts, they still were visible when she jumped or ran. The changes in her body made her feel sick. Why did everyone get so disgusting when they grew up? She shaved under her arms as soon as the slightest sign of hair appeared. Not to mention her crotch. And the blood that appeared every month, staining her panties and sheet when she bled through during the night. She despised her body.
    The fact that she had dark skin didn’t make things any better. She wanted to look like all the others. In her class there were only two others who were dark. They were twins, so at least they had each other. Two boys who had been adopted from Brazil. They were the school’s best soccer players, and they were very popular because they looked like Roberto Carlos, the famous Brazilian wingback. For them the color of their skin was an advantage. But not for her. She didn’t want to stand out.
    She longed to have friends, to have her very own best friend. Someone to confide in, to share her worries. In school no one paid any attention to her anymore. Both there and at home, she was always alone. At the same time she was fully aware that this was her own fault. When she started in the ninth grade, kids would sometimes ask her to join them after doing their homework. She always said no. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had to rush home to walk Spot and take care of everything else that had to be done. Inviting a friend home was out of the question. The risk was too great that they would find a messy apartment reeking of smoke, with the blinds down and breakfast dishes still on the table. A depressed mother with a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth and a wineglass in her hand. No thanks, that