Almost everyone at school had read or heard about Inger Nilsson’s article and what had happened during the Advent service out in Skavböke. The piece used astonishingly thoughtless language to describe the drama that played out in the center aisle as Karl-Henrik Söderström stood up on shaky legs and, after flinging accusations, was led out of the chapel by the two police officers.
No names were given, and certain details were left out, but everyone knew who it was. All of Skavböke was ashamed, as though they had not previously realized that the world could stare right in at them when they were at their most vulnerable.
Lundström, the Swedish teacher, was the only one who appeared to ignore it all. He and Sander had first met late last summer. That day, Lundström stood at the lectern he had just inherited and introduced himself to the class in a businesslike manner, as though it were a formality and nothing more.
The first assignment he gave them was to write a poem. They were encouraged to take their time and think carefully about what they wanted to say. Sander, true to form, forgot all about the assignment and composed his poem on the bus from Oskarström the morning it was due. He titled it “Autumn Comes to Skavböke, Halland.”
When he dropped it on the desk, Lundström was at thechalkboard, writing out the day’s lesson plan. From the corner of his eye, he saw the sloppily torn-out paper land on top of the pile. He cast a hasty glance at it and turned back to the board. One more glance, and he picked up the poem. He read it slowly.
“Did you write this?” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’re…Sander, right?”
“Yes.”
Lundström nodded. There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes.
That autumn, something happened with Sander, and not even Killian understood what it was, at first. Sander began to hang around school a little longer, often reading stuff he didn’t have to read, and he appeared to be trying harder to prepare for tests and essays.
Now it was almost Christmas vacation. The teachers were putting in their last bursts of effort for the year; maybe the students were too. Everyone wanted to go home. The radio in the cafeteria was playing Christmas music. After break, while the others were stashing last period’s books in their lockers and taking out new ones, Lundström waited for Sander in the doorway of his office and nervously clicked a ballpoint pen.
“Hi. How are you doing? You look pale.”
“I had trouble sleeping this weekend.”
“I can imagine. Us teachers found out this morning. We’d heard about the incident itself, of course, and we read the newspaper too. But we just learned that it was Mikael.”
Away,Sander thought again. That was the word burning inside him. Because…it wasn’tescape,wasit?
“I want to do it. I’m going to apply.”
Lundström smiled and tucked the pen into his breast pocket. “That’s great.”
“You’re from Åled originally, right? Why did you come back? From Stockholm, I mean. Like, back to us farmers?”
“There’s nothing wrong with farmers.” Then Lundström paused, as though the answer wasn’t obvious. “I fell in love.”
“In love?”
“Yes.” He smiled, looking chagrined. “Isn’t that reason enough?”
—
That same day, Sander saw Felicia.
Her locker was in the same hallway as his, but it was close to one of the big windows. Outside, a heavy snow was falling. She stood alone by the window, her hands thrust into the deep pockets of her down coat, as though she were trying to get a look at something down in the schoolyard. A large leather bag, its gold color flaking, sat on a chair next to her.
“Hi,” Sander said, as casually as he could, heading for his locker. “You’re still here?”
“I’m about to head home, just waiting for the snow to let up. I forgot to grab my umbrella this morning.”
“I don’t think I even own an umbrella,” Sander said.
“So you just get wet when it’s like this?”
“Why not, I’m waterproof.”
