Free Fish in the Sky by Fridrik Erlings

I’m a little shy of Ari because of what happened the other day. Here he is on his home turf, and here nobody would dare to call him Pineapple or make fun of him. Not even Tom. At least not while his father is sharpening the knife. And nothing could be further from my thoughts than making fun of him. I’ve never done that anyway — I just want him to know somehow that it’s fine by me that he’s got a furry crotch. It becomes him damn well, I’d say. But of course one doesn’t talk out loud about those things. I just take my time choosing the fillet, asking him if he has another one, maybe a bit bigger, since now there are three of us at home, and I let him feel that I’m not in a hurry and there’s no bad feelings behind my words; I’m first and foremost just buying a good piece of fish from him, as I would from any other honest fish salesman.
    While Ari is wrapping up the fillet, I see Alice, Peter’s sister, run down the street, right in front of the shop window, like she’s being chased by the devil. But nobody is following her. I swing the bag over my shoulder and stroll homeward and am not really thinking anything when I glance into a narrow opening between two buildings, where trash cans are kept. There I see Alice, crouching, half hidden behind the cans, smoking a cigarette. I am so surprised that I stop in my tracks and look again. She has her usual war paint on and is wearing jeans and a black jacket with her hair brushed down in her face. And there’s no doubt about it: she’s smoking a cigarette. She inhales with such force that deep holes form in her cheeks. She takes the butt between her fingers and is just about to shoot it out onto the street when she notices me. The smoke curls slowly out of the corners of her mouth, and she stares at me without blinking an eye, until finally she closes her eyes, curls her upper lip, and blows the smoke forcefully in my direction.
    “What?” she asks.
    “Nuthin’,” I say.
    “Are you spying on me?”
    “No.”
    “Then what are you looking at?”
    “I was just walking here.”
    “Then go,” she says.
    I obey and continue walking down the street with the bag over my shoulder. Behind me I can hear a trash can being moved around and Alice swearing, and finally she calls after me. She comes out on the street and leans against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest.
    “Don’t you dare tell Peter.”
    “No, I won’t,” I say.
    “Sure you will. You’re going to do it — I know it,” she says, full of suspicion.
    “I promise I won’t,” I say.
    “You can’t wait to tell on me. I don’t give a fuck,” she says with a provocative smirk, as if smoking is the least of her sins. “Oh, get lost,” she says, full of disgust, then pulls out the pack of cigarettes, takes one out, puts it between her lips, frowns, and lights it with a lighter. The look on her face is like she’s really torturing herself and is forcing the smoke down into her lungs by sheer necessity. It’s so funny seeing her do this. She’s just a kid, was confirmed only last year; still, she stands there like she’s already twenty-something, with all that paint on her face and a cigarette between her fingers. I turn and walk away, and probably it’s because I’m so surprised that I shake my head.
    “Why are you shaking your head?” she calls after me. “Look at you! Like an old man!”
    “Shut up!” I call back.
    But then suddenly she is by my side, tearing at my shoulder, turning me around.
    “What did you say?” she hisses, staring at me with her eyes, so black from all the makeup painted around them.
    “Are you going to tell on me?” she asks, grabbing a fistful of my sweater, twisting and turning it.
    “Leave me alone,” I say angrily, and tear myself loose.
    “I can have you beaten up if you tell,” she says, and I feel the tingling of fright from the tone in her voice.
    “Beat me up? What for?”
    “You just watch out,” she says threateningly,