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look at this girl

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Synopsis

A girl sitting on a bench. The day dawns and the

ravages of yesterday's party are still palpable in the atmosphere. The traffic of
those who go to work mixes with that of those who return home dragging their
drunkenness under the doorways. On her way to the bus stop, Tallie stops on the
boulevard. She thought she recognized her friend Miriam sitting on the bench with
her hair tousled and her face disfigured by rivers of mascara. Just a few days
before, the young people rushed the holidays in the pool, happy and carefree. And,
although it's hard for her to admit it, Miriam is still hung up on Jordan, but the
frustration of always having been the invisible girl, and even more so now that he
likes Paola, is going to complicate everything a lot. Look at that girl is the
story of Miriam, her group of friends and how, sometimes, during adolescence we can
find ourselves in situations for which no one prepares us. Because... can you
prepare someone for the worst?
look at that girl

Cristina Araújo Gámir

Last September 2022, a jury made up of Antonio

Orejudo, as president, Sara Mesa, Eva Cosculluela, Marta Barrio, winner of the
previous call, and Juan Cerezo, representing the publisher, unanimously awarded
this work of Cristina Araújo Gámir the XVIII Tusquets Editores Novel Award.

To my parents, who are more than two.

To my uncles, who are my brothers.

To my grandparents.

And Louis.

look at that girl

August 2016

You are sitting on the bench, your bag pressed against your ribs
with both hands, your pupils out of focus, as if someone had tried to rob you. But
you have not been robbed. It's cold, you notice it especially in your feet, and if
you were in a position to think, you would think, for example, how many hours are
left until dawn. But you don't think, and all you feel is. Nothing. That the
scratch on the soft part of the knee stings. It's turned a wet pink, and it hurts
like hell every time the skin pivots and peels off some more flesh. You didn't have
any injuries when you left home. Surely you have scratched yourself with that
mixture of grit and dirt that was on the floor.

At the end of the street, a street lamp emits a discreet hum of

an appliance. You sniffle. You've been staring at a stain on your sandal for about
twenty minutes. At times it changes shape, it grows lobes, or it gets bigger. But
no, it doesn't really move, it's just an optical illusion, and as soon as you
blink, it readjusts its original dimensions again. That stain, you don't remember
it either. A splash of mud, or a cubata, or perhaps it is that you have stepped on
the puddle of a piss on the way to the portal. Or someone's vomit. Or maybe it is,
maybe. Semen.
 You should get up and walk. You should. But you don't know if And
also. Where to. The scraped knee throbs in stings. For a moment you think about
spitting on your fingers and washing it with saliva, but you can't, you don't want
to, you don't have saliva. I don't want You can't move. You're crying, you're
scared shitless. And what a look you have, with your ponytail undone, with your
leggings full of dust. Rubbing your eyes left a smear of mascara on your
sweatshirt, and now even tears sting. If at least your phone hadn't been
vandalized, you'd call Vix.

The patch of sky behind the plaza lightens to an indecisive

mauve. There is hardly anyone on the street, and those who pass by do not even look
at you. Some continue to party. They giggle and bump into each other as they hug
each other and bawl songs. The homeless are more secretive, they move their
drunkenness from place by dragging their feet. In the background, among the
fragments of shadow, a man turns the corner. He walks along the line of trees with
intact motor functions. His back stiff, neat, discreet, just like a bishop. He has
the newspaper rolled up under his arm, his hands buried in his pockets. They are
recognized right away, those who are already venturing through the lines of today,
while you gasp in the gloom, ulcerated on the diffuse edges of yesterday night.
Several meters behind him is followed by a poodle. He's stopped to piss on a leg of
the bench, and then he's coming towards you. Nails clicking on the cobblestones.
You think you can reach out and pet him, but no, you can't either, so more tears, a
sob, or some kind of hiccup, you just want the dog to stay. And then: chsss, come
here. The bishop man Surely he thinks you're hungover, or drugged. Maybe you reek
of sex. For sure yes. You notice the wet panties.

That detail was used later.

Three months before

Since I was little it has always been the same. When one of the
girls at your school wanted to annoy another or annoy her in a climate of
complicity, she would stand in the middle of the playground and yell: you're more
of a loser than Miriam Dougan. They also amused themselves by biting each other
during classes: you're sitting next to Miriam, you have the plague. Then the
comments faded away, they evolved into giggles, whispers, or looks. But at least
the girls offended in that diffuse way, as if they still cared to keep their
manners. They never, or barely, made reference to fat as it is. Sometimes they
invited you to their birthday parties. After all, you had made communion together,
your mothers knew each other from asking for the time at the butcher shop. They
lent you their toys and then they took them away. When they formed teams, they
always left you for last: you're very clumsy, Miriam, let's see if you wake up. In
the chapel everything changed. There they sang. They became modest and virginal.
They shook your hand intertwining your fingers and you swayed to the sound of the
mass hymns: Together as sisters, we walk. If they had confessed in the morning, in
the afternoon they treated you with dignity. And so in a loop. The entire
elementary school enduring that schizophrenia between its ethical dilemmas and its
weaknesses.

Until suddenly: the miracle. The girls. At last. They were

silent. Around puberty, more or less. When their boobs came out and they stopped
paying attention to you to obsess over their own complexes. And now they're past
you. Better this way. Every morning you run into them at seven fifty. They meet at
the corner of the school and smoke leaning against the hood of the car, their
backpacks wedged between their feet, their jeans tight as a second epidermis. They
look at their nails and blow smoke rings into the air while dissecting Netflix
shows. Sometimes you say hello Only when it is very evident that you have seen them
or that they have seen you. They are almost always quite nice. You hate his
friendliness, his radiant optimism first thing in the morning. You feel like a
garbage truck next to him. A huge, greasy truck and full of noise.

There is also a boy. His name is Carlos Jordán because his father
is from Uruguay, but at school everyone calls him Jordan, pronounced like that,
like the last name of the basketball player. He likes this variant, he even
encourages it, it sounds much cooler.

The Jordan, Jordan, Charlie Jordan.

You've been in love with him for two years, just like most of
your class. Even nerds and freaks get excited when he spouts some dirty stuff at
them. And you have seen girls from other courses and other schools go on occasion
to look for him where the stands. Everybody knows who it is. When he smiles, he
only smiles with half of his mouth because he has a kind of paralysis in the nerves
of his lips. Damn, and it's just that he's so rabidly sexy when he smiles. The
girls who have kissed him say that he is also maddeningly sexy when he kisses you.
Flocks of adolescents entranced by that hemiplegic mouth.

Whenever you are divided into groups for class exercises, you try
to get him to touch you with him. You even manage to match up in the PE row, even
though you're lousy on all the tests. Your body isn't programmed to do somersaults
or jump on the rack, and to top it off, you're wearing a gray cotton tracksuit. A
fat woman's tracksuit, a housewife's, from the unemployment line. But you assume,
or well, maybe you dream, that he's not going to care, that he's not so superficial
—of course, Miriam, of course not.

Although at least Jordan plays along with you, you guys like each
other. He is amused that you know some ridiculous YouTube videos by heart and that
nonsense can be spouted in front of you. The other girls in class aren't so funny,
she tells you. And that's why you don't stop. That's why you try to outdo yourself.
Their laughter like that, leaning side by side on the trellises, clouds your
deductive ability. It leads you to believe that there is an underlying intimacy
between you that you can encourage just by hitting the right keys. But oh, Miriam.
Could not be farther from the truth. Because when you look for her eyes you always
find them focused on infinity, on the asses of Paola Landy or Clara Tibbets, who
can afford to wear tight leggings.

And how is he not going to look at them? All the guys in class
look at them. There is a strict dynamic when it comes to pretty girls. Most likely,
they think about them all the time, they masturbate imagining them, but then they
don't have the balls to tell them anything. Therefore, because they are good. To
you, on the other hand, they can release whatever they want. What color panties are
you wearing today, what size, if you shave it and how far, and what is the
perimeter of your boobs. And you laugh. For looking good, out of shame, or because
you don't really know what to do. Laughing is like a reflex action, something
dictated by a part of your brain that you don't have access to when you seek an
explanation.

Miri, that bra fits a melon stand and the vendor included.

Miriam, your boobs have their own center of gravity.

And you laugh, yes, you laugh. Because that's what people advise
you. Other girls, the magazines, your mother. Laugh. Or ignore them, ignore them.
Or play along. Or don't follow them, give them a cut. I'm smarter than them.
Smarter?

There are girls who defend you when caught in front of them. They
shake their heads and roll their eyes: Miriam, you don't care. They try to appear
mature and considerate, but you know that the only thing you awaken in them is a
terrible embarrassment.

Well, what are you going to do? Because, let's see.

It has been like this since the world began.

It's boy stuff.

And your mother always says it, if they bother you it's because
they like you. And you believe it, because at your age it is a necessary faith. And
better that they notice you than not at all. The reason is irrelevant.

TRUE?

You glance once more at the enamel blue door to the locker room.
It's almost twelve o'clock and some people have started to queue under the awning
of the cafeteria. The mothers come to the edge of the pool. They yell for their
children, waving foil-wrapped sandwiches in their hands. The sun stings your back.
You should put on a second layer of sunscreen, but you just shift your position and
fumble under the towel for the cigarette packet. You look back at the enamel blue
door.

"Do you think they will come?"

-Well of course.

"Are you sure you weren't going to the beach today?"

-No...

Vix's eyes are closed and she's still breathing heavily, taking
air in and out through her mouth. He has just swum six lengths and the water has
left his silhouette stamped on the towel. You light a cigarette. For a few seconds
you dedicate yourself to playing with the pack. You'd actually want to ask more
questions, insist Vix send another whatsap to Lachance and confirm if they're on
the way. You already wrote to Jordan yesterday. He said they would come, most
likely, and that's why this morning you got up early and went over your legs and
groin with the razor.

You take your cell phone out of your backpack and reread his
message. You scroll up and down the conversation, lest you've missed something the
last ten or twelve times. You sigh. Actually, who cares, it's not even coming for
you. If it weren't for Vix and because she's dating Lachance, the others in the
group wouldn't even consider getting close to you.

“I hope they stay here,” Vix says then. If they say hello and go
somewhere else, I swear I'll kill Hugo.
 Now Vix calls Lachance Hugo. You have tried a gradual transition.
Since it became apparent that he was serious, it was no longer cool to be called
Lachance, so he began inserting his real name into conversations. She probably
doesn't even notice it, but it always sounds forced, like it's wrapped in rigid
plastic. Hugo. The first time he said it you didn't even know who he was talking
about.

You put the phone under the towel and lie on your back with your
eyes closed. Behind your eyelids, the light creates amorphous and orange
geometries. Some girls shuffle the cards on your periphery. They laugh out loud.
The children race across the grass smeared with Nivea cream.

"Are you nervous because Jordan is coming?" Vix says suddenly.

You take a breath of air. That intestinal racking every time you
hear his name. An icy tingling flush with the brainstem. Similar to when you chew
extra strong chlorophyll gum, but at a multi-organ level.

—Bah, the truth is that I don't care if he comes or not.

Vix lets out a laugh through her nose and her gut shakes in small
earthquakes:

-Yes, sure.

"Seriously, I'm past him.

You look at her sideways. Her stomach is so flat that it forms a

concavity, while you have to resign yourself to wearing that high-waisted bikini
with a button embellishment on the side. The saleswoman wanted to sell it to you as
a modern design, a bit retro, pin-up type. But the truth is that it is only a model
for fat women.

"Have you seen you in your new look yet?" Vix says.

—Yes, in the Chemistry exam.

This comes from the fact that four days ago you dyed your bangs
and some strands bleach white. You planned it on purpose the night before the last
test. You should have studied, but it was nicer to think of Jordan's face when he
saw you walk through the classroom door.

“Hey you, speaking of the King of Rome. “Vix sticks a finger in

your ribs.

You look up and spot him immediately. He is on the other side of

the Olympic pool, tanned from training and from sitting on the steps of the
institute smoking. She has the towel slung over her shoulder, the faded bathing
suit from last summer. And just his presence there in front of you, a few dozen
meters away, produces a physical effect on you. She has stopped to talk to the
lifeguard, and from time to time, she glances back, at the locker room door, while
she caresses her belly in circular, absent-minded movements.

You gut the butt against the grass and look for a more
comfortable position to spy on him. He is now nodding and has crossed his arms
across his chest. From a distance and without sound he seems like the kind of calm
and methodical man he will become one day. The lifeguard says something and slaps
him on the shoulder, Jordan raking his fingers back through his bangs. The
relationships between boys make you curious, what's more, they fascinate you. That
generalized immunity, falling in love without suffering, getting together in the
park to talk about the Champions League the day after they break their hearts. The
way they say "the safest thing is that I'll go" or "I'll let you know when it's
time", as if they were always dealing with half-made ambiguous emotions.

When you look at her, Vix is back down and has a cap over her
face. A hideous cap with a reflective logo of a gas station. You turn face down and
knowingly untie your bikini strap. Two more guys just came out of the locker room.
Lachance and the Hobbit. Torsos scrawny as nematodes, skin nuclear white. They
approach Jordan and greet the lifeguard. Laughter, flicks, to see what sunglasses,
a hand that loosens a smack, a push.

And then.

They come.

Your gut throbs against the towel. You pick up the magazine in
which you filled out a test a few hours ago: Would you have a polyamorous
relationship? The sun reflects off the glossy paper. You flatten the leaves to
feign attention and let your eyes get stuck on the end of a sentence: shea shampoo
for split ends, shea shampoo for split ends, shea shampoo. The text plays inside
your brain with the cadence of a mantra, and, meanwhile, you perceive that in the
piece of world behind you Jordan is closing the distance, and his legs are brown
and he smiles with that lopsided and sensual grin, and It's coming, it's coming,
you're seeing it out of the corner of your eye, and you no longer perceive any more
children, nor girls who laugh and shuffle the cards, nor mothers who unwrap
aluminum foil. Only his voice, his voice, which enters your brain directly like an
earache. If the pains were good.

“Girls,” he says.

You raise your head and place your hand on your forehead to block
the sun. That exact coordination between your eyes and your smile to feign
surprise.

-Oh well! you exclaim. What's up, big bodies?

"Is there room for us?"

You tie the strings of your bikini and turn your body in a
studied movement. You shake your hair back. As you sit up, give the fabric a little
tug to adjust it to one breast and then the other, so that it does not cover the
butterfly tattoo. You are absolutely certain that they are looking and that it
suits them to wear sunglasses.

Vix also sat down, kissed Lachance on the mouth and then lit a
cigarette. The boys spread their towels in a circle. They give each other the
typical obligatory push, a whipping on the buttocks with the shirt rolled up, that
inevitable hormonal choreography. Jordan's legs are strong from soccer, the muscles
ripped like steaks.

"Have you creamed yourselves, children?" -questions.

"Yes, mummy," says the Hobbit. He is a short boy for his age.
With hair so thick it makes her head look huge.

They've brought joints and absinthe, they say, and if you want to
go to the woods with them later, when they close the pool. It's not hard to guess
that they're being so generous because Lachance wants Vix to stay. But Vix always
leaves early, she has those kinds of parents.

You lie on your stomach again and twist your hair into a bun.
Jordan has stretched out next to you, and you can't stop looking at that corner of
his towel that has been superimposed on yours. One square centimeter of connection.
The sun shines on each of the hairs on her forearm, black as patent leather. And
you imagine...

If only you could lie on her back, rest your cheek on the fluff
on the nape of her neck and stay like that, asleep, breathing in the smell of her
factor thirty cream. You slide a finger along the seam of his towel. An ant climbs
the edge. It seems to stare at you, petrified, and then it disappears back under
the cloth. You reach over and give Jordan's bathing suit a little tug, exposing a
strip of white skin.

He turns his head slowly, almost as if he's expecting it.

"What are you doing, blonde," he says, narrowing his eyes. I

still can't get used to seeing you with white bangs.

-You do not like?

—Yes, I mean..., I mean, I forget it and it shocks me when I see

it again. Looks Good.

You smile by tightening your lips, in that adorable way you've

seen the protagonists of some series do.

"Does it look sexy to you?"

"A lot," he says. Suitors are going to rain down on you —and then
she adds—: even more.

He has started to play with some blades of grass and outlines a

cryptic smile that you don't want to delve into.

Jordan knows about Mirko's friend, and obviously also about the
Hobbit. And how you used to go hunting with Vix on Saturdays—that was before Vix
started calling Lachance Hugo. At first you did not care if it became vox populi,
you were proud of your achievements, but now you would prefer that so many details
had not been revealed. Besides, the Hobbit thing was out of spite, because you were
wearing a championship fart, and because Jordan had left you stranded. That was
several months ago.

Things had started off well, it seemed like the typical night
that promised, and you felt capable of anything. You came from getting the
butterfly tattoo and you had put on a gigantic neckline to be able to show it off
under the plastic wrap. As is logical, this circumstance excited your ego, just
like a small amulet that could intervene in the course of coincidences and turn
them in your favor. On the way to Dreams, you met Jordan on the bus. He had wet
hair, a short-sleeved T-shirt that showed off his biceps. You showed him the
tattoo, and he said: how handsome, and you didn't part again all night. It was
almost glorious. You confessed a litany of intimacies sitting on a step at the
entrance of the bar. He invited you to two tequilas, threw the salt into your hand,
made you toast, and you continued talking at the bar, one in front of the other,
scratching the labels of your respective beers with your nails, copying your
gestures, as they say he does. people when they get along, when there is a lot of
chemistry, and that's why you thought: today doesn't happen, maybe he can feel
something for me. Although you know full well that you are not his type, that you
are not anyone's type. And then the drama, the plot twist. That aunt. That sow,
that foreigner, some kind of Ukrainian or Polish or Russian, with butter-blonde
hair and a glow to her skin that you'd only seen in moisturizer ads. The dress so
tight it looked like it was painted in watercolor. So. Arrivederci, Miriam.
Goodbye, very good. She had an automatic smile, like the misses when they stop at
the end of the catwalk. That damn smile. All. The. Mouse. While she danced, while
she talked, while she stuck to you, smoothing her hair with both hands. It was
humiliating how easily Jordan's body disengaged from yours. His gestures
synchronized to another beat. The tips of her shoes pointing to the very white legs
of the Ukrainian/Polish/Russian woman. You emptied the glass in one gulp and walked
away little by little, walking backwards, so that it didn't seem like you were
being expelled. And again, of course, that crushing feeling of inferiority, made
even more demeaning by the fact that it was your special night, the debut of the
butterfly tattoo. What did you drink afterwards? Gin, vodka, some green shots that
were called brain eaters. Until after a while, you don't know how long, the Hobbit
appeared with his impertinent reptile smile: Miri, what a fart you have. And you
don't know why, or what wound that came from, you blurted out: I'm not drunk, the
butterfly has drunk it all, scold her. Meanwhile, you collapsed like a shipwreck
and you pointed your finger at your neckline. The Hobbit's pupils were drooling,
and Vix rolled her eyes: Miri, really... You farted at him. It was that pathetic.
But Vix, what does she know. He has never needed to exert himself. It's not that
she's stunning, but her body conforms pretty well to beauty standards, so she's
used to guys paying attention to her with a decent frequency. And you pretend that
you don't care, but you don't care. In fact, on your big game nights, sometimes you
wish Vix wasn't around. Next to him you looked like the consolation prize. And
you've already gotten used to the idea that it will always be like this. They don't
give you anything done, and that's why you're forced to take shortcuts, you blurt
out phrases like: today you're going to sleep with me, why don't you kiss me, hello
sweetie. You leave the road paved, let them know there is a reward at the end.
That's how it all began, and that's how you learned it that night, throwing
yourself into the Hobbit's arms when the opportunity presented itself.

At least, the Ukrainian/Polish/Russian thing only lasted four

days. And that, a little bit, helped you.

You sit up to spread more cream on your shoulders. Beside you,

Jordan has his eyes closed. Greasy eyelids from sweat. The centimeter of the
swimsuit that you have lowered has not yet been put on, and just where the elastic
was attached, a ribbed leather border now appears. An insect buzzes in your ear,
you shake your hair so as not to touch it with your cream-smeared hands. You'd want
to move the towel toward the sun, but then you'd have to separate it from Jordan,
and that's not crazy. Although, Miriam, honestly, why? The saddest thing of all is
that neither with polish nor without polish you have nothing to do. It is not
personal. It's just that for centuries, even before that day at the disco, Jordan
has been in love, or infatuated, or whatever, but on a very deep, almost sick
level, with Paola Landy. He's been after her all his life. Like everyone, actually,
because Paola is one of those axiomatic and perennial beauties that seem designed
with Photoshop. The kind of girl guys think of long term: anniversaries, flowers,
Valentines, an official introduction at a cousin's christening. Things like that.

Paola and her minions, Clara Tibbets, Tallie McGrath, sit in

another part of the pool, near the cafeteria. They don't need to send boys
whatsapps or stalk the blue locker room door like hungry velociraptors.

You lie back down and tap Jordan on the shoulder. He turns his
face, rests it on the scaly fabric of the towel. You are very close, as close as if
you had just woken up in the same bed.

"How ugly you are at short distances," you tell him.

"You really are ugly," and he lets out a lukewarm laugh with the
breath of cherry Coca-Cola.

It's just, Miriam, you're an idiot. For certain types of jokes an

appropriate level of beauty is required. Luckily no one seems to have noticed,
everyone is doing their thing, passed out on the grass or with headphones embedded
in their ears. And you act like it's nothing because you want with all your might
to retain the moment. You want to stay like this, on top of the towel, talking
closely to Jordan's chapped lips, until you die. Also, a little, you want to ask
them why they aren't with Paola and the others, if they've met them later, and if
they're even aware that they've come, sure they are. But you don't say anything,
because you don't know if you want to open that tunnel, fall to the bottom, let
your heart break into splinters. So you bring up the subject of college. Jordan
says he doesn't want to study, at least not for that many years, and that as soon
as you finish high school he's going to spend a year working in his cousin's Irish
pub. He wants to go outside, live his life, he wants to know what he wants.

And you want everything with him.

"I don't know, I'm not into college," he says. I have four left
for September, and I can't wait for high school to finish so I can fuck it all.

"Yeah, but in the long run you may regret it," you insist. I
don't love studying either.

Jordan frowns, a ray of sunlight crosses his greenish iris.

“Well,” he says, “we still have a whole year to think about it.
And next year is going to be a pain in the ass with selectivity, so...

"Yeah... that's why it's better that we know what we want."

Jordan sighs. Prints a comic, exaggerated sound.

"Jesus, Miri, the holidays just started..." She shakes her head.
Can we drop the subject for at least two months?

You fake a pout.

—Wow... and I was going to propose you a most attractive plan.

-Oh yeah? Which? He smiles and the disobedient half of his mouth
goes still, that sexual mismatch.

—Study together this summer.

Ugh, super attractive...

You let out a laugh and poke him in the side. He has closed his
eyes again, which allows you to admire the curve of the cheekbone where some hard
and unbalanced hairs stand out.

"Well, if that's more tempting," you say, "we can study naked,"
and immediately a torrent of fear hits you. You intended the sentence to sound
spontaneous, just like two seconds ago in your head, but when you say it out loud
the words have taken on a twisted and grotesque quality. So you quickly add, "I
think you'd regret not going to uni."

-Good thank you. Jordan has a frozen smile on his lips.

-Thanks for that?

"For suggesting such convincing methods." I have never tried to

calculate a polynomial in balls.

You tilt your head and smile goofily. Ever since you drew up that
plan, to study together a few afternoons, you often find yourself fantasizing about
summer. Different versions in which you and Jordan take refuge from a storm under
the trees, or talk until dawn about deep topics sitting on the swings in a park.
When it comes to love, you only get comfort from that kind of speculation.
Improbable fictions that overlap real life like ghosts. That give the routine a
transient, indulgent, less brutal nuance.

Vix and Lachance have gone to buy tobacco a while ago. Longer
than it takes to walk to the cafeteria, put a coin in a slot, and press a button.
That's why the Hobbit and Jordan have started to comment on other types of slots,
other types of buttons. They laugh like hyenas. The shadow of the stands has moved
and you lean your towels against the concrete wall. You slather more cream on your
back, watch stupid falling videos on YouTube, sprint to the curb and plunge into
the blue water. Jordan splashes you, he dives to catch your feet, you push him when
he approaches. There are dry leaves drifting, flickers of sun, Jordan's limbs
swaying around you, cloudy and refracted. You experience an invigorating feeling of
happiness. You shake your legs, you lunge, you run away, you laugh out loud and
swallow some water, the Hobbit touches your chest sideways: hey, Miri, you've got
real fat. Asshole, you protest, but then shut up, because you don't want to sound
hysterical either. Nor is it to put the cry to heaven. And besides, it wasn't the
first time. Jordan rubs her eyes, her lashes curling up in wet little triangles.
Seriously, he says, what size do you wear. And you to shut up, you don't intend to
tell him, but you are anxious about giving that borderline image. Guess what,
loose. And he smirks: I don't have to guess, I just have to ask the Hobbit and half
the guys from Dreams. Their laughs are leathery, stretching and cracking like
whips. And you just want them to change the subject, change the tone, leave you
alone.

But no, because here goes the second part.

—Miri, do you like to be touched...?

Lately he has given them to do that.

Miri, would you let me play you... [dramatic silence] a guitar

solo?

Miri, do you want me to win you... the lottery?

No, I don't want you to touch me even a hair.

But again you don't say anything, because then, damn it, Miri,
we're kidding, you're a sour, a killjoy, and what the hell are you doing,
seriously, you freak out. Do you think I get your love handles, you piece of seal?

You've already heard that, you don't want to hear it anymore, and
that's why you follow along, a little alone, just enough, or so you think, because
it always gets out of hand. Boys, how easy they have it, they can blurt out all
kinds of barbarities, go through a thousand towns, ask the most dirty and sordid
questions that go around their heads. But girls, oh no, you have the filter
installed from the factory. It's another level of mastery.

You shake a slap on the surface of the water: damn, heavy. And
they move away: Miri, don't get mad. You sigh. I'm sure they don't do it with bad
intentions. Jordan is your colleague, almost your confidante, and the Hobbit often
lets you copy the Economics exercises.

You take a couple of strokes toward the stairs and out of the
water.

I'm going to buy an ice cream, you say.

And the Hobbit says he's with you.

The ice cream kiosk is located right in front of the tennis

courts. To get there you have to go around the Olympic pool, cross a huge patch of
grass, and then turn around where the changing rooms are. It's not really far, but
Miriam has tied a towel around her waist because she's horrified by the way her
thighs wobble as she walks. She's embarrassed that as she walks off the curb Jordan
notices it, and then tells Lachance and they're upset.

In the shade it is cool. Miriam leans toward the tin sign

displaying images of the ice cream in ultra-saturated, vibrant colors. Note the
drops of water that drip from the ends of her hair to the bottom of her back. The
Hobbit is at his side, hands on knees, reading the prices. Like this, so quiet, he
seems even modest, Miriam thinks, and she runs away, lest she get caught and
believe what she isn't. A small speaker inside the kiosk emits a pleasant little
tune, with a slight metallic timbre. Now David Guetta is playing, and there is a
part that Miriam starts humming. The Hobbit smiles.

"You have a beautiful voice, you could devote yourself to

singing," he says.

—Of course, it is another of my many virtues.

It is inevitable, at certain times, not to use that fragile

arrogance. Miriam moves away from the ice cream sign and readjusts the towel around
her waist. Watch the queue of people. There are two people waiting to order, and
also a little girl in a ruffled swimsuit. They each wait in their own way, so most
likely they don't know each other. The Hobbit rests one elbow on the aluminum
counter, very close to a glob of chocolate that still looks fresh.

—And what are your other virtues? -says.

Miriam smiles, tilts her head slightly. He's getting his guts in
at the same time, and he tries to give his movements a natural and carefree effect.

"Are you going to stay later, by the way?" then continues the
Hobbit, and slides his arm across the counter, coming a little closer.

His chin is dotted with black dots, and his nose has grown a
little too long this year. It's funny, almost tender, to watch her there in the
middle, going out of tune.

-Don't know. Miriam puffs out her cheeks and forces a meditative
sigh, even though she knows full well she's going to stay. Until whatever time it
is. And wherever they go.

"I really love your tattoo," says the Hobbit then.

"And my new bangs?"

He smiles embarrassed, suddenly his ears are red.

-Also.

—Well, since I dyed it, this body trades higher.

Miriam swallows, looks down at her bare feet. Once again, that
rush of sweat that chills his hands and stings the inside of his head. Why did he
say that? It hasn't even been the least bit witty, it just sounded like yes, tough
girl. And really, why are you smart, if you're putting your stomach in, if you've
covered your cellulite with a towel, you're an idiot, idiot, idiot, all you have to
do is look at the Hobbit's face, that tight smile, surely it will go away later
will tell the others. The piece of seal, how strong. Look how cool he likes to be.

Really, Miriam, you don't learn.

The girl in the ruffled swimsuit is now pointing to the jelly

bean boxes. He carries the coins perfectly aligned in the palm of his hand and goes
over them from time to time by running his finger over them. For some reason,
Miriam wishes he didn't have enough money to lend her, but she has no idea where
that twisted longing comes from.

"The absinthe we have was brought from Prague by a cousin of

Lachance's," says the Hobbit then, looking at his fingernails.

"Oh, is there something special about Prague absinthe?"

The Hobbit shrugs, surely he is just going to repeat the same

thing that they have told him.

“Apparently there are many types there.

Miriam nods. He stares at a lump of ice cream that has melted on

the floor and is beginning to turn solid and matte. The Hobbit then takes a step
towards her. He strokes the waist of her bikini, the button placket down the side.
The station interrupts the song for a commercial and grafts a female voice into
their eardrums complaining about urine leakage. Miriam lets out a laugh. The Hobbit
is very close. Slip a finger under the elastic and part it slightly. He must be
noticing how her skin has risen.

"You stay with us later," he says.

"Is anyone else coming?" Miriam forces a nonchalant tone. All he

really wants to know is if he runs the risk of running into Paola and the others.
 "No, just Lucas. We have met him at the exit, so it would be the
four of us and you if you sign up.

So Miriam nods.

It says yes.

Why not?

They were four. At first you wanted.

At first.

And with one.

When you were laughing and the music was playing loud and you
were talking very close, so close that the tip of his nose kept bumping against
your ear. You liked how he cut sentences, his accent destroying the end of verbs.
And suddenly he separates and looks at you. His breath smells sour, like Listerine
and tobacco. And then a push from behind, one of his friends. And a laugh. He gets
closer again, closer than necessary. You are totally stuck. Because of the tides of
people, because of the noise, because of the alcohol. Because there is no hole. And
why do you let him? His arm covering your shoulders. Do you want another shot? The
heat of the square clings to your face. And this boy who suddenly approaches and
has very intense blue eyes, almost science fiction. What do you want to do when you
finish high school? horny nurse. Ah, nurse, what a freak, and also horny. Do you
know what this bone is called? Do you know what this bone is called? A soundless
laugh, drowned out by the volume of the speakers. You look like someone. Whom? To
one of Game of Thrones. Seriously, which one? I don't remember the name, I just
know that it was bad. What do you say, with how good I am. A smile, a drink of
reheated beer that leaves your tongue thick. Let's get out of the crowd. Great,
let's go smoke some joints. You smoke? Oh yes please.

Odors of pissed corners and recent garbage waft through the air.
Many bars are already closing down, and there are groups of young people chatting
in a circle. They crowd in front of the pizza joints. Do you like this boy? Man, of
course. Oh yeah? You like my friend? A shot of vodka. Here, give me your hand. His
fingers wrap around yours, you love that, and how he leans into you, hunching over
because of the difference in height. You think: what time will we both leave. You
think: maybe today there will be sex. In his house. In his car. Your throat burns
from smoking so much, it must have been a good thing. A girly chatter, a strand of
music, a kiss. A long kiss, and then. Come in, don't make noise. It's dark in the
doorway, you can barely make out their faces, and a hand that grabs you and guides
you, and another that grabs you by the waist. Then another. Three hands. Four. More
than can fit in a single body, a pack of hands. And you can't see him anymore, they
quickly pull your clothes off, your leggings and panties are pulled down, it's
cold, a mouth, a breath of beer, and another sweeter breath, mustard, wait, hurry,
the fragile light of a light switch of the light that reflects on the vitrified
tiles, and a tug, a laugh, a gasp attached to your ear, air that enters and leaves,
that enters and leaves, come here, from several mouths, your heart beats for inside
the skull, the blow of the marble, and the grit that pricks the softness of the
knee, but, breathe, breathe, your voice gets stuck, the slap of sweaty flesh
against your thighs, and you think, no, wait a minute , the scratchy smell of her
colognes, you were wet, come here, look, touch, her panties are wet, they later
blamed you for that, you separate your lips, you're going to say something, do you
say it?, laugh, not anymore you are, silence, you are no longer, put this well
inside, what is this bone called.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want them to take their hands off you.

And then

you close your eyes

Tallie McGrath twists her hair to the side like a corsage and
lashes it in the air to shake off the moisture. He's wearing it loose, contrary to
his custom, but only because he's just washed it off in a hurry in the pool
showers. If she'd had time to dry it, she would have tied it up later in a chignon
or one of those extremely long braids that go down to the middle of her back. He
steps a foot off the curb and leans out toward the roundabout. He kicks a pebble.
The battery of her mobile phone has been depleted for a while and she is terribly
bored. Sighs. A lock of hair is caught between the nose and lip like a mustache.
Breathe in the papaya shampoo, and deeper, encrusted, the pungent whiff of
chlorine. Paola, meanwhile, doesn't say a word. She's leaning against the bus
shelter, her head turned toward her phone, her finger sliding across the screen in
listless motions. On her shoulders, and despite the fact that she has smeared
herself with protector, diffuse stripes of incandescent pink can already be seen.

A warm breeze, like a breath, rocks the branches and the awnings
of the balconies. Tallie takes refuge in the shade of the awning. He loves summer,
that rumor of vegetation. He lights a cigarette and closes his eyes. He points his
face towards the sky, he wants to enjoy the moment. And the moment lasts exactly
five puffs.

"Hey, girls.

Vix has that childish way of saying hello. Raising the palm of
the hand and immediately letting it fall. She has stood still at the curb without
actually getting on the sidewalk, and it looks like she needs their permission to
shorten the distance. Paola says hello, how are you, without taking her eyes off
her phone. Tallie responds to the greeting by raising her eyebrows and
automatically tilts her face out of her field of vision. He doesn't feel like
having Vix chit-chat, so he's tremendously relieved when he sees her walk past him
and takes a seat on the bench at the bus stop. He is surprised that she arrives
alone, without Miriam Dougan's perpetual appendage. Lately they look like conjoined
twins. And it's not that Tallie cares, come on, it's that she doesn't even bother
to think about them, but she's intrigued by what the nexus of that friendship will
be. At least she doesn't like Vix, she's quiet and serene, like a country bird. On
the other hand, he can't stand Miriam, he has her completely crossed, to the point
of hearing her voice and wanting to slap her. I couldn't explain why. He has always
felt a measured apprehension for her, but for about a year now, the hatred has been
sharpened. And she suspects that what irritates her so much about Miriam is this
new attitude. Before, he was just a blur, a tedious creature who made a fool of
himself in class. And now, apparently, he has taken to going on the list.

Today they have seen her from afar in the pool. Attached to the
boys, yelling into the water. And with that tacky little bangs, Tallie said to
Paola, who just waved her hand in the air: bah, who cares. And yet Tallie can't
stop these angry thoughts. She is convinced that Miriam dyed her hair because the
tattoo on her boob was no longer enough to attract attention. And it seems pitiful
to her, that effort of ugly girls to alter their appearance in the hope that
someone will look at them. They remind him of those shabby houses full of cracks
that the tenants try to clean up with candles and world maps and huge elephant
handkerchiefs, but which, deep down, are still shabby houses full of cracks.

—What a heavy bus.

Paola steps away from the awning and walks over to Tallie,
exaggeratedly rotating her torso, as if she's in a stretching class. When she's
within range, she catches her friend in a hug and puts all her weight on her. I'm
bored, protest.

Tallie narrows her eyes to catch a glimpse of the intersection in

the distance. No bus in sight. Nothing. Only the quince sunset that leaves a pink
patina on the facades of the apartment blocks. A window closes on a ground floor
and the sun reflects against his pupils, but even so he remains motionless because
he still has Paola resting on his shoulder. After a few seconds, Paola loosens her
embrace and slowly moves away.

"Hey, Vixie, where did you leave Miriam?" -says.

Tallie looks back, surprised that Paola asks. And even Vix is a
bit flabbergasted. She pushes her sunglasses up, sliding them over the arch of her
nose, and smiles sheepishly, as if she still doubts they'll ask her.

“Ah…” he says, “it's just that Miriam has stayed a little longer.

-Where? Paula frowns. Even so, with her entire face scrunched up,
her features still make up an adorable expression. This neighborhood is a bore.
There are no shops or anything...

"I think he was going to walk back."

-Alone?

Tallie understands then. That carefree pose of Paola's, her leg

perched on the seat while massaging her ankle, and her tone of voice loose,
persuasive.

—No, not alone, she has kept these.

Paola opens her lips. It looks like it's going to add something,
but in the end it doesn't. She kicks off and pushes off the seat in a graceful
movement that leads her back to the awning pole. The galvanized steel radiates a
thick heat through his shirt and makes him a little sleepy. And though he struggles
not to show any emotion, doubt has already dug into his chest, and he wonders where
the boys are right now and what Miriam is doing with them.

"Miriam likes Jordan, doesn't she?" he says then.

Vix has started to play with a string from the backpack. Raise
your eyes.

"No, not anymore," he replies. Get over him.

From the curb, Tallie snorts. He clears his throat even though
there's no need.

"I don't know why you hang out with her so much, really," he
says. You didn't know her before, but this course has turned into a freak.

Vix's shadow flickers to the side. She's shrugged, but Tallie's

back is to her and she can't see him, so Vix snorts back.

—I like him. She is so much fun and is always free to go out.

“Yeah, that's pretty obvious…” Tallie tries to shove as much

sarcasm into the sentence as possible. When he talks about Miriam, the words scrape
in his throat like he's swallowing glass. Is it that his mother doesn't even give
him an hour to come home? He always stays with the uncles until morning.

And she's acting like a whore, she's thinking too. She doesn't
say that, though, because it's the kind of comment that gets passed around by word
of mouth, and that's not the best position for her, Tallie McGrath, who gets along
well with every group at school.

But he can't help it. That Miriam makes her sick. Like a stubborn
and fucking sound that you can't get rid of, a dripping faucet, a radio station at
the end of the street, insistent, egg-playing, and with that omen of perpetuity.
Don't you realize that you are and always will be a clumsy, fat girl? That I'm
sorry, but you can't wear those kinds of shirts with that kind of body. And also,
what is it about? Taking those confidences with the boys, especially with the most
handsome ones, and even with Jordan, who everyone likes. To Tallie all her life,
and it turns out that now also to Paola. He half-confessed it to her one drunken
night several weeks after the Ukrainian affair, and Tallie had to fake an
enthusiastic giggle. How strong!, he exclaimed, although then he went home early,
ahead of schedule, without being able to finish his drink. But hey, after all,
Paola is Paola, she can afford to rectify. And not that repulsive Miriam, la Zampa,
la Bufi, looking for Jordan at all hours, writing letters with him. Anyway, if only
it were with him... Tallie witnesses him passing folded notepads to other kids at
class changes. His globular calligraphy and that cheesy purple ink.

To know what it says. the very Because seriously. With his dirty
jokes and that slutty tattoo. Then she complains that they don't respect her, that
they give her the pain in the ass with the size of her chest. Well, what are you
waiting for? Even the high school janitor spat it in his face once: you always yell
and act stupid when the boys come out of practice. Tallie hadn't noticed, she was
sitting in the bleachers, wolfing down a bag of Cheetos, and she didn't even notice
Miriam screaming. But it sure was true, that hysterical chick. And so she was
secretly glad someone said it out loud.

—And what were they going to do after the pool? Tallie then asks.
He's rummaging through his backpack for a moisturizing cocoa bar.

“I don't know,” Vix replies, “I guess drink. They had brought

absinthe.

"Who were there?"

—Hugo, the Hobbit and Jordan. And then they had also met Lukas.
 Tallie nods, she's stuck with that name, Hugo. He mutters, who?
and it still takes him a few seconds to deduce that he means Lachance. Regarding
Lukas, he knows that Miriam is quite friendly with him because they are neighbors.
And I wouldn't rule out that they may have taken that relationship a little
further, just like it happened with the Hobbit. However, Jordan's is more complex.

Now he is a colleague, even a confidant, as if he really enjoyed

Miriam's company. But two years ago I recorded videos of him in Physical Education
class. And he didn't even bother to hide it. The resistance test was mythical. They
were in the second round of exams and when it was Miriam's turn to do a handstand
on the trellis, the polo shirt fell out of her pants and began to slide down until
it hit her chest. That was when Jordan hit play, just as the polo shirt fell over
his head, revealing a whitish landscape of flabby flesh. And what to say about the
bra, made of some thin and filthy material that almost did not show through the
shadow of her nipples. The video perfectly captured the explosion of giggles, a
slight tremor in the image due to the laughter. And then, the direct zoom to the
lorza and Lachance's voice at the top of his voice: who ordered spring roll?

Even Tallie is haunted by the memory these days. None of the

classmates came to Miriam's defense, and they still kept filming her, dying with
laughter, when she got up from the mat with her ponytail undone and her face
flushed from the overdose of blood supply. She never looked up, and it was obvious
she was playing crazy. But why rebel? The marginalized demonstrate that self-
preservation instinct.

Later, in the locker room, Tallie watched the video on Clara

Tibbets's cell phone. The Hobbit had just sent it to him. What a scene Boofy, said
Clara, shall I pass it on to you?, and Tallie was about to answer yes-of-course-
you-don't-need-to-ask.

But Paola had bent down to tie her slippers. He jerked his head
up and with a brutal look said: no.

At the trial they asked him:

Why was he left alone with them?

Did you agree to have sex?

Did you know that those guys were recording you with a mobile
phone?

Isn't it more true that it was you who began to take off your
clothes and performed fellatio on one of them?

Do you remember in which order you did the fellatio?

Do you remember if they all penetrated her?

Were you under the influence of alcohol?

Isn't it true that in a mobile message you said that you had
shaved, and excuse the expression, to fuck?
 Did he make any gestures or comments that might indicate that you
were in shock?

Did you have any complaints?

Did he say he wanted to leave?

Did you ever say "No" or "Stop it now"?

Were you going to scream?

Were you going to do something?

Everyone chants your name.

"Miri, Miri, Miri!"

So you take another swallow of the absinthe and feel the fireball
go down your esophagus and then diffuse into your chest. A boo while you dry your
mouth. You pass the bottle to the Hobbit, but he rejects it. You have to drink
more.

Vix left home a while ago. You have fulfilled your part and you
have insisted: come on, Vixie, please, stay a little. But you only insist because
you know she can't stay, that her mother tells her at nine, and it's at nine. And
the truth is that internally that makes you happy, even if you cross your arms and
pout: well shit, do you want me to call and convince her? All those help strands
you know aren't going anywhere. And better. Better. Because that way you have the
boys to yourself. Because that's how you are the queen, and all the jokes are on
you. And later, when they've had too much to drink, they'll get a little silly
maybe, but also smarmy, and they'll start with things like: you're really cool,
Miri, you're not like the other girls.

Oh, gosh, and how you love hearing that phrase.

—Miri, come on, don't be a brat, give it a long drink!

Lachance laughs like a weasel. He says: be careful, it really

goes up fast. He thinks he's an expert because his cousin works in a bar and he's
always the one who gets the hash and fancy drinks.

On the third drink you get dizzy like a beast, like having to
lean on a log with your hand. Without much discretion you manage to contain a gag.
And on the other hand, you're starving, you've only eaten a tuna sandwich and a
chocolate popsicle several hours ago. You close your eyes and make the ground stand
still. Your face burns. In a clearing between the trees, the boys are now passing
the bottle around. They tilt it fearlessly over their mouths, and the apple moves
up and down, up and down, but they sure as hell don't drink as much as they think.
You hear them laugh as they wipe rivulets of absinthe from their chins. Their
cottony voices, as if they reached you through plush earmuffs. You take air. Once.
Two. The bikini has left you wet patches in strategic areas of the shirt. The
breasts, of course. The bra knot on the back. Belly.

Lukas smokes leaning against the trunk of a tree. He's been

talking to Jordan for a while about a series that just premiered on YouTube, which
I swear is awesome, man, a bit gory, you know, guts and blood, but awesome. And you
want to go there, talk about the series, because suddenly you feel weird, you're
afraid of going home tumbling, throwing the pot in the middle of the street. And
Lukas lives in your same portal, two floors above, you trust him to death. Every
night you bring your two dogs down together, you smoke a few cigarettes in the
park, you talk about a thousand things, about the topics that obsess you, about the
people who turn you into a ruckus: you, Jordan; to him, Tallie McGrath. Lukas never
joins in on the dirty jokes when the others pick on you. It doesn't stop them
either. He just shuts up.

You straighten your back and walk in the direction of his voice.
The tall grass tickles your ankles, a few pebbles climb up the edge of your sandals
and dig into the sole of your foot. Suddenly, the Hobbit emerges from the edge and
stands before you. You feel the weight of his hands on your shoulders. He has huge
pupils, but you only look at his nose, which is even more comical up close. You're
going to blurt it out loud, but he gets ahead of you. He says: Miri, my precious
Miri. And then he kisses you on the mouth, a quick dry kiss, like a peck. Jordan
bursts out laughing: but hey. You don't know, and you laugh too, because let's see,
it's just a pick, and besides, you've already made out with him on one occasion,
it's not to cause drama, right?

And on the other hand, this is difficult to express, one of those

emotions that when submitted to the envelope of words are transformed into
atrocious concepts. But the fact is that this type of attention, this type of
trust, is not something that you really dislike. And even a tad comforts you. At
least, you think, I'm not such a piece of a seal that no one wants to kiss me.

They hand you the bottle again and you take a drink without
hesitation. You catch a relief in Jordan's voice, a chord that says: Paola. You
turn to the trees. The sunset behind the logs has taken on a peach hue. The insects
float against the light and their wings reflect sparkles. You love the moment, so
beautiful and dramatic, like a movie from rural America. Summers in wheat fields, a
car with overheated leather seats.

"It's just that Paola is from another world," says Jordan, and
his voice enters your skull like a gelatinous paste. Paola only buys clothes at
Artemisia —she continues—, not at seedy stores like Pumpkin or Garabatos.

And that's not all. There is still more.

Paola cuts her hair once a month, Paola knows how to make a
finger-licking banana cake, Paola plays the piano, Paola listens to classical
music.

-How boring.

The words come straight out of your stomach. They do not pass
through your head, nor through your mouth, you do not perceive the phonation. It's
just an eruption of tar-flavored sounds. Oh, jealousy, someone says. But you're not
jealous. That is to say. Obviously you are, of course. Another classmate who liked
opera was nicknamed "Grandma" by these same kids. That girl had bulldog paws and a
virulé eye. Deduction: You can only like classical music if you have a wasp waist
and a smooth rounded forehead, like a Victoria's Secret model. Those people with
such marked features later age horribly, your mother tells you. But what do you
care? Get older. Then.

Then it doesn't matter today.

“Well, man, he had to get off Facebook,” Jordan says.

 -And so?

"Because a moron was harassing her." He takes a drink from the

bottle and taps on the label. He makes the taciturn gesture appropriate to the
occasion. Apparently the jerk kept writing him private messages. He told her all
kinds of stupid things.

You nibble on a piece of skin close to your fingernail and tear

it to shreds with your incisors. You can't find an explanation for it, but what
comes out of your chest at that moment is an infinite rage that embarrasses you. A
corrosive envy of Paola Landy, who can't stop men from becoming obsessed with her,
losing her mind and harassing her. And it annoys you, more than anything, that now
the boys don't stop thinking about it. Oh, poor Paola. Everyone so shocked: what a
pig, pervert, son of a bitch. When it's so obvious that what they're thinking about
is: normal for them to harass her, who wouldn't fall for her?, it's a work of the
will not to go crazy for such an amazing girl. And even Jordan surely can't help
but a spark of satisfaction, the hidden longing to break the pervert's bones so he
can prove something.

But how can it not be like that, does it surprise you so much? If
you yourself have it registered in the mobile phone book. To her and her friends.
Despite the fact that there has never been, nor would there be in a million
universes, the situation that you need to call them. The most sensible thing would
be to delete them, delete them from your contacts, because in total, contact
contact you have not had any. But you can not. They're like those porcelain
figurines your mom keeps in a drawer in the hallway, because they're expensive and
exquisite and limited edition, but they don't match her Ikea furniture at all.
Every time she cleans, she looks at them tenderly and laments that she should
donate them or sell them on eBay. And the same thing happens to you with Paola and
the others. You need them to be on your agenda. Sometimes you look for them on
purpose just to see if they have changed the WhatsApp photo. And there it all ends.
Each one is Diogenes in his own way.

“Miri, wet hair looks so sexy on you,” Lachance says. The one on
the head too —and he lets out a laugh that distorts his face.

"Oh, shut up, idiot.

He has sat down on a tree stump, next to Jordan, and is spinning

a tobacco tin on the base.

"Now no joke, you look so hot with that little blonde bang,"
Jordan repeats, and he squints at you, like he's scanning your body.

Dumbass.

Although this time you do laugh, a little out of embarrassment.

But it's a comforting, somewhat fictional shame. And again the bottle of absinthe
that emerges from the side. You say no, they shake you with a tap on the elbow. No,
I don't want more. And then it's time for the usual murga. About Miri, what size do
you wear, come on, tell us, damn, how heavy you are, why the hell are you so heavy.
It's out of curiosity. Well hey, look. You take your hands behind your back, a
loose strap, a bow that comes undone, and that's it, voilà, you take off your
bikini top from the neckline.
 So "heeee", "take yaaaa", and shouts, and howls, and laughter,
and you who raise the bra and make it spin in the air as in the game of stealing
the handkerchief. And what happens next? Well, from a blind spot, Lachance bursts
into your periphery, and jumps, and grabs a suspender, and runs and runs, as if he
had swiped the flag from the enemy team. And now they're all yelling louder,
raising their arms, screaming and begging: pass it to me. Cold sweat breaks out
from your armpits, drenches the back of your neck, I wish you hadn't taken so many
drinks from the absinthe bottle.

Well, give it back to me now.

But of course, you've believed it, you think it's going to be so

easy. That you can drop a bra in the middle of a herd of teenagers and hope they
don't freak out. Well, good luck, sweetie.

Lachance gives the Hobbit a sign. He throws the bikini at him,

which describes a huge parable over the blackberry bushes, and the Hobbit, trying
his best, stumbles because of the fart he's carrying, so it's Jordan who picks up
the baton. And now you really can't feel more humiliated, contemplating how he
handles the fabric, I wouldn't do that to Paola. Not even remotely. You bow your
neck and give him a martyr's gesture. You think that there will be a reciprocity of
solidarity, even if it is out of pity.

Jordan, man, don't be an asshole.

But he's got that goofy smile in his eyes. And her? What was
expected? La Bufi, la Zampa, how is anyone going to feel the slightest empathy, if
she encouraged them with her games, if she practically stayed on her boobs. Notice
that at first he was laughing.

Then a sharp turn at waist level. The Hobbit takes you by the
wrist, pulls you: come, and you move your legs because otherwise you would lose
your balance. Sandals slap against the earth, bushes fly by. And now the laughter
has gone flat, you can't hear it anymore, and the colors fade, muddy into
symphonies of brown and green. And the Hobbit goes on, on, and haste, haste. Some
hard-leafed plants slap your calves, and there are more and more bushes, it goes
deeper and deeper: fuck man, I'm going to fall. You are afraid of tripping over the
roots that gush out of the ground. And just a few trees away you stop, not too far
away, not as far as you thought, because you still hear the others talking. You
can't distinguish words, just a foam of voices. The Hobbit leans you against a log
and kisses you, a leisurely kiss, less quick and less dry than the one from a while
ago. Then he steps away, lights a cigarette. The ridges of tree bark dig into the
middle of your back, but you prefer to stay supported, you still get dizzy when you
move your head. The Hobbit passes you the cigar, scratches his neck, says:

Do you like Jordan or not?

And you let out a snort. You adopt an arrogant gesture so

enduring that it must have been known to be false by force.

That was a century ago, kid. You take a drag on the Hobbit's
cigar and blow the smoke into the sky. People evolve.

Well, better, because he ignores you like shit.

This is more complicated. You remain silent and make a

supernatural effort to keep your face dead. It is not the first time that the
Hobbit spits that phrase at you drunk. You don't understand why either. That need.
And you want with all your strength to make it clear to him, that you don't care
about Jordan's idiot, let Paola keep it.

It has rained since Jordan, huh?, you insist.

And you think that it's okay, that it's better to keep quiet,
because then it will seem the opposite, that you repeat yourself because you want
to camouflage something. An excessive love, without going any further. You throw
the cigarette on the floor and grab the Hobbit by the shirt, you pull him towards
you and as you put your tongue in his mouth you feel how his cock swells against
your thigh. You let him rub your tits, squeeze your flesh, rub his erection on your
leg. Suddenly you remember: where is my bra, and you hear some laughter in the
background, a hissing in the bushes, or maybe not, maybe it's just your
imagination, you don't know, you feel like throwing up, I hope Lukas hasn't left.
And meanwhile the Hobbit's tongue moves from nipple to nipple. Some footsteps that
stir the leaves, some louder laughter that gets closer, it seems so, but no, it's
like they're looking for a hiding place to piss. And the Hobbit looks up. Those
sleepy, pleading eyes as he puts his hands in his pants. Unbutton the row of
buttons with a quick tug. And the truth is that you don't feel like it, the floor
is full of pebbles and pine twigs, and with all the absinthe you've drunk it's
going to cost him forever. But you know it's not okay to promote false hopes. And
the fact is that it is already out there, totally stiff, pointing towards you, when
the Hobbit takes your hand and kisses you gently again.

He met Vix at the beginning of the course because they were

assigned the same topic for a Philosophy project. She seemed nice, mature for her
age. Whenever the teachers asked him questions in class, his tone was level,
without giggling or hesitating, and even when he didn't know what to answer, he
handled the situation with astonishing ease. She had come in new that fall, and
although people liked her, they were all lazily contemplating the effort of opening
up to a new friendship. The groups were already established, and Miriam experienced
a vague ennui when she deduced that this joint work also forced her to assume, to
some extent, the role of guide. She had thought it would be either Jordan or Lukas,
so she wasn't very enthusiastic at first. And Vix, for his part, reciprocated it.

For a couple of weeks they did everything they could to avoid

each other. They didn't even bother to organize anything until the delivery date
hit them. Bah, we aired that last afternoon, said Vix with a worldly gesture. But
at five in the morning they were still drawing patterns on the doxa and episteme
lying on Vix's bedroom floor. From time to time, they rested listening to songs or
heating up bags of popcorn in the microwave. They discovered that they liked the
same series, the same actors, the same Charlie Brown comic strips. Neither of them
had ever smoked. They began to make shells to buy tobacco. They would go to the
mall to gorge themselves on waffles and steal perfume samples from magazines. In
the afternoons they met to curl their hair or to straighten it. They explored
sources of satisfaction to obsess over. They became addicted to the phosphorescent
lipstick. They turned it into a talisman. In daylight it looked like moisturizing
cocoa, but inside the clubs it gave off a pale green light like the abdomen of
fireflies. The boys always came up to ask.

This year you have to debut, Vix insisted.

So on Saturdays they walked through the sports center. Vix liked

Lachance; to Miriam, Jordan. And despite the howling on the football field, they
saw it as a most appropriate setting for romance. The night flowers. The late March
air was heavy with the methane smell of the highway. And on the sand, the lampposts
projecting dregs of light. That night, Miriam was wearing a brand-new T-shirt, a
Calvin Klein perfume she'd sprayed herself with at Sephora. He felt that tingling
behind his ribs. The desire for everything, for anything, to see them, to talk, to
fool around, to sit on the back of a bench and rest your head on someone else's
shoulder, to be asked questions, and who do you like, with whom do you would you do
it. Those interrogations invoking love, sharing cigars and intimacies on the
loading and unloading ramp of the hypermarket.

"Mirko's friend likes you," Vix said. Lachance had told him.

Until that day, Miriam had only kissed two boys gropingly. To one
of a camp and to the Hobbit that mythical Ukrainian/Polish/Russian night. When he
turned his head to size up Mirko's friend, his lip pursed automatically: no way.
Plus it made him a little creepy. He only talked about Call of Duty, and he abused
those tricks of ugly guys who are sarcastic to compensate.

Miriam completely forgot about him, until three hours later, on

the disco floor, someone grabbed her arm. Turning around he saw Mirko's friend
through a cloud of smoke, he seemed taller at short distances. She had just applied
a coat of phosphorescent lipstick, and the boy smiled and pointed to his lips. Ah,
said Miriam, it's a cacao to make the chorra. She was drunk. More than he thought
before embarking on the conversation. She knew because she had leaned on his arm
and was now unable to let go without the room rocking in all directions. Can I
prove it? said Mirko's friend. Miriam narrowed her eyes, she hadn't understood him
at first, she went to get the lipstick out of her bag, but an arm suddenly wrapped
around her waist, and then Mirko's friend began to kiss her. Her lips were soft,
and on the other hand she had become an essential pillar so that she could stay
perpendicular to the ground. But what she doesn't even remotely remember is how the
thing on the top floor came about, if he proposed it, or if it was perhaps she
herself who mentioned it. This option seems highly unlikely to you, though given
your track record, not entirely unreasonable.

Miriam was vaguely aware of what was going on on the top floor of
Dreams: a dim room packed with hard leatherette sofas where couples went up to give
it their all. For the rest, there was no bar, no waiters, no turquoise led lights.
And the only lighting came from the green emergency panels indicating how to get to
the exit. She didn't know anyone who had been there, or at least, no one who would
admit it. But that night, she let Mirko's friend lead her by the hand up the last
flight of stairs and lead her without hesitation to one of the sofas. They kissed
for a while, and she probably interjected a few jokes about the sleazeiness of the
scene or voyeurs' paradise. She tried not to dwell on his hand squeezing her chest.
It was the first time someone had groped it under her bra. It was hot. The music
from the floors below throbbed on the floor and inside their stomachs. And on the
adjoining sofas there was whispering and sliding of clothes. Lips disengaging like
suckers. Mirko's friend then took Miriam's hand and brought it to her crotch. His
fly was down, and in the middle of the gloom, he looked into her eyes with a
gesture that was both pleading and obscene. It was the first time a boy had looked
at her like that, as if she were the only woman on Earth, as if he was asking for
help.

"I never have," she said.

"A straw?"

Miriam shook her head, and he smiled, but for some reason he
didn't seem to be smiling at her, but at some smug projection of himself.

"Well, it has to be the first time," he said.

 His answer, as formulated, also sounded rude to him. However,
when he took her hand again, she no longer offered resistance. She studied the
bulge with her fingers, applied varying degrees of pressure. He was surprised at
how it pulsed, how it winced at touch like a stretching animal. But what caught his
attention the most, what truly fascinated him, was the damage she could cause him
only if she pressed harder, if she dug in her nails. The excruciating pain she
could inflict on him and the trust with which he had thrown himself at her mercy.
She felt powerful, with her cock clenched in her hand and Mirko's friend breathing
into her ear like an ox. And for some reason, because he thought it was what he was
touching, and partly because he felt like it, but mostly because he figured it was
what he was supposed to do, he pulled the hot erection out of the elastic of his
briefs and slipped it into his pants. mouth.

Was he behaving in the wrong way? Didn't Vix give Lachance a

blowjob on the sports hall fire escape? After almost an hour, she reappeared
flushed and with bright scarlet cheeks. She told Miriam everything, out of breath,
as if she had just run a marathon. She said: how strong (sigh), aunt, I've never
felt... amazing (snort, giggle), it's just that, Miri, I swear to you...
(expletive, gulp of vodka). She must be describing an orgasm.

However, what Miriam was up to on the top floor of Dreams did not
bear any resemblance to what Vix told her. It smelled sour, a bit like spoiled
milk, and she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Besides, he no longer
wanted to continue. It worried him that someone would see them, that they would be
heard from the other sofas. But in the end, there wouldn't be much left. And the
music that jumped in her neck, in the round cartilages of her trachea. Until after
a few minutes, he thrust faster, shaking his belly, his hips, and Miriam felt that
the saliva slipped out of him, that there was no room for it. But he was in a hurry
to get it out of his mouth. So he continued. I wish I knew how to speed it up, she
was tired, her temples ached. And finally, he began to wheeze, faster and faster,
deeper and deeper, moaned something Miriam couldn't hear, and then he convulsed at
full throttle. She deduced that he was going to cum, and when he sat up, he felt
the stream spraying his hand, and that it overflowed in hot rivulets down Mirko's
friend's pants. Damn, he said. And her: I'm sorry. But he didn't listen to her,
because he was looking at his dick with a grumpy face.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" His voice sounded different, more

urgent, like a scolding.

Miriam hurried to pick up her bag from the floor. She was so
embarrassed that she could have started crying. With nervous stumbles, he managed
to open the pockets and reached down to the seams. I could hear Mirko's friend
snorting in the background, how he clicked his tongue and interspersed angry
slashes of "fuck" and "shit."

—I have some napkins from the ice cream parlor.

The boy took the wad and passed it through his curly hair. Then
he violently rubbed the fabric of his pants. Miriam wanted to make a joke, to say:
how can you tell that cleaning isn't your thing. Anything to restore the former
cordiality. But he kept clenching his teeth, and you could tell from the way he
breathed that he was upset. When she finished cleaning herself, she balled up the
napkins and planted them on the perspex table in front of the sofa, which Miriam
thought was dirty.

"Well, I'm going to look for Mirko," he said then.

And from the emphasis with which he accented the pronoun —I—,
Miriam understood that he was expelling her from her immediate future and,
consequently, from any kind of future with him. She smoothed her dress and smiled a
rectilinear protocol smile. It's not that Mirko's friend made him lose sleep, but
he would have wanted to have a drink, perhaps, confess to him that his nerves had
lowered his drunkenness.

On the bus back he only felt a deep sadness. If it weren't for

the wet panties and the pain in his jaw, I doubt it would even have happened.
Although at least he had the consolation of telling Vix. Holy Virgin, how was he
going to freak out, how many days and afternoons and whatsapp messages the
conversation would occupy them. Miriam could already see herself choosing the words
she would use in her narrative, the scenes she would emphasize. Without forgetting
the details that I would omit. That was crucial, and it's not about deceiving
anyone, it's about simply filtering out what doesn't contribute anything, what
hurts her, what makes her pathetic. And he is fully aware that in this story there
is a bit of all three.

Mirko's friend has used it, that cannot be denied. But in return,
Miriam has made an unusual discovery. Those eyes with which he looked at her. That
bulge between her legs that she can harden with a caress, or even without putting
her hands on it, just with a word, revealing a stretch of skin. Suddenly she has
that talent too, not just girls like Paola. So he puts it into practice. With those
from school, with those on the soccer team, with those who grind each other out in
the morning in the gym, and with the geeks who meet to discuss video games. Because
everyone is looking for the same thing and everyone harbors the same fears. The
handsome ones, the ugly ones, the shy ones, the cool ones, the ones who are in the
know, and those who lean on the bar counter with their eyes glued to the asses of
the dancing girls. She can now get his attention without having to dance. Even that
guy from Dreams who's been obsessed with Clara Tibbets for eternity. In a corner,
pressed against the beer crates, Miriam managed to make him breathe violently. She
looked away from him, as if her eyes had spit and teeth. As if she were the
antidote and salvation.

You are sitting next to Lukas on the night bus. Through the roar
of the engine and the woman on the phone behind you, you hear him mention a
playlist that he wants to complete with soundtracks from the eighties. You suggest
Top Gun and The Club of Five.

"I haven't seen any," he says.

-Oh really?

—Not all of us are movie sick.

A warm breeze enters through the bus windows, which is

appreciated. It messes up your hair and leaves it stuck to your mouth. Today is not
just any day. Lachance celebrated his birthday and you've been drinking and smoking
so eagerly that you've ended up throwing up between two cars. But that was a long
time ago.

—Oh, damn —Lukas gets up slightly—, I had forgotten that now you
have to get off at the kiosk stop because of the bridge works. As the other day you
left me alone you have not found out.

You make a face.

 -What a day.

"The one in the woods, when you stayed with the Hobbit."

"Oh yeah," you murmur absently. Yes, that's right, we walked

back. I don't even know what time it was.

"Did you walk back from the woods?"

“Yeah, kid…” you huff. All the way giving me the badge with his
rolls of geeky video games.

"I don't even know why you hook up with him," says Lukas. He is
looking ahead, calculating the distance to the stop, which is already approaching.
He pats his pocket to make sure the tobacco is close at hand, and then he adds,
"How are you doing today, by the way?"

-Today? If I hardly spoke to him...

—I was referring to the fact that Paola and the others showed up
for the birthday.

"Oh," you sigh. Regarding that part... no comment.

It takes you just a couple of minutes longer than usual to get to

your area of the neighborhood. Lukas goes up to get the dogs and you light a
cigarette while you wait for him at the gate. Those nights in the park are your
favorite plan of the week, especially in summer, when you can stay until late
without getting cold. It's the only time you feel like everything—and you in
particular—is exactly where it should be.

“I don't like Lachance and Vix,” Lukas says, bending down to

release the dogs.

At the entrance to the park, the willows move their branches with
a hoarse sound of breathing. The German Shepherd runs off and raises feathers of
dust. The other, an elderly dachshund, sniffs the ground.

"Why don't they hit you?"

—Because she's very delicate and he's a hustler.

"Delicate like what?" finolis?

“No, like a porcelain fairy.

You let out a laugh that sends a nimbus of smoke into the air. In
your interior you would have preferred that I call her finolis. You lean down and
pick up a stick from the ground to throw at the dogs. You don't like to discover
those base things inside of you. Sometimes when Vix laments her hang-ups—a brutal
new breakout of acne, mild eczema on her hands—you feel a kind of release, an
instinctive comfort that cringes.

“If Jordan starts dating Paola,” you observe, “then they're going
on double dates with Vix and Lachance. I don't know if I would take it very well.

“What bullshit,” says Lukas, and he takes a drag on his cigar,

his eyes still, as if he were mentally solving an equation. Furthermore, it is
almost certain that it would happen.

-Maybe not.

Lucas doesn't answer. He's trying to pry the stick out of the
German Shepherd's mouth, then throws it out into the gloom. You leave behind the
landscaped enclosures, the basketball court, the children's area, where the swings
look silvery and worn down the center. In the buildings across the road, some
windows show fragments of lives, warm and orange.

"Fuck, seriously," you insist. Do you think the two couples would
stay?

"How annoying, Miri, why don't you talk about it with Vix?"

"Because I really hate it." You let out a snort. And besides, I'm
sure he betrays me anyway.

Lucas shrugged.

—I don't think that's a betrayal, but hey.

"Well, no.

-Because?

You nibble the outline of a fingernail. It's not even a habit,

but the pose lives up to the gravity of the moment. And in any case, you can't
argue with Lukas, guys really think that way. With that sick and painful
practicality.

"Well, because yes. Because it also pisses me off that he's

always nice to Jordan, even when he's acting like an idiot... The jerk..., on top
of that, it bothers me a lot that he's so sure I like him.

Lukas glances at you. He lets out a laugh that narrows his eyes.

"But what security will the man have?" If you almost herd a
harem.

You take a deep breath. You don't follow the joke.

"Yeah, but I want..." you snort, "something else."

Because there is the key. Because among all those casual and
explosive messes, it is always the same fantasy that survives. And what you long
for with all your might is that in one of those doorways and alleys, after fleeting
romps behind the hammock booth, love falls into your arms, forever and finally.

Only with Lukas can you talk about these things. Make everything
you think about seem understandable and curable. And even when you monopolize the
conversation, he listens without rushing, retaining even the most insignificant
details, just like a database.

“If I went out with Tallie,” he starts to say, “and we planned

dinner parties with Jordan and Paola, would you stop talking to me too? He forces a
pout. You have sat on the back of a bench in front of the pond, and the cold light
from the street lamp turns your eyes watery green.
 “Tallie would rip her head off before going out with you.

Lukas looks down, lets out a laugh. But you just clear your
throat and reach for a cigarette in your bag. The truth is that you do not want to
continue with the subject.

"I'm looking forward to the end of next year so I can go to

college," you say. I'm sick of all this shit, I want to start from scratch —you
take a breath, the breeze comes in sharply when you breathe it in, and you add—:
the only person from my past that I want to keep is you.

You look down at the ground. The words already sound dramatic
enough to be heightened with visual support.

Oh, I'm flattered...

—I'm serious, sometimes I get the feeling that I don't have

anyone else. I mean, my mother, of course, but that doesn't count.

Lukas removes a strand of tobacco from his lip.

"Has it pissed you off that Vix talked to these?"

You shrug. You take a drag on the cigar and the embers revive in
an electric orange.

Actually, you think, you shouldn't be so intransigent, especially

considering that Paola and the others have only stayed for a little while. But it's
been the longest time in the world. And the worst part is that it happened by
accident, by sheer chance, infesting the entire afternoon with a gloomy aura of
predestination. According to the official story, it turns out that Lachance ran
into Clara Tibbets in line at the supermarket. She was carrying nothing but a bag
of medlars, and she cast a quizzical glance at his basket, laden with bottles of
alcohol. So it was embarrassing for Lachance not to mention that it was his
birthday. Come on if that, he said. But who would have imagined that they would
take him at his word. When they saw them go up the hill in the afternoon, they were
all stunned. Jordan the first, who lost color from his face at the same moment that
Paola Landy raised one hand in greeting, while with the other she pulled down a
little maroon leather skirt. And then the torture began. Anger dripped into your
blood and everything suddenly tasted tarry. Because you didn't find any buddies,
besides. Vix played her first lady role to perfection without letting up on her
smile, even offering them a taste of the vodka from her own glass. Is it that they
have come to a set table?, you whispered to Lukas turning towards the trees. But he
only chuckled.

“I don't get mad that Vix talks to them,” you protest, “but she
didn't have to throw herself on the iron either.

—Well..., it doesn't seem to me that he threw himself on the

iron.

—Apparently, the other day they met after the pool, and now they
are lifelong friends.

"Damn, you're not paranoid or anything...

“Anyway”—you purse your lips—“I'm sweating what Vix does. I

prefer to be with you, I get along better with guys. They make life so much easier.
 And although you don't regret saying it out loud, you feel a kind
of shock, like a deep prick in some soft part of your conscience. You can not avoid
it. When it comes to girls, you always tend to detect a shady, petty beveled
intent.

—I mean... —you explain—, Vix is nice, but it's not a friendship

that I consider very solid either.

You straighten your back. The dachshund is chewing on a stick

under the bench and occasionally butts his head against the seat. You reach out to
scratch the top of his head.

—In any case, what really annoys me is Jordan... It's that when I
saw him talk to Paola, and make that face..., you know, that face like... stupid...
, he gave me something in here -you take the tips of your fingers to your sternum
and look at Lukas-. They will roll up, for sure.

He tilts his neck, outlines a circumstantial smile.

"Well, if Paola is willing, I imagine so," he says. Guys like

Jordan end up with girls like Paola... -he then looks at you in a strange way.
Miri, face it, things are as they are. Neither you nor I can aspire to someone
spectacular.

You don't know how to react and you smile, because smiling is
always the closest solution. But the slash of reality tears you apart. And also the
tone that Lukas uses. That kind of conformism. Or resignation. Making it clear that
there are people far above, and instead he and you move in the same stratum of
mediocrity.

"We could make a pact," he adds then enthusiastically. He's

gotten up to remove his lighter from his back pocket, totally oblivious to the rage
that still festers inside you. If we're both still single at thirty, we can get
married, just like they do in the movies.

You let out a snort through your nose.

“Whew, I don't want to risk my heart breaking if Tallie bursts

into the middle of the wedding screaming that she loves you.

You try to leave it there, that the context stays tight to the
joke. Because a very miserable thought has just sprung up inside you. You think you
can find something better. When you think of Lukas—and you've obviously thought of
him, as have Vix and many other people who want to throw him at you—life seems like
a perpetual punishment. You can not avoid it. You are dying for a tough and
handsome boy, a tormented, a lone wolf who says: nobody understands me, I don't
know what I want, I have to find myself. Lukas, on the contrary, has very clear
ideas, is easy to interpret and, to top it off, understands everything, even the
most unfathomable metaphors of the songs. He also knows too many words to be a boy,
even those that only serve to qualify feelings. No, you don't want a Lukas.

Oh, Miriam, you want another kind of love.

One thing about Pattie Dougan that makes her such an unusual
mother is that it's almost impossible to make her angry. She rarely raises her
voice, and even the prospect of having to throw a fight is a complex and
embarrassing circumstance for her. When he comes home from work earlier than
expected and catches Miriam and Vix enveloped in a raspy smell of cigarettes, he
just turns a blind eye and huffs: At least open the windows.

In the neighbourhood, some think that he has been driving more

leniently since the divorce. Too indulgently, they murmur, because Pattie isn't one
of those annoying moms either, asking where you're going and with whom, and give me
the phone number of your friends' parents. At most he says: "be careful" or "eat
something on the way back." So no pressure. On the other hand, many days he only
sees Miriam at dinner time, depending on his shift at the office, and then he
leaves instructions written on post-its: "there is flan in the fridge", "put the
garbage down". », «Tomorrow you have the dental cleaning». Vix always tells Miriam
that this is a wonderful mother. Someone who communicates with little pieces of
paper, who doesn't resort to passive-aggressive tricks and who has also bought her
daughter an ashtray in the shape of a frog pond for her room. Amazing.

This afternoon, after two hours sunbathing on the roof of Vix,

the post-it that Miriam found when she went up to the house reads like this: "Don't
watch any movies until you've studied." But too late. Because Miriam has already
taken the Häagen-Dazs tub out of the freezer, and on television, the Netflix
interface shows a string of movies from the Drama category. Today is not a good
day. Although she doesn't see any reason why the day is particularly bad, it just
happens that way, there are times when she feels alone and incomplete, and it is
impossible for her to imagine another way of understanding the world. Half of the
summer has already passed and he has wasted his time gobbling up movies and entire
seasons of series, and then staying up late searching YouTube for the most
romantic, emotional, improbable and clearly incompatible scenes with a life like
his.

Miriam leaves her mother's Post-it note where she found it—stuck
under the fruit bowl on the kitchen table—and walks to the sofa with the ice cream
scoop in her mouth. It's sticky hot, so she turns on the fan, throws her pants to
the floor, and settles back against the armrest. Today that is his plan. Finish the
tub of dulce de leche and put on Blue Valentine for the third time or perhaps Black
Swan. You fancy something depressing and well executed. It does not have the body
for a comedy, which, on the other hand, would be a most counterproductive option.
She told Lukas once: when I cry at happy endings, they aren't tears of emotion. It
is because I know that I will never experience the same.

At night, Pattie arrives preceded by a jangling sound of keys for

several seconds on the other side of the door. She is wearing a turquoise dress
that suits her quite well and her hair is tied up with two little silver hairpins.
A fine sheen of sweat glistens on her freckled cleavage. When he walks into the
kitchen, he finds Miriam sitting at the table. You are comparing opinions on hair
straighteners on your mobile.

"Have you done anything today?" her mother asks as she looks
around the living room. He glances briefly at the crumpled fabric of the sofa and
the remote control sunk between the cushions. Studying I see that no.

"There's still almost a month left until the exams," Miriam

protests.

Close the page with the ratings of the irons and place the phone
face down. Pattie has stopped in the doorway and is tearing up one of the envelopes
she took from the mailbox. Her nails are painted a pale blue, and as she unfolds
her credit card statement, Miriam gazes at her hands, white and hydrated, bearing
no resemblance to what she has inherited.

"And when are you going to start?" Pattie then says, picking up
the conversation. Her tone is fuzzy, as if she has a vague memory that she should
be angry.

"Well, I don't know, soon. I have it under control.

"Yeah, you'd better..." She crosses her arms and then smiles
half-smile. Weren't you going to propose to Jordan that you study together?

He must think that the allusion to Jordan makes everything more

tempting. The pad of notes on the distribution of income. Market failures. The
macroeconomic variables.

"No, I didn't say anything to him at the end.

That conversation in the pool did not come to fruition, it

vanished just like that, never going beyond being an embryonic and defective idea.
But better this way, because Miriam is perfectly aware of how the matter would have
progressed. He has had it more than once. The initial enthusiasm, the effervescence
in the gut, his smile: placid, accurate, fatal. And from there, the decline. The
evasions of her body language, the tired monosyllables, the wasteland of
indifference despite the fact that she would have spent hours putting on her
makeup, hair, perfume. And after a couple of weeks, the bump.

On the other hand, and this is a crucial detail, you have heard
that lately Paola has been dropping by the sports center gardens more than usual.

Miriam leans her elbows on the table. He turns on the mobile by

inertia, and then puts it away. Wait for the screen to go completely dark again.

"It's just for what," he sighs. If it happens to me

—You're just going to tell him to study together, you're not

proposing to him either.

Pattie has left her bag and keys on the shelf of the dresser. He
walks to the sink, where he fills a glass of water and almost empties it in one
gulp. It's something he does routinely, because it's healthy and good for his skin,
not because he's thirsty. Miriam takes a tangerine from the fruit bowl, compresses
it between her palms with a thoughtful gesture.

-You would do it?

—Propose to study? He rinses the glass and places it upside down

on the draining board. I don't know. Yeah, I guess... I'd just drop it as a minor
thing.

"Yeah, well, but you're pretty.

Pattie wrinkles her mouth, looks at her with eyes that seem to
say: don't start or we're back to the same thing. Eyes that want to be
understanding, but that can't help but appear a bit tired at the same time.

"And you too, daughter.

 "Oh yeah, sure...

Miriam bends her arm on the table, her head resting on the angle
formed by her elbow. He still has the tangerine in his hand and is now spinning it
like a top. She knows full well that her mother feels sorry for her. It is not that
he has shown any behavior that attests to it, but those things are intuited.
Sometimes he blurts out phrases like: honey, it's a stage, it'll pass, during
adolescence it's normal for the body to change, you're in the middle of a hormonal
storm. It comes out automatically, it's professional deformation. Pattie Dougan
works as a nurse in a skin clinic, and therefore is used to speaking delicately to
people. She spends her days treating girls with seborrheic acne, printing flyers
for patients with fungus and hairy nevus. Now, Miriam's hormonal storms are also
part of her routines. Especially because of the regularity with which they are
unleashed. A couple of months ago, without going any further, he found her crying
in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and with wet hair.

I can't take it anymore, mom. That I'm fed up

That he hated her thighs, her belly, her arms, her ass. What a
piece of crap to be born with that body. It's not that bad either, said Pattie.
Really, honey, I promise you're okay. But the fact is that, since then, she returns
from the supermarket loaded with kiwis and bags of escarole. On the pantry shelf
where the Oreo boxes used to be piled, now sit some sad oatmeal cookies wrapped in
individual packets. When she comes home from school in a rage, Miriam slams the
fridge shut: do you see how you think I'm fat too? To which Pattie chooses not to
react. She sighs tiredly towards the butcher's ticket: but you're the one who
forces me to buy those things.

And Miriam has to admit that this is the case, because suddenly
it has become an outlet to embitter her mother's life. You don't feel guilty. He
imagines Pattie bringing it up later as a small story with her office partner: a
divorcee with bouffant hair and oversized plastic earrings. They will sit down
during the break to eat Tupperware salads and exchange strategies about training
adolescents: she says she's fat, isn't that a big deal? And the divorcee with the
plastic earrings: Jesus, of course she's not fat! This is because of the magazines,
now all the girls want to be anorexic. Your daughter has nothing to worry about. It
is perfect, with curves, as it should be.

perfect. Of course.

You are perfect.

It's Vix who came up with the idea for the submarines. He has
read about it in an internet forum and it consists of submerging a shot of tequila
in a half-liter beer. Neither of you liked the experiment, but what counts is that
the effects of alcohol are intensified. You grab the glass by the edge and turn
with difficulty. The path from the bar to the dance floor is saturated with people
and Vix gestures for you to follow her. With great difficulty, you make your way
between backs and wet armpits, groups of girls, palisades of burly guys who chew
ice while looking at infinity, and also bottles, feather boas, lips painted red,
mouths that get inside other mouths, or that bellow, or sing, or burst bubbles of
gum. An elbow pokes you from the side and spills some of your tequila. You get
close to Vix. Your hair still smells of the perfume you sprayed yourself with at
H&M.
 When you finally get out of the crowd, Lachance and Lukas are
waiting, leaning against the railing that delimits the dance floor area. Behind
their heads, a grove of legs sways to the beat of techno music. Vix passes her
glass to Lachance. They kiss on the lips and part without losing eye contact. They
smile. They can't hide how tremendously proud they are to be able to greet each
other like that over and over again.

“Hey, look at Lukas,” Vix tells you.

-What happens.

"Don't you see him very cute today?" He tilts his neck. She has a
rosette of pimples on her cheek, and the purple highlights highlight the glob of
concealer she's smeared on to hide it.

"I see him exactly the same as every day."

"What a pain in the ass you are, Miri, with how well you'd do
with him."

"Yeah," you snort, "especially if I liked it."

Just then, Lachance materializes behind Vix and hugs her from
behind. The contrast of his hairy brown arm against Vix's bony white clavicle looks
like a piece of modern art. It makes you want to take a photograph and put a
pretentious title on it: Achromatopsia.

"Come on, girls, let's dance," he says.

His mouth shines. His lips are perpetually wet, his teeth
salivated, as if he had just drunk from a jug. And you wonder if he remembers how
he fought you with the bra that day in the woods, so formal that it seems now with
his arm resting on Vix's shoulders. The truth is that you feel envy. Since she goes
out with him, Vix has direct access to the group, she is one more, the consort
guest. While you have come to depend on her or you see yourself in the need to
delve into the plans through Lukas.

Right now he is right next to you, leaning on the railing. He

doesn't try to hide how boring that environment is for him, and after a few minutes
he yells into your ear:

-I'm going home.

-And so? Every day you leave sooner, grandfather.

“This music drives me crazy.

Strobe lights move multicolored patches across his face and T-

shirt. You remain silent for a moment. Lukas meets your gaze with a harsh gesture.
It seems that it is waiting for you to decide.

-Are you coming? he says at last. If you want, I'll wait until
you finish your drink.

You lower your eyes to the glass of beer where the foam sticks to
the edges. You can see the round of the shot glass in the background, and suddenly,
a terrible tiredness assails you. The truly pathetic thing is that you would
willingly leave if there wasn't even the remotest possibility of seeing Jordan, but
he has already announced that he will come as soon as the game is over. And the
problem is that hope works like that, just like an autoimmune disease. Attacking
the senses and deafening any other method of discernment. So, as sad as it sounds,
and without needing to subject it to laborious thought, you look up at Lukas and
submissively say no. that you stay

"Well, see you tomorrow," he replies somewhat disappointed.

When you say goodbye to him, you discover that you have moved a
few steps away from the track. Not many. Five or six, nothing more. But when you
turn around, Vix is no longer in your perimeter, and neither is Lachance. Just a
tangle of backlit heads and limbs. So you look around, check your phone, there's no
coverage. Come on, don't worry, I'm sure they're next door. But they are not. And
to top it off again you have drunk more than the bill. You gather your courage and
enter the maelstrom of the track, trying to guess which course they have followed.
Everything around you is agitated in a frenzy. People dancing with a trance
gesture, couples making out to the rhythm of a cymbal loop, and the DJ on fire:
come on, come on, let the summer feel. And the audience raises their hands. They
shake their hair, their beards, their heads, there are feet that step on you, and
trails of perspiration that brush the skin of your arms. At least now you don't
have to worry about getting inside, the dark is always a relief.

You go up the stairs to the second floor. Along the railing you
see lines of people. All motionless and decorative, as if they were pots. Girls
with slicked-back hair and guys in designer white polo shirts that radiate a
reflective light, just like Vix's pimple concealer. You lean against the wall. The
music slows down. Notes dry one of the contact lenses and blink compulsively. I
wish you would have taken off with Lukas. You push yourself into the crowd. You
crane your neck, pretend you're looking for someone. A mirror returns your image to
you, the grayish eye sockets, the white bangs parted in half.

In the background, in the corner, is the cocktail booth. You are

about to give up and go home. And then you see them. Paola Landy whispering into
Tallie McGrath's ear as they both walk away from the bar. Tallie's cocktail is pale
blue, like swimming pool water, and overflowing with slices of fruit. He takes a
short sip, pursing his lips, and then nods at whatever Paola is telling him. In the
half line of his trajectory, there is a high table where Clara Tibbets smokes
looking towards the mobile. She has that unmistakable just-I'm-looking-at-my-phone-
because-my-girlfriends-gone-to-the-bar look. And indeed, she immediately puts it
away in a gray crocheted bag as soon as she sees them return.

Perhaps because you're tired of hanging around the disco, or

because you're slightly drunk, and also a bit desperate, you make the mechanical
decision to approach the little group. Come on, Miriam, one foot in front of the
other, without wobbling. Did you know? You should drink the same as them, those
kindergarten colored syrups. You're almost there, and when you're right behind, you
tap Tallie McGrath on the shoulder.

“Hello,” you say, but your voice is drowned out by the rumble of
the music.

The three look at you. Quiet, serious, a little bewildered.

Perhaps they are afraid that your plan is to stay with them. Hit you like a stick.
So let's clarify it right away:

"Have you seen Vix?"

Tallie is chewing on the pineapple crescent that came embedded in

the cocktail. He swallows quickly and his lips curve into a resounding ring: no.
Although again there is no sound wave, or if there is, it is still crushed by the
bellow of the speakers.

-The fact that! Paola yells, leaning close to Tallie's ear.

—Ask for Victoria, where is she? Tallie yells, and now you can
hear them.

"Oh no, we don't know!"

Paola speaks to you looking directly into your eyes, her irises
are two champagne-colored discs. His white skin reflects radiance from an epic
fantasy movie. Then straighten the neck, inspect its periphery. His muscles tense
and create a trough where the shadows settle. You've never been so close to her and
she's so beautiful that it takes an untold effort to stop looking. Good God, you
think, how wonderful. One life to live and that you have to be beautiful and thin
and stay in the impeccable anatomy of Paola Landy. It seems created to be defined
on the basis of allegories, and even its name contains a seductive nuance, those
meanders in the undulation of the syllables: Pa-o-la, and the cadence of the
Italian accent undoing the diphthong.

-Are you alone? He yells into your ear. She then brushes her hair
aside to catch your response.

"No, it's just that I got confused.

Paola purses her lips and gestures to her friends. Clara nods,
Tallie making no secret of her lack of interest. He squints and twirls the straw in
the cocktail. Then Paola takes your hand. It makes its way through the crowd with
ease, undulating like a creature that doesn't touch the ground as it moves. He is
not aware that he is towing an eight-wheeler. And again the parade, at full speed,
of arms, glasses, laughter, busts, teeth, foreheads. Suddenly you stumble, Paola
turns to you:

-Are you OK? -says.

She lets go of your hand to push her bangs out of the way. She
has long fingers, polished nails, and her clothes give off a strong, sweet smell,
like a little pony.

"It's just that we had a little to drink before," you say.

Paola nods. It looks like he's going to speak, but something

catches his attention behind your back.

"Come on, there's Victoria," he says then, and lets out a laugh.
Although she is very busy.

Even from this distance, you can tell that Vix has her hand deep
inside Lachance's pants, and from the impudence with which they hustle and bustle,
they must think no one sees them. At least they've bothered to hide behind a tower
of plastic chairs, but it's still easy to make out Lachance, his black mop and Guns
N' Roses skull T-shirt.

You take your eyes off that stretch of wall.

"Well, nothing.

"Stay with us," Paola suggests.

 My God. Really?

Tallie deadlocks when she sees you come back. He just figured out
—you guess—that they haven't gotten rid of you, and that, as a result, they're
going to have to carry the rest of the night with you. All right, Miriam, you've
already screwed up their party. Now they will be forced to interrupt their
conversation about the calories in the Caesar salad. Well, you don't want to judge
them.

Apparently, they were talking about a blog about people who

disappear without a trace. Clara Tibbets is addicted to anything remotely sinister,
and has begun to tell the story of an Erasmus student who lost track of her at an
airport. The security cameras recorded him running with a panicked face and it was
never heard from again.

“Fuck, what the fuck,” Tallie snorts.

—Well, then I'll send you the video so you can freak out.

He makes no hint of sending it to you, too, though he has glanced

at you briefly as he told the story. In any case, you're in luck, because you know
the most morbid tragedies on Wikipedia by heart and the perfect note has just come
to mind. You open your mouth. A shiver of anticipation shakes your shoulders. But
suddenly the topic has taken a wild turn, and now they're discussing whether French
fries cause cancer. Impossible to graft your comment.

“They have a substance called acrolamide or I don't know what,”

Tallie says.

- Oh, good. Paola waves a hand in the air. Look, I'm going to
smoke a cigarette to forget about the damn potatoes.

Clara lets out a laugh. You smile too, but no one sees it because
no one bothers to make eye contact. Paola then unzips her silver bag, and after
rummaging through the bottom, she takes out a cigarette case with a holographic
print of daisies. He lifts a cigar to his lips, then hands one to Tallie, and then
to you.

“Thanks,” you say, giving him a huge, tight smile.

You can't stop doing it, smiling at every attention from the
group as if you owe them your life. And at the same time you feel like an impostor
in that relaxed context with Paola. You are unable to look at it without the image
of Jordan showing through underneath.

And meanwhile, the conversation has evolved again. It turns out

that Clara has met a guy on Tinder, and when you pick up the thread, you're
flattered that she started telling it in front of you. Or maybe, well..., maybe
it's that he cares so little about you, he considers you so nothing, that in
reality he sweats so much whether you listen to him or not. They have met three
times, he says, and he has just finished second in Policies. Excuse me, how? What
goes to college? Yes, and I swear to you, damn it, how can you tell he's not a
brat. It has nothing to do with this panda from school.
 —Yeah... —Paola shakes off the ash with a pensive look.

The LED spotlights engulf her hair with a fuchsia halo. It's
amazing how you can wear silver rings on your fingers, and bracelets on your
wrists, and crochet sleeves, and a pink steel Casio watch, and a double-strand
necklace, and be holding a cigarette between your fingers, and still not seem
overdone and contrived.

“My cousin is dating her volleyball coach,” he says, “and she's

also told us that he's a super mature guy compared to the guys in his class.

Her mouth purses in resignation and you're dying to ask what's up

with Jordan. Maybe after all it turns out—good God, I hope—that she's looking
forward to the experience, too. An older boy, university student and the sea of
mature.

“I'm fed up with guys who tell you I don't want anything serious
right away,” Tallie protests, and the way her lip curls up tells her of entrenched
resentment. The other day I already had the idiot on duty. We kissed. Only one, I
swear. And he goes and tells me: hey, for me this is a one-night thing. Ah, okay,
sorry, then I have to rush to cancel the wedding invitations, it doesn't bother
you.

"That has happened to me too!" —you announce triumphantly, and

now yes, you have no doubt that it is finally your chance, your moment of glory—.
They have released the entire repertoire to me: I don't want anything serious,
don't get your hopes up, and of course, let's not forget the most mythical excuse:
I'm not good at relationships. Wow freaked out...

Clara throws her head back and lets out a stinging laugh. Tallie
and Paola laugh too. You breathe with some relief. Thankfully, three out of three.
And they are also the real laughs, the ones with bright eyes and trembling
shoulders. And you notice how your heart is beating hard in your gut, pumping warm
blood to all your organs.

“I just don't get what guys are about,” Tallie snorts.

And all their reactions flatter you, that they are interrupted
and that they look at you so carefully while you speak, and that it seems unfair
and plausible that you also suffer those insults.

“Well, I still think that about Tinder,” Tallie continues. To

try.

"Exactly," says Clara, "you have to try everything in this life."

—Yes, but this gives a little yuyu. Imagine you run into a
stalker, and...

Tallie leaves the sentence mid-sentence. Oh, don't be

exaggerating, Clara protests. And then Tallie asks what if you meet a guy you don't
like, can you just turn around and walk away. Clara lets out a laugh: damn, aunt,
of course, you're not going to stay by force. Even you are amused by Tallie's
misgivings, but she doesn't seem to agree. Continue give it give it. What if you
have to put a photo, if those who register are trustworthy, if there is a way to
find out their background. And what the hell is that about the match.

—The match is like a notification that someone has liked you.

 "And can they find out about me?"

“Fuck, Tallie, what a shitty you are,” Clara says, rolling her
eyes. Then on the bus I make a profile for you and so you see that it's not such a
big deal.

"Do you have time?"

"Sure, dammit.

—You already know that I don't like these types of pages very
much —Paola intervenes, and you wonder if she suspects that you are also aware of
her incident on Facebook.

"Well, let's see, there are riffraff everywhere," Clara concedes,

and begins to play with an empty cigarette pack, opening and closing the flap. He
has a spike-shaped tattoo on his forearm, a thin line like a strand of twine. He
turns to Tallie. Think about it anyway. It's not your thing anyway.

Tallie bites her lip, looks over at her friends—she passes you by
—and makes a face that's both tense and excited, like she's about to commit some
petty crime.

"Okay, come on," he agrees. But just to see what it's about.

"Can you do it to me too?" you say then.

The girls look up, letting out a synchronized laugh that starts
and dies on the exact same ring, like a chorus of trained sirens. Clara Tibbets
rests her elbow on the table. She takes a sip of her cocktail and slides one lip
over the other to remove the moisture. Her features are angular, and now, framed in
shadows, she looks even more geometric, full of corners everywhere.

"What kinds of guys are you into?"

You think it's a delicacy for me to ask. At school it is vox

populi that you have a crush on Jordan. Or alternatively, they could also draw
conclusions: this one brushes everything that wiggles. But the truth is that right
now all three seem intrigued by your answer. Or maybe you're just a diversion for
them, a little circus animal about to perform his master act.

Up until then, you'd always thought of dating apps as the stuff

of adulterers, old men, geeks, single moms, or downright scary people. And in any
case, something that would not be necessary to resort to, not even remotely, before
the age of forty. That's why, when you heard yourself say it out loud, that you
wanted a profile on Tinder, you assumed it as one of those decisions that you were
making by osmosis and without stopping to reflect.

So that's where you are now, sitting at the night bus stop with
Clara Tibbets and Tallie McGrath. The three of them squeezed into the seat. A soft
breeze ruffles the feathers on Clara's maroon top. They tickle your cheek as she
installs the app for you and diligently enters the data. She's more sensible than
she seems, and you like that she's so careful with her spelling. Her fingernails
tapping the screen, click click click: female, straight, eighteen, looking for men
in a three-mile area. Save and continue. Next: weight and height. Clara leaves her
finger in the air. A wave of shame and self-loathing shakes you inside. The cursor
blinking, and Tallie on the other side of the bench popping bubble gum that smells
like chlorophyll. But you tell her the figures, and look, nothing happens, Clara
types the data with a neutral expression, and Tallie continues chewing at the same
slow pace, she doesn't choke on her saliva or anything.

You light a cigarette and take a long drag. You notice the
scratchy tongue. You get up and walk to the curb. You inspect the road. It's cool,
quite cool, and the night breeze leaves the tip of your nose red. You're happy,
despite the fact that Paola left with Jordan a while ago and that's why she's not
there with you, laughing, and jumping from the cold, and covering her cheeks with
both hands. You smelled singed as soon as you saw Jordan appear at the door of the
club. Right at the same moment that you left. Too much of a coincidence, you
thought. And a little knot tied your guts when you came to the only conclusion that
made sense: I had gone looking for her.

He didn't even say hello to you, blonde. Paola was buttoning up

her cardigan and her face broke into a huge smile when she saw him. A mob of people
was crowding the exit, all those who had rushed until the last minute to catch the
twelve o'clock bus. They burned hashish rocks and waited for each other leaning on
the bollards in the parking lot. A group of guys opened some pizza boxes on the
hood of a car and you were hit with the aroma of toasted edges and hot tomato
sauce. For this reason, starting today, every time you open a pizza box, this image
will make a sudden foray into your mind: Paola and Jordan and the low branches of
the trees swaying in the breeze.

You wanted to cry when he took her aside. It was no longer a

secret. Neither a hypothesis, nor an assumption. They talked in the way a man and a
woman talk when they can't take the urge to be alone any longer. The awkward and
diverted smiles towards the pavement, the body rocking from one leg to the other,
the nervous hands. And their eyes. Hesitating, probing carefully, moving across
bordering surfaces and stuttering a common language in which they have kissed for
centuries.

So, you see, Miriam Dougan, there's no other choice. The

countdown has been activated, and this is nothing more than the trailer for your
tragedy.

It was then that Clara tapped you on the arm:

-Are you coming?

—And what about Paola? —you said— We don't wait for her?

Tallie giggled.

—Paola already has her match.

You have already written several messages. You like to reread

them in the morning, moving the conversation up and down while you nibble on the
cookies for breakfast. Sometimes you write to him from the bus, or waiting in line
at the supermarket with the basket wedged between your feet. A hello, handsome that
springs from boredom. A meme lying on the grass in the park. But when you talk the
most it's mostly at dawn. Before Tinder, before him, you stayed up late searching
YouTube for fragments of series, scratching hopes in blogs about how to accept
yourself. There were also nights when you would just hang around or WhatsApp with
Vix or Lukas. But now it's much better to talk to the Student.

You settle your head on the pillow and rest your legs against the
fresh plaster on the wall. Sounds of August come in through your bedroom window.
Modified cars with the windows down and reggaeton at full blast. Whispering wheels.
Girls passing by talking on their mobile phones, or rather whispering, a little
angry at times. The soles of her sandals slapping the sidewalk indignantly.

Hi how are you doing?

You use lower case with him too. Your first message was one from
Tinder, and you were careful to put all the commas and accents in their place. At
first you were bogged down with that sort of thing: if you should use the whole
words, drop the exclamation points. Or maybe the opposite, coming off as a more
relaxed image, the kind of girl who agrees to last-minute plans and forgets to
return the books to the library. What kind of woman do you want to be?

The mobile screen goes dark and you put your fingertip to revive
it. Although perhaps it is better not to appear online constantly. Panting and
anxious. You close WhatsApp and change your position on the mattress. There is a
line of yellow light under the door, your mother must have gotten up to the
bathroom. A few seconds later, you hear the noise of the cistern, a hiss of water,
activity of soap, and interspersed in between, the pleasant sound of marimbas of
his message:

what are you doing up so late?

He abuses abbreviations quite a bit, which at first led you to

suspect that he was younger. Monosyllables to porrillo. No emoji. To tell the
truth, you are overwhelmed by so much stoicism, those conversations in a block
format. But anyway, you wanted a mature man.

is that I always sleep late

You wait for it to connect again. You are looking at the screen
so intently that the letters become thinner, frizzy, blurred. Quickly add:

and you?

It's lucky that he lives so close, just a mile and a half away.
It would have been a pain in the ass to have to juggle planning an appointment,
scheduling schedules, changing buses and all that. Although this guy sure has a
car. Sometimes, to get even more excited, you imagine him engaged in adult
activities. His placid morning routines. Sipping coffee, applying aftershave while
listening to the traffic news, shirtless, bare pecs, wet hair.

In the messages he says things like hello, my girl or sweet

dreams, precious, which inevitably leads you to deduce that everything is going
well, and as a consequence, prevents you from controlling the amount of time and
effort you invest thinking about him. You don't want to obsess, so you resort to
ridiculous strategies to test yourself. For example, you turn off your mobile and
you don't worry about it, forgetting it anywhere: the towel rack, the sofa, the
drawer in your bedroom. You leave it at home when your mother sends you on an
errand to the drugstore. And in principle it works. You feel in control of the
situation. You want to believe that this is how you escape, that this is how you
disconnect, that you will return later and you will find his message there by
surprise. But, Miriam, poor delusional, it would be impossible to surprise you,
because you don't think of anything else. And when you come back from the
drugstore, you push open the door, throw the drawer open, throw yourself on the
phone with nervous hands, and the message icon absent, the WhatsApp deserted. So
you track him down, trace his name, stalk like a madman to see if he's connected.
And no, it turns out not. Then you crinkle your mouth, you sigh. You feel that you
have lost control of your mental faculties. But it's normal, Miriam, don't beat
yourself up. Because that's how it works. In certain stages of life, and especially
in what concerns love, what is reasonable is to be upset, and sensible, a
pathology.

For several minutes the line of light has disappeared under the
door, and the roar of water from the cistern can no longer be heard. You sit up and
rest your elbows on the marble sill. A cat roams in the bins. A couple comes out
hugging from the hotel across the street. You breathe full lung. On the street
there is a consistent smell of summer with intervals of gasoline. You check that
you have your mobile handy. You are perfectly aware that you have sent the last
wasap at 0:42. You know this because you have been repeating the numbers in your
head for a while, not deliberately, with the intention of fixing it in your memory,
but rather the number has stuck in your head like a refrain.

At 0:56, the Student replies:

Still awake?

You wince. But you hold back your longing, and allow a minute or
two to pass before you respond.

yes, here fossilized waiting for you to listen to me

You press the delete key until the message disappears.

yes, here bored waiting for a cute guy to talk to me, but I can
talk to you in the meantime

He has told you his name, but in the phone book you have
registered him as The Student. His Tinder username is Student25, and he has written
in his bio that he is looking for "a nice girl who knows how to enjoy a good
conversation and a glass of wine." It sounds very good, although stale and aseptic
and a little overused. And on the other hand, you already know very well why people
sign up for that application, and it has nothing to do with relaxing a glass of
wine while they talk to you.

so i'm your main course, how bad you are, you're always poking me

Well, if you like bad girls, you're in luck, I'm terrible at

almost everything, hahaha

In almost everything I'm sure you don't... you seem pretty smart

and you are very handsome and superficial, the perfect couple

Wow, my personality doesn't matter to you?

It depends, how big is your personality?

You often have that urge to insert something sharp and

provocative. As if that would help you establish a line: this is me, I'm not
stupid, if you hesitate it's because I let myself. What happens, Miriam, is that
once again you don't learn. Because now you've opened the season, and you can no
longer put yourself in novice mode when the next night he asks you how you like to
have it done to you, strong or soft. Then link a string of blushing emojis – in
those types of comments he does add emojis. You drive me crazy, he tells you, how I
love that precious little face you have, that little white elf bangs. Two days ago
he asked you for photos and you sent them to him in low light. The position of the
camera hiding your face in shadows, creating angles that don't exist in full sun.

you come out very serious

it's my face to seduce you

And it still happens to you, that mental block. That doubling in

which you wonder: should I have said that? Does it sound a little inappropriate?

You don't ask him for photos, but he sends them to you anyway.
Sitting astride a motorbike, playing volleyball on the beach, or at the college
door with his leather jacket, which has an eagle embroidered on the back. It is
obvious that there is not a trace of excess meat on his body, and that for him that
is a virtue of which he feels tremendously proud. In one of the photos he's sent
you, he's wearing dark blue boxer shorts, pulling them down with his thumb,
revealing a fringe of ruffled hair. You smile and blush. He's so handsome he could
be a model or a firefighter. You feel the urge to tell him, but it seems too soon,
too flattering. And meanwhile, as the days go by, the conversation gets thicker and
stickier. He insists that you send him something a bit spicier, but of course,
whatever you want and when you feel comfortable. No worries, my precious girl.

So you sit up and turn on a light, shining it on the ceiling. At

the bottom of a drawer, you keep some clothes that you have not yet released. You
bought them just because of how they fit on the mannequin. After several minutes,
you settle on knee-high suede boots and a black bra and panty set.

mmm, what an ass

yes, he is very photogenic

And do you like being hit from behind?

You look at the screen without typing. After a few seconds you
type a word, but delete it immediately. an emoji. You delete it too. You fix your
eyes on the cursor, on its urgent blinking. He's still online, he makes you
nervous, he gives you the impression that he can sense it, how you write, erase,
write, and then you're scared shitless.

I don't know, I've never done it

would you do it?

You type "may," and wonder what kind of emoji should accompany
such a hint.

Have you ridden it with more than one at the same time?

no, I've never done threesomes or anything like that

would you like?

And in the same line, a string of laughing emojis.

well, excuse me, you are very young

 Hey, nothing as a child, and I'm also a very open person

I am very open too, I have a master's degree in eating

in eating what?

Haha, I'm going to bed, sweet dreams, beautiful girl

Lukas thinks that looking for a partner online is sinister, a

little out of the ordinary. And that for old men in their forties like our parents,
it's okay, but he prefers to meet girls in discos or at parties in his town.

You tell him that you agree, but that it is for testing. In
addition, the application exercises an automatic filter, so that you can narrow
your search and choose between approximate versions of the type of guy that
interests you. Lukas takes a drag on the joint, narrows his eyes, and insists. No.
That you can't capture chemistry with another person in an internet chat.

As if you hadn't thought of that too.

Because, let's see, getting to know each other virtually has its
limitations, there is no doubt about that. For starters, it camouflages the
anomalies that face-to-face disembowels in about five minutes. See: a reedy voice,
a disturbing tic in the eye, a sharp breath of bile, or laughing like a hyena.
Obviously, these kinds of scourges worry you. But don't give up, and repeat it to
Lukas: it's for testing.

In the distance, the traffic lights twinkle like little stars.

The air carries jovial aromas of night flowers. You think of the Student. You
think: I am young, it is summer, soon I will meet him. You think: will I ever be as
happy as today?

The German shepherd skirts the bank, has a sandy nose and leaves
a skinned stick at your feet. Lukas bends over, tries to grab the trophy by the
slimmer end. He moves a few meters away and throws the stick at a safe distance.
The dachshund raises its head and rests it between its paws. He is fourteen years
old and has little desire to party.

“Today in practice the guys were talking about you,” Lukas says
as he sits back down. You turn to him, but he's busy wiping sand from his fingers
against his pants. The topic of that day in the woods has come up, when they took
your bra... and they were discussing if it would have made you feel bad.

“No, fuck. You wave your hand in the air and pass him the joint.
It was bullshit.

Jordan was worried.

-Oh yeah?

Lukas has been looking at the end of the joint with a sleepy
expression. It still takes several seconds for him to realize that it has gone out,
and then he feels in his pocket for the lighter. He looks up seriously.

—Don't you feel bad that they hesitate so much and tell you
stupid things?

You're going to say no, but the truth is. I mean. It's not that
you feel bad, but that you would prefer. You do not know. So in the end you answer:

—Let's see, I know they don't do it badly... —you take out a

cigarette, handle it for a second and immediately realize that you don't feel like
it. You put it back into the package, nervous. Although the bra thing did piss me
off a bit, to be honest…” you sigh. A little quite.

"And why do you take it off in front of them?"

-I don't know.

"You should be tougher and put them in their place." So it is

impossible for them to respect you.

You sense a cloudy pain behind your eyes, a stab of pressing

tears.

Why do you have to bring up that topic?

Respect, he says. Have you forgotten who you are talking to? Who
are you, Miriam Dougan? The fat one, the Bufi, the Zampa. Respect is not something
that is in your power to invoke. For that you would have to be Paola, or Tallie, or
Clara, whom everyone respects, both the boys and the girls, and even the teachers,
the supermarket cashiers, the waiters, the policemen, the bus drivers, because they
are thin and They have no pimples, no hair, no glasses, no ridges, and no black
dots on their noses. They have nothing at all. Neither orthodontics, nor papos, nor
a grandmother's face, nor a whistle voice, nor a bad parting of their hair, nor do
they squint, nor sweat, nor do their bras show through in gymnastics, nor do they
speak loudly or softly, nor do they eat much or little They are neither dwarfs, nor
giraffes, nor sluts, nor nuns, nor subtly dark, nor deathly white.

That's exactly what you have to be so they don't mess with you.
To escape the radar. So that they respect you.

Nothing.

You change position on the back of the bench and stretch your
legs. You perceive a tightness in the muscles that relieves you.

"I think it's too late to put them in their place," you say. They
have me down.

Lukas takes a breath, holds it for a few seconds inside his

cheeks, and then lets it out suddenly. He points his finger at you, like a teacher.

“Miri, you're a legit aunt,” he says. But it is that you are too
nice. You should get a little more edge.

"You mean I encourage them?"

—Not that you encourage them, but you put it to the egg.

You shrug your shoulders, move some pebbles with the tip of your
foot. On the other side of the park, the windows on some floors are wide open. They
show cabinets and picture corners, hemp and glass lamps, shelves full of books.
From time to time, there are people who go in and out of the little squares of
light, like in a cartoon.

"It's just that I feel sorry for being rude," you say in a
whisper.

-Grief?

—Yes, because, let's see... They're brats, but they're good kids.

And it seems that this reason convinces him because he doesn't

say anything, and it even makes him smile. So good. Correct answer. No drama or
complaint. good girl

Yes, I sent him pictures of my breasts on WhatsApp. Afterwards I

felt very guilty, I shouldn't have done it... I barely knew him.

I left voluntarily with them, I didn't notice anything unusual at

first..., and when we entered the portal... I don't know, I didn't ask for help
because I had no idea what was going to happen. And I didn't think... I didn't
think it was relevant.

No, they didn't hold me tight and they didn't cover my mouth
either.

I just don't... I don't know... I don't remember who penetrated

me or how many times.

No, I had never had group relationships. I had never done that
kind of thing in my life.

No, I didn't suggest it either.

Yes, of course I was scared, I started to get nervous... but I

didn't consider escaping. I don't know why... There were a lot of them, and I... I
just went blank... and got carried away.

No, at no time did I try to fight. I just wanted them to finish

as soon as possible.

Well, the position was like crouching down all the time... But I
don't remember it very well... I only know that I felt that pressure on my jaw and
that they pulled a lot of my hair, my ponytail.

He also had no injuries. One... well, on the knee, but not that
one... Only that one, I don't know how I got it.

In the hospital I felt very strange...

No, it didn't hurt... So I suppose it did... I suppose it would

be, as you say...

Yes, lubricated.
 18:46

The girl who is sitting on the step next to the ball vending
machine, and who from time to time takes her cell phone out of her bag and slides
her fingers across the screen, or stands up and pretends to browse in a stand
selling bracelets leather, and then returns to its initial location, and leans out
of boredom at the vending machine and tries to guess the type of prizes inside the
plastic balls, although in reality his head is lost in other more complex and
totalitarian issues, this girl is called Miriam Dougan.

She has been choosing between different items of clothing since

morning and has lathered her hair to achieve a more defined curl. No hairpins, no
bows, no pigtails. That's how she looks older, more mature, because that guy she's
dating is going to college, and she doesn't want him to take her for a girl. Right
now, as he browses the stalls, he's trying very hard not to rub his eyes. The line
has been painted and —without serving as a precedent— she wears a white eyeliner to
highlight her eyes. The eyelashes are two thick, black palisades. Lips smeared with
pale pink gloss. He bought it this week for the appointment. The brand Tallie
McGrath mentioned that day they were chatting on the second floor of the nightclub.

On the other hand, today she has shaved from top to bottom. Not
just the legs, but also the groin and armpits. Although, it should be noted, Miriam
does not plan to go to bed tonight with this boy.

18:49

She has met him at the door of a pool hall facing the beach.
Moved by anxiety, she has left home early and now she has to wait wandering around
the outskirts. As is obvious, without removing the billiards door from his visual
field.

The promenade bustles at those hours packed with people. They

walk with ice cream cones and esparto sandals, and summer peels their shoulders in
irregular patches, like the map of an archipelago. Miriam watches them go by. The
girls walk in and out of the shops in little flowery dresses. They hold their hem
automatically when they climb a step, spines marked like asp skeletons. And in
discontinuous gusts, a pasty smell fills the air: sunscreen, reheated plastic,
fried fish. In front of the door of a restaurant, the waiter assaults potential
customers by planting a menu in five languages in their faces. A family huddles
around the showers at the end of the beach, their flip-flops banging against the
metal support, bits of seaweed falling off their feet.

Miriam walks out into the arena on a shabby wooden walkway. She
wears a wide top that ripples below her chest. Buttoned pants up above the waist.
And think of Vix, who still hasn't caught on. She's embarrassed to tell him about
all that Tinder paraphernalia, so for now, she's been forced to handle all her
emotions alone. The girls who gave him the idea—Paola, Tallie, Clara—are also not
aware of his date with the Student. From the disco, they have not had contact
again, the situation has not occurred, despite the fact that they crossed paths in
the shopping center only three days later. Miriam greeted them—perhaps a little too
effusively—smiling and waving her hand in the air. They also smiled. As they passed
by her they said: see you later. And in the "see you later" was the key.

So the only human being on the face of the Earth who is aware of
today's plan is Lukas. He has told her for two reasons: because he never judges her
and because he is a computer genius. In fact, he has sent her a message before
leaving home:

If you don't hear from me by eleven, call the police

be careful, they are not going to put you in a snuff movie, he

has written, and he has finished it off with a panic emoji.

Out of an abundance of caution, Miriam has also taken a

screenshot of the Student's Tinder details. He has sent it to Lukas by WhatsApp,
and he has stressed that he lives within a perimeter of a kilometer and a half.

but, look, seriously, are you screwed up or what?

no, man, but what do I know

19:23

They have met at seven at the door of the billiards.

He has arrived at two past seven. She had been there since minus
fourteen.

At seven twenty-three he receives a message from Lukas, concise,

who says: is everything okay?

And she only answers: I LOVE HIM

The pub where you have reserved a table is dark and clearly
affected by vintage fashion. Lots of exposed brick and faded wood, and a profusion
of 90s nostalgic artifacts, like rotary telephones and Olivetti typewriters. Above
the bar, several blackboards announce traditional dishes reconstructed with modern
touches: avocado burgers, hot dogs with blue cheese, potato wedges served in brown
paper cones. Although it is not very late, almost all the tables already have the
reserved sign, and when they lead you to yours, you are pleased that it is in the
back, in the corner, so that you can sit perpendicular and hit the Student your
profile good

You're still a little nervous, bits of the messages you've sent

fly from temple to temple. The memory of certain words causes a tingle in your
guts, you don't know if from shame or pleasure. You take the opportunity to look at
him while he tells the waitress the dishes you have chosen. It is even more
attractive in person. He has bottle green eyes. The voice sweet and warm, like a
cough syrup. And you love the ridges that form on his jaw every time he swallows.
Actually, to be brutally honest, he's much more handsome than you would have
imagined. What the hell is a guy like that looking for on Tinder? And how is it
possible that he was interested in you? He should have a dainty blonde girlfriend.
Surely you have. One of those girls who does yoga in the morning and takes
beautiful photos hugging horses. You don't know if he has read your mind, because
he has just taken a drink of his beer and after wiping his lips he tells you: you
are cute, you have an amazing smile.

The heat tunnels through your body, you notice how the blood
rushes to your face. I must have turned purple, you say, and he reaches for your
hand and kisses the center of your knuckles.

Holy God.

The waitress places a bucket of chicken wings and two cones of

French fries on the table. She says: take advantage of it, with a solicitous and
maternal smile, as if she had sensed that it is your first date. She wears a shaggy
bun at the top of her head and chunky gold hoop earrings. She looks like something
out of Thelma and Louise's bar, you think. And because it sounds witty and
harmless, you say it out loud when he leaves. The Student smiles with his mouth
closed, wipes his fingers with his napkin.

He tells you that he is working on a doctoral program on press

management at the Pentagon. He's passionate about what he does, he says, and you're
relieved that a guy isn't finally tormented, licking off his insecurities and
exploiting his cursed aura. No, thank God, the Student is not of that suit.
Instead, his eyes light up as he talks about sports cars and kitesurfing, and as
the conversation progresses, everything he reveals fits perfectly with the range of
futures you've already imagined with him. He asks you what you want to study when
you finish high school. You haven't decided yet, but you think Nursing. Good, he
says.

The waitress returns to take away the bucket of chicken bones.

Dessert? Her bracelets jingle as she settles the weight of the cube on a tray.

"I want an Aperol Spritz," he says.

-Me too.

"So... you're really bad at everything," he mentions when you're

alone again.

"Oh." You chuckle and fiddle with the basket of ketchup packets.
Yes, quite.

He smiles. The eyelids fall gently over the eyes. He reaches out
to touch your hand and you wonder if it's a rehearsed gesture.

“I like that you're so natural,” he says.

—Well, if you mean natural as a bit of a yokel, then you're going

to go crazy with love.

You are plagiarizing something, a series or a book that you

thought was funny at the time, but you don't remember it very well. His smile dims
without fading away.

—Have you met many guys on Tinder? -ask.

-The truth is, no. You are the first.

 His eyes widen, as if you had just confessed that you are a
virgin.

—But hey —you clarify—, I've been with many guys outside of
Tinder.

Maybe that's not what you expected to hear either. It's hard to
draw conclusions, because he just nods with a chin up and says, oh. And then:

"Surely you're not a minor, are you?"

"Let's see, what a mess, I already told you no..." you answer. I
turned eighteen three months ago.

And besides, love has no age, you think about adding, but you
don't, because, let's see, Miriam, don't freak out either.

The waitress finally arrives with the cocktails. Clean the table
with a cloth and place the glasses on two green cardboard coasters. Now she looks
serious, in a hurry, and as she walks away you drink so synchronized that it seems
that you are trying to close an awkward moment. The music changes tone. Something
from the sixties. The Student places the glass on the table, wipes his lips and
says:

So you like sex?

You let out a laugh through your nose, your gaze drifting to the
coaster.

"Fuck," you shrug. Who does not.

But I wish I hadn't killed the moment with that lunge. Because it
has killed him, or at least badly injured him. However, you still don't want to
become aware, so you simply smile, and for a few seconds, you dedicate yourself to
squaring the base of the glass on the logo on the coaster.

The Student caresses your hand.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to sound so abrupt,” he says.

—No, calm down, you have not been abrupt.

—What I wanted to ask you is if you have done it many times. Or

well..., if you do it regularly.

And this time, when you look at him, his smile evolves into
another spectrum. Like the smile of the girls in class when they asked you: but,
Miriam, do you know what a tampon is?

"Maybe you shouldn't have to be so direct, you're too young." She

cups the goblet in both hands. At times on WhatsApp you didn't seem so to me.

He gives you a deep, achingly tender look from his bottle green
eyes. And you can no longer be aware of how much you want him to like you, how
humiliating it is that you would be able to correct and rearrange all aspects of
your personality based on that purpose.

"I haven't exactly gone to a convent school either," you protest.

 Now he's laughing naturally, leaning back and his pecs bulging
out under his shirt.

—The ones from the nuns' schools are quite slutty, don't believe
it.

You smile, you give him an arrogant look.

"Do you know because you've been with so many?"

A couple takes a seat next to you. She is wearing a striped dress

and her hair is pulled back into a thick, fluffy ponytail. The strap of her bra,
which is purple and lace, peeks out from behind her shoulder. She puts her bag down
on the floor, and before even looking at the letter, they both spread their hands
on the table, still dirty with fences, and intertwine their fingers in a
simultaneous flutter.

"Well, yes," says the Student, "I've had some girlfriends from
Catholic schools."

You look back at him.

"And how come you don't have any now?"

"I've been disappointed a lot," he swallows. He watches you as

you nod, then continues. Now I would like... to meet other types of girls... but
I'm not going to deny that I love sex, and I don't want to put it off too long in
relationships.

"Are you seeing other girls?"

It's the kind of question you know won't change the course of
your date at all. Whatever their answer, you're going to pretend that you think
it's great, totally logical, and that you're of exactly the same opinion.

“No, I'm not seeing anyone else right now,” he says. He has begun
to scratch one of the edges of the coaster, and the cardboard shavings are piling
up in a lint under his fingers. He then looks at you with bright eyes. Can I ask
now? —and when you nod, he charges—: what things do you like to have done to you?

You force a surprised face. Strained, overacted

"Well, I'm not going to tell you." You bite into the cocktail
straw with a smile that gives you respite.

Out of the corner of your eye you see the guy from the couple
next door make a joke and she laughs and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. They
look like a Bruno Mars video clip. That cheesy boring woman with her chump, they're
so predictable it almost makes you want to slap them.

But hey, back to what matters. Miriam, don't be a fool. How are
you not going to tell him? If it's really the same thing you talk to Vix, and even
to Lukas, when you decide to kill time playing the game of truth. What happens is
that, of course, the climate is different here in the bar, while you wind white
locks between your fingers and try to contain a string of belches with breath like
battered chicken. You like this boy. What's more, you love those eyes, and how you
rake the waves of your hair with your hand. And by God, it doesn't matter if he
came from a dating app. That you are young, that you like each other, that it is
obvious that you will have sex. You are dying for me to kiss you. Right now if you
want. And later it will be seen. Total, you've shaved from top to bottom, you've
smeared yourself with coconut-scented moisturizing cream. Are you ready. So, that's
it. Don't be a turkey

When you go out, the street smells of waves of the sea and the
fruity smoke of the hookahs. A bristly breeze blows. You rub your arms and take out
your cell phone, where you find a missed call from Lukas and several wasaps from
Vix, who suggested you go to the multiplex three hours ago. The Student also seems
busy on his phone. The light from the screen casts a bluish glow on her cheeks. He
has a little mole on his temple, his hand resting on the belt of his pants with
that sexual carelessness. You sigh. You are unable to take it anymore, longing for
his attention again, for him to tuck you in his arms and crush you against his
body. Then she puts her phone away and looks in your direction, looking for you
with nervous blinks, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Take a step towards you.
You take a deep breath and he strokes your hair, a white lock that. Well, you don't
know this yet, but in a few months he won't be white anymore, and it's all because
of this boy. From this date on the beach. Of what he brought next.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks.

-Wherever you want.

You don't know the area, but you like the names of the bars, that
sophisticated British touch. Campus, The White Orchid, Mr Livingstone. Nothing to
do with the polygonal discotheques where class people drag you: Dreams, El
Tránsito, La Chimera. How ridiculous they sound now, trying to capture hordes of
teenagers with that intense, pseudo-gothic terminology.

"I can take you to a place where they make very tasty gin and
tonics," he suggests. But you have to go by car.

Mosquitoes float like specks of dust in the milky aura of the

streetlights.

"What time do you have to be at home?" -ask.

And you make a smug gesture.

"Whichever I want."

I was surprised that it was so loose from the beginning. When I

approached he said: I can with you and with those who throw me out. I was surprised
that he talked so openly about sex, but I didn't find it weird.

Yes, we were all aware of what was going to happen. I mean, it

was obvious, we were talking and planning it together.

Of course, with her too.

He asked us how group sex was done, where the girl was placed. He
told us to show him, at first with our clothes on, the postures.
 Yes, she seemed to be at ease, she was laughing, she never gave
the impression of being overwhelmed.

We were all clearly in an uninhibited environment.

Yes, of course I got turned on talking about it.

Yes, I've had group sex more times.

No, it doesn't seem weird to me.

All the while talking about sex, she said that she was active in
bed.

One hundred percent participatory.

He actually made out with the Kaplan.

No, obviously there was not a situation where we asked him: do

you want to have sex? Thus, with that formality, the question did not arise. The
thing just flowed.

No, there was no such situation. She was normal. He never said
take off or that's enough. As I have already told you, at no time did she look
uncomfortable.

She participated as one more.

I have no doubt because there was fellatio, not just penetration.

If someone gives you fellatio it means that the person is active.

He always pouts when it's his turn to wash the pans. But not
today. Miriam adjusts the water temperature, runs the pan under the tap, and waits
for the hot, rough crusts of grease to peel off the Teflon and spiral down the
drain. The dishwasher gives off a strong apple aroma. Pour a long stream over the
sponge and squeeze it between your fingers, drawing bubbles out of the warm water.
Rub slowly. You feel the urge to write him a message. Take a deep breath. And it is
contained.

After the gin cocktails he didn't kiss her. They didn't make out
when they left the bar. And when he took her home and stopped the car in front of
her doorway, he looked at her in profile, turning his neck slightly, and muttered a
beautiful goodbye with the tired intonation of a bus driver.

Miriam stayed still in the passenger seat, she loosened her

seatbelt in a minimal gesture, taking care to keep her distance, so that she didn't
seem to be taking advantage of it to brush up against him. She wasn't comfortable
either. During the drive, the conversation had turned limp and comatose, with
Miriam inserting tedious remarks like: this used to be a pet store, while he
reciprocated with limp monosyllables: mmm or ah, yes. And yet, before saying
goodbye, it was the Student who suggested that they could see each other another
day. That he would call her, he promised, but his eyes contained a drooping
sobriety, like a kind of intoxication.
 And now Miriam struggles to keep hope. He tries to calm down with
easy reflections, he would be exhausted, it was too late, perhaps he doesn't like
to talk while driving. And on the other hand, if he was so bored, he could have run
away at any time. Unless... Could it be that she was maybe... a bet? A bad taste
joke. Or a test this boy had been dragged into against his will. But no, it can't
be, impossible, how could it, although my God, maybe?

Place the last pan on the draining board and run the scrubber
under the faucet to rinse out the soap. The truth is that it would be a consolation
to be able to consult it with Vix. What happens is that she doesn't feel like
putting up with her reaction when I tell her the story, that pout wrinkling her
lip: but, aunt, you've made a profile on Tinder, you're crazy. It's always the same
with Vix. Despite her rather liberal views, she is a supporter of certain customs
that in her eyes mark a kind of status. For example, it's most acceptable to meet
your boyfriend in a controlled social setting, such as school, a friend's birthday,
or a summer job. And for that reason, for the moment, Miriam prefers to hide it
from him. You don't want to feel like you have to justify yourself at every turn of
the narrative. We meet on the beach because in reality... he talks a lot about sex
but in reality... I sent him a picture in panties although in reality...

He hears his mother's voice from the living room: Miriam, I'm
going to put on the film, and in the background a little music of dancing logos and
string instruments. At the far end of the counter, the mobile is still inert, in
airplane mode again. He lets out a breath through his teeth. It doesn't go well for
her to interpret that other Miriam, the one who washes the dishes without haste,
the one who walks so wide around the kitchen and wants to believe that she is in
airplane mode to save battery life.

"I'm coming," he tells his mother.

Pick up the phone and walk into the living room unlocking the
keypad. Pattie fiddles with the remote. She has a ribbon in her hair because she
just applied an exfoliating mask.

"Are you going to see the movie or not?"

Miriam looks up. The paused frame shows a panorama of Manhattan.

-If he responds.

He has deactivated the airplane mode, and when he looks back at

the mobile, the wasap jumps with impetus in the center of the screen: beautiful,
yesterday was great, if you want we can see each other on Thursday at the parties
on the esplanade, I'll go with some friends .

Smile. His hands are shaking. That pyrotechnic cyclone in the

stomach. He is so happy that he feels like throwing up.

Vix stares at the photo with wide eyes, waves her hand in the
air: man, that's good. In the end you have decided to tell him because, overall,
things are going great and you have also met him in a couple of hours. Today the
festivities of the esplanade are inaugurated, and all the people of the
neighborhood are there. They huddle under the wine tents and eat seared meat on
disposable paper plates. The young have begun to arrive a little later, in noisy
and progressive flocks. They take up positions on the grassy plain and prepare to
immediately unload the contents of the plastic bags they bring from the
hypermarket. Inciting aromas of marijuana and potato chips mix in the air, and
above the tops of the pine trees, a phosphorite segment of a waterwheel can be seen
spinning almost empty.

The Student has confirmed that he will arrive around eleven with
his friends, so you've had plenty of time to tell Vix the full story. With their
corresponding arrangements, as necessary, and censoring some of his —too many—
questions about sex. There was also no point in mentioning that paranoia of yours
about his attitude in the car. All that angst so disproportionate.

Vix takes the phone out of your hands and enlarges the image with
your fingers. Examine his jaw, his abs, the dimples in his smile. You feel a little
warmth of pride, but as Vix pans the frame, and sharpens her eyes, and lingers,
perhaps longer than necessary, on this or that detail, a vague fear pierces your
chest. As if Vix's real intention was to figure out where the trick is. With that
abstracted gesture with which he is nibbling his nail right now, as if deep down he
was thinking: this doesn't add up, there's a catch here, isn't he a little too
handsome? Isn't that tremendously strange?

Vix fills his cheeks with air while looking at the mobile screen,
he tells you:

- What a piece of uncle. Do you have any single brothers?

You smile.

"No, but some of your friends are very drinkable." I've been
gossiping on his Facebook.

-Yeah? They are good?

"I wouldn't hate them."

You chuckle, and Vix says, slutty.

You also told him about wanting to specialize in war journalism.

Sometimes when you fantasize about the Student, your brain projects images of him
crawling dusty roads in Lebanon, or drinking shots with mercenaries outside a
dilapidated bar. How could you now settle for less? All those guys around you who
brag about wanting to study Economics, Law, Marketing, Data Processing. Holy
Virgin, what a torpor.

At a quarter to eleven you hear the beep beep of the message.

Cute, says Vix, so punctual. And that he would love to stay to meet him, but he has
promised Lachance that he would meet him at the bus stop. Then here with all the
crowd, there is no coverage, he excuses himself, and adds: see you later? You purse
your lips. Nothing would seem more depressing to you at that moment than mixing the
Student and his friends with Jordan and Paola. To what nefarious place would such
imprudence return you. How quickly I would ruin your new status. You take a breath
of air, you shake your head: I don't think so.

You know you've made the right decision when an hour later you're
in your element and perfectly integrated into the group. Seeing you appear, the
Student greeted you, gorgeous, and introduced you to his friends with an effusive
smile. Even so, you couldn't avoid a stab of inferiority. Perhaps they expected
more from the Student's girl. After the usual greetings, one of the boys, who is
short and chubby, and quite far from the quasi-Apollonian physiognomies of his
colleagues, planted a joint in your hand and said: for later, princess; which has
caused you an intense affection for all of them.

The esplanade bustles with people as far as the eye can see. They
form huddles on the grass and take seats on plastic bags and unfolded jackets. The
Student, who is a gentleman from head to toe, has offered you his leather jacket,
the one with the eagle embroidered on the back.

No need, thank you, and also with how pretty it is.

As is evident, you do not separate from him. You have placed

yourself next to him, not too close, nor do you want to give the impression of
being the typical needy girlfriend. A few meters away from you, a group of girls is
playing "I never have". They say things like: I've never had sex on a bus, I've
never fucked a guy over thirty. They laugh, rocking their bodies back and forth.
Two of the Student's friends who were buying beers stop to talk to them on the way
back. You look for a cigarette in your bag and when you readjust your position, you
put your hand on his thigh. He is engrossed in a conversation with the chubby man
with the goatee. Something about a concert, about some tickets, but through the
hubbub you only catch wisps of conversation.

The other two have finished talking to the "I never" girls. They
squat down next to you and start pulling beer cans out of the plastic bags. You
collect your hair in a ponytail. You immediately realize that this hairstyle makes
you face like bread and you let it go again. You look at the Student. You want to
sit a little closer, lean against him like he's your boyfriend. But, Miriam, be
happy, there is still night. You take the beer offered to you by another of the
kids, one who has introduced himself earlier as the Kaplan and has deep blue eyes,
like something out of science fiction. You smile gratefully, take a sip from the
can, and lean back. And then. Fuck. They are there. Breaking the iridescent balance
of your bubble. Jordan and Paola in the middle of the stone steps. It's them, sure,
you recognize that orange Jordan jersey, the slightly stooped walk. They go hand in
hand? You crane your neck, they kiss on the edge of a step and something suddenly
fractures inside you. You turn your face, you clench your teeth, you dedicate
yourself to dragging the condensation from the can with your finger until you
calculate that they are no longer close.

"What do you think, girl?" —The Student puts his mouth close to
your face, hands you a recently opened bottle of tequila. What do you think of
these pieces? He tilts his neck towards his friends and winks.

It is a doll that you have never seen and that suddenly unleashes
within you a wave of extreme love. How could you let Jordan's presence cloud the
moment? How have you been so stupid?

"Well, very nice," you answer.

And with a certain cynicism you discover that —now yes— you would
like the institute to see you. With those older boys, university students, and you
sitting next to the Student, who caresses your back from time to time, who has
grafted you so quickly into his world. It's what Clara Tibbets said. Older guys
don't behave like brats. The older guys pick you. Final point.
 After the fourth beer you don't stop talking, you laugh a little
louder, a little harder, because hey, what's up. These friends, it's the first time
you see them, but they seem nice, especially the chubby one with the goatee. He has
a squeaky, nasal voice, not very masculine, and his sense of humor is just like
yours, on the goofy side, so he finds it most flattering when you laugh out loud,
choke, and have to cover your face. with both hands. And you? You are in glory. It
is a tactic that does not fail. As soon as you've been drinking for a while, you
feel more attractive. More free. A freedom that you would not attribute in the
first place to drunkenness, but to an easy-going concept of beauty. Because right
now you look irresistible, divine, capable of anything.

You throw your shoulders back, shake your hair.

"I'll buy you another round," you say, and they let out a couple
of cheers that make you laugh. Tequila?

You need to hold onto the Student's shoulder to stand up. As

logic dictates, you expect him to accompany you, and yet it is someone else who
joins you. The boy with the sci-fi eyes. The Kaplan, of which you already know some
anecdotes, such as swimming in a club and participating in competitions, and
sometimes even winning. Now he is brushing off his pants, his shoulders are broad,
his arms strong with the veins marked in bas-relief. It must not be complicated,
you think, for a girl to fall in love with him.

The mass of people thickens as you get closer to the stalls. In

the most central streets, where the music vibrates loudly, the bars have installed
portable aluminum counters. This other guy, the swimmer with the marble veins,
pulls up close to you, you get the outlines of his figure against your back, and he
says, man, this looks like the fucking subway at rush hour.

-Do you like tattoos? he asks as well, and when you turn you see
his eyes swooping down on the butterfly.

-Oh yeah. You brush the drawing instinctively with your

fingertips. I only have this one, but maybe I'll make another one. Do you have any?

"Someone" he looks at you with a smile.

"That means if you get naked you look like a chintz chair,
right?"

Let out a long laugh.

"No, damn, that's not it either.

"Hey, here's something sticking out." You press a kind of dark

triangle in the center of the bicep with your index finger. You feel the muscle
harden, and when he rolls up his shirt, it reveals a row of differently shaped
arrows with feathery tips. Come on, how cool —you say—. It has any meaning?

—It means that if I undress I'm better than a chintz chair.

You let out a laugh. The shirt you are wearing is wide and open,
it moves arbitrarily along your clavicle. You've put it on for the Student, but you
can't deny that you like the effect it also causes on this kid, the effort it takes
to keep his eyes glued together.

“You look like someone,” he says. Oh yes, I know, one from Game
of Thrones.

-Oh really? To which?

"I don't remember the name," he smiles. I only know that it was
bad.

—My God, with how well I was liking you.

A hand suddenly slides around your waist. You turn quickly and
smack him, like you're scaring an insect away. The Student pouts, rubs the back of
his hand.

“Idiot,” you mutter in a cheesy, entranced tone.

"I've come to take over," he tells his friend, "don't go robbing

me of the girl."

They exchange a look, an uncertain and somewhat long smile, which

only offers interpretation at the level of their pupils. You stay waiting for the
Student to avert his eyes, to make you participate in that joke that clearly seems
—so you think— a compliment. But it doesn't happen, he doesn't look for your gaze,
he doesn't include you in the joke, he just slaps his friend on the back when he
leaves, and then looks straight ahead, at the bar, asks what you ordered, and
without any a sign of preliminary affection, you feel his warm hand working its way
under your shirt. The epidermis stands on end. Are you comfortable?, he whispers in
your ear, and you say: yes. He kisses you on the neck, a warm-blooded kiss that
trails down the slope of your shoulder and spirals over the arch of your clavicle.
The mass of people keeps you glued together, camouflages the path of your arms, the
position of their hands that crawl inside your bra. He tells you: I love you. He
tells you: you're beautiful, I want to lick that butterfly until I erase its wings,
I want to eat your pussy. You let out a laugh, you feel his fingers entering and
you murmur: stop, but you don't want it to stop, you want the night to last a
million years, to take you home, to a dimly lit room, and to undress you. You
breathe fast. It's hot. A consistent heat that spills inside your chest. Your heart
hits your eardrums, your throat, your guts, and then a current of electricity that
grows, and grows, and rages, and suddenly explodes, right between your legs, in a
warm pang that drenches you. the panties.

Tallie walks with tiny little steps, that kind of clumsy way
people walk when they're afraid they might stumble. In Tallie's case it's because
of the two overflowing glasses of sangria she brings back from the alley. He passes
one to Paola, who has been waiting under the trees so they don't take away the only
free bench in the square. And Paola, who considers herself to be the most
perceptive person, notices a glint in Tallie's eye.

"Why do you come with that face?" -ask.

Tallie wipes her lips. He holds back a laugh before speaking.

"Awesome," he says. I've seen Bufi groping with a piece of uncle.

Paola purses her mouth.

—When you say a piece of a guy, do you mean that he's a fat
piece, or a hot guy?

—No, damn, a hottie.

-Come now. Paola blows a laugh. But it will be because... you

know, because then he gives them his.

"Still, I swear, it was too good." Tallie shakes her head.

Clusters of electric lights cast a satin glow across her forehead. Or maybe..." He
smiled evilly. Maybe the Bufi is a sex machine. We should call Got Talent.

“Oh shit, now I'm curious. You could have sneakily taken a
picture of him.

"Oh, what for?" She would occupy the entire frame.

Paola lets out a laugh that forces her to put the glass down on
the bench so as not to spill it. She's pretty drunk already, and for a few seconds
she can't stop laughing. She hugs her stomach, as if she's just had intestinal
cramps, and the convulsions are still subsiding when Jordan approaches.

"What's wrong with you girls?

A misplaced smile, a kiss on Paola's temple.

—Nothing, Miriam was making out with a guy where you bled.

“Not with a guy,” Tallie clarifies, her pupils wide like

blowguns. With Michelangelo's David.

-Come now.

Jordan lets out a low laugh, a bit more restrained than the
girls', but perhaps it's just that the dimorphism of his vocal cords gives him a
more discreet, less hurtful sound. He looks around, tries to locate the phenomenon,
but only comes across a patch of heads.

“Seriously, I swear they were groping badly,” Tallie insists.

Dude, it just seems surreal to me. Boofy has never seen herself in one like this
before.” And then she turns to Jordan, placing her hand on his shoulder. Sorry,
kid, you're not the man of her life anymore.

Paola smiles, gives her boyfriend a little pinch on the side.

They are almost at the foot of the Ferris wheel and the neon lights fringe her hair
with changing reflections, green and fuchsia. Jordan takes a drink of beer, and
then another, without taking his lips off the bottle. Not that he cares. If they
were to meet the Hobbit or Lachance at that moment, they would surely engage in an
endless loop of little jokes. I would feel that pressure. Paola takes her hand.

-Something happens? -says.

Jordan shakes his head, forces a laugh.

"No, nothing," he replies. It's that my clamp has gone.

 It doesn't happen until almost an hour later that a blow hits
Paola on the shoulder. He says: look, aunt, look, just as he sees them going up the
slope of the esplanade. Miriam walks behind, holding the boy's hand, holding a
bottle of beer in the other. Luckily, the tides of people block their way, so that
Paola and the others have plenty of time to contemplate the scene at ease. Tallie
smirks: I told you. Because there is no doubt. It is evident that they are linked
by some bond, that Miriam is, in fact, with that hunk of a guy.

Jordan scratches his bottom lip with his teeth. Analyze the
situation in detail. Because there's something, he doesn't know... he doesn't want
to be a son of a bitch, but what Tallie said is a criticism... or well, not a
criticism, but a legitimate observation. That guy could almost be a model. She
perfectly imagines him in one of those youth clothing catalogues: Dockers pants,
burgundy vest, and a blurred countryside in the background as he walks towards the
camera with his hands in his pockets and his coat open.

Jordan feels a wave of unease, like an alarm going off inside.

Miriam is not a bad girl, of course not. And aside from the extra pounds, she's
arguably almost attractive. He has large eyes, an acceptable and symmetrical nose.
Some guys might even like it, pimply geeks, or video game-obsessed geeks. To guys
with little market, like Lukas... But the fact is that there is, as bad as it
sounds, that balance. He read it on Wikipedia once. The hypothesis of similarity or
something like that, that of not playing in the same league, and it is even more
suspicious when the physical superiority is that of the man. Women are governed by
other principles, they are capable of falling in love with any monstrosity just
because it makes them laugh, or because it knows how to listen, or because it is
tender, or considerate, or because it treats them very well. And sometimes, even,
because he treats them very badly.

Jordan takes another sip of the beer, looks at Paola.

"I'm going to pee," he says.

With a nervousness whose origin she cannot understand, she makes

her way through the tangle of people. He takes short steps, dodging heads,
pigtails, tattoos, beaked elbows, a clotted smell of tobacco, beer, perfumes mixed
with perspiration. He makes out Miriam's curls, the white-dyed locks that flutter
to her shoulders. A jungle of bodies still separates them. Jordan fidgets, dodging
a trashcan, a bush, a statue of a general on horseback, he's almost there, he can
almost touch it, and when he's only an arm's length away, he reaches out and taps
her on the cheek. back. Miriam doesn't notice, she barely flinches, she must have
thought it was an accidental touch. And now the mob is moving, Jordan is forced to
take several steps back. Shout: Miriam, Miri! But nothing. There are other people
who shout at the same time as him, to each other, or to their cell phones: don't
you see me?, can you hear me?, come here. Jordan snorts, wiping away the sweat. She
clears a huddle, a line of girls, a no-parking chain, and finally, there she is
again. He gives her a little push in the middle of the vertebrae: Miriam! This time
she turns around, she has a distracted look in her eyes, she is dazzled by the
spotlights of a stage, and then:

"Jordan, what's up," he says.

"Nothing, where are you going?"

-I am with some friends.

Jordan nods. You suddenly feel stupid for going after him without
any preparatory analysis. The tall blond guy who would look so dapper in a blurred
countryside has also turned around. He looks at Jordan with a neutral expression.
He's wearing a leather jacket with an eagle embroidered on the back, badass to
boot, and his hair floats over his forehead like in a cologne ad with yachts.

"It's just that I saw you go by and I didn't know if you were
looking for us," Jordan says then.

-Oh no. Miriam smiles gratefully, almost a little flattered that

he, who was there with Paola, had the courtesy to notice her.

"That guy... do you know him?"

"Yes," Miriam says. I am with him.

It is the appropriate response, "I am with him." Because it opens

up a range of interpretations and they all lean in his favor: I've met him, I know
him, he's my colleague, my coolie, my fuck buddy, my half-boyfriend.

—Ah, well, then... —Jordan gets stuck, he's not sure what he
looks like there anymore. And the worst thing is that everything that crosses his
mind contains a mean and painful tone, and even slightly humiliating, so he
scratches his forehead, blushes, and condenses all the macabre epic that his mind
had forged in the only discreet phrase that occurs to him to say: be careful.

Miriam smiles, her cheeks are sweaty. The lenses surround the
iris with a bluish circumference.

-Of course, do not worry about it. I'm older," he says. And then
—: Well, we already talked.

It looks like this is going to be the end of the scene. The final
plan. And yet, there is still one more attempt, there is still a chance for Miriam
to break free, to eliminate a future riddled with conjecture from her life. What
if. So, Miriam, pay attention, because here comes the last relief skin. When Jordan
insists:

—If you want to come later, we'll be upstairs, where the Ferris
wheel is.

And she scratches her neck. For a few seconds, he looks like he's
considering it: oh, he says, and then: well, maybe, but finally he tightens his
mouth, shakes his head, and smiles: thanks, Jordan, actually, I don't think so.

The dilemma, the contingency, the logic, the intersection.

Opposite of hope, promise, ego, fantasy. What if.

There is a parallel reality where Miriam's instinct was

pronounced: I'll stay with Jordan.

Six months before, two months before, two weeks, three days, who
knows, then I would have said: yes, I'm staying, I'm staying with Jordan and my
friends.

Or perhaps if he had insisted with more will: don't go. If only

he had been less ambiguous. If I had brought out from within the same questions
that she has been dizzying for several nights now: how do you know them?, where are
you going?, is he your boyfriend?, don't you think it's strange? does he want to
fuck?, where are they taking you?, and why was he so dry in the car?, why did he
ask you for so many nude photos?, and why does he talk so much about sex, with that
obsession?, isn't that all? very strange, isn't everything so tremendously strange
that you should almost die of fear?

Oh.

Well maybe.

Thank you Jordan.

Actually, I think not.

So what happened was that we left the esplanade because we wanted

to be in a quiet place.

Well, most of the time we were talking about sex.

Alex knew her from a contact page, they had met before. For
others it was the first time we saw her...

I don't remember how it started, but someone, I think Kaplan,

asked her if she liked nudist beaches, and if stripping in front of people made her
horny... She... I don't know what she replied, my memories are not fresh. .., but
he did follow the game. And then Alex asked her if she liked any of us... I had
already told her that I loved her, that I thought she was very pretty... And she,
apart from Alex, spent a lot of time with Kaplan, fooling around and Such... He
told me that he found it very attractive.

I don't know how it happened, I wasn't there at the exact moment,

but I think the Kaplan started kissing her, and she let herself. We were all quite
surprised because he was supposed to have come with Alex...

Yes, that's right, like Alex's partner.

No, Alex was not angry. It's not like they were dating either.

Well, what happened next was that she allowed herself to be

kissed. Come on, that prolonged the kiss.

That was when Alex asked him the question, he said: would you be
with both of them at the same time? And she replied: with two or with those who
throw me out.

Yes, verbatim, I have it engraved on fire.

Well, from there we began to look for a place to..., well, to

take action.

No, it wasn't the first time I had group sex. I can't speak for
her.

Yeah, that's what I heard, that she told Alex that she'd never
had multiple-person sex… So I guess it was true, but she didn't let us know.
 The idea came up suddenly, we all talked about it.

Well, there were sections in which Kaplan and I were talking to

her... or Alex and Kaplan... I don't know, although they showed me the images from
the security cameras, I don't remember.

We stopped at a hotel to ask if there were rooms... And then we

went looking for a portal.

Yes, we all live in the city, but obviously we weren't going to

get five people to have sex at our parents' house. Kaplan shares a flat, but even
so, he has roommates and it was not a plan.

She was aware, of course.

No, nothing like that, she never said she wanted to go alone with
Alex.

Yes, I'm pretty sure he wanted to with everyone.

Well, I base it on the way she behaved, on how loose she looked,
on how she talked about sex, on the comments she made, on the fact that she kissed
the Kaplan. I base myself on all of that.

I saw a woman on the step of a doorway looking for the keys,

that's when I approached.

My goal was for all of us to go inside to have an intimate place,

and I went up to the first or second floor, and waited for the neighbor to leave...
Then I went down to open the door for them.

They were all waiting in the street, she too.

No, no one forced it in... At the most, maybe there was someone,
Alex or Kaplan, who would shake hands... but the way you give or take a friend's
hand so that they hold you follow.

Sure, without violence.

Man, we were already inside the portal, we didn't want to make

noise and for the neighbors to hear us... I may have whistled to make them shut up,
but in general, so that everyone would be silent..., not just her.

Well, it was something like this: chsss, don't make noise, but no
one covered his mouth. Of that I'm sure.

We went into a room, in a kind of mezzanine. I don't remember

where I was located... She told me... she told me just like that to fuck her. He
said: fuck me.

And then I dropped his pants.

Darkness. A hair pull. Someone pulling your leggings down, and

hands sprouting hungrily from all angles. They grab you, they bend you, they pull
you. Your pulse accelerates, as if wanting to warn you. Late. The click of belt
buckles, zippers, footsteps sliding pasty around your body, and a hiss of falling
clothes. The smell of dust, sweat, the different colognes. And the hard cold of the
tiles.

You can't talk or scream. You notice the sleeping body, as if it

belonged to another person. Or maybe a shell, an exoskeleton, something you'll
leave behind when this is over.

They move you sideways. They spin you in a circle. Come here.
Bring. Now I. You continue on pause, your hollow, flat brain is left. The letters
in black ink, drawings with edges on the abdomen, on the calves. And the smell,
that smell, more and more pungent, of his colognes.

A mist of fluffy noises, as if spun under water. Sometimes a

gaseous voice: leave it to me, suck it, touch me. I've only eaten it once.

You don't know, you don't see, you don't think. Only at times, am
I going to die? Stretches of air, patches of skin. Contraction, rotation, friction.
How much time has passed. They laugh, the penumbra drawing unusual shadows on their
faces, the bluish emptiness in one eye, a flash of saliva on their teeth. Bring,
give me, do you want me to put it in for you? A bubble of minutes that fall
leathery and melt on the ground at your feet.

Until, then, suddenly, silence.

And again the buckles, the zippers, the clothes, sliding in the
opposite direction, hasty, nervous, steps that creak on the tiles, that separate
from you, that move away, and someone that clears their throats, without much
insistence.

But you don't react. You cannot move, nor can you speak, as if a
lock had been put on your voice. T-shirt turned inside out, bra dislocated on the
floor. Panties down. And the smell, that smell of cologne stuck on the palate.

In the stairwell, the gloom changes from green to purple. It must

be some street sign. Now you hear them downstairs, in the portal. Whispers, a
laugh. A door that opens and closes. And now yes. At last. Altogether. Silence.

Look at that girl, the one sitting on the bench, she must be
wearing a brutal fart, but don't stop, damn it, hide it.

What does that girl look like? You have to see... I'm sure she's
drunk, or drugged... Who knows where she spent the night. And with whom... Young
women these days are more drunk than an Indian's pipe. Come here, Lomu, chsss, get
out of there.

Oh my gosh, that girl, but what happened to her... She looks like
she's been crying. What do I know, do I ask? Buff, it's just that at this time I
don't feel like getting into browns, and I also have a dream...

Look at that girl, I want them to give me what they gave her,
haha. Be quiet.

Look at that girl.

 Look.

"Look at that girl.

But Tallie McGrath is too tired to focus her eyes. And besides,
he doesn't feel like looking anywhere. His ankle hurts. Her sandal buckle gave her
a blister, and last night she didn't remember to take the Band-Aids. So nothing,
get annoyed. She opens her bag, takes a cigarette to her lips. It's a bit cool, so
she goes with the double-breasted jacket and stretches out to cover more of her
waist. Just an hour, he thinks, and he'll be home. Barefoot, warm, and tucked in
under the covers. I wish I hadn't met Paola for breakfast. Last night she met some
friends from the Dance School and separated from the school group, so they agreed
to see each other in the morning. It seemed like a divine idea: croissants, coffee,
discuss the play with Jordan. Finally, Tallie sighs. And then, the voice next to
him:

"Look at that girl.

Monique, one of her dance partners, has stopped in the middle of

the boulevard. He looks at the girl from the bank with a crooked smile. He doesn't
even hide it, as if the girl were made of cardboard. As if she were blind, or
sedated, or dead.

"What a calico," says another.

Tallie stops too, rummaging in her bag for a lighter, only

looking at the girl after lighting up. Pucker your eyelids, blow out the smoke. He
takes a step forward, and the blister jerks with a sting. Behind her, her friends
exchange a shrug and start walking again. Only after a few seconds they turn:

“Hey, Tallie, you're soggy.

Tallie makes a hand gesture as if asking them to wait. He takes

one more step towards the bench, a short, prudent step, without getting too close.
The girl is still, looking towards the ground, and does not detect the world that
flows in her periphery. It seems that he is crying, and the truth is that he has an
air of... No, but no. That would be a bit. Although, seriously. Could be...?
Miriam? The tangle of curly hair with the white streaks and those generous thighs
testing the elasticity of the leggings. Earlier, on the concourse, Tallie hadn't
noticed her clothes, but this juxtaposition of hideous attributes fits perfectly
with her mental image of her.

Her throat clears, she's about to say his name, and then a tug on
her sleeve.

—What are you doing, come on... Leave that junkie.

—She's not a junkie, I think something happened to her... She's a

girl from my school.

—Well, he has a very careful fart.

Monique takes her arm and tries to direct her towards the avenue.
In the background, in the square, the first shift waiters have begun to unfold the
umbrellas and set up the tables on the terraces. Tallie straightens her back, lets
herself be swept away by the hand that pulls her. She is tired, sleepy. And Paola
will already be on her way. Also, the blister hurts terribly.

"Wait, dammit." He stops short. It's just, seriously, it's from

my high school. I know your mother.

"Well, you'll see." One of the girls, the one who isn't Monique,
pouts. I can't miss the bus.

“Me neither, Tallie.” Monique's mouth tightens. He looks at her

for the appropriate amount of time to give her the option to change her mind, and
then, "Well, we'll talk about it."

Tallie retraces the path as fast as her injury allows. It's been
almost an hour since dawn and the sun glints off the balconies and the fossilized
chewing gum on the sidewalks. Next to the tree grate of a young tree, two pigeons
peck at the gutted remains of a kebab. Tallie takes a deep breath. He stops a few
inches from the girl, who remains with her head lowered, looking down at the red
and white tile floor.

"Miriam?"

The girl suddenly raises her face, as if activated by a

mechanism. The mascara runs down her cheeks in gray streaks.

“Tallie,” he murmurs. And he has a catchy voice. The deformed

mouth in a silent and rectangular cry.

Tallie bends her knees, leans into her.

"God, Miriam, what happened to you?"

Take a seat on the bench leaving a gap in between. He takes in

the dust-stained leggings and the tiny leatherette bag that Miriam is clutching
tightly with both hands. Faced with that bag, intact and with the zipper closed,
his first deduction is that he has not been robbed. Neither is he bleeding, nor
does he have visible wounds, nor his clothes torn off. And Tallie begins to think
that what's happening is that that hunk of guy has dumped her—of course, right?—and
that now, for asking, she's going to have to swallow the jilted girl drama.

At his side, Miriam continues to cry. New batches of tears that

trickle down her filthy cheeks. Threaded into a ringlet, gray fuzz floats, and
Tallie reaches over to undo it, only to notice that Miriam's hair is a mess, like
it's battered in sand.

"Well, calm down," he says, "do you want a cigarette?"

Miriam shakes her head, sucks in a sob.

"Did something happen with that boy you were with?"

Now Miriam opens her mouth, but makes no sound. Only after a
couple of seconds he murmurs:

They broke my cell phone...

Saying that, she hugs the bag instinctively. He unzips it, and
very little by little, as if suffering from some kind of paralysis, he takes out a
lighter, a crushed pack of cigarettes, two hairpins and, finally, his mobile phone.

"They broke it," he repeats. And his voice breaks and regrows.

Tallie watches the cracks across the screen.

"It doesn't work for you?" -ask-. It's like full of shit.

“I was in a puddle.

-Gross. Tallie purses her lips into a grimace.

Voices are heard in the distance. The terraces in the square are
already set up and there are people who have sat down to have breakfast. It's
starting to get hotter. And suddenly Miriam's body shakes. He cries louder, with
hiccups and spurting noises.

—Well, woman, it's a bitch, but it's only a motive. Besides, it's
probably got wet inside, and it'll work again when it's dry.

—It was them.

-Who is it.

Tallie changes the crossing of her legs, removes her cardigan and
folds it in her lap. She should put her arm around Miriam's back, caress her
shoulder or at least take her hand, what happens is that she's not very like that,
touching, hugging and stuff. He sighs, leans forward: come on, woman..., and then
he notices that Miriam also has a skin torn off. Dirtier than his, in the soft part
of the knee. It must hurt like hell, because it leaves a nice moist pink patch of
meat exposed, like a raw chicken breast. Tallie swallows.

"Hey..." he murmurs.

But Miriam hardly reacts. He just sniffles and wipes his tears
with the fist of his sweatshirt. From one of the windows at the end of the street,
a little aria comes out. Some balconies have taken out white duvets to air. Tallie
checks the time on her phone. He pinches his lip. He no longer arrives on time for
his appointment with Paola, so he opens WhatsApp and types quickly: I'm with Miriam
Dougan at a bank, where the La Bahía hotel is. Come here.

Thirty-six minutes later, Paola leaves the bag with the

croissants and the biodegradable tray with the cappuccinos on top of a step at the
hospital entrance. He's only slept two hours in Jordan's brother's Mini Cooper and
his eyes are heavy like bags of sand.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he spotted them on the

bench. Tallie biting a hangnail, and Miriam with her cheeks smoky from mascara, as
if she had cried in tides. They caught a taxi in the square. They didn't know where
to go, so they opted for the simplest and told the driver to take them to the
hospital emergency room. They took nothing. Eight minutes. However, as they climbed
the front stairs of the building, while Tallie was still collecting the money with
half her body inside the taxi, Miriam squatted on the ground and twisted Paola's
wrist: I can't, she moaned.
 And so it has stayed. With that lost look in her eyes, sitting on
the edge of a step. Only at times, when they talk to him or encourage him, does he
look at them through those pupils that seem to be made of plastic. He has told them
in fits and starts. He has told them. Something. An image. Amputated phrases.
Forebodings. Weeks later, you will still be amazed at how Tallie and Paola knew how
to fill in the empty spaces, how they figured out the pauses. Because right now she
can't stop sobbing, reaching for the sleeve of her sweatshirt to rub her eyes. And
he continues to hold the bag with both hands.

Tallie squats with her back to the sun, fingering the band-aid on
her ankle. As expected, Paola had a few Band-Aids stored in a compartment of the
purse. And yet, Miriam has not wanted to give any for the scratch. He says it could
contaminate the skin if they take samples. She's that movie-like.

An ambulance rushes up the access ramp. Tallie stands up, walks

to the ER entrance, and the French doors slide sideways with a pneumatic hiss.
Someone scolds her for smoking.

"Ma'am, I'm on the street," he protests.

“Tallie, come on.

Paola calls her in a withered tone, without inflection. At the

other end of the steps is a couple of the same age. They are listening to something
on a mobile, a din of metallic voices coming out of the speaker. They seem calm, at
least they laugh, so they must not have come for anything serious. She has her
nails painted green. Paola turns to Miriam. She has the eyes of someone who has
just been rescued from a pile of rubble, and the day is so bright, the sun is so
amazing, that Paola pities her even more.

“We can wait whatever you want, really,” he says, putting his
hand on her shoulder. But I think you should go in... Because you might regret it
if you don't... —she takes a breath, tries to print more tenderness in her tone. I
know it's going to be really rough, but maybe they'll let us be with you...

Paola talks and talks. That we are here, that we support you,
that we are not going to leave you stranded, that if you want us to call your
mother, or that we bring you something, that if you are cold, hungry, thirsty,
afraid, anguished.

And Tallie walks calmly back toward the stairs. Lean your back
against the aluminum railing. She would like to be in bed right now, with a full
belly and washed feet, breathing in the smell of fabric softener from her clean
sheets and not that chlorophenol stink that just slapped her at the door of the
clinic. She doesn't feel like staying there at all, she's not Miriam's friend, and
she's not very sure what has happened to her either. You also can't probe and ask
for details, or have the whole story explained from the beginning. It would be
fatal. And besides, anyone dares after how Paola is reacting. That's why at times
she makes an effort to appear moved too. She builds phrases of indignation in her
head: don't worry, don't worry, every pig gets her sanmartín, and she adds them
later as a tag line to the words of support that Paola elaborates. Although in his
opinion, if they ask him, the appropriate thing would be to call Vix or Miriam's
mother, and have them take care of it. It's that it's logical. And besides,
wouldn't Miriam feel much more comfortable with someone she trusted?

Tallie breaks the seal and takes a croissant out of the plastic
bag. He shakes off the puff pastry flakes that stick between his fingers. Cars with
their turn signals flashing come and go from the parking lot, and he wonders how
many of these people have just lifted a weight off their shoulders, and how many
are holding envelopes of bad news in their hands. Tumors, syndromes, lethal
pathologies. A chill shakes his spine. The girl with the green painted nails
stretches in a gesture that indicates that she is bored, or exhausted, or both at
the same time. Tallie sighs, takes another pinch of the croissant into her mouth.
Before, Paola suggested to Miriam that perhaps they should call the police, but she
only got on her nerves: no, no, please, no way, and she held Paola's hands, as if
she were terrified to take out the phone right there and start dialing. So now, as
she takes a second croissant from the bag, Tallie isn't quite sure what else
they're supposed to do.

You take a deep breath. If you had entered you would have already
left, but you don't know if you want to enter. If you must enter, if you have the
right to this pifostio that you have mounted or if you are just making a mountain
out of a molehill. Actually, if you think about it, maybe it wasn't that bad.
Because the truth. And also according to how. Or maybe it's you. And they figured
that.

Tallie has just taken another croissant out of the bag. He

pinches the bun and slowly puts it in his mouth. Then he drinks cappuccino from a
paper cup in short sips, like Breakfast at Tiffany's. And you, with that headache,
with that buzz inside the body. Paola stretches out her arm, caresses your
shoulder: do you really not want to eat anything?

The colors drip from the contours of the objects, sharp and
saturated. And everything around you—the trees, the windows, the cars in the
parking lot—seems made of some synthetic material, like it's a prop and not the
real world. The most embarrassing thing is that they know it. You still can't even
assimilate what has happened, and when you try to remember, the images slip between
the lobes of your brain like a memory that doesn't quite belong to you,
disintegrating into an imprecise texture. The blurry trail of someone else's
trauma. Although what Paola says, about the medical examination, maybe yes, maybe
you should...

Sometimes when you move, you notice the rough, dry semen stuck to
your panties, and you don't want to think about it, but you're sure they haven't
used condoms. Sometimes they would take it out of your mouth and turn you around.
No breaks. Directly. Two at a time. You swallow, try to breathe. The pulse
accelerates in your temples, in the skinned wound. You take a breath, impossible,
your stomach turns over, you think it's just a gag, but there's something coming
after you. And then the spasm, the belch of gastric juices, and the vomit that
bursts against your teeth and spurts down the steps. For several seconds you remain
immobile, contemplating the strand of drool that hangs from your mouth to the
ground and is the color of beaten egg. A woman your mother's age stares at you.
Paola has hurried to get a scarf from her bag, and you feel Tallie's fingers
brushing back your hair. Don't worry, says one of the two.

I want to go, you vocalize. But you don't actually make a sound,
you just spit more vomit onto the floor. Don't talk, calm down. That's what Paola
says. Your skull fills with splinters. I want to leave. A car pulls out of the
parking lot and the sun explodes on the bodywork. A sparrow takes flight. The
poetic rainbow of a puddle of oil at the foot of a truck. It could be a beautiful
day, really. In fact, it's a beautiful day apart from your tragedy. And if right
now you run out, and come home, and close your eyes with all your might until you
block out yesterday, maybe it won't be so difficult to make a patch. If you shut up
your mind, sooner or later you will forget. And Tallie and Paola? They too will end
up forgetting. So go ahead, you can do it, crush the memory, kick it to death, yell
at it to stop, get out, no, no, no.

That no that stuck in your throat just a few hours ago. When you
were darkness in the depth of the portal.

From behind the screen, Miriam listens to the scratching of a pen

and a flurry of papers being changed. A suppressed cough, a sigh, the doctor's
comfortable shoes moving padded across the vinyl floor. And more noises: the rails
of a drawer, screw lids, opening envelopes and unfolding pages, and whispers,
curtains, buzzing, noises of stretchers in the corridors. Miriam tries to ignore
it, it makes her nervous. That sordid and sordid hospital acoustics.

After half an hour in a green-painted waiting room, a nurse came

in and said his name, asking him to follow her through a series of galleries and
swinging doors. The pain is now a little different, a discomfort wedged between the
legs, like an endless pinch. The woman who attends her, and who is right now on the
other side of the screen, has explained to her that she is a gynecologist
specialized in sexual assaults, and then she has described, with great care, all
those things that they were going to have to do to her, and take him out, and put
him in.

Miriam finishes taking off her leggings inside out and leaves
them in a mess on the bench. Then the panties, which he folds into a neat little
square. Her legs shake violently as she slips into her paper gown.

When she comes out from behind the screen, the doctor turns with
a wry smile: come this way. And Miriam curls her toes and walks where he tells her.

“Stay standing,” he says now. When she received it, she

introduced herself as Nina or Nora, but she can't remember anymore, and in the
pocket of her gown she only has a little plate that says Dra. Balbi.

He stands in front of Miriam and runs his fingers through her

hair, her neck, her shoulders. He lifts her ponytail to look at the back of her
neck. The first thing he is going to do, he explains, is to look for bruises or
wounds, and he asks if he has any specific injury at that time. Miriam says no,
then lifts the skirt of her gown and shows him her skinned knee. She's dying of
shame, she shouldn't have shown it, it's not the result of any aggression, it's a
little schoolyard wound. And then he adds: actually, it's nonsense.

Dr. Balbi nods, says nothing.

Is there a part of your body that hurts?

"It's just...specifically..."

"Calm down, just tell me what you feel."

—I just don't feel... I don't know...

The woman purses her lips, leans towards her.

“Hey, everything's going to be okay,” he says.

 Miriam bites her cheeks from the inside, she doesn't think she
deserves that affection. Close your eyes, and focus on perceiving each stretch of
skin, each fiber of muscle. He moves his attention through the extremities, just as
they teach you to do in yoga videos. He's trying to discern if something really
hurts him, something in keeping with the context. And despite trying with all his
might, he is unable to register a sensation that stands out. Maybe the vagina?
Should I mention that pinch between the two legs? Or is it just a normal itch
caused by anxiety? A whirlwind of anguish blocks her breath. Wants to talk. Doubt.
He does not locate the type of pain that he believes is being demanded of him. That
pain when they dislocate your arm and throw you to the ground, and then they put it
in you while you struggle and scream. No, that kind of searing, raw-flesh pain
isn't what she's experienced. So just repeat:

I don't think I feel anything.

The doctor leans over to inspect the abdomen. She wears a loose
bow at the nape of the neck and up close the undulations of the hairpins, metallic
and golden, can be distinguished. Now touch the area of the arms. Miriam nods, puts
her feet together, feels the friction of one sock against the other. Several
bottles of Betadine and a box of bandages rest on one of the countertops. His eyes
shift there as the gynecologist holds his palms up toward the light, then goes over
his forearms and scrapes under his fingernails with tweezers.

“Here are the defense samples,” he explains.

Miriam feels like throwing up. What defense...? And then in a

very low voice, almost a whisper, he says: I haven't defended myself.

—It's okay, sometimes you can't. Almost never, actually.

Dr. Balbi's tone is calm, she seems to want to smile, but Miriam
is unable to return her gaze. This woman has finished a degree, has a diploma,
surely framed, and it is likely that she has already saved several lives, or at the
very least, she will have improved them. People will go there for advice and she
will tell them what to do, like a kind of oracle. Miriam sees herself, at that
moment, at the diametrically opposite point, at the bottom of the trophic pyramid
of the social hierarchy.

"Very good," says the doctor as she marks crosses on a piece of

paper. He gestures to Miriam and walks over to the stirrup chair. You can tell the
effort in his voice when he adds: "Now I'm going to give you an exploration where
you've been penetrated."

Miriam lowers her eyes to the ground. His blood turns to stone
and he has to make a terrible effort not to get dizzy. There is something inside
her throat that stands between her and all the oxygen in the room, as if her saliva
has grown thicker and her windpipe thinner, and suddenly she can only gobble up air
in loud, syncopated spasms.

—It's okay, we can stop when you need it.

The woman purses her lips and her mouth fills with small
wrinkles. There is something autumnal in her features, something that brings relief
and sadness at the same time.

Miriam twists her fingers.

"I'm just not sure the…where."

 Speculum, proctoscope, transducer. All that fauna of names that
sound like cold metal and rummaging through the cavities of the body. To map you
inside. Unfolded to the side of the table, the colposcope looks like a huge,
cowering insect, a creature from the Paleozoic. Miriam rests her hands on top of
her breastbone. Look at Dr. Balbi's head, moving closer and further away between
her legs. She doesn't quite know what she's doing, or looking for, and she tries to
focus on the curtains hanging to her right, thick and yellowish and stretched all
the way down the rail. Then a rattling sound, an eerie click. He looks for points
to stop his attention, the white reflection of light on the doorknobs, a poster on
the other side of the room where viruses are represented as colored monsters. Dr.
Balbi opens a piece of plastic, extracts one of those sticks that look like ear
buds, and Miriam begins to count: one, two, three, four, five. She breathes slowly,
her head turned to the side, towards the blue paneled screen that hides her clothes
behind. Notice an annoying tickle. But resist. Clench your teeth. She wants to
move, she wants to tear the digging hand from her body and scream: it doesn't
matter, it doesn't matter, I don't want to know!

And then he thinks of his mother, who will be at home still

asleep, or maybe just waking up, stirring her teaspoon in the coffee, unable to
imagine her daughter right now, with her legs spread and a woman taking pictures of
her vagina, shoving them into her. in an envelope where I might later write: Miriam
Dougan/rape.

They give him a hepatitis vaccine. They give her the

contraceptive pill. Some antibiotics for gonorrhea, chlamydia, syphilis. They ask
him to urinate in a pot, they take a blood sample. Is it to know if I'm drunk? The
doctor shakes her head as she presses the cotton against the puncture. He smiles
pityingly. Miriam deduces that this must be his most common smile, the way he'll
look at all the raped women who pass his office: oh no, it wasn't your fault, of
course you didn't goad him on.

When the tests are finally over, he points her to a door that
leads to a bathroom, and asks if she needs any items of clothing.

-Clothes?

"Yeah, a clean T-shirt or panties." We have garments of various

sizes.

Ah, Miriam understands. It must be for the other patients. The

ones that make it there alive by a hair's breadth, the ones that burst through the
emergency room, crying and shit scared, bleeding from the nose, with their
stockings ripped and the buttons on their blouses ripped off. That must be typical.
The natural. And that is why they offer spare clothes after the exploration.

But she. With her leggings intact. With the shirt spotless,
except for some insulting rings of sweat.

If you need clothes, they ask.

If you still don't know what you paint here.

 Report?

Nothing of that.

And this policeman? How did someone from the hospital inform
them?

But if you don't even know if. And also, what would you call.

Because using that word, rape, would be like insulting all the
women who have really been attacked, who screamed, who implored, who struggled to
escape. Women who had not previously sent photos of their tits or panties.

How are you going to explain it to the police? Where are the
marks, the bruises, the chapped lips?

Rape survivor. That's what they call it now. You are no longer
just a victim, you are a survivor. Survivor of what? Did they put a knife to your
neck? When has your life been in danger? Did they even threaten you?

No sir. If you didn't even try to stop them. Not even a feint.
And then the police will start asking questions. Why did you go with them? Did you
goad them? And what were you talking about? But now you don't remember, and then
they will say: calm down, reflect, take your time. As if it were that easy. That
time that they plant under your nose and that never fulfills its mission. That
dream. Because no one can ever take their time. Not in an exam, not in an
interview, not in a relationship. Let alone in front of the police, trying to
figure out what you said to those guys to get them to lead you into a doorway, pull
your panties down. There's no such thing as taking your time, time always comes to
an end before you're ready.

And you don't want to take your time.

You don't even want to be invited to do it.

So no. You are not going to report.

6:23 in the morning

Boy 1: good morning, we've fucked the fat one, it's recorded
(laughing emoji)

Boy 2: the Debutante has passed the test

Boy 1: the goat has done it all over the place and for having,
here we send you a video clip to animate breakfast

7:07 in the morning

 Boy 5: fuck..., if I find out, I'm not doing a double shift last
night

Boy 6: sons of bitches, I'm so envious (laughing emoji)

Boy 5: I'll break with the Goat and his faces to the camera while
he buggers her

Boy 4: I've gotten fine, what a load of eggs, kids

Boy 6: and the rookie? man, kaplan, say something, are you proud?
have you passed the test?

Boy 3: in heaven, guys, putting a sandwich between my chest and

back, a full stomach and light eggs. Alex has chosen well, I can't complain, nice
tits

Boy 1: I've been good, I wasn't that fat

Boy 6: Is it the one you took to drink the gin and tonics at the
beach?

Boy 1: that same one

Boy 2: what a seduction job, he had to snog her beforehand.

Boy 1: I didn't morreé (vomit emoji), in the car I was scared

that he threw himself at my neck

Boy 2: yeah, but it's good that he rubbed her tits today

Boy 1: yes, haha, field work, but our kaplan has been the star,
although he almost got the goat

Boy 5: hahahaha, piece

Boy 6: so he has passed the test, right? kaplan has hairs on its
balls

Boy 1: like boat ropes

Boy 6: I've already seen the video, glorious

Guy 4: fat slut

12:12 noon

Guy 5: hey guys, four men have been arrested for sexual assault
at parties on the esplanade... that's not you, is it?

Boy 7: no, damn, how are they going to be

Boy 6: why would it be them?

 Boy 5: because there are four guys with one kettle

Boy 7: but these haven't raped anyone, dammit

Boy 6: sure, kid, don't freak out

Boy 5: The chick on the news is eighteen, Alex said the one on
tinder was a chick

Boy 7: but was he younger?

Boy 5: no, I think not

Boy 6: man, they don't get the messages, their phones are turned
off

Boy 5: all four?

Guy 7: damn, they say the detainees are between twenty-two and
twenty-six. just like them

Boy 6: let's see, let's relax, how are they going to rape anyone?
Alex also showed me the messages they sent each other: what if eating pussies, what
if threesomes, sodomized... She even sent him naked photos

Boy 5: that calms me down

Boy 7: del Chivo I believe anything, hahaha

Boy 6: they'll have run out of battery and they'll be soggy with
a hangover from milk

Boy 5: damn, it's on the news and I'm sure it's them, everything
adds up

Boy 6: seriously???

Guy 7: I'm screwed up guys

Boy 7: They say they are from the port area and that some have
records of reckless driving and public disorder.

Boy 7: and also reports of theft

Boy 6: like the goat and the papke, damn

Guy 5: fuck, fuck, fuck

A pull from behind. A hand that holds his shoulder tight and
dislodges his shirt. And this kid, whom everyone calls the Student, and who is at
that moment on the dance floor, full of music and alcohol, deduces that whoever
grabs him like that, pulling his shirt, can only be one of them. his colleagues.
When he turns around, he has a smile on his lips. That automatic smile of moments
of glory. And suddenly the Student stiffens, contracts his muscles. And the smile
fades.

But what the hell...

Because it turns out that the one who has held his shoulder is a
policeman. And when the boy looks around, he sees his comrades, cornered by more
policemen who are signaling for them to come with them, to walk towards the exit.
Let them move right now without protest.

You are wrong, officer. We have not done anything.

Judging by his tone, it sounds like the Student is more upset

than scared. The joint that he has hidden in his wallet comes to mind. And also
Goat's little bag of marijuana, with what a jerk Goat is. If only the custodian was
Ray Papke... But hey, don't worry, it can't be that they get a cigar for that
nonsense. It is also that this policeman, damn, what a face of few friends. And
then: keep going. They enter an alleyway that smells of fish and damp clothes. And
now the Student is given to speculating: nothing happens, it will be another
anecdote to upset us later in the WhatsApp group, it's a pity that Kaplan is
missing it. Kaplan... Let's see how he finds them later, they were supposed to meet
at...

Get some document that identifies you.

So this is serious. Now they will demand that they empty their
pockets and then it's all over. The joint. The bag of grass. But not. They don't
seem interested in that, and while two of the policemen check their information,
the other tells them to lift their shirts, that they need to take some pictures.

Sorry?

You are accused of sexual assault.

But how. Why's that?

It seems that the salami sandwich that this other guy —the Kaplan
— has put between his chest and back a while ago, hasn't suited him at all well. He
perceives a certain movement through his stomach, as if it were full of lumps. And
to top it off, he has cut his palate with an edge of bread. However, except for
these minor incidents, so far everything was going great, and the Kaplan, who is
fresh as a rose, was on his way to meet his colleagues to continue partying for a
few more hours.

And look where, here there is no party worth it. His friends
arrive with a funeral face. What the hell is going on? They massage their temples,
snort, cross their arms and uncross them. That gibberish of gestures that infect
each other. Because it turns out that they are denounced. The four of them. El
Chivo kicks the trunk of a tree. The Student fills his cheeks with air. Only Ray
Papke maintains his composure.

I freak out, guys.

But are you kidding?

No, damn, how are we going to play jokes with that.

 But denounced for what, have you messed it up? Can't you be left
alone for a little while?

He is referring to the little time that he has spent waiting in

line for the sandwiches, and then drinking a coffee, and a little later, walking
his dog while examining the wound on his palate with his tongue. A wound that he no
longer feels, that no longer exists, just as the heartburn that five minutes ago
left an aftertaste of bile in his mouth no longer exists. Sleep, tiredness, or
anything else no longer exists, because this new mishap kicks out any other type of
concern from his head.

It's starting to get sweltering hot. Kaplan moves toward the

patch of shadow cast by a tree on the sidewalk. Fit your fingers into the belt
loops of your pants. But see, it has to be a mistake. Take your phone out of your
back pocket and open WhatsApp without any particular intention. Above all, the last
conversation is that of the group with colleagues. Goat's phrase: fat whore, where
Kaplan blurs his eyes until the letters lose density. How good they were there. How
did they laugh? Putting the long teeth to those who couldn't get out because they
had exams, or work, or simply because they are henpecked.

He takes a breath and looks back at his friends. He scratches his

neck in a slow, misplaced gesture, and insists on an area reddened by a pimple.

Well, seriously now. You, Alex, do you swear by your mother?

Yes, damn.

And why are they suing us?

For sexual assault and crime of damages.

Oh. Kaplan feels a small warmth of relief in his chest. Well then
it is obvious that they have been confused, we have not done any of that.

That's what I want to think, that they have been confused.

Let's see, there is no other explanation. They will be looking

for others.

I guess.

And from what we have been told, there is also a medical part.

Oh, do you see? Now she forces a laugh, pats the hood of a parked
car. It is impossible for there to be a medical report for the portal. I assure
you, impossible. Besides, what the hell is that about the crime of damages? In
short, I have a very clear conscience. And in the worst case, we can show them the
videos, there is no way to refute that.

What Kaplan expects when he's done speaking is a murmur of

approval, a chorus of appeased smiles, but what he gets is nothing more than a
sigh, a throat clearing. A sentence that does not start. And again that orchestra
of diffuse gestures.

Do not understand. How is it possible that things have gone wrong

like this, without rhyme or reason, after a spectacular night. Kaplan leans against
the door of a parked car and chews on a fingernail. Ray Papke is in front, his eyes
fixed on the gravel, so wide they could almost fall to the ground. And the
temperature continues to rise, the shirts reveal the critical points of
perspiration. Seagulls are heard on the pier, more and more irritating and more
numerous.

El Chivo lets out an incredulous laugh. He furrows his brows into

a pout, like a child who has just been given an unfair and disproportionate
scolding.

Do you think the videos will be proof enough?, he asks.

Kaplan stops chewing on his nail.

Well, of course, it's all there.

You're right, the Goat snorts, you can see everything there. You
can see how he enjoyed it. The very dirty

In the procedural phase in which we find ourselves, the forensic

experts unequivocally maintain, and after submitting their opinion to conditions of
effective contradiction, that the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder are
met.

According to the Psychological Expert Evidence, specified in the

reports of the Psychiatrist and the Forensic Psychologist, the complainant reacted
intuitively to the situation in which she found herself, and adopted an unconscious
attitude of passivity, known as tonic immobility. This reaction consists of a state
of involuntary paralysis in which individuals are unable to react, move, and
sometimes even speak. It usually occurs along with other symptoms, such as
numbness, drop in blood pressure, feeling cold, fear for one's life, mental
dissociation, and collapse.

The Forensic Doctors, ratifying their extensive report, have

specified that in the face of a dangerous situation, the rational response of the
upper brain is annulled, and they act with the primitive brain of the limbic
system.

In another order of things, through expert evidence, it is

detailed that victims of sexual assaults who suffer tonic immobility show a greater
probability of developing anxiety disorders or post-traumatic stress over time.
This is due to the feeling of guilt associated with the inability to defend oneself
or ask for help.

In up to 70% of cases, according to some reports, victims of

sexual violence experience tonic immobility.

Although it is not an unusual circumstance, Miriam is surprised

to find the house empty and silent. He doesn't remember very well how he made his
way back, he has barely been aware of most of the transitions, and even external
stimuli seemed to approach him cautiously: slow, blurry, muffled. For that reason,
he expected a rush of relief as he closed the door behind him, a kind of
clairvoyance and muscle strain. But the proximity to his real world: his mother's
slippers under the coat rack, the dishes drying on the draining rack, the
precarious comfort of his list of movies yet to be seen, all those details that
once armored his life and made it so predictable, they now seem anomalous and
inopportune. And for a moment she is tempted to go outside again.

But of course.

Where to.

Miriam drops the keys in the siphonier, and although she

considers locking the bolt and even the security chain, in the end she does
neither. His mother has a morning shift today and won't be back until four or five.
That takes a weight off her mind, she doesn't know if she would be able to hide it.

Look around. If I kept my ability to discern intact, I might

think: I'm going to shower, I'm going to scrub every inch of skin with my horsehair
glove, I'm going to disinfect my soul. And yet she simply drops her bag on the
carpet and rests her hands on the recliner. She closes her eyes, squeezing them
until her lids burst into sharp white prisms. I wish it was already night. He plops
down on the end of the sofa and kicks off his slippers without undoing the laces.
The clothes bother her, the elastic of the leggings, the wrinkled and dirty shirt
from the day before. The contact lenses scratch your corneas. She knows she should
take them off for her eyes, but she can't move, change her position, cover her
chills with the blanket her mother has folded over the back, squaring off all the
corners perfectly. Miriam crouches to the side, tucking her legs in like a half-
open razor. Note the saline-soaked panties worn on the scan. It stings. Now yes,
more than before. The stomach jerks reflex spasms. And remember: he hasn't eaten
since yesterday. But from yesterday just a few hours ago, when she was sitting on
the lawn of the esplanade, gathering her hair into a ponytail and letting it down
again. She feels nauseated, closes her eyes, and after a few minutes, falls asleep.

It's almost five when his mother arrives. As is her custom, she
comes loaded with supermarket bags and a couple of dresses she just picked up at
the dye shop hang from her arm. Miriam makes a little noise as she wakes up from a
fitful sleep. Open your eyes. Listen to the dry steps that enter the kitchen. A
dragged chair. The plastic of the bags that crumble as Pattie unloads the cartons
of milk, the frozen tartare, the cans of tuna.

"Didn't you see my note?"

"What note?"

Miriam sits up, her eyes dry, her contact lenses hard as paper.
He scratches an eyelid with his knuckle. And all the previous hours they ram it at
once.

“I left you a note that there were chicken tenders in the fridge.

A pause, the cushioned click of the freezer door, and then:

-You have not eaten?

"It's just that I wasn't hungry."

"What time did you arrive?"

 -Don't know. Soon.

-How's it going?

Miriam snorts, rests her forehead against the back of the sofa.
His mother never asks as much.

“I heard at the clinic,” Pattie continues, “that a group of men

have been arrested for raping a girl.

A rush of icy wind, a hot prick to the eardrums. Miriam swallows,

and when she is about to respond, she expels nothing more than a spasm:

- Oh...

—I've been calling you but your mobile was turned off.

Across the hall, he sees his mother framed by the rectangle of

the kitchen door. The window in the background with its crochet curtains.

“Not that I was worried,” Pattie protests, “but come on, you
could hang on the phone a little bit.

Miriam doesn't respond. You haven't really heard it. Or not the
entire sentence. The sound of the words comes to him slow and glassy. As something
that she must take care of receiving, and then put it through her ears to her
brain, to once there, provide it with a meaning.

—What beastly people there are in the world, really.

Pattie speaks to the dye ticket. He shakes his head and slides
his finger across the paper. Miriam clears her throat.

"And who... how did you find out about that?"

—A woman who has come to remove some papillomas has told us. But
then it's been on the news.

-In the news?

Miriam gasps, takes her phone out of her bag, and then remembers
that the screen is still in pieces, that she had to wipe it with her sleeve, that
the puddle that flowed from the overturned vats had the shape of the Scandinavian
peninsula. His face burns. Driven by a mechanical instinct, she gets up quickly and
walks to a small decorative sun-shaped mirror on the wall opposite the sofa.

At least she brushed her hair well in the hospital and washed off
the remains of her makeup. It doesn't look so bad then. No, right? Go back to the
couch. He touches the bandage that has been put on his knee and retrieves the
mobile from between the cushions.

"... so I haven't quite figured out what happened." Pattie washes

the tomatoes one at a time under the running sink. He is placing them in a row on a
checked cloth. We heard about it at the lunch break, but I suppose there will be
more on the evening news. You have to be careful at those parties, with all the
people who go and the alcohol involved...

Miriam says nothing. He is pressing the power button of the

mobile with all his might. A tangle of thoughts clots in the back of his throat.
And meanwhile, inside the kitchen, the tap in the sink turns off, a window opens,
her mother yawns and walks past her with the consistency of an ectoplasm, she asks
something, a simple phrase, but Miriam doesn't function in the same way anymore.
revolutions. Still scrambling data, she's stuck at the seam between those two
worlds: the one where she started the avalanche by filing a complaint, and this
other, where her mom yawns and buys frozen tartare and lines up tomatoes on top of
a plaid rag. .

The mobile then emits a faint vibration, like a nervous insect.

Miriam holds her breath. The screen turns on. The waddle of the logo pixelated by
the cracks. And a mute vertigo that twists his guts. Because during the many
seconds it takes you to enter your password and the damn pin number and hit the
keys with the wounds on the screen, all kinds of conjectures roll through your
head, each more macabre. If you will have any messages, or perhaps hundreds.

Is that you, Miriam Dougan, the one in the video with your tops
in the air? Are you the guest star in that bit of orgy?

He returns to the living room. His fingers tremble as he waits

for the cell phone to spit out the last twelve hours.

Fifteen wasaps from four conversations.

Mom: are you home? / have you arrived yet?

Irene (Cousin): beautiful, see you at grandma's next week? / how

about the holidays, by the way?

Vix: hello dog, how are you with your love? / are you home yet? /
how strong, they have arrested some guys at parties / damn it, stop groping

Paola Landy: hello Miriam, how are you? / I'm Paola, I don't know
if you've seen the news, the guys have been arrested, call me if you need
anything / I'm glad you filed the complaint at the end / I'm sorry I was so
annoying, I felt really bad giving you the talk right after you You're going
through something so traumatic, but I think you've done well / well, call me
later / hello again / I guess you don't feel like talking to anyone, I hope you're
okay

"Would you like to have the steaks for dinner, or can I make you
something else?"

Miriam looks away from her phone and looks at her mother with
exhausted eyes. He is going to answer, but his lips are glued together, his saliva
clayey.

"I'm not hungry," he says.

"But have you eaten anything all day?" He listens from the
kitchen.

"Yeah, a bun...

In that instant, Miriam realizes that she had better be quick and
keep an eye out. From now on, you're going to have to reshape a lot of lies as you
go.

-One cake. Pattie clicks her tongue and chains him up with a
snort to make it clear she's not amused. Then don't nag me about buying you healthy
food and skimmed milk and whole wheat bread.

She has finished packing, and as she passes into the living room,
she goes directly to the window to open the curtains.

"What are you doing in the dark?" -says.

Miriam places her hand over her eyes. The light that enters from
the street is white and biting, so unreal that it seems capable of unleashing
monstrous chemical reactions. A few steps from her, Pattie has stopped and is
looking at her carefully. The neck cocked and one hand on the waist, like a jug
with a single handle. With her other hand she holds the plastic bags from the dry
cleaners.

-Is something the matter?

—No, nothing... I'm just super tired.

"Is that yesterday's clothes?"

A neutral gesture. Silence.

“My goodness. Pattie sighs. Take a shower and go to bed early.

She then changes dresses by hand and dodges a magazine rack on

her way to the hallway. Miriam remains seated between the cushions for a few more
minutes. Little by little, his eyes get used to the clarity. Through the open
windows comes a summer noise, and the sky is still a pale blue as far as the eye
can see. Recline the neck on the backrest. You perfectly imagine the ecosystem that
is bustling down there right now. People shuffling along the sidewalks, bus engines
growling at the intersection, the unsteady staccato of a piano lesson. This is the
other life, it is said, the one I have put aside. Her eyes are fixed on an arc of
light on the ceiling, and the sudden ringing of her cell phone takes her breath
away.

The police, think.

Hospital.

Television.

They.

But the name flashing on the screen is Vix. Miriam silences the
phone. He hides it under a cushion to take his breath away. Does not matter. The
microfiber padding transmits intermittent buzzes to you. On the fourth shake he
takes it out and puts the device to his ear.

“Vix,” he says.

"Wow, finally. How are you?

"Okay, I was groping.

"I already figured it out." Are you going to the demonstration

this afternoon?

"What demonstration?"
 "Fuck, did you rub yourself or did you go into hibernation?" Vix
blows a laugh into the microphone. That means last night was fine, right? I want to
know everything with hair and signs.

"Uh...yes, I'll tell you."

In the gap of silence left by Miriam, Vix's enthusiasm deflates.

So a guttural sound, an incredulous giggle on the other end of the line.

-That's it? Nothing else? Damn, you must have a hangover. Vix
breathes into the earpiece. Well, can we meet up later and tell me?

The register of his voice has changed, and now he uses a sober,
cautious tone. Miriam swallows.

"I don't think I'm going out today," she says, "I'm exhausted."
She pauses instinctively, waiting for Vix to protest, but hearing no reaction. And
Miriam, who is beginning to fear silence, as if silence could suddenly split open
and expose all its secrets, adds to be more credible: "I want to sleep."

Vix sighs.

—Well, sleep later... Aren't you going to go to the demonstration

or anything? I'm meeting Hugo, and maybe Jordan and the others will join me later.
Although, who knows, he's stuck to Paola like a limpet...

Miriam listens. Let Vix's words drip down your skin. All those
names now sound far away and stiff. Jordan, you see... And Paola, who until
yesterday was nothing more than a flurry of clothes smelling of flowers, the flurry
of a blonde ponytail at the classroom door, a jingle of laughter.

Twenty-four hours ago they hardly spoke to each other. Miriam

only had her phone number memorized in the agenda to gossip about WhatsApp
statuses. But when leaving the police station, Paola was so solicitous: I'm going
to give you my number, she insisted, and Miriam had to pretend to write it down.

Twenty-four hours ago, the parties hadn't even started.

Exactly twenty-four hours ago, Miriam was in her room with both
closet doors open. Passing the irons through his hair lock by lock. Listening to a
playlist of soundtracks, and smearing perfumed cream on her neckline while choosing
the right shirt for her rape.

A headline: FOUR ARRESTED FOR AN ALLEGED SEXUAL ASSAULT.

A superimposed sign on the screen: THE DEMONSTRATION WILL AFFECT

TRAFFIC IN THE DOWNTOWN AREA.

A reporter who smooths her hair when the camera catches her off
guard and then purses her lips into a tense rictus. Behind him, banners and lines
of policemen, and screaming mouths, and people walking down the road with their
palms up.

Under this image, a text: RAPE AT THE FESTIVITIES OF THE PLAZA DE

LOS FRANCESES.

A councilwoman from who knows what party asking people to take to

the streets, not to remain impassive. Banners that say: FOR A WORLD WITHOUT SEXUAL
ASSAULTS. A booth that distributes pamphlets. Pamphlets of what? And also stickers
and badges for the lapels of the jackets. All very populous and entertaining.

A chain of people linking arms.

A girl who shakes her head and complains about insecurity.

And more claims on the screen.

Breaking news: SPONTANEOUS CONCENTRATION AGAINST SEXUAL VIOLENCE.

Pattie Dougan blows on the glass of tea she's just heated in the
microwave, a haze of steam fogging her glasses. She sets them aside on the armrest
and, after rubbing her eyes, glances at her daughter, who is wrapped in a blanket
in the corner of the sofa, motionless and hunched over, even though it's not cold.
She's also worried that she hasn't had a bite to eat, and says she doesn't feel
like going out tonight, so Pattie asks, perhaps for the third time, but changing
the word order, verb choice, even intonation, What? are you sure nothing is wrong?

Miriam says no. She doesn't change her tactic. Use the same
words, the same tone of voice. If anything, accompany your response with a brief
shrug of the shoulders to add truthfulness.

Close-up of the reporter in the Plaza de los Franceses. A crowd

of people behind him, some stop to say hello. They remain in the surroundings
sucking camera.

«Concentration of revulsion for the sexual assault of an

eighteen-year-old girl. Police have arrested four men and are continuing their
investigations."

Panoramic views of the esplanade. From the streets where they

walked, where they turned. The crossroads and parks where they stopped to roll a
few joints. Garage. That garage, the kiss, the hickey. A close-up of the portal. It
looks different in daylight. The white brick façade , the golden mailboxes bolted
to a marble wall, a ramp for people with reduced mobility. He never noticed any of
that.

Come on, hurry up, get in.

Miriam feels like throwing up, but she doesn't move an inch from
her body. She is terrified that any gesture or comment could help her mother fit
the pieces together. And she senses that all of her body's routines, even the most
basic and daily ones—breathing, scratching, coughing—are expressed at a higher
volume than usual, as if they were conspiring to give her away. So take a breath in
slowly, let it out slowly, swallow slowly. If she could tell her pulse to shut up,
she would. In a commercial break, she reaches for the phone, her fingers shaking.
He just wants to pretend that everything is fine, that he's not interested in
what's on the news. That this is clearly another woman's nightmare. The mobile
screen emits a light. A message from Tinder. Panic fills her belly.
 Because Miriam believes, or suspects, although deep down she
knows it's completely impossible, that there are millions of factors that point to
her. And that if he opens the Tinder profile, he will be there: whore, how dare
you. So he immediately deletes the app, uninstalls it from his phone, and throws
the blanket over himself again. The heart beats wildly in the neck vein.

"Hey, is your phone broken?" Pattie has just sat up and is

holding the cup with the remains of tea in her hand.

"No... I mean, I dropped it last night."

Pattie stays still. It looks like he's going to say something, a

scolding maybe. But it doesn't.

"Well... we'll buy another one." A silence. A strange silence,

and then—: do you want something from the kitchen?

Miriam scratches her eye to displace a tear. With a small voice

he says: no.

They say there were some videos, but have you seen them? Damn, of
course I've seen them, they were running around, the Armstrong guys passed them by,
but nobody has them anymore or nobody wants to admit that they have them because
apparently it's a crime to have them. Maybe even see them, who knows.

Lukas doesn't really know if it's true, or if they're just

exaggerating to let him know. Those in the group sometimes do.

And what came out, what was seen? Well, to Bufi giving
everything. The kid who is talking and who swears by his dead that he has seen the
video, furrows a wicked smile. He places his fist in front of his mouth and as he
moves it, he also moves his tongue against his cheek, simulating, just like, a tail
meal. The girls always protest when they see them make that gesture, they call them
pigs, brats, disgusting. To annoy them, they repeat it over and over again. In the
middle of classes, in the lunch line, from the bus window.

Yeah, but what were we going to. In the video what exactly
appears? What do you think who have seen it? Does it seem like he wanted or didn't
want to? Oscar Bartolomeu shrugged. Boy, no idea, I would say yes, because she's
there quietly doing everything, and she doesn't struggle, she doesn't resist, and
she doesn't even make a disgusted face when she puts them in her mouth. But look, I
don't say anything, I might as well go to jail. And I don't want anyone to call me
a degenerate.

Well, I'm going to confess what I think. I think that she wanted
to, that at the beginning she was so flat, and that in the middle of the matter, or
towards the end, more or less, she began to regret it, because damn, she was being
a slutty partygoer, and even so, well, she continued , and that's when she realized
that they were recording her, that she could be seen sticking her tongue out the
back door, you know what I mean.

This guy who talks so much, Charlie Koch, boasts that he is very
knowledgeable. The other kids like him because in his comics he always uses
insightful metaphors. Saber cleaning, meat stab, push off the stern. And really, I
wish you had seen the videos. I freaked out with that aunt. Sure, pretty, you go
slutty, and then you die of shame, so it's easier to say that you didn't want to,
that you were forced, that you were on drugs, drunk, or scared shitless, that you
were afraid for your life, damn it, You have to have a face to say that, that you
feared for your life. That way you get rid of being labeled a whore, which is what
this Miriam Dougan is, if you're interested in knowing. But hey, it's my opinion.

Then there are others who say nothing. They know those guys by
sight, who to tell the truth, are some pieces —beware, some pieces, that from there
to rapists goes a long way. But in the end, the four of them are perfectly normal,
like you and me.

Jordan sits on a bench in the shade of a tree behind the

basketball court. Light a cigarette and look at the bits of cloudy sky peeking
through the saffron leaves. When the others arrive and surround him, then things
like: I don't know, man, it's better not to comment, people are loudmouths. Then a
rumor of ephemeral murmurs, to which Jordan sometimes joins: we are not the ones to
judge.

But he knows that he only says it because he is somewhat fond of

her and because they go to the same high school, and that if she were some random
aunt, from another street and from another school, then most likely he would also
be laughing, watching the videos on loop and cackling: stop it there, look how he
sucks it, how disgusting it is, the very pig.

He turns to Lukas, who has leaned against the back of the bench,
and waits for the joint to be passed to him while he devours a packet of crackers.

-You have talked with her? -He tells.

And Lukas gives himself a pause. He puts his hand to his mouth
until he finishes chewing.

-I? -reply-. No way.

It was her grandmother's birthday last week. Eighty. So today he

celebrates it at his house with a massive feast. From under the tangle of sheets,
Miriam struggles to convince herself that reality will not be as terrible as what
is taking place in her fantasy. All that scenery waiting to test your anxiety. The
garlands, the balloons, the little bows, the two tables, the fauna of chairs and
stools, the plates overflowing with crab sandwiches, coleslaw. And then that influx
of adults pouring out of the corners, holding glasses, cigarette cases, lighters,
glasses; questioning her about exams and the summer. What if you already have a
boyfriend?

Miriam rolls over on the pillow and squeezes her eyes shut, she
just wants the day to end, to go home, to crawl back under the duvet. She doesn't
want to talk, or ask people what's up, or have them ask her. He is not even able to
hear. His brain has become a flabby and softened mass, a permeable plaster through
which concepts enter that sound like something to him, but that he cannot manage to
spin into a texture. And of course, impossible to study. The books have been
resting in the same position on his desk for days. The yellow marker inserted
between the Economics notes, indicating the unit where he stayed reading the
afternoon before.

—I don't understand why you're so lazy to go to your

grandmother's party. Pattie heels into the bedroom. He adjusts his shirt collar and
takes off the silver pendant that he only wears for birthdays and for the clinic's
Christmas dinner. Don't you even feel like seeing your cousins?

And Miriam turns on her side on the mattress.

-No.

Temperatures have dropped slightly compared to the previous week.

The sun reflects off the cars, on the recently watered grass, it brings out
iridescent sparkles from the metal tables of the cafes. They walk slowly. Pattie
buttoning up her little cotton jacket, Miriam with the new cell phone in hand. She
has just read her cousin Irene's wasap —firecracker, what time are you arriving?—,
and then she sweeps the two missed calls from Paola Landy from the screen. Since
the last time she saw her – on Friday when she left the police station – Paola has
tried to contact her on several occasions, but Miriam has not responded. His mother
nudges him on the elbow.

"Are you angry?" -ask.

-No.

"But something's wrong with you.

Miriam makes a face.

"No, the exams.

Before the door is opened for them, he strategically positions

himself behind his mother. She hasn't seen any of these people in months, and
Miriam allows them to hug her and look her up and down and comment: how old you
are. Also that they take the liberty of announcing that she seems tired, and that
surely you went out to a party yesterday, rascal. And she smiles, says: yes. To
others, on the other hand, he says: no, I have exams. But he doesn't remember who
he told what things to. It's a good plan actually, she thinks, I'm going to
complain that I don't feel well, that I'm dizzy, and so they'll put me in a room
with the shutters closed. In addition, it is totally true, he does not see himself
capable of swallowing even a gram of that joy.

She hasn't finished crossing the hall yet, and her grandmother
has already forced a crab canapé into her mouth. Two of his uncles ask him about
the parties on the esplanade: yes, many concerts. He passes by, diverts his eyes to
the ground. The sweet taste of the crab makes him gag, and he grabs a napkin and
spits it out. It's only a matter of time before someone drops it: did you hear that
a girl was raped in your neighborhood? Then the tap on the back. Irene smiles. Hi
cousin. She wears a thin silk top and a bulging ponytail that sprouts from the
crown of her head. Miriam smiles too. Trying not to touch her with the napkin, she
responds to the hug in which her cousin envelops her. He finds her thinner and
blonder every time he sees her.

"I was waiting for you," Irene says, and then she adds, lowering
her voice, "let's go smoke outside."

Miriam nods. One of her aunts—Irene's mother—is wiping a damp

cloth over a flower-patterned oilcloth.

-Where are you going?

"To the street," says Irene.

—And what are you going to do in the street?

With the exception of her mother, Miriam is enervated by almost

all the adults in the family. She doesn't understand their eagerness to inquire
into their lives and then ridicule their tragedies by making a fuss and rolling
their eyes: "you know, her boyfriend dumped her", "she's got a really stupid
complex about pimples", "everything the holy day complaining that she has no tits
». At least Pattie doesn't do any of that. When he intrudes into her life, Miriam
knows it, it's always for a sensible reason. I didn't even bother her when she was
little. He didn't keep asking her what they were up to, or why they were locking
the door, and he didn't force her to ration the bags of sweets either. His cousins,
on the other hand, had to be content with choosing two jelly beans and watching
their parents take care of the rest.

Now Irene's mother is questioning her non-stop, where are they

going, for how long, to make sure they come back before one o'clock. Pattie watches
the scene briefly and returns to the conversation about probiotics with her other
cousin Margot, who is chatty and pregnant. Miriam sighs, noticing that the napkin
where the crab has spat out is softening with moisture. Margot ends the chatter
with some quip, and everyone bursts out laughing. Someone notices Miriam, who
hasn't laughed, or not with the expected intensity: hey, Miriam, you're gone, they
tell her. And another guest observes, for the umpteenth time, that she looks tired.

“I bet you had a pingo night,” Margot says, stroking her belly.

"No," Pattie says, "she didn't go out yesterday," and she

immediately purses her lips grimly.

"I have to study," says Miriam.

He still hasn't considered how he will manage to wriggle out of

that lie. When it is impossible for him to hide that he has not studied, that he
has not passed any, despite the fact that he never leaves the room.

How does he do the exams, they ask him.

- Well, neither fu nor fa.

Irene snorts next to him. He waves his arms as his mother doesn't
stop giving him the talk.

"And how many do you have left?"

—Economics and Mathematics.

"Your uncle can teach you."

 Miriam nods, sounds like a typical afternoon gone to waste.
Snacking millefeuille and juice from a bottle while his uncle explains to him what
mathematics was like in the seventies.

-It's not necessary thanks.

And also for what. Every time you stare at any surface—a book, a
movie, the bathroom curtains—you completely lose track of time. Reality unfolds in
alternative outcomes: if I had stayed with Vix later, if I had gone back with
Jordan. And then, how could it be otherwise:

"Hey, did you go to the esplanade parties?" Margot's voice,

sweet, high-pitched, the typical middle-aged woman eagerly scraping up the
leftovers of youth. I think they played Waves of Glory. What concerts did you see?

Miriam buries her free hand in her pocket to stop it from

shaking, but she doesn't know what to do with the other, the one holding the wet
napkin. His brain doesn't work as fast, and he needs to come up with more lies. An
assortment of fictions to fill in all that gap in time that he spent on his knees
in the portal.

"That's where they raped that one, right?" —says one of his
uncles as he takes a canapé to his mouth.

"Yes," says another. And the absent gesture with which one
changes the channel when a cataclysm in Cambodia comes on for the fifth time.

So Irene:

-Did you go to the manifestation?

And one more contribution from the terrace door:

"Do you already know who the sons of bitches are?"

"There were four guys from the port area," Irene points out. Some
had priors. And even girlfriends.

Miriam inhales and exhales. With the diaphragm, as they advise

people with fear of flying. His knees are shaking. He takes a seat in the corner of
the sofa, and watches as someone takes out their cell phone and another shells out
a guess. They spit out words that are familiar to them: aggression, detainees,
portal. The girl from the rape, they say, that girl who was abused. What are we
going to see, he listens to his cousin snort, she would be a bit slutty.

"And when are the exams?"

Miriam looks up. His uncle, the one from the math classes.

-So then...

He scratches the bitten enamel. Pretend you think. He does not

remember the dates of the exams. In ten days, more or less. What she does not
forget is that on Friday of that same week she must go to the hospital to be
checked again and ask if she has taken all the medicines correctly. Then they will
give you another appointment. More analysis. In order to rule out infections,
papillomavirus, the definitive possibility of pregnancy.
 In a little piece of kitchen paper she has hidden a white pill.
The last dose of the antibiotic for chlamydia and syphilis. HIV treatment lasts
longer. Four weeks. And even so, he will have to repeat the test two more times
before he forgets about the bloody disease forever. Miriam is not pessimistic in
that sense, but there are times when it takes a tremendous effort to appease her
anguish. Every morning, as soon as she gets up, she walks straight to the bathroom
and swallows the pills in the sink faucet. Then again at night, after brushing his
teeth. He tries not to run into his mother in the hallway. Sometimes he hears her
humming as she folds towels or waters the plants, and then she wants to cry like
hell. Right now too, with all those people giving the ember. He imagines what it
would be like to suddenly drop it: I don't remember the date of the exams, but in
two months I have to repeat the AIDS tests. I am the abused girl. With what face
would they look at her, what silence would accompany such an explosion. A silence
of death, type Hiroshima. So seedy and disturbing.

The street lamps are already on when they get off the bus. They
are loaded with bags of Tupperware and a pot of orchids that Grandma gave Miriam
while the farewells dragged on: for your room, daughter, flowers give a lot of
peace. And she has not been able to discern if it was a general comment or if it
was dedicated to her particular state of mind.

Then, all the way back, Pattie hasn't stopped pestering her with
how she's doing, if something's wrong with her, and okay Miriam please don't lie to
me.

"Oh, mom, I'm not lying to you," he protested. And that she was
only worried about exams.

The late August sunset brings a breeze that smells of the ocean,
and on the horizon, the sky is a mauve so amazing it could be a set for a musical.
Miriam is saddened by that, all that beauty that she is not in a position to
appreciate. When they head up the street, almost at the height of his building, he
distinguishes the silhouette of a girl who looks familiar to him. He has smooth,
straight hair, his eyes riveted to the tips of his platform Converse, and he
wanders around with his hands shoved into his pockets. Miriam slows down, clutching
the Tupperware bag to her ribs. Her mother has been talking to her for a while
about her cousin Margot and how pregnant women shouldn't dye their hair. And this
is where Miriam has stopped paying attention, because Paola is right there in front
of her, right in the middle of her trajectory, and it is impossible to dodge her to
reach the portal.

When Paola spots them in turn, she waves her hand and walks in
their direction. It is perceived in the length of his strides that he is holding
back so as not to go faster, so as not to run. It is surely a default reaction.

"Hello," he greets.

"Man, Paula! Pattie smiles too. He looks at his daughter with

undisguised surprise. Had you stayed?

"No, well..." says Paola. It's just that I wanted to ask Miriam
something about the exams.” Her tone is so hesitant and clipped that it's obvious
she's made up an answer on the spot.

"Ah, very good, do you also have some recovery?"

 -No.

Pattie nods awkwardly, and Miriam squeezes the tuppers even

harder against her stomach. He is not able to guess what kind of expression his
face is making up. Suddenly, the street is filled with shop windows and open
windows, and an intense smell of seasoned meat begins to come from inside the bars.
There, in the middle of the sidewalk, the three women look like three first-time
actresses who have forgotten whose turn it is to say the next line. Pattie changes
the arm pot and looks at her daughter: well, I'll see you at home, resolve. She
then says goodbye to Paola, and Miriam watches her walk away. She has a feeling
that she is going to continue walking towards the doorway, that she is going to
take out the bunch of keys at any moment and that she is going to leave it lying
there. But no, because thank God, Pattie veers her way and pushes through the door
of the electrical store a few steps ahead.

"I'm sorry for introducing myself like that," Paola says then.
It's just that I didn't know anything about you... and I wanted to ask how you are.

Miriam nods mechanically.

-I'm fine thanks.

-Sure?

-Yes, sure.

Paola's hair is loose, parted in a strict part, as if it had been

drawn with a scalpel. Exactly the same hairstyle as the day of. The day that In the
morning. Miriam can't stop looking at it, at that glowing white line like a track
of silica streaking through a rye glare, and then she feels the line widen,
meander, break in two, and suddenly it's a gap that regurgitates memories: the
bactericidal smell of the waiting room, the walls painted green. The rainbow in an
oil stain.

"I also wanted to tell you," Paola continues, "that if you need
anything..." She furrows a self-conscious smile, as if she suddenly felt a little
out of place. I mean, I know you have Vix and other people, but hey... I just
wanted you to know that you can count on me.

Miriam looks down at the ground, where the cobblestones reflect

the misty lights of the shops.

“Thanks,” he says, and then looks over at the electrical store. A

thick man's hand rummages through the items in the window.

"I guess you haven't told your mother, have you?" Paola then
asks.

He has turned his neck following the path of Miriam's eyes.

"No, I haven't told anyone.

"Yeah..." Paola scratches her clavicle bone. Well, and... how

about these days?

-I don't know. Normal.

"Have you... have you been to a psychologist?"

 -Not right now.

"Oh okay, well, not everyone likes them," and then adds, "Do you
know if there's going to be a trial?"

Miriam takes a breath, she needs to straighten her spine to make

room for oxygen.

I don't know, I think they're still investigating.

—I'm asking you... —Paola wrings her hands, braids her fingers at
chest level. At that moment, Miriam wouldn't know how to discern which of the two
is more uncomfortable. Sorry for bringing up that topic... I'm only asking you
because I would go to testify to help you. And Tallie too.

He frowns. It seems that there is a pending sentence in his

mouth, that he is going to add something else, but in the end he doesn't. And in
any case, Miriam doesn't even notice. It's gone blank after that word: judgment.
The sultry evening caresses her back. And on the walls of his skull the voices of
the people who pass by reverberate. Women clicking their heels, children screaming,
swarms of teenagers getting off the bus.

"If you want to meet up for a day..." Paola says shyly now. I
don't mean... to talk about this topic, obviously... We can do whatever you want.

Miriam doesn't know what to answer. She had never noticed it, but
Paola's lower teeth are a bit set, which suddenly, without rhyme or reason, makes
her very sorry. He has remained looking at her without reacting, so Paola
continues:

"Well, if you need me, you already have my phone."

-Yeah.

—You can call me at any time, really.

"Thank you," Miriam repeats.

He lowers his eyes and tears blur the street. But she can still
make out how Paola extends her hand and takes a step towards her. What are you
going to do? Hug her? Give her a loving squeeze on the shoulder? A sound of bells
rouses her from her stupor, when suddenly the door of the electrical store opens
inward, and Miriam finally recognizes her mother's blue dress. He rubs his eyes to
remove moisture.

"Are you still there?"

Pattie stops in the middle of the sidewalk as she folds up a

receipt, then puts it in her purse. A small plastic bag hangs from the arm that
holds the orchid. Paola has also turned around. A silver chain shines on the curve
of her neck.

"Are you going to be home for dinner?" Patti asks.

But Miriam has already answered before I finish the sentence.

"Yes, I'll go with you.

 Beside him, Paola takes a step back, leaving him room to escape.

"Okay, I'll write to you," he says, and his mouth twists into a
sketchy smile. You don't need to answer me.

A note in the mailbox. No envelope, no stamp, no sender. A poorly

folded sheet of paper that, apart from the intentional folds, shows certain
wrinkles, as if it had been pushed hastily—perhaps restlessly, or angrily—through
the slot.

You hold it between your fingers, still in the middle of the

portal. Come on, why do you think about it? Throw it away and period. Don't read
it. But. You stand still Keys compressed in the other hand leave a saw-shaped mark
against your flesh. You unclench your fist. You swallow. Don't open it, don't open
it, don't open it.

FAT, WHORE, BREAD FACE.

TELL THE TRUTH. LIAR. YOU KNOW YOU LIE.

The scrawny and poorly closed vowels. The sticks of crooked

consonants.

You ask yourself.

Who.

Because.

What do they know. And how did they find you?

Why do they talk, why do they look for you. Why do they want to
tear you to shreds? If they don't know you. Because.

Well, because yes, Miriam Dougan.

Because it is free.

Because it's anonymous.

Because there are no consequences.

Because they hate you.

And because they can.

That's why.
 Vix moves the hangers one by one looking for the right shirt
size. Various items of clothing hang from her other arm—a skirt, a mid-season
raincoat, a small diamond-patterned blouse. In the surrounding stands, other
customers unfold and spread sweaters, huddled in front of the sections that display
the little red 50% SALES sign.

Miriam has leaned against a mirror on a column, watching Vix's

eager hands cornering the hangers. That harsh hiss of metal.

Vix swallows a bubble of gum.

“Look,” he says, and yanks out a T-shirt.

Miriam wrinkles her mouth:

-I don't know.

"And you don't buy anything?"

Shake your head.

-No.

You've only really left the house because Vix has insisted, so
don't feel obligated to show enthusiasm as well. Last night when they talked on the
phone, Vix was practically doing a monologue about Lachance. She had met her
mother, at last, because they had bumped into her on the boardwalk. So he gave an
exhaustive description of how they greeted each other, of the mother's attitude, of
Lachance's shyness. And then, how could it be otherwise, he brought up the subject
of the Student. How good it is, aunt, you have to fuck it anyway. Miriam felt a
twinge in the center of her throat. She dropped into her desk chair and began
compulsively turning the light switch on and off. He said quickly: it has not gone
well, I prefer not to talk about it. The response was so curt that Vix fell silent.
They changed the subject immediately. The exams. Jordan. Lachance again. End of
season sales. Vix insisted that they meet the next day, that she leave the house,
that she not be bitter, damn it. Is it because of that guy? And Miriam bit the
inside of her cheeks. That's okay, yes, they were left, but in the neighborhood.

She didn't tell Vix this, but she doesn't feel comfortable
leaving her house. Feel that something can happen. Several days ago a policeman
phoned her. He did not elaborate, he simply informed him that those boys were now
in preventive detention and that this would be their situation until the date of
the trial. Then they said almost the same thing on television. Miriam glanced at
her mother, but she seemed more concerned with cleaning a speck of grime from the
controller than attending to the news. That gave him some relief. And then, that
note in the mailbox. Just remembering her gives him the willies. The enraged
capital letters: LIAR.

—If you want, we can stay with these later. Vix walks
purposefully toward a hat rack. I don't know what plan they had, but don't worry,
Jordan and Paola aren't usually around. I can call Hugo anyway to confirm.

Miriam sighs. Again those names that sound like another universe,
one that looks through a glass, like a model or a small scientific experiment.
 "I don't really feel like going," he says. I want to be home
soon.

Yes, because otherwise he would have to make more excuses for his
sudden rejection of alcohol. It should not be mixed with antiretrovirals. And the
truth is that she just wants to be back, curled up on the sofa, swallowing series
until her eyes sting.

—Why haven't you wanted to go out these days? Vix asks.

—I had to study, I already told you.

"But if we still have time..." he protests without much bellows.

The other day, by the way, I went with Hugo to Café Siena and we met Lukas and his
parents.

Miriam purses her lips, imagining the sentence that is on the

way.

—He told us that you hadn't gone down with him to walk the dogs
for several days.

Oh yeah? Did he say that? Well, just to be clear. The truth of

the matter is that Lukas has also not shown any signs of life for several days, and
Miriam has begun to wonder what it is that he knows. If those videos have reached
you —which you suppose they have—, and what conclusions will you have drawn.
Because he sees no other reason. And every day it becomes more evident to her, to
an insulting, terribly dirty and painful point, that Lukas is avoiding her. Miriam
hasn't seen the videos. He doesn't know how recognizable it is, or if it's just a
blur, a volume in chiaroscuro like botched recordings of paranormal phenomena.

"Hey, do you want to go to the pool next week?" Vix talks and
talks, and Miriam finds herself unable to keep up with him. We can take our notes
and study there, because afterward it's going to be damn cold to take a bath...

Miriam runs her fingers through the silk of a shirt.

"Okay," he says.

“Auntie, you are so dull,” Vix protests. Is it because of the

exams?

-No...

"Because of that guy...?"

—Oh, Vix, no.

—Is it because of Jordan and Paola? —and at the suggestion, his

brows tighten like harpoons.

-No, is not that.

-So?

So. A flutter of courage. And Miriam considers, yes, she

considers, getting it out of the inside, confessing it to Vix. Total, it is
possible that you already know, or that you will find out soon. And in any case,
it's better to tell him now, before the subject prevails, before any fortuitous
allusion comes to life and hypotheses begin to parade on Vix's tongue. Before he
releases some innocent comment, like his cousins.

"You see..." he begins to say, "I don't think I'll take the
exams."

That's it. A prelude. And as soon as Vix asks why, she's going to
let him off the hook. All. From beginning to end, and even what he did not dare to
tell the police.

-But what are you saying? To nobody?

Miriam shakes her head.

"Have you told your mother?"

Miriam takes a breath. It is another of the habits that is

discovered doing often, filling the lungs with oxygen without being able to inflate
them completely.

"No, I haven't told him.

"Why don't you go introduce yourself?" Vix shakes her head. Damn,
with what you've studied already.

I don't know, I'm nervous. Like anxiously.

—Well, but that could be... I don't know, it's just temporary.
Vix looks at her blankly. You have to try.

Miriam nods. He already perceives the initial symptoms, how his

organism begins to somatize the words that he is swallowing. A headache that brews
next to the ear, a succession of punctures in the intestinal tract. She'd love for
Vix to stop flipping the labels and look at her for a change, to make it a little
easier for her. Now she's looking at a fuchsia quilted bag from all angles. It's
kind of tacky, but she still adds it to the pile of clothes on her arm. Then she
counts the clothes and hands Miriam two T-shirts.

"Take this so they'll let us through."

Inside the changing room, Miriam feels relieved. The cubicle

gives her a certain security, like a shell that creates a separation between her
and the world. It's been like that lately, find refuge in claustrophobia. Vix pulls
her pants inside out and slides her body into a dress with holes in the sides. He
gestures to Miriam: come on, grab something, I've brought it for you too. Miriam
dons a random T-shirt. It has a faux fur collar and a long zipper that goes down
the neckline. As soon as Vix notices her, she pulls down, leaving her cleavage
exposed.

-Hey you. Miriam lets out a laugh.

"It looks great on you, buy it."

-I do not know I do not believe so.

 But Vix is already on to something else. She opens her canvas
backpack and takes out a lipstick. Then he approaches the mirror, opening his mouth
wide. Gum pokes out of the side of his tongue, wrinkled and glistening with saliva.
Miriam squats. From the tester next door comes a cadence of voices. A tone of young
girl, and another older woman with a gritty throat. The flutter of a curtain, a
hanger falling to the floor. Vix is now pinching her cheeks, she smiles into
Miriam's eyes in the mirror.

"Do you want to paint your lips?"

-No.

—Come on, sosaina, come.

Vix pulls out her phone and presses her cheek against Miriam's.
Her skin is warm, with a delicate smell of makeup, and she keeps moving her jaw,
shifting her gum to one side. He takes out a string of photographs pointing at the
mirror, they embrace, smile, make an intense face, purse their mouths into the
shape of a raspberry. The fitting room lights create diffuse reliefs on their
faces. Vix unzips her top, stumbles, laughs, and the gum falls out of her mouth. It
disappears among the tangled garments. Damn, he says. He throws away his cell
phone, they drag it around, and now Miriam really laughs. Vix moving on all fours,
raising hems and pleats, and Miriam laughs so hard her eyes mist over, laughs
really loud, like she just has one reason to laugh and doesn't want to let it get
away for the world. A kind of carpe diem milked with a psychotic craving. Vix
retrieves the gum, gives it a mischievous look and puts it inside the padded bag
that she will return to her shelf in the store in a few minutes. What are you
doing, don't be a pig. Vix lets out a laugh: shhh, shut up. Miriam is sitting on
the floor, covers her face: aunt, I'm going to pee. And now Vix crosses her bag
across her chest, puts her arm around Miriam's shoulders. Take a photo. Two. The
flushed cheeks, the bright eyes.

"I'm going to put them on Facebook," he announces after a

fleeting review. She's still sitting on the floor, her sleeves rolled up to mid-
thigh.

The mirror gives them back an image of themselves heated up, as

if they were a little drunk.

“I tag you,” Vix says.

-OK.

Listen to the notification on the mobile and unlock it

immediately. Miriam adds the photos to her profile, some are a bit shaky. He seems
happy in all of them, more than he really is. That joy so overacted and feverish.
And so wrong.

The thing goes like this. Vix has a meeting at 7:15 p.m. with her
boyfriend, Hugo —Lachance—, and they have decided that they will spend the
afternoon at the cinema. As they wait in line to buy popcorn, he notices that he is
quieter than usual. At times, Hugo takes out his cell phone, opens football,
tennis, WhatsApp applications. Then he shuts it all down without showing any
interest. On the few occasions when he seeks conversation, he does so to discuss
matters that are irrelevant. He insists, for example, on that incident at the
parties on the esplanade. About that girl who was raped. How heavy it gets. Two
hours later, when they leave the theater and throw away the popcorn containers, Vix
still gets the impression that her boyfriend is hiding something from her.

Lachance is not the loudest of the group, although he is not

characterized by his discretion either. It could be said that he is the typical boy
with an ambivalent character: insecure and conceited in equal parts. His moral code
is still in the process of developing, and sometimes —for reasons of survival— he
uses the weaknesses of others to get out. Instead, his girlfriend Victoria —Vix— is
more understanding. He has a tender side that stands out from other secondary
traits of his personality, and everything indicates that, as the years go by, his
talent for empathy will prevail over the rest of his qualities.

Also, and speaking of everything a bit, there is no juicier

situation in adolescence than seeing yourself with a secret on your hands. Secrets
are, in fact, a shortcut to consolidate friendship and have the gift of rescuing
couples from apathy. A lurid secret bolsters a weakened ego, and a shared secret
creates bonds that henceforth will only need to be renewed with glances, smirks,
and nudges in the side.

Intercepting a secret in adolescence is something like winning

the lottery. One can admire this precious gift for a while, cherish it, pamper it,
embellish it even a little bit, and then choose listeners from among their circle
of favorites. It is also worth stopping to consider: what am I going to do with it?
How am I going to take advantage of it?

Another advantage of secrets is that they are editable, because

they are always counted later. It will be difficult for the protagonists to trace
in which section of the chain the details were dealt with.

Hugo Lachance has given himself a period of thirteen hours just

in case it was Vix who came to him with the gossip. But she seems absorbed in other
types of things, so when leaving the cinema she asks him without half measures if
she knows anything about Miriam. You can already feel in your teeth the spongy
taste of the words that are yet to come. The secret sticking out the tongue, like
the segment of an orange, sour and delicious.

“Yeah, I saw her a couple of days ago,” Vix says. We were

shopping.

"And... did he tell you anything?"

-Well, I do not know. Some of what

"Did you notice her weird?"

Lachance, like any attention-seeking teenager, tries to stretch

out the moment, to make it his own.

"Well, I don't know," Vix replies. I didn't find her weird, but
she seemed a little off.

He shrugged his shoulders and fixed his eyes on a fixed point to

help himself reflect. The truth is, if you think about it, Miriam was a bit weird
the other day. But it's logical, right? After taking a stick with that guy from
Tinder. She must have been very excited. And on the other hand, not taking any exam
has to be a downer.
 "It's just that," Lachance continues, "we think something's
happened to him." He rubs one row of teeth against the other.

And Vix, showing off her keen intuition, instantly realizes that
her boyfriend is at a dead end. Because often the secrets also incorporate this
duality, especially when they are not in good taste for the sender or the listener.

Vix frowns.

—How did something happen to Miriam? When?

"It's a bit of a strong topic.

—What topic.

"Have you heard about some videos?"

"Some videos of what?"

Many neighbors have woken up today shaken by the news: «The names
of the four defendants come to light. These are their faces."

"It's a disgrace," declares the owner of a neighborhood business.

"Those kids are going to live stigmatized forever." Details of the attack remain
unclear and police have declined to comment while the investigation continues. The
victim's name has not been released to preserve his privacy.

The sister of one of the detainees has told this medium that the
complainant had previously met one of the defendants, that they had long
conversations about sex and that they sent risqué photographs.

"I don't know what kind of education his mother gave him," says
another neighbor, surprised by the commotion. "How do you get into a portal at that
hour with four men?"

"Those boys had a future," their acquaintances lament. "How could

they have been involved in such an act?" Alex Devillers had just graduated in
Journalism and was pursuing a PhD on a scholarship awarded for good academic
performance. In the mornings, he worked in a warehouse – from which he has been
fired, according to sources close to him – to help his mother make ends meet and to
pay for his sister's classes at the singing conservatory. "We don't know how that
poor widow will manage now," says the tobacconist's employee through tears.

Adam Kaplan, another of the detainees, stood out in the swimming

club and coached the children's soccer team. The relatives do not give credit:
"they are magnificent boys."

Returning to the scene, a man who was walking his dog early in
the morning claims to have seen the girl before she filed the complaint: “she was
sitting on a bench half drunk. I didn't think I needed help. He didn't look like
someone who's been assaulted."

Some witnesses also affirm that the complainant was "very

affectionate" with several of the detainees during the night in which the events
took place. An acquaintance adds "that she liked to be in the company of men and
that her character was too affectionate."

Miriam sits on the edge of the mattress. She scratches her hair,
which hasn't been washed for four days, and walks barefoot to the kitchen. There is
a post-it from his mother stuck to the oilcloth. YOU HAVE CUSTARD IN THE FRIDGE.
Miriam shifts her eyes to the windows, to see if they are closed properly. He peeks
into the hallway and sees that Pattie has locked the door on her way out. Now he
treasures those kinds of obsessions. Then there are others. Look for ulcers in the
mouth, examine vaginal secretions, grope the lymph nodes in the neck. In three days
he will end his HIV treatment, but that will not eradicate his manias. Because he
is no longer afraid of any specific condition, but of the generic concept of
disease. Recent diffuse muscle aches, perpetual nausea, a tingling of crystals in
both hands.

He peels off the post-it and sticks it back a few inches to the
left, matching the corner of the paper with a corner of the oilcloth grid pattern.
She traces her mother's handwriting with her fingernail: fridge custard. He likes
the carelessness with which he traces the letters, the overturned n's that resemble
úes. For a while she remains seated with her hand resting on the sentence. His
arms, back, and digestive tract ache along its entire length. He's not hungry, he's
not hungry at all. In fact, I would vomit. And in an absent gesture, as if obeying
a reflex action, he stands up and takes a tub of custard from the fridge. He then
walks over to the counter and empties the contents into the sink. The scent of
cinnamon tickles his pituitary as he watches the slimy mass drift down the drain.
Doesn't stop the tears. They drip down her chin, and it's so quiet in the house
that she hears them banging one by one against the counter. You feel like you could
cry all day. Without a rest. Turn on the faucet to get rid of the last creamy
clots. And he thinks of his mother. He imagines her the night before dropping the
cinnamon stick into the milk, grating the zest of the lemon, stirring the dough in
tired spirals. He doesn't have the strength to face her in a few hours, when she
comes back and starts inspecting the fridge. You don't eat the custard either?
Something is wrong with you.

And indeed, it happens. It happens to him that everything hurts

and nothing enters him. Like one of those violent colds that leave your body in
shreds. Only this disease is different. Naps or the passing of days do not appease
her, and drowsiness alternates with trances of sharp lucidity, as if she perceived
the stimuli raw, as if her entire epidermis were a sore.

Vix called her two days ago, just as the names were released.
Seven missed calls, and a string of deranged wasaps. The question marks sandwiching
the sentences, and all those capital imperatives. YOU CALL ME, MIRI, FUCK. But he
hasn't called her yet, and Vix's latest message just says: whatever happens, I love
you. Sometimes Miriam rereads the sentence and realizes that it doesn't move her as
much as it should. That doesn't say anything. That he does not believe it.

Maybe she should have kept quiet, not been dazed on the bloody
bench until Tallie found her… She should have gotten up, found a pharmacy or family
planning center, and ordered the morning-after pill. And that's it. Get on with
your life, let them get on with theirs. She's not even… mind you, suddenly she's
not even sure she was assaulted. Surely they had no intention of committing any
crime, and perhaps what he reported was not really such a thing. Because if she had
said: enough is enough, end, it's over, we've come this far. Then those boys would
have left her alone, they wouldn't have become rapists. But he didn't say anything.
She sent a photo of her tits on WhatsApp, and now what right did she retract and
fuck up their lives.

He walks over to the sink and pours out a second bowl of custard.
Remove the remains with water. He cries in spasms, sniffling. The lacerating smell
of their colognes, the jingle of their belts. Now I, it's my turn, raise your ass.
All those words embedded in his hippocampus like shrapnel. She wipes away her tears
with her forearm and squats on the ground. He only thinks of his mother.

If she finds out.

If any patient goes to the clinic and tells them.

Any of these afternoons.

The two of us in this very kitchen, mother and daughter, trapped

in a spiral of neurosis.

He only thinks of his mother.

Outside the bus windows, the horizon is warm and saffron, like a
September for cocktails on the beach. Feel calmer at sunset. It can't stand
daylight. The stinging mornings with their airs and pretensions: get up, do
something, get dressed, wake up. Miriam remains standing in front of the entrance
to the consultation. On the glass doors there is a sign with blue letters that
reads: Aesthetic Dermatological Center. And although there are only twenty minutes
left to close, several women are still waiting in the waiting room. They are
distributed in alternate seats and occupy the adjoining chairs with their huge
bags. Miriam takes a step back, the scene that she had been rehearsing in her mind
is incompatible with that context. In her plan she appeared alone, at most with
another patient. Her mother typing recipes across the counter, and then Pattie's
surprised face: man, what about you here.

Well you can see. Because it has to be here. Not at home. If they
talked about it at home then the words would roll around the rooms, curl up on the
sofa, curl up behind the books, and crawl into the cracks in the floor. That's why
he prefers to talk about it in the clinic. Or somewhere else. In the middle of the
street, for example, walking in a straight line so as not to have to look at her
face.

But the fact is that Miriam has been left standing with her
fingers intertwined on the threshold of the waiting room. Those waiting are three
women, one of them pregnant, and there is also a child patting the leaves of a
ficus. She's tempted to turn around, but the women have already detected her and
give her an ambulatory little smile. That ephemeral rictus that simultaneously
means: hello, good luck, what's up with the doctor, I hope you don't have herpes
zoster or skin cancer. Miriam smiles back and takes a seat at the loneliest end of
the room.

At least a quarter of an hour passes. A long silence of doors

opening and closing, and chairs rolling, and telephones screeching at the front
desk. On the little table in front of her, magazine covers show women with flawless
skin. And then a cadence of voices, nervous footsteps and the receptionist from the
afternoon shift who enters the waiting room hugging a folder. He stops short when
he sees her. The plastic earrings bobbing in sync on either side of her head.
 "Miriam!" -says.

"Oh, hello, Sigrid.

"Have you come to look for your mother?" Come with me.

As some kind of favor or privileged treatment, he leads her to a

chair behind the reception desk. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling bathe the
walls in a melancholic light, and next to the folding cat calendars, there are
boxes of paper clips and ceramic pencil holders crammed with pens. Miriam settles
into the padded chair, takes her phone out of her bag and starts tapping the
screen. Apparently, her mother is busy with a fungal nail removal, and it will take
a while, so Sigrid has brought her without asking a cup of coffee that gives off a
consistent smell of vegetable milk. You don't have any new wasap. The last ones are
from Paola and Vix. And even Lukas has finally given signs of life. Last night: are
you okay? That was it. No more questions. And an abyss of silence behind.

Miriam does not go unnoticed by her neglect. That you have

contacted only for commitment and that you probably prefer not to receive any
response. Well, very good, perfect. Even so, it is the only message to which he has
deigned to reply. A cryptic phrase in turn: are you asking given the situation or
about your withdrawal? As expected, he is taking his time.

Miriam closes the WhatsApp and drops the phone in her bag. He
lifts the cup of coffee, which is already cold, to his lips and contemplates his
own face reflected in the surface of the liquid. Cheeks drooping due to gravity,
eyes swollen like half-opened fruit, mouth compact and expressionless. You
immediately feel a rush of self-loathing. She pushes the mug away in disgust and
places it in front of a framed photo of Sigrid's niece. Before, when she looked at
other girls, she wondered things like: what career will she study?, will she have a
boyfriend?, how will it feel to be so pretty? Now, while contemplating the smiling
face of the girl in the photograph, everything comes down to a lewd and
totalitarian idea: have you ever been raped?

When Pattie finally comes out of removal, she slumps into a chair
next to Miriam and flexes her neck making cracks from various angles. He greets his
daughter without fuss.

"To what is this honor due?" -says.

-You see.

For a moment, he has forgotten that he was there precisely to

tell him. It was almost comforting, that convent silence. And now, in a matter of
seconds, everything is going to burst. As soon as Miriam finishes swallowing saliva
and scratching her neck with that neurotic viciousness.

“Mom,” he says, and is surprised that his voice comes out clear,
avoiding the gummy ball of his throat.

Leaning over the counter, her mother continues stamping recipes,

jotting down very long names in a little notebook.

-Breast.

Pattie looks up distractedly.

"Did you eat the custard?" -says.

 And Miriam purses her lips:

"Mom, something happened to me.

Pattie Douglas. Do you know her? She is the mother of the abused
girl.

From now on, that tagline. The mother of the abused girl. The
institute of the abused girl. This is where the abused girl buys the bread.

And Pattie barely breathing under the avalanche of remorse, her

head flooded, memories wandering through her body, certain things she thought were
light, inconsequential. But no, they were not mild. Which were, in fact, his
responsibility.

The day Miriam came home with her bangs dyed white, and she,
Pattie, was sitting at the kitchen table reading a home decorating magazine.

"Hey, it looks great on you," she said with a smile, and more
than a mother, she seemed like a cool little colleague. Because deep down that hair
seemed horrible to him. A ridiculousness of age. But he didn't want to hurt her.
The same old story. And what happens is that Pattie feels lost, she gets confused
in that tribe of mothers who no longer scream or shake smacks, who instead invite
you to reflect.

It is rumored around the neighborhood that Pattie Dougan has

never wanted to be very severe, because enough is the trauma of her daughter not
having a father. Hence, the poor thing always plays the same role.

Can I tattoo a butterfly? Oh yeah, it sure is gorgeous.

On top of a chest? Where you like.

And you let me smoke at home now that you've found out I smoke? I
dont see why not.

Will you let me go to the beach this weekend with some kids I
don't know at all, but absolutely nothing? Of course, honey, have a good time.

Without losing hope that those light rebellions would eventually

die out sooner or later. Because that is adolescence, deep down, a transitory
disease.

And yet, two nights ago, poor Pattie Dougan dreamed of her
daughter, or rather suffered a terrible nightmare, in which Miriam would burst into
her bedroom screaming: because you know what! I hate this hair dye, I hate how it
looks on me, I hate being fat, and that you always let me finish my bag of jelly
beans. Why didn't you take her from me like the guys take Irene. And why don't you
ever ask what time I'm coming back. That's right, Pattie, and look at you now...

She does not miss the glances of the patients in the waiting
room, of the mothers who come to see her and study her up and down while she
confirms the appointments on the computer. And Pattie Dougan clenches one fist into
the other, cracks her knuckles.
 To the chronic question, he always answers the same thing: we are
fine.

But you know what's behind it. It is not difficult to imagine the
hypotheses that everyone makes dizzy, which they will later discuss as a family
while clearing up the dishes after dinner: that Pattie Dougan, no wonder.

Because even she is of the same opinion. If he had ever planted

me. If I had gotten a mother tone. If I had told him very clearly: no!, no way!

Because something so easy was enough.

Poor Patti. It was enough to say no.

3:57 in the morning. You turn on the light and move back on the
mattress until your back rests on the headboard. On the table rest your glasses,
the mobile, the white box of anxiolytics with the leaflet sticking out. You look
for a cigarette in the drawer. Now you smoke all the time, your mother has become
even more compromising. Like those parents who get divorced and suddenly they
already allow you to have a dog. Well, the result is the same when they rape you.
They even look at you tenderly when you tell them you're not going to take your
make-up exams.

4:28. But you've already gotten used to not falling asleep until
dawn. The pills aren't of much use, although they've only been prescribed for five
days and the psychiatrist has stressed that you don't stop taking them, that you
have to be patient, they can take up to three weeks to take effect. They have also
recommended therapy, but you don't want to. What terrible questions they would ask
you. What would they get out of you?

4:39. You take a puff on the cigarette. You wonder about them.
Where will they be right now? The Student, the boy with the science fiction eyes,
the short one with the goatee, and the other one, the tall one, who barely spoke to
you, but still asked for a turn and stuck it into you. Those pigs. You clench your
teeth, the rage thickening and burning so strong that sometimes, you swear, the
sheet burns against your skin.

5:17. Many people know it. They haven't said it to your face, but
you sense it. In that cloudy silence that migrates through her pupils when you
appear. Also now there are forbidden words: slut, easy, whore. No one pronounces
them in your presence anymore, and you wonder if it's because, broadly speaking,
people consider it the diagnosis of your case.
 5:29. Do not you want to sleep. Sleeping is like opening a door
to everything that could have been and was not. To all hopefully and instead of.
You dream of the portal. The same props, the same actors. Only in your dream you do
scream. Or you run away. Sometimes a neighbor hides you in his house and they
scratch at the door while you scream at the top of your lungs. One day you dreamed
of the Student as if he were your boyfriend. He would buy you a little bird and
very sweetly he would say: it was your fault, and you consented: yes, that's right.
You are ashamed of that dream. The psychiatrist has asked you to keep a record of
what you dream, to write it down in a notebook as soon as you wake up. But not this
dream, you didn't write this down.

When it's 5:40 and dawn leaves a yellow border behind the
rooftops, you've been awake and hating for four hours now. You've been thinking
lately that you wish you had sequels. An infection or physical trauma. Or at the
very least, a first degree tear. Something that could be disinfected and sewn,
something that no one doubted. Doctors would show it to their students in a Power
Point: and these here, my friends, are the very clear marks of a rape. The images
are disturbing.

Miriam taps her mobile to check the time, two-fourteen in the

morning, puts it back on the table and after a few seconds the screen goes dark
again. Lukas has not yet reacted to his wasap with the photograph. A selfie in the
bathroom mirror with brown bangs again. On my shoulders, a towel with patches of
moisture, and raising the empty tint bottle in my hand: my new and old look.

Open the conversation again. Next to the message, the two marks
that turned blue more than six hours ago cause him a discomfort close to anger.
Although it is better not to give it more turns. He turns in bed and types: hey,
you haven't told me about my hair. You feel a chill as his name appears and
disappears at the top of the screen, like the head of a child playing hide-and-
seek. Only Miriam isn't playing. Not precisely.

hey are you awake

Yeah

Miriam settles on her side on the mattress.

very nice your haircut (smiling emoji)

thank you! what are you doing?

nothing, bullshit

After a few seconds, Lukas disappears again. Miriam sighs. She

has never felt the need to show any courtesy to him, and yet now she forces herself
to wait. He opens the photo gallery knowing that he is only trying to kill time. He
deletes a couple of images, and when he deems the appropriate amount of minutes has
elapsed, he returns to the conversation.

hey asshole don't ignore me (smiling emoji). And followed: do you

want to meet this week?

Lukas's name resurfaces and he stands still at the top of the

screen. Is writing. Or so announces the text that goes on forever next to his name.
Although in reality, Miriam knows, it is not true, she is not writing. He is
thinking, rectifying, correcting, going blank. He's looking for euphemisms and
going around the bush. And for that reason, his answer, when it comes, is
disappointing. So inversely proportional to the mass of time it has taken to make
it.

I'm very busy these days

Miriam snorts, types quickly.

doing what

Well, studying, aren't you?

I'm not going to take the exams, I also have a review at the
hospital the same day of the Economics exam

Oh

Silence. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty-five.

man, seriously, is something wrong?

And again, his name suspended high. Discussing, qualifying,

sentencing. Or know.

listen, we'll talk

what is there to talk about? is it for me?

Mine, the portal, the videos, this schism between us, the news,
mine, my rape.

yes, it's a bit because of that

Now she is the one who doesn't know what to answer, the one who
must be held at the top of Lukas's mobile screen. But he tunes out quickly, doesn't
wallow in chewing on his guilt. Miriam then presses the call icon, listens to the
tones and sits on the bed. His hands are shaking. Open a gap in the curtain and
look out at the orange facades illuminated by streetlights.

"Yeah." Lukas's voice sounds rubbery, probably from lack of use

in the middle of the night.

"Can you explain to me what the hell is wrong with you?"

Silence. A cloudy silence, choked by breathing and by the

impurities of the telephone line.

"Luke?"
 "Yes, I'm still here..." he says in a hoarse whisper. He must be
trying not to be heard by his parents. Miri, it's just... I'm sorry, I know this
must be a very hard time.

-Probably not. Sure.

He's clenching his teeth, and as he relaxes his jaw he hears a

cracking sound inside his ear.

—You see, I think that right now it's better that you lean on Vix
or other friends... I mean, that you lean on girls. I can't be of much help.

“You have been one of my most important supports for centuries.

In his pause, Miriam guesses a kind of remorse. But not the kind
of remorse that a bad conscience provokes. Lukas is like that, he doesn't like to
be involved. And as soon as this call ends, the torment will end for him. It will
not subject you to any subsequent introspection exercise.

But hey, at least he hasn't hung up. On the other end of the
phone, Miriam listens to the click of a flint from a lighter.

-And good? he snorts.

"Can I ask you something in complete confidence?" Luke says then.

-Of course.

"Everything you've told the people and the police is true, isn't
it?"

“Of course it's true.

—Don't be mad, it's just..., you know, there are girls who invent
things to get attention.

A window lights up on the top floor of the hotel. Miriam closes

the curtain and drops back onto the mattress.

"I didn't make anything up," he says, and he narrows his eyes.

An image crosses his mind from temple to temple. Because there is

one thing that maybe. Not that it's a lie, but neither. A phrase. And they asked
him directly, but the truth is that. Well. Actually, it doesn't change anything.
And he doesn't remember it very well either.

"You'd be surprised at the statistics on false rape claims,"

Lukas is saying now, his tone resentful, almost accusatory. Nowadays, any woman can
fuck up a guy's life however she wants.

Miriam realizes that she is nodding as she listens, and as Lukas

develops his explanation, a wound grows inside him, revealing levels of anguish he
didn't know were yet to open. Sure there are statistics, of course there are. There
are statistics for everything. But so what. What is she supposed to say now? How
would I have to react? Protesting no, of course. Because if he protests, then again
he's making things crazy, and look how you get, man, damn, I'm just telling you
what I've read. And the truth is that he doesn't even feel like arguing. So that he
only abandons himself to the sway of Lukas's voice, and he lets himself fall,
offering no resistance, into an enveloping sadness and black as tar.
 "Miriam, do you hear me?"

"Yes." He opens his eyes, massaging his brow. It's just... I

don't know why you take that from the statistics. I find it so cruel and...
misogynistic.

Lukas makes a silence in which a background creak can be heard, a

crackling of air, as if he were changing his position.

"That's true, I don't deny it," he says, "but there are also
hordes of morons who love to call men bastards and rapists, like we're all the same
shit."

"I don't think so.

“I've seen it on TV with my own eyes. I saw it at your rally.

"I meant that I don't think all men are the same shit."

Note the tight throat. The way Lukas said “your manifestation”,
with that contempt. She is lying facing the ceiling, and two simultaneous tears wet
her hair.

—You see, this has nothing to do with yours... But I'm getting
tired of this stuff. Lukas snorts. The other day, in an interview, a teacher said
that every week she received papers from students describing how they had been
abused. That if they had looked at them this way or that way, or a taxi driver had
brushed their knee. Look, I can't believe that things happen to every chick on the
planet. Damn, all of them? And besides, the fact that they touch your ass is not to
commit suicide either. The hairdresser brushes me with his cock every time I go to
get a haircut.

Miriam says nothing. Either way, she gets the impression that
it's always up to her to justify herself. But still force the voice. Because
despite everything, she doesn't want to lose Lukas for anything in the world. And
besides, I'm sure he doesn't really think that way, he's only saying it because
he's misinformed, repeating bullshit he's heard other guys spout.

—Lukas... can we talk about our specific case? Of you and me?

It is pressed with the fingers in the center of the sternum. He

thought that he could restart everything with those words, give the matter a
private shade. But when he says it out loud he understands that no. That he has
already left her alone.

“The truth,” he says in a whisper, “is that right now I don't

feel very comfortable staying with you. Going down to the park and all that.

-Because.

Lukas pauses, sighs against the receiver.

“Listen, I… I understand how what happened affects you. It's a

very fat bitch... But the truth is, Miri, those guys didn't grab you or threaten
you with a knife. You entered that portal with them, you didn't tell them to leave
you alone... You didn't even try to leave... Damn, it's just... you didn't even
take their cocks out of your mouth.
 Miriam remains silent. A tundra cold and the lips of the dead run
down his spine. Lukas has stopped speaking, but then resumes the speech.

"I'm sure you were terrified, I'm sure, but how did you expect
them to know..." Lukas clicks his tongue, and Miriam senses it, that the worst is
yet to come. And I'm sorry for saying it too harshly, but it's like when you go
along with Jordan and those, and you goof off and take off your bra. You give rise
to misunderstandings, and then you can't go around complaining and asking for
respect.” His voice sounds braver now, like that of a politician who emboldens
himself as he progresses in his speech. And then Lukas inhales and exhales hard, as
if pushed. Honestly... I think what happened to you was a misunderstanding, but not
a rape.

Miriam purses her lips and pulls the phone away from her ear, her
cheeks cold, soaked. He is about to hang up, but doesn't, and he can still hear
Lukas, his incisive, metallic voice:

-I'm really sorry.

That sorry about breakups. That apology that only contains a

goodbye.

Miriam sniffles, she doesn't care if he hears her.

"I'm not comfortable anymore," Lukas continues. Because it's

just...they've done so much bullshit with you in the pool and in the woods...and I
don't want to get caught in the middle...The possibility of being falsely accused
of assault, or whatever, makes me it worries enough...

Miriam drops the phone next to the pillow. He stares up at the

ceiling, at a slice of light pierced by shadows of trembling branches. A few
seconds later, he hears how, on the other end of the line, the communication is cut
off.

Gentlemen, welcome, good morning. Wait in this room for them to

call you. Please take a seat at the assigned desks. A little lower, this foot
further into the stirrup. Do not turn the pages yet, and neither books, nor
notebooks, nor a telephone in sight. We will remove a tissue sample. And from now
on, silence, remember that, in total, you have two hours. It will only last a
second. Very good luck everyone. And now you can get dressed. Just a pen, take
note: have you felt more discomfort in recent weeks? Damn, that topic is dodgy. And
bleeding? It was precisely the collusive markets that had to fall. Roll up your
sleeves, are you done with the doxycillin? Well, I just haven't studied that one.
And how have you been since then? Define each case and give examples. For the HIV
test you have to wait, at least six weeks. And after correcting, we will send the
results by email. But you be calm. Review each answer well, there is still time.
Have you had nightmares or lingering memories? Let's see, remember, I'm sure you
know. Intrusive thoughts? Briefly describe the crack of 29... Let's raise the
anxiolytics... and the American dream. Therapy is important in these cases, and
talk if you need it. Please keep quiet.
 It's not that he chooses that path on purpose, it's that it
catches him right on the way. Every time Tallie McGrath goes to her friend Paola's
house or secretly sneaks up to the tobacconist's, or when her mother plants her
purse in her hand and sends her to buy the supermarket, but the big one, which has
various kinds of fruit, and of course, whenever it is his turn to take the dog
outside; All those times, the fucking bank.

He wonders if one day he will pass by the boulevard and not

think: there it is, there it was, there I saw it.

Because it's almost an open secret
goes from mouth to ear: I have fresh news, but swear
and listeners know that she, Tallie McGrath, was the
her first or, at least, the one who first stopped to
on the bench, alone and filthy and disconsolate.
now, and every time the rumor
not to tell, then all speakers
discoverer, the one who saw
help the girl who was sitting

Now Tallie's eyes drift back to the stone bench as she makes her
way to the Dance School. She's wearing leggings and a denim jacket. Slung over her
shoulder, a huge silver polyester bag where she keeps her clothes to change into,
leg warmers, shoes, cotton sleeves, and also a small box of hairpins and resin for
the tips. Although he hides it very well, every time he passes by that street, the
sight of the bank shakes him with a slap of remorse. The poignant clairvoyance that
he has betrayed someone's trust. Because, on the other hand, it was also her,
Tallie McGrath herself, who a few days later, on her return from the craft fair,
guided Clara Tibbets to that area of the boulevard. It didn't seem right to keep
her uninformed and on the sidelines, and when they turned the corner, she pointed
to the bench with the hand that was holding a muesli bar: look, Clara, I found her
there.

In the church tower the bells announce six in the evening. Tallie
picks up her step. During warm-ups, she always huddles with Monique and Solange,
and today is the first day of school after the summer break, so they'll have to
catch up. Also on a physical level, he deduces, because at the very moment he walks
through the classroom doors, and leans on the bar, and arches his leg back like a
scorpion's tail, he perceives the consequences of the last few months loafing on
the beach.

After three rounds of instep exercises, her companions finally

push through the swinging door. They walk toward her slowly. Monique sits on the
floor. Solange straightens her bun using an assortment of bobby pins. Wearing a
fluorescent coral double-breasted jacket, she asks Tallie about the last few days
of vacation.

"We haven't seen you since the esplanade parties, have we?"
Monique then blurts out.

"That's true, a long time ago.

"When we left you with that girl...

Tallie swallows. Says:

-Yeah.

"You're going to have to testify at the trial, I suppose."

"The trial?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

 This time Tallie uses a guttural sound to respond. Monique goes
no further, and takes advantage of a flexibility exercise to hide her head in her
arms.

"What day do you start classes?" he asks finally.

-Thursday.

Solange, who until now had been silent, stops the series of floor
stretches and rests both hands on the linoleum. Beneath the polyester bodysuit, her
ribs stand out like xylophone keys.

“You're not going to get anywhere at that rate, Monique,” he says

with a small smile.

Tallie's heel is on the bar and her stomach is against her leg
right now. It's an awkward position, but she's willing to drag it out until her
companions get to that enigmatic point they want to get to. Out of the corner of
his eye, he sees Solange sit up with a delicate, insectlike motion.

“That girl you met at the bank…” he starts to say. It was her,
wasn't it?

Tallie exhales the air she's holding in her lungs against her
leg. He counts slowly to ten before his muscles relax, and then he straightens up
completely.

“It was a classmate who was a little drunk,” she says.

"Yeah," Solange insists, "but it's the same girl from the portal
and the attacks, right?"

Tallie clears her throat, licks her lips at Solange, then droops
her trunk to one side like a badly injured flower.

—Let's see, it's nonsense that you deny it, we've already
received some gossip.

From this position, head bowed, he notes that Solange's knees are
bony and prominent, like pulley wheels. When she sits up again, Tallie puts her
arms on her hips.

"Then you already know everything, don't you?"

"Actually, yes, but we want you to confirm it."

“Don't be mad, Tallie, we're not asking this in a scavenger way,”

Monique says with pasty smoothness. She has brown eyes, a shock of dark, unruly
hair that always slips out of its pins, and because of her constitution, she's
forced to eat an eternal diet of spinach and low-fat yogurt. My older sister went
to high school with one of the kids,” she adds.

Tallie feels her muscles tighten, as if her entire body is on

guard.

-Oh yeah? he mutters.

—Yes, they coincided in several classes. And in my sister's group

they say that the girl from your school has gone around making things up.

Tallie looks down at the satin toes of her dance shoes. Inside
the room there is a consistent smell of floor cleaners that, in general, he only
notices in moments of great tension. Before assessment tests, for example, or when
it's her turn to improvise a solo choreography.

—And what things have been invented according to them? -ask.

And he asks it with genuine curiosity. Although because of his

abrupt tone, and those fine, pointy blond eyebrows, he always seems to be sparing
the life of the one in front of him.

“Well, apparently,” Monique says, “she made out with this guy
from my sister's class.

-And who is that? This Alex Devillers?

“No, Alex Devillers is the one who had met her on Tinder,”
Monique clarifies. This one I'm talking about, the one from my sister's class, his
name is Adam Kaplan, and he also made out with your friend... Apparently they were
talking about all kinds of pornographic crap before they entered the portal. I've
heard it from super-reliable sources.

“Let's see, she's not my friend to begin with,” Tallie corrects.

He only goes to my school, and besides…” Then he trails off, waving his hand in the
air. He snorts: it doesn't matter.

Grab a mat from a high pile and lie on your back with some
elastic bands to stretch your metatarsals. For several minutes, she stares up at
the ceiling, at the white, rectangular LED panels that give the ballerinas'
complexions that anemic look. He is aware that perhaps he should intervene to
protect Miriam. That that would be appropriate. But she's not used to thinking well
of her. Let's not say to express it out loud. And being completely honest, he has
no reason to contradict Solange either, or to question those alternative
testimonies.

—Were you with her when she went to report? Monique then asks.

Tallie bites her lip, trying to react.

“No,” he replies, “I don't know what he told the police. I was

not in front.

“Oh.” Monique exchanges a look with Solange. He lets out a raspy

laugh that even Tallie finds too hurtful. Well, we'll tell you, pretty. Apparently
he invited them to breakfast.

Tallie frowns.

-Sorry?

"As you hear it."

—That's a hoax, you yourselves saw her in a shambles on the

bench. And let's see…” then he closes his mouth again. She shrinks it into a tiny
round dot, because she knows she should shut up, stay neutral and out of the way.
But she can't, she's beyond her strength, and besides, it's not like Miriam Dougan
was her friend. So he takes a deep breath and shakes: let's see, I'm not going to
deny everything else. It seems super likely to me that she fooled around with those
kids and that she snogged them, because there is no doubt that the girl is light on
helmets. But I assure you that when I stayed with her I was traumatized.

“Of course I do,” Monique agrees quietly. The question is, why
was she traumatized?

"And what does that mean?"

Monique clicks her tongue. Her hand goes to her bun to check that
the pins are still in place.

"Well, maybe the girl broke down when she realized that the
situation had gotten out of hand." When he thought about the consequences, you
know. The videos and all that.

It is certainly something to consider. A twist in the argument

that would add up. And for a few seconds, Tallie withdraws into the core of her
memories. Not the memories of the day he bumped into Miriam sitting on the bench,
but his other memories, the ones from the entire past year despising her hysterical
giggles and her bratty attitude when she went out of her way to get the attention
of Jordan and the others.

She is relieved when the teacher finally shows up and they are
forced to end the conversation. Although Tallie can no longer focus on the class.
Given a choice, she would prefer not to be assailed by certain kinds of thoughts
(which she acknowledges are abject, petty, inhuman), but she finds a comforting
pleasure in them, a satisfaction that shames her. I can't be the one who builds
these sadistic judgments, it is said. That litany of macabre conclusions: "it was
obvious", "of course", "she deserves it", that make her feel vile and ruthless. If
someone read my thoughts, is often asked, they would have to put me behind bars.
They would have to expel me from society.

Look at that girl, she's the one from the rape. Look at her.
Eating such a wide pizza.

Look at her, sitting in a bar, drinking a soda, don't you think

she's flirting with the bartender?

Look at her, they say she has a tattoo on her chest, she couldn't
choose another place. Now it is covered. So they don't call her, you know, whore.

Look at her with her mouth painted red.

That furious red.

Look at her, dammit, look at her. Doesn't she look very relaxed?
There, smiling, as if nothing.

Do you know about those photos? The ones that were done in a
fitting room? She was almost topless. It was just a few days later. And he was
cracking up. What was he laughing at? He shouldn't have laughed so harshly.

Because seriously, what was he laughing at? What was he laughing

so much about? You shouldn't laugh.
 But what else does it matter to her.

Look at her. Talking, smoking so relaxed.

Look how little he cares.

Look at her.

See if she was a slut.

In bed, with a cigarette in your mouth and the computer resting

on your knees, one night you began to search. What do you want to know, Miriam
Dougan? Is there something that intrigues you in particular? Any particular gossip?
The cursor is blinking at the top of the screen, tick-tock, tick-tock. I want to
know what others read. So you have to link the words, the magic formula: rape,
parties, portal. You dare?

No.

You slam the lid of your laptop shut and throw your head back.
For several minutes you lose focus on a damp patch on the ceiling. You still can't
believe it. It's surreal, that morbid epidemic. More than two hundred thousand
entries on the internet. Your own article on Wikipedia. With index and references,
the same as in scientific publications. And all that mass of people scrutinizing
your case. That frenzy devours each chapter of your life. Because? Well, because
you're like a soap opera. And not only for that. Also for revenge, for vanity. To
check if they are able to track you, to find your profile on social networks, and
thus divulge your name, who you are, the slutty face you have.

As the days go by, the web pages multiply, the details are better
outlined. All kinds of judgments about your tits and your tattoo. As it turns out,
transcripts of your messages with the Student have surfaced. And more photos of
them. Their contexts, their desires, their ambitions. The media have given them a
name: the four horsemen. The press loves those figures of speech. And if you type
those words—if you dare—then everything will come out too. All the shit.

"We trace the path that the victim followed with her stalkers to
the portal"

"Exclusive Photos of the Four Horsemen"

«AD, nicknamed the Trojan Horse, was looking for unattractive

women on the internet»

And more headlines. What you thought, what you did, what they
forced you to do, that you did incite, that you were drugged, that group sex was
your vice, and that the cocks you had eaten could be measured by kilometers. But
don't worry, there's more.

"Girl, it got out of hand"

"The 10 reasons why he deserved it"

"7 Moments She Could Have Escaped"

 "Calientapollas, you were afraid that they would upload the video
to Pornhub"

That surprised you. Until then, you thought that such stark
insults were reserved for politicians or criminals. That people only went so far in
the face of a flagrant injustice or a particular revenge. But it turns out not. You
also have that ability. You arouse rabid hatred.

And so everything. All the time. Ad nauseam.

Can you imagine all those people who don't know you at all,
sprawled out on their sofa at night. Cramming the Google search engine with noun
permutations: girl-portal-rape. The people of the neighborhood scratching bait.
Because just seeing you from afar will already give them a certain status: I went
through there, I live in the next street, I know it from class, from the park, by
sight. Delighted that you provide them with juicy anecdotes for the next after-
meal.

And yet, you can't complain, you can't call them rats, pigs,
respect the identity of the victims. Because do you remember? You have been them a
thousand times. The attacks in France, that night of shooting at the Bataclan, and
you with your eyes glued to your cell phone, exchanging messages with Lukas from
under the duvet. Dude, there are already sixty dead. You slid your finger across
the screen to update the news, to see if more data comes out, more deaths, more
savages, a new tragedy in another part of the city, that the horror does not wane,
that the lump in the throat does not give way. I freak out, man, I'm dying, I
wouldn't get over that. You spent the next afternoon wolfing down stracciatella ice
cream as you flipped through bleak stories about the dead. How old were they, what
work they do, if they were in love, pregnant, newlyweds. What were your dreams.

You can't call them rats. You have been them first.

When he opens his eyes, the light in the room is dreary and
muddy. Miriam turns on the mattress. Through a crack between the curtains he
glimpses a streak of compact clouds. That comforts her. All dreary seasons should
come like this, he thinks, backed by urine-colored skies.

He snatches the phone from the charger and staggers lethargic to

the kitchen. The whole house smells creamy of softened butter and open windows. Her
mother has started to cook French toast in the skillet, and for a few seconds,
Miriam gazes at her with her forehead resting on the doorjamb. She rubs her eyes
with her knuckles, scratches something sticky at the corner of her lip, until
suddenly the ringing of the landline phone startles her. Her mother looks at her.
In Miriam's flat nod, Pattie confirms that she has no intention of responding, so
she drops the skimmer and lowers the heat. They are waiting for the call from the
psychologist. After almost a month determined that no way, that gives me a bad
feeling, and that I manage with the pills, now it turns out that Miriam has changed
her mind.

Pattie picks up, greets with a flowery: yes, tell me. And then he
tilts his neck: oh, yes, wait... He turns to Miriam: it's the laser hair removal
people to confirm the appointment for the day after tomorrow. Miriam shakes her
head, vocalizes: no, no, no. She takes shelter in a corner. They must have heard
her, even though her mother is covering the receiver with her hand. Pattie clears
her throat: she can't come, sorry we didn't call. And Miriam bites the inside of
her cheeks, squeezing until she feels a sting. That call from normal life, from her
past, as if it had slipped in by mistake from a simultaneous reality in which
another Miriam, happier and more relaxed, still has laser hair removal on her legs
and dyed blonde bangs. It is something that often comes up. The divergence in time
where she chose the course that led into the darkness of a portal. And because of
that, now she is forced to witness the tail end of her old life from the wrong
universe.

Pattie has turned up the heat again. He is piling the hot, fluffy
slices of bread onto a plate. Miriam leans back against the frame.

"Put on some breakfast," she hears her mother say.

She shuffles to the coffee pot, tries to ignore the headache

already throbbing at her temples. He flips the switch, and on the way to the window
grabs a piece of toast from the plate. It's cold. Through the geometrically
embroidered net curtains, Miriam watches the people passing by on the street with
their umbrellas open and their hoods pressed against their heads.

On the table, trapped under a pepper shaker, rests the flyer for
the six-week checkup and Pap smear. But Miriam has stopped being nervous. Now he is
more concerned about the matter of the psychologist. He is worried about what can
get him out of it. What are they really going to talk about? If you don't even know
what to say when asked how you feel. Sad, he supposes. And he perceives that the
word has acquired a different thickness in his voice. Before, sadness was something
ambiguous, a jumble of hostile routines—grief, jealousy, nerves, frustration.
Because she failed a test, or because Jordan passed her by, or because someone in
class had called her fat. But the sadness of now is different. A pure and
unadulterated element. A bushy burrow into which you eventually end up mating.
Against that sadness, Miriam does not offer any resistance, just as she did not
resist the rape.

She takes a minimal bite of the toast and slides her hand along
the edge of the sheers. It blurs the view until the trees fade into the gray ocean
of asphalt.

“There's homemade jam, too,” Pattie says, forcing a tight,

slightly apoplexic smile.

Miriam says something. He says: great, or something like that,

because a few seconds later he's not sure if he's even responded to his mother.
Inside the kitchen, the light is growing stale, as if the sun were dying. And he
thinks: I need something small, something to get me through this day. Pick a movie
for later. A hot bath. A clean and comfortable pajamas. He turns around slowly.
Pattie has the frying pan under the sink stream and her fingers loosen some dried
egg clippings.

-Breast.

-Tell me darling.

Miriam sets the toast on the edge of the table. She's going to
ask if they can order pizza later and maybe eat it on the couch. Take out the thick
blanket, choose a film together. Then a tear falls on the oilcloth, and suddenly,
shocked, she discovers that she can't breathe, that she has forgotten how to do it,
that she needs to get rid of that piece of toast that is balling up against her
cheek first. Tears congest her nose, she tries to swallow, but her throat
constricts, blocked, as if it had cement. And the heart gets a thousand. I'm going
to suffocate, think, I'm going to die. And meanwhile, more terror, more
suffocation, more tears that cake behind her eyes. He makes another effort,
clenches his teeth. And finally he succeeds. swallow. He gasps. A spasm in the
belly. An arcade. He leans against the table, convulsing, and before he has time to
think, a semi-digested bread jelly spills over the tropical fish oilcloth.

"Miriam!"

Pattie turns around with the pan dripping with soap.

"Are you feeling bad?" What's happening?

A crash of china against the sink. Miriam is waiting for the

shaking to end to say that it's okay, don't worry. He rests his forehead on his
hand. She doesn't want to cry, she doesn't want her mother to have to comfort her.
Night after night, he sees that scarlet haze in her eyes, and he doesn't want to,
can't imagine causing more pain, but he's on his knees on the kitchen floor, still
fighting to get all the oxygen he needs into his lungs as he his throat burns with
bile, while the cold of the tiles encrusts his bones, but above all that light,
that light of chronic illness that enters through the window. And finally he takes
a breath, wipes his mouth with the napkin that his mother hands him. Pattie is
pale, her dyed hair accentuating her paleness.

-What happen dear?

Miriam straightens her back, leans on his shoulder.

“Mom,” she says with tired eyes, “can we watch a movie together
today?

My life is a nightmare. I can barely eat or sleep. I am taking

anxiety pills. I don't know how this could have happened to me. I have always led a
very normal life. My family is torn apart... [pause] I still don't understand
how... [a sob cuts off her speech] I don't know what I'm doing here, there are
still days when I wake up and I can't believe things have gone this far. .. A year
ago I was a person like any other, with the same problems as anyone, I had my
friends, my plans... This is totally unreal.

(Statement of one of the defendants before the magistrate.)

The first day of class you get up early. You shower, get dressed,
dry your hair and tie it up with a rubber band while looking at yourself in the
mirror. Then you have a leisurely breakfast. A healthy bowl of muesli with a sliced
kiwi. You swallow pills with milk, rinse the dishes in the sink and prepare your
clothes to go straight to the gym right after school. Many people—your mother, the
psychologist—hope that this return to routine will do you good. Nothing like
keeping your head busy for eight hours a day.

On the bus you put on your headphones and turn up the volume of
the music to the fullest. You don't want to cross eyes with anyone during the
entire journey. You already predict it's going to be weird when you walk into
class, even though you don't quite know what to expect. Whispers, little glances,
gestures of dismay. That without a doubt. Perhaps a graffiti on the blackboard, the
typical stick figure with tits. An arrow pointing it with your name. go to know And
yet, for once, Miriam Dougan, you were wrong.

From the moment you cross the threshold of the door, the twist in
the plot becomes clear. And from how their faces turn, from how they look at you,
you immediately deduce. You are no longer the fat girl, the Zampa, the Bufi. Now
you have become something much more original and sophisticated: the raped girl.
Better yet: the raped and reviled girl. And the change in attitude does not go
unnoticed, especially with regard to your colleagues. They smile as they walk by,
greet you in a sing-song voice, and make sure you've heard them. Some stop and say:
Miriam, gorgeous, if you need notes or whatever, please count on them. They almost
pity. The poor creatures, waiting for an opportunity to do you a favor. They must
be exhausted. All so alert. Together as sisters. Hoping you don't remember the
other version: Miriam, you have the plague, Miriam, how clumsy you are, do you know
what a tampon is?

Holy God. All those sadists.

A student two years younger has given you a pink T-shirt, it has
a message in bright letters that reads: FOR THE WOMEN WHOSE EVERYTHING SWEATS THE
PUSSY. The crazy, modern typography, alternating thick and thin strokes, as if it
were the slogan of a start-up. You sigh: thank you.

Oh you're welcome.

She seems flattered that you're accepting the shirt, a little

excited too, as if you're a movie star who's been stopped at the exit of a hotel to
give her a stuffed animal. And so all, one by one: how is everything going, how are
you. They squeeze your arm, so dedicated, as if they were suddenly your best
friends: let's talk about happy topics, what do you think about Jennifer Aniston?
But you know they don't want anything with Jennifer Aniston. They die for details.
What is true in your drama, when is the trial going to be, and what is going to
happen to all the contradictions in the narrative. And although you are not
interested, they insist: yes, there is no doubt that you are sincere, that they are
on your side, and what a bunch of pigs, that society is sick, that morality,
politics, that this It cannot be, and above all, that it is very clear how
empathetic and committed and progressive they are.

At the first break, Vix comes looking for you. He is with

Lachance, who is looking into your classroom with some weariness. He is seen eager
to be out of the picture, finally saying goodbye to Vix and striding away in the
direction of the stairs. This year you're only in class with Tallie and Clara. Vix
and Paola are not in the same group. The boys either, they have gone for the
technological branch, which to tell the truth gives you a huge relief.

"Have you seen what they've set up in the hall?" Vix says, and
presses her lips together until they disappear.

You are surrounded by a consistent smell of bread crumbs and

sausage. Also to new clothes, to cold plastic, to the polyester of the backpacks
bought the previous week.
 “I don't know if I want to see it,” you say. It's about me,
right?

"Not quite, but it looks like it."

What they have set up is actually a cork board from which various
drawings are hung with pins. They show girls partying, having fun in bars, wearing
short, very short dresses, or walking alone at night on a sidewalk. In the middle
of the drawings, there is a very long list of several lines written on mauve
sheets. And from afar, from the bottom of the stairs, and even from behind the
double-glazed patio doors, you can read in big red, paunchy letters: THIS IS
SEXIST.

* Comment on a woman's clothes

* Advise a woman to carry anti-rape spray

*Thinking that a woman has asked for it or flirted too much

*Telling a woman that she shouldn't walk alone on certain streets

*Suggesting that a woman should not talk about sex in public

...

And so three sheets of folio size.

Beneath the board, on the typical pale green school table, towers
of questionnaires, informative pamphlets and booklets on gender violence are piled
up.

“I don't think they link it to you,” Vix says. It's just, you
know, awareness and all that. It is what is fashionable.

-I suppose.

“I've seen it in more places,” Vix insists. Really.

-Where.

—In the mall and in the library.

You nod without conviction.

—I'm sure it's not just because of you, Miri... And besides,
almost no one in high school knows that it's you who it happened to... In other
words, the closest ones and those from class, but no one else.

"Yeah, okay," you say. As if the word was not going to spread.

"Maybe not as much as we think...

You sigh. You stop talking. And besides, nothing Vix says is
going to relieve you. It is true that the propagation of your name has slowed down
and now there are very large fines for those who leak your data, but that does not
guarantee your immunity. It happened, without going any further, a couple of weeks
ago. It was the fan of a soccer club, apparently. You didn't even know who that guy
was, or how he knew you, and above all, why he spent so much time and effort
screwing up your life. At least the media were quick to react. Your lawyer, the
police. They erased all mention, annihilated the trail. But you still think you're
getting dizzy when opening an article you come across names similar to yours:
Maria, Marion, Mirna. So, as a result, they've had to up your clonazepam dose.

Although in reality it has been a bit of everything.

And now what was missing. This paraphernalia. People hanging

around in front of the cork every morning. They look excited. The eagerness with
which they unfold the pamphlets and handle them. Some take photos of the drawings
with their mobile phones. Also from the list of sexist signs. Sometimes they come
up and add lines. But you do not. You never. You always pass by. You hide your face
and rush up the stairs.

January 2018

One week after the resolution of the judgment

Seventeen months after the rape

You straighten your back on the backrest and wander your eyes
over the gigantic paintings on the walls. Scenes of wars and big game. The carved
and aged frames with a false woodworm effect. Directly in front of you is a closed
door, and through the top half, which is frosted glass, are moving mists resembling
human figures. They remain seated for a long time, and then they get up and move
around the translucent square, interrupting the flow of light. Next to that door
there is a little gold plate that says: WINFRIED KAZATCHKINE. CRIMINAL LAWYER. And
how beautiful is everything around you. The rosewood furniture, the walnut-paneled
walls, the carved chairs, and probably very expensive, with the legs topped with
lion's claws. Even the air has something sumptuous about it. The entire room exudes
a regal smell of furniture wax. And along the corridors, marble, lots of marble,
and silk with brocades. Bas-relief cabinets of Roman generals, French tapestries,
glass lamps, porcelain cocker spaniels, and on a Louis XVI chest of drawers beside
you, a profusion of blue-painted Chinese pottery and pottery.

It is a very prestigious law firm. Its lawyers hold millions of

titles, and are generally dedicated to resolving mishaps for marquises and mayors.
Only rarely do they accept populace cases like yours, especially if social networks
have echoed and they do not stop pounding on the subject on television. When you
look around you, there is no doubt that the decorators have broken their horns to
make the difference in status very clear. And you think again: what am I painting
here, what else am I going to tell them, they should have been content with the
sentence.

The interior of the office smells of tobacco. The huge north-

facing windows reveal patches of sky a depressing blue, like propane gas. When they
start asking you questions, for some reason you can't talk. Saliva runs out of your
mouth and you stammer out broken words. You leave the sentences halfway, the
subordinates drooling on the edge of all your "is that", "I don't know",
"actually". You stare at a decorative clock on the desk. It's so ugly and ornate
that you almost like it. You barely hear the lawyer, that Mr. Kazatchkine, who is
wrinkled and from some angles, depending on how the light falls on him, he looks
like a papier-mâché creature.
 It's been a while since he's started spouting off. You pause the
gesture and nod as if you understand what he's talking about. You get carried away
by sordid obsessions, for example, which eye should you look into while listening.
You can't look at both at the same time, you've just realized, and this sudden
discovery is starting to drive you crazy. You shift your gaze from one eye to the
other uneasily. Every time he asks you a question, you clear your throat
unnecessarily. You invariably answer: I don't know.

You should appeal the sentence, he explains, because the five-

year sentence is absolutely ridiculous, practically an insult. You see that the
prosecution has immediately communicated their disagreement. And do not forget
that, on the other hand, their lawyers are also considering the option of filing an
appeal. From their position, they argue that the rights of the defendants were not
respected, nor was their presumption of innocence and that the court handed down
the sentence under terrible media pressure.

So more meetings, more questions, more weighing the pros and

cons, and more signatures, bureaucracy, that baroque language that you don't
understand, nor do you want to be clarified either, and all the expositions, and
reasoning, and turning your eyes towards the hideous but almost pretty clock on the
desk, and the early mornings, and the cups of dark coffee. All focused on the goal
of convincing you.

Mr. Kazatchkine takes off his glasses. He opens a solid wood

cabinet with glass doors, and pulls out a stack of letterheads and shields, as if
you were going to declare war on Henry VIII. There are two or three documents that
he needs you to verify. They all begin with a solemn statement: In your statement
of the day... at... in the morning, at the police station on the street..., you
stated that... You read the paper several times. You are concerned about the way
the sentences are articulated. Those structures so cold that they seem tricked
riddles, as if they had been designed on purpose so that you make mistakes. To go
catch And then Mr. Kazatchkine riots: do you ratify it? That question with echo of
guillotine.

Yes, you answer everything, I ratify it. I reaffirm that I did

not talk about sex, or at least not explicitly. And I didn't kiss the other boy
either, that Mr. Kaplan, as they claim in their statement. I never flirted or
fooled around with them. I just wanted to leave with Alex, who was the guy I had a
date with. And on the other hand, the fact that I suggested that we all go to
breakfast together, I don't know why they invented that, it is evident that it is
nonsense.

There was more than one occasion to tell your story, the morning
after the night that everything happened. For two hours, at the police station,
they asked a million questions to fill out your version of events with more chicha.
So you didn't think it mattered. Those pair of omissions. That maybe you did make
certain kinds of comments, and that for some stupid reason you kissed the Kaplan,
but a kiss for nothing. And you kept quiet, yes, because, did it matter? They were
just a couple of details that at that moment caused you terrible embarrassment, and
besides, they would only serve to confuse everything, to confuse the police and
distract them from the real problem. That it was that you were screwed up, that you
didn't even remotely imagine that things would end like this, damn it, really. That
you didn't want to, that you didn't know, and that you didn't come close to
suspecting what they interpreted and what they did afterwards.
 The problem, however, is that you later reaffirmed yourself in
this first version. Also in front of the lawyer, your mother, the psychologist, and
even on the very day of the trial, sitting in that rigid chair in front of the
magistrates. Swallowing you a couple of truths that they, the four horsemen, had
repeated over and over again, that they agreed on their four statements, and that
you insisted never again. The words howling in your stomach while all those people
looked into your eyes, while the microphone amplified your hesitations. And it's
not that you left certain details aside, it's not that you avoided them. They asked
you without circumlocution. Their lawyers, who kept pointing their pens at you:
Miss, isn't it more true...? And you sweated and shivered by turns, you knew in
advance what they had testified before the judge. Although they also declared lies
that you know—with absolute certainty—are not true. They, from what you can see,
have also edited their part.

And now you're scared to death, because maybe if you confess that
you lied at trial, the magistrates will conclude that the rest of your testimony is
also a slander, and then they will throw you in jail. Perhaps you have committed a
terrible crime. And now how are you going to turn back?

Sometimes, to console yourself, you think: nothing really

changes, the result is the same, I was raped. And right after: will I be able to
bear this burden all my life?

On leaving the cinema, they have gone through the inauguration of

a cosmetics store in the shopping center. Vix has headed straight to the bottom
because she wants to browse among the mascara displays. But Miriam is unable to
focus on anything. At times he throws his head back or tiptoes over from the other
side of a shelf of body washes. You need to control the door, and specifically, the
other buyers: the gestures they adopt, who they accompany, their appearance, their
gestures, their locomotion patterns.

Today is not exactly his best day. Neither yesterday, nor so far
this week. And yet there was a good time. Not long ago. A six-day hiatus between
the afternoon she had to testify and Mr. Kazatchkine's call urging her to appeal
the sentence.

All the time before the judgment is a haze.

The last year of the institute was complicated, it was evident

that the teachers were being very generous in the evaluation marks. And even the
head of studies turned a blind eye when Miriam missed class because she had a panic
attack. The selectivity passed her by the hair, and then she thought: maybe now she
can disconnect, maybe she can enjoy the summer. Yet it was impossible to ignore the
shadow of the trial, the thought of meeting them again, face to face, in the same
room. During one of her many appointments with Mr. Kazatchkine, Miriam asked him -
that is, she begged him - if she could testify by videoconference, I can't see
them, seriously, but the Court's response was emphatic: no. So anxiety attacks,
insomnia, hives all over the body and the beginning of an ulcer that the doctors
treated with antibiotics; and again he vomits, he comes to leave food on his plate,
new bottles of pills multiplying in the bathroom cabinet, sweating, crying with
hiccups, agoraphobia, a significant increase in visits to the psychologist.

College came like a breath of fresh air. At last he could blend

in with the crowd. His companions seemed like nice, understanding people. They
seemed. But the trial. And he had no strength or desire left to explore that world.
 He remembers how the knots in his chest dissolved the day he came
down the steps of the courthouse, just after giving evidence. It was a sunny
morning in late January. She sat with her mother in the garden of a pizzeria, and
although it was the middle of winter, she put on her sunglasses and leaned back in
her chair to receive the midday rays. Finally, that's it, smiled Pattie as she cut
little pizza triangles. And Miriam gazed at the stout boughs of the chestnut trees,
the sun spreading across the even layer of melted cheese. He felt happy. Or almost.
Yes, I thought, that's it.

Leaving the cosmetics store, they are forced to walk through a

huge line of customers. They dodge drifting balloons and straight-haired
stewardesses wielding little pots of cream. As expected, they haven't bought
anything, but Vix has collected a good handful of discount coupons that she's now
keeping in her bag.

-What do we do? -ask.

She's doused herself with various colognes, and her sweater is

saturated with robust, sensual scents. Miriam looks around her. It's Saturday
afternoon and the mall is packed with people of all age ranges. You feel an
outbreak of anguish.

Three days ago the release of the four defendants from preventive
detention was decreed. Until the appeal is resolved —and that can take more than a
year—, they are granted provisional release with certain obligations, such as not
leaving the country or appearing at a certain periodicity in court. Their passports
have been taken away, that's what they said on the news, and Miriam only thinks
that they wish they would run away anyway. Let them hide far, far away, on the
other side of the world.

Of course, they've also been issued a restraining order, but that

doesn't comfort her. That they cannot go near her, or her house, or the university,
but instead, they can go to the shopping center, the cinema, the cosmetics store,
the sports center or the esplanade. It will be like this while the appeal that the
prosecution has already presented is being evaluated. But if the court ultimately
rules in favor of the defendants, then they will go free. They won't go to jail
again. Never again.

After touring the food court, they decide to sit at one of the
high top tables in the waffle shop. There are too many people, Miriam thinks, but
the psychologist insists: that she go out, that she socialize, that she not stay
locked up at home. In front of her, Vix taps the mobile screen. You have subscribed
to a newsletter to immediately receive all the news from the campus. Now she's
obsessed with I don't know what visual culture seminars.

"Next week there's a party at the rugby field," he says. Her

cheeks are flushed, though it's probably from the heat. We could go together and
this is how I introduce you to Gigi and Manon, they still convince you to come to
the seminars.

Miriam smiles lazily. She knows that they are the typical
invitations that will lose strength as time goes by, and even Vix will find it a
hassle to have to fit it into her plans as soon as she gets acclimatized and meets
more people at the university. In a matter of a couple of months, he has already
made quite a few friends or, at least, has created a small circle of like-minded
people. After classes, they drink beers in the canteen or attend cultured shows in
filthy theaters. They persist in that breathless enthusiasm to discover gurus and
passions and unknown dimensions of their intellect. Miriam can't help but feel a
little envious. She hasn't even been able to get close to any of her classmates
yet. The day the provisional release was decreed, the hall of the faculty was full
of people shouting: injustice, rapists, and waving banners with a grumpy face. He
did not have the nose to enter.

—Of course, you have to choose very carefully what we wear to the
party.

-What party?

“The one at the rugby field. —Vix is folding the sugar wrapper in
an asymmetrical pattern. He looks up excitedly. We have to give a very cool image.

Miriam forces a face. She has no intention of going to that

party, but she will drag the conversation out until it turns to another topic or
dies down on its own. At the very least, she's thankful for Vix's clumsy attempts
to distract her.

He wipes himself with his napkin and takes a short sip of his
Coca-Cola, where a pair of polished and transparent ice floats.

"Aren't you going to take Lachance to the party?" -ask.

Vix purses her lips, picking a waffle crumb from the corner.

—Hugo never wants to come. He's lazy to meet my friends. And

about the exhibitions and the theater, I won't even tell you...

Miriam snorts.

—Well, go. —And after a pause—: what are you doing lately at
school? Do they still see each other?

“Yeah, they keep going through the cop area. Although they no
longer set foot in Dreams or any of those cheesy bars. Now he's given them dart
tournaments.

—What a mess. Miriam chews on a fingernail. Do you see them all

in general?

Vix squeezes a little smile.

"So much sudden interest... Are you asking me about Jordan?"

"No, fuck." She snorts, crumpling up a napkin and letting it go

jadedly. I don't know, I ask about everyone in general.

She, too, is surprised by this curiosity that suddenly boils

inside her. For months, she has made it very clear to Vix that she wanted nothing
to do with the group, that she was disappointed. Although it's not that I hold a
grudge against them either.

The estrangement was sad, but gradual, which at least made the
sadness a little more tolerable. After the news broke, and above all, after the
media turned it into a kind of reality show, it was clear that certain habits would
stop dead. About asking her how big her boobs were, to give an example. And also
certain jokes, touching, jokes, repetitive jokes during Physical Education class.
All that nagging that he had never found funny at all, and that suddenly seemed to
make them uncomfortable too. But it didn't stop there. There were more things. Some
that did not have to disappear. The hugs, the complicity, the wasaps at dawn. Now
they shunned all contact with her. And Miriam could see the anguish in their eyes
as they sat them down together in the practice lab. So he gave them space, he stuck
to the wall. I thought: they should plant one of those yellow toxic merchandise
tags on my forehead.

It was a relief when classes finally ended. Probably for them

too, judging by how quickly he lost track of them.

"Is it okay with you that I drop by your house the Saturday
before the party?" Vix says. We can go to dinner.

Miriam slides her fingertip along the contour of the tray.

-Well...

—Hey —Vix stretches out her arm, touches the sleeve of her
sweater—, we can make another plan ourselves if the party doesn't convince you.

Miriam looks up, is about to smile, and then an abyss of panic

freezes in her eyes. He has spotted the figure over Vix's shoulder. A light brown
nape. A leather jacket with an embroidered eagle on the back. And suddenly he can't
move a muscle, he's cold, very cold, so cold that his legs start to jerk under the
table. Why have you listened to the psychologist? Live your life, distract
yourself, meditate, try not to dwell on it. It's like any other kind of
convalescence, he promised. So calm down, step by step, breathe in and out,
practice sports, imagine a beach. And it's not just a psychologist thing. Everyone
around him prescribing imperative verbs. His mother, Vix, Paola, the yoga teacher,
the zen videos on YouTube. Loosen your muscles, relax, feel, breathe.

I don't want to breathe. I do not want to live.

Vix has turned around seeing the terror on his face. He tries to
catch a glimpse of something—or someone—in the Mexican taco shop next door, among
the maze of tables where Miriam's pupils are now focusing.

-What's happening? -ask.

Miriam shakes her head in a minimal gesture. Rest your elbows on

the table and hide your face in your hands. On the plastic tray, in the direction
of his eyes, is a smear of strawberry syrup with a long hair running through it. He
fixes his gaze there, on the stain, on the hair, and feels like he's going to
faint.

"Miri?"

"I think it's there."

-Who?

Miriam makes a gesture of pain, as if she were beginning to feel

unwell. And what happens is that Vix is not an adult, she doesn't know very well
how to react to danger. Someone more mature—Pattie, for example—would have stood
up, would have taken her arm: come on, calm down, let's go eat an ice cream. And
they would have slipped away in silence. But all Vix manages to say is:
 "Fuck, don't look. Has he seen you?

And Miriam, who isn't even entirely sure it's him, clenches her
fists until her nails are scarred.

The light brown nape of the Student's hair leans and tilts
towards the group of people accompanying him. They have taken a seat at a small
table by the bar and are now taking off their warm clothes. Miriam's eyes narrow,
limiting her field of vision to the chair whose folding legs stick out her legs. He
is wearing brown Timberland boots. Beige pants with a marked stripe. Miriam wonders
if she has a mother who irons and folds her clothes and then leaves them in a pile
at the foot of her bed. It had never occurred to him that these boys also had
mothers, and that these mothers heard their statements on the spot. All that
terminology from the semantic field of putiferio. This is how they will translate
it: it was just sex, revelry, a night of excesses. That girl asked for it.

"Do you want us to go?" Vix asks.

But Miriam still isn't able to move. His limbs are heavy like
sandbags and his brain has filled with air, so he's in no condition to shift his
attention to Vix, let alone consider a move.

At the taqueria table, the boy who may or may not be the Student
has removed his eagle jacket and left it hanging over the back. She is with two
girls, next to her they are very short, and even from that distance it is possible
to distinguish the very dark color of her lipstick. Both wear high fluffy buns,
miniskirts, roomy bags with textbooks sticking out.

"Miri, shall we go?" Vix repeats. She reaches across the trays of
waffle scraps and grabs Miriam's wrist. Come on, calm down.

Miriam takes a breath. His knees are shaking so badly that he is

afraid to stand up and collapse.

“No,” he whispers, “shut up.

He just wants to close his eyes and disappear. Her temples ache
from clenching her teeth so much, and she can't take her eyes off that chestnut
nape, the fluffy bows, the embroidery of the eagle billowing on the back. Because
as long as you look at them, as long as you stay alert, you know they are there, in
the distance. But if he looks away, then he loses control, and suddenly he is
everywhere, gassing, saturating the space around him. Right now the Student has
that capacity, it metastasizes throughout his entire life. And that's why Miriam
can't afford to change the position of her body and stop looking.

“I'm going to call Hugo to come pick us up,” Vix suggests.

She hastily pulls out her phone and taps the screen impatiently.
Miriam is sitting on her hands with her legs crossed, she says: no!

The strangest of all, the most disturbing, is the parsimony that

surrounds it. All those people slouched in their seats, dipping nachos in
guacamole, or chatting while fiddling with the fringes of a scarf. And now the
chestnut nape stands up. He tucks his shirt into his pants. The girls slide back
their stools and retrieve their bags from the floor. Apparently they have ordered
food to go, and an employee approaches and hands them some cardboard bags, which
they take immediately. There's another kid, Miriam doesn't know anything about it.
He approaches one of the girls and hugs her around the waist. It is small, very
small, and that they both wear platform shoes.

The eagle huntress leaves the saddle and adjusts again to the
marked shape of the traps and deltoids. The angle of the movement indicates that
they are heading in his direction, probably towards the flight of stairs that goes
up to the multiplex. And Miriam stands still. Contains air. The heart has entered
into all the organs and has imposed a tyrannical rhythm: boom-boom-boom-boom. Count
to three. Let's see, maybe it's not him, she's not sure, and besides, she's only
seen the back of his neck. It would be stupid for him to meet girls, to walk in
full view of everyone, and how many eagles will there be around the world
embroidered on leather jackets. So, in a fit of audacity, she raises her eyelids,
and the unfamiliar boy glances at her, nudges his friend, who seems absent at
first. But then. That's it. The Student turns his face. blink. And in that fraction
of a second when his brain makes the connections, and a bunch of dendrites fire up
and depolarize and spill information, his lips curl up, exposing a row of gleaming
white teeth, a carnivorous smile. Miriam holds her breath. He runs through her from
head to toe. And she looks down at her bitten nails. And he wonders. Always the
same. If it really happened. If it's real. If it was him, if he has looked at her.
Or if all those seconds have perhaps passed in another person's nightmare, inside
another body. To thousands of lives from there.

There are trial transcripts everywhere. In the news of some

newspapers downloadable documents are attached. Others have chosen to add a link at
the bottom of the article. Affordable, free, like a Sunday supplement. You die of
shame when you think about it. The disclosure of certain words. Anal, blowjob. But
they no longer come to mind, they are no longer their voices rattling your skull.
It's not them anymore, and neither are you.

Rimming, eating her pussy, me from behind and him from the mouth,
it was an orgy, he was moaning, there was fellatio, several, many, I don't know how
many.

They used to hurt like bayonets. But not anymore. Because right
now. Your mother.

You have asked him to please not read it, for nothing in the
world to open any of those articles. And she says she promises. She's been going
everywhere with you for weeks, she drives you to the gym, she tells you she's going
shopping with you "to look at some boots herself." At night you hear her looking
for chores in the kitchen, wiping the same counter a hundred times. The boogers are
blown more than necessary. You know you've read it. Anal. Blow job. Sometimes you
break into her perimeter, and she turns her back on you. Hide your face. Like you
don't know.

-What are you going to do? -asks you.

"What am I going to do with what?"

Leave a silence in between.

"I don't want to appeal," you say.

-You should.

You don't protest, you don't want to think about it anymore. You
are tired of seeing how the days pile up breaking your hope. And your life,
leisurely, trapped in that parenthesis, while the others progress and grow,
propelled by the driving force of life. Each one with their illusions. Longing for
the heat, the summer, a promotion, a premiere, a love, vacation days. While you,
Miriam Dougan, are falling behind. As you dodge your mother after dinner, and pray
that she doesn't bring it up again, that she'll forget about it and let it go. And
for now, it seems that he respects your decisions, because he doesn't insist, he
doesn't bother. That has not been, and never will be, Pattie Dougan's style.

When you go out into the street, it takes you directly to the
most brilliant areas of the center. He goes in and out of the shops, points to the
clothes on the mannequins, compulsively opens the bottles of colognes and plants
them under your nose: look how good this smells, do you like it? do you want it?
shall I give it to you? ? He grabs you by the wrist and pulls you towards the
spring collections. He keeps making comments about small things: how original these
chairs are, look at those plants, how leafy they are. And that's why you can't be
more aware of how bad things are. Are you hungry? Are we going to the movies? How
about today? He does not plan to let silence settle in, to prepare the ground for
morbid and recurring obsessions. To hateful omens that fill her with rage and make
her want to explode.

"Mom, I'm not going to appeal," you repeat.

"But just tell me why." She bites her lower lip, and when she
releases it, she leaves the marks of her incisors. I want them to rot in jail,” he
insists.

You know that he can't take it anymore, that he wants to die.

That the words are fresh in your head. Anal, blowjob. Because I didn't even imagine
half of it. Orgy. Me from behind and him from the mouth. And you understand that he
is not going to let it go. Which is impossible for you. Because it's not fair.
Because she can't believe it, and she's determined. He will give himself in body
and soul. He's going to crush them. And you let him think that it is so. Because
their pain is even stronger than yours. Because you can't compete with your
mother's pain.

Tallie has texted that she'll be here in ten minutes, so Paola

turns off the television and goes upstairs to her bedroom, where the afternoon
light bathes the furniture in a light apricot hue. He takes a quick look to check
that there are no wrinkles in the bedspread, and makes sure that the cushions form
a harmonious composition.

They have arranged to wrap Clara's birthday presents. Then they

will go down to the center to buy a cake, and around eight o'clock or thereabouts,
they will meet the rest of the gang in the park. Since they started classes at the
university, they only meet on Saturdays, although Paola continues to see Tallie
regularly, and of course, Jordan.

In order not to wrinkle the bedding, Paola takes a seat at the

desk, and spends a few minutes looking for news on the internet.

"The victim wants to turn the page, but his lawyers insist on
appealing the sentence"

«Demonstrations in several cities against the decision of the

Court»

«Images of the four horsemen abusing another young woman come to

light, a case prior to what happened at the festivities in the Plaza de los
Franceses»

She's already read a couple of articles when the bedroom door

opens and Tallie slumps against the frame with a comical look of exhaustion. Her
cheeks are red from the cold, and as the knot on her scarf loosens, she asks: what
are you doing? But as soon as Paola begins to tell her, she raises her hand in a
gesture: I'm fed up with the subject.

"Did you choose wrapping paper?" -Add.

—Yes —answers Paola— let's see what you think. It's little stars.

Tallie is fine with the little stars paper. I mean, he doesn't

really give a damn. He lies down at the foot of the bed and hugs a cushion to his
chest.

—Well, come on, what were you reading? -says-. Any news with the
Bufi?

Her hair is in a herringbone braid that she learned how to do

that morning in a YouTube tutorial, and her lips are a watery red, like the shine
left by lollipops.

"No..." Paola murmurs. The poor thing must be nervous.

Tallie remains lying on the bed, nodding with a nasal noise. His
eyes have lost focus on the ceiling and he doesn't feel like making the effort to
change his position.

"Yeah, well," he says, "it is what it is."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Paola get up and walk
across the room to a full-length mirror. The evening sun enters obliquely and
highlights a few traces of dust on the bas-reliefs on the frame. Tallie rolls onto
her opposite side. Flatten the fringes of a cushion with your fingers.

"Have you talked to her lately?" -ask.

"Well, more or less," says Paola.

And then he shuts up. He doesn't add that almost every day he
establishes some kind of contact with her, or at least tries to. Almost always by
WhatsApp. And that when he calls her, he expects more tones than he grants to other
people. Although Miriam rarely responds.

Paola removes a hairpin and smooths her hair from her forehead
with her hand. In the sharp light from the street, her hair is even blonder than it
had been in the bathroom.

"Sweetie, don't look at yourself anymore, you're going to wear

yourself out," Tallie says, and when Paola finishes repositioning the hairpin, and
returns, and kneels down again among the sheets of wrapping paper, she adds, "what
are you talking about in reality with the Bufi? Does he use you as a psychologist?

Paola clicked her tongue.

 "Stop calling her that." And no, we never talked about anything
related to his trauma.

"Of what then?"

—Well, I don't know, the typical: the university, sales, things

like that. The other day he was explaining to me how to make homemade fabric
softener.

Tallie pauses, leans back again, but Paola has a slight suspicion
that she's not done with it. And indeed:

“I think this appeal thing,” Tallie begins, “works like those

contests that offer super juicy prizes. Then the presenter starts to sting you so
that you risk a bigger prize, and in the end out of greed you lose everything.

"And that applies to Miriam's case because…" Paola raises her

head, makes a grand gesture with her hand, inviting Tallie to continue.

—Well, because he should be content with the sentence, period. A

bird in the hand is better.

In an adjoining room, a clear little girl's cough is heard. The

scissors glide through the star paper with a soothing rumble. And the parsimony
with which Paola smooths out the sheets is also relaxing, tracing the folds with
her fingertips.

"Well, apparently he hasn't decided what to do yet," says Paola.

And besides, if they resort, she has no bird to lose.

Tallie turns her back on the mattress. He is lazy to go into

nuance, and the truth is that he is only trying to guide the conversation towards
the point that interests him. Because he senses that Paola —from a spontaneous,
totally naive, mechanical and instinctive longing— has turned so much to the cause
in the hope of finding some kind of redemption. The rewarding of being on the side
of what is right. That is typical of Paola.

“Well, I suppose you know,” he continues, “that there are details

in his testimony that aren't very clear.

Paula sighs.

"That's for the judges to decide, right?"

—Yeah, but to tell you the truth... When I had to testify, for
example, they went straight to the point. All they were interested in was knowing
how I found it, what it looked like, and so on. Tallie pauses. She scratches her
bottom lip with her teeth, breathing in the raspberry flavor of her lipstick. But
instead —he continues—, they didn't ask me what I thought of Miriam's life, or how
she behaved at school. Nor did I see her at parties on the esplanade before the
incident. I don't feel like I told everything.

He emphasizes when pronouncing the word everything, the tea

propelled against the teeth, like a bit of bitter peel that needs to be spit out.
Paola doesn't react right away. She is too focused on cutting squares of the tape
and sticking them to the edge of the table.

“I don't know why they would ask you that,” he says finally.
Miriam is the victim, not a defendant.

A mist of laughter rises from the garden through the open

windows. A smell of burning wood. The distant cry of a child. Paola disengages the
scissors from between her fingers and leans back, leaning on one arm.

—And besides... what would you have said if they had asked you?

“Well…” Tallie stops short, sighs. Let's see, I wouldn't have

counted anything. But the fact is that I saw her that night in the bloodletting
shop. She was laughing with those guys, and lowering her neckline like that to show
them the tattoo on her boobs.

Paula shrugged. He detaches one of the cellophane strips that

hang like fringes from the table and glues it to another part of the wood.

"Yeah..." he says.

Just that, now, because Tallie has snorted and hasn't let her
finish. Now he has stretched out face down on the mattress, forming with his hands
a kind of bowl where he accommodates his face.

"Also, fuck, how do we know it was rape?" All the girls at the
Dance School say that she made out with that Kaplan... And I wouldn't be surprised,
really. It is the type of attitude that hits the Bufi. Tallie pinches her lip
thoughtfully, releasing it after a few seconds with a mushy smack. Honestly, I
think he fell in love with both of them. With this Alex and his friend. And to know
if with someone else. I would put my hand in the fire, come on, I was sure she was
freaking out. And if you say no, you're a hypocrite, Paola.

Paola feels a bubble in her chest, she tries to calm it down

before saying anything that gives her away. He has put so much effort into
supporting the version that he is supposed to support, that he has never stopped to
think if there is any detail that squeaks him out. And what bothers him the most is
that Tallie has to come with those little smokes to develop his conscience.

"Of course, you'll also back her up when she says she didn't talk
about sex at all, right?" Tallie lunges again. Because of course, that attitude is
nothing, but nothing typical of the Bufi. He never went overboard with Jordan, nor
with the Hobbit.

"Yeah, well, but just because you're talking about sex doesn't
mean you want to do it two seconds later," Paola murmurs. And you see that Jordan
and the Hobbit did not fuck and rape her.

Tallie shrugs.

"Okay," he insists, "and in one of your intimate chats, has he

talked to you about breakfast?"

"What about breakfast?"

—That thing about him proposing to go to breakfast right after.

Paola stares at the wall in a way that seems like she's searching
through her memory. But Tallie is fully aware that she's just trying to figure out
the most appropriate response.

"It didn't occur to me to bring up the subject. Paola frowns. And

honestly, I find it ridiculous. They invented that breakfast thing.

-The four of them? Tallie lifts her face, undoes the cupping of
her palms.

—Well, I suppose they will have agreed, yes.

Tallie sighs.

"Look, I don't know. It's your word against theirs, and that
little detail would change everything in perspective.

“Oh, Tallie,” Paola snorts, “but what a prospect. Miriam had

injuries.

—I had a redness, it also irritates me after fucking, especially

when I haven't done it for a long time. Sometimes I even clean myself later in the
bathroom and I see a little blood on the paper.

Paola takes a deep breath, sets aside the gift she was wrapping,
and stretches her legs out on the carpet. He gropes under the bed, looking for the
box that he hides between the box spring and the mattress.

"Let's see," he protests. Even if he said those things and cocked

them up, what counts is that he didn't mean to. Whatever he said at the beginning,
that doesn't matter. She looks up at Tallie from the ground with a disapproving
look. We girls also have the right to blurt out without getting raped.

—Oh, yes, don't get catechist. Tallie frowns, her gestures jerky,
geometric. I'm just saying that it's all very confusing, and she herself declared
that she never gave them to understand that she didn't want...

"Because they were animals." I would also be shocked if four

hunks start taking my clothes off... If everything was so clear, why didn't they
let her undress by herself?

—I don't know why.

On the floor below, the cavernous voices of a television can be

heard. Cartoons or some children's program. Paola stands up, lights the cigarette
with which she has been playing for a while, and walks towards the window. Open one
of the sheets.

“Tallie…” he murmurs, “why are you defending them?

—Look, don't get dramatic, you know I'm not defending them at
all.

"It sounds like if you could go back, you'd say something

different in court."

Tallie rolls her eyes.

"Oh, God, yes, I sure do...

Paola blows a column of smoke out the window. There's a nice

breeze, and a little group of mothers is turning at that moment from the corner of
the park. They wear aerobics clothes, neon leggings and ribbons in their hair.
You've seen them before. They show up around that time pushing baby carriages and
plant themselves on the grass doing yoga stretches. Paola stares at them until they
pass in front of her garden.

"And by the way," he says then, "those guys had already assaulted
other girls." You read the news that came out yesterday, right?

—Yes, the abuse at a high school party.

-Well you can see. Paola shakes her head. They went like beasts
after a girl who was drunk and they took photos of themselves groping her
everywhere... If that doesn't seem perverted to you...

—I've already told you that it does seem perverted to me, damn
it, don't be hot.

"Then I don't know why you're so intent on attacking Miriam."

—Hey, and you never get tired of being a saint for life?

-Santa?

Tallie puffs at the ceiling:

"Bah, leave it.

- No, leave it what.

"Well, it's hard for me to believe that Miriam worries you so

much." Are you really that sorry? Or is it that you love having a reason to
expatiate on your charity?

Paola narrows her eyelids.

“Tallie, what are you up to?

Notice how the cigar shakes between his fingers. He takes an

eager drag. Because, it's just that, really, sometimes, fucking Tallie. And yes,
Paola recognizes it. When people pick on Miriam, and she finds herself in a
position to defend them, it's true that she immediately experiences extraordinary
pleasure. As if her chest were filled with a lot of compassionate lights that
raised her two feet above the rest. She can't help it, it's a feeling that assails
her as a reflex, and that actually also slightly embarrasses her. Right now, for
example, her cheeks are burning, she must have blushed. So she turns away from
Tallie.

"Look, I'm not going to be a Santa," he says. I feel sorry for

Miriam, and it's okay that I don't lose sleep at night, but it annoys me that it's
bad.

“Well, very good…” Tallie shakes her head. Well, I'm not an ogre
either.

- Let's see, I know. I'm just saying that you should be a little
more understanding with her... Especially with how it all started. You were on
Tinder too, you profiled yourself right at the same time.

-Do not compare. Tallie sits upright, her braid hanging perfectly
vertical on the mattress. Also, more in my favor. Precisely because I know that
there are such animals, I take great care of who I meet and where.
 "And that doesn't sound like crap to you?" The other day I read
that the biggest fear of men when they go on a blind date is that a fat woman will
appear; and that of women, that they murder them.

Tallie's mouth curves into a little smile.

"Well, then he, too, ran into his terrors."

“Fuck, Tallie.

Even pouting and swearing, Paola can't help but sound childish,
like she's just playing at getting angry.

“Seriously,” he continues, “does it seem normal to you that we

have to go through life scared shitless?

—No, I don't think so, but I think it's logical that they suggest
that you be careful. And just so you know, I didn't agree with that ridiculous
little cork from high school.

-Which? The one with the list of sexist things?

—Yes, that same one.

Paola separates from the window. He leaves the doll resting on

the sill, the cigar smoking outwards.

"What did you disagree with?"

—Well, with the anti-rape spray, for example. What's wrong with
recommending you take it? Or the fact of complaining because girls have to walk
with a hundred eyes down the street. It's fucking shit, of course it is, but it is
what it is. And denying it is as absurd as going on a trip to the Amazon and
deciding not to get vaccinated because, hey, I have the right to go freely through
the jungle.

"Yeah, but we're not in the jungle."

“For practical purposes, yes we are. Because you can always come
across a crazy person and that is unpredictable. As much as it pisses you off.

Paola nods looking towards the street. She scratches a speck of

old paint on the glass with her fingernail. He is thinking. In the cracks that
Tallie leaves, nonsense that happened a long time ago comes to mind. She remembers,
for example, those two boys who cornered her on the swings, when she was twelve and
they were fifteen, just because they wanted to know how soft a breast was. Or the
taxi driver who at two in the morning asked her if she wanted to have one last
drink, and she felt an atrocious fear and only said: my father is waiting up for
me, although it was a lie and immediately she began to pray that he would not speed
up. . But the one she remembers the most is that guy she met one August in the pool
at the tennis club. He bought her a beer and she said okay, because he was new and
not very cute, and he was having a hard time making friends in the development. He
was a little embarrassed, so instead of one beer, they had three, and then a
cocktail on the promenade. At the end of the night, he asked her out, and Paola
said no, she was sorry if she gave him that impression, but she just wanted to be
friends. She still remembers how he got up suddenly, annoyed. He reproached him for
staying late, for what gave him hope. And she wanted to blurt out: I stayed out of
pity, asshole. They returned to the urbanization in complete silence, and when she
turned to say goodbye, he took her by the shoulders and planted a wet, meaty kiss
on her mouth, a wet kiss that was bigger than all of Paola's mouth. She would have
insulted him, but she couldn't even shake it off. And then he pinched her ass and
ran off. He smiled at her from the intersection. Paola also remembers that it was
windy. A light wind that moved his hair and cooled the saliva of that imbecile
around his lips. And still she, still, was in a hurry to clean herself with her
sleeve, because she felt sorry for her uncle, because he was an outcast.

He now lets out a very long sigh and breaks the end of his
cigarette on the soil of a pot. When she steps away from the window, the mothers in
the phosphorescent leggings have arranged themselves in a circle and are doing back
stretches using the carts as a point of support. Sometimes they lean forward and
look at their children to check that they are okay. They make fun of them so that
they also know that they are by their side.

There's one thing Tallie's right about. We are really in the

jungle.

There are talk shows on television. The presenters are young guys
in light blue shirts and leafy quiffs that are combed back with mousse. They
welcome the audience from behind huge arch-shaped tables and invite different
experts each week. Their lawyers wear monochrome ties. You recognize other
collaborators because they have come out of loud and tacky contests like La Casa de
los Líos and Al Mejor Bidder. Halfway through the program, a stewardess walks
elegantly to a screen where she is about to present a Power Point: "Vaginal
erythema," reads the first slide, in large yellow Times New Roman letters, and then
a diagram of the clinical picture and some most instructive graphics. There is also
a journalist sitting at the table who, two years ago, did not stop harassing the
ex-wife of a singer. Now he is at ease in the colloquiums that are held in your
honor and yells at the lawyers: macho, miserable, rats. Her mouth is operated on
and her hair is tied up on top of her head to make her look slimmer.

One by one, they analyze your immediate symptoms and also long-
term disorders: that you have depression, post-traumatic stress, that you suffer
from continuous nightmares, that you take pills and that at night you can hardly
sleep.

Who told you?

"The girl sat down on a bench to cry", the letters superimposed

on the screen, and a flashing red sign: EXCLUSIVE

They broadcast the videos recorded by the security cameras of

some businesses. The street flanked by a string of trees and litter bins. They.
You. A mist of light that blurs the contours of your bodies. Your ponytail, the
sweatshirt tied at the waist. You no longer have it, and neither do any of the
clothes you wore that night. You threw them in the dumpster two days later.

The presenter leans back in his chair, tuts, and mutters: harsh
images. He wants to show how professional everyone there is, that they treasure
careers, empathy, experience, and that despite his histrionic gestures, he is not
at all worried about his toupee. He gives the floor to the guests, goes out of his
way to appear competent, says: behavioral analysis, self-splitting, or tonight we
will psychologically profile the defendants. Then photos of them scroll through the
screen. In bars, in cars, on motorcycles, on beach towels, at a restaurant table
with their hands folded on a disposable white paper tablecloth. The faces of the
other guests pixelated and in the background.

Some of the relatives have wanted to tell their version. They

speak from semi-dark rooms where it is not possible to see their faces. And again
with the usual taboo: that that girl wanted, because I assure you, gentlemen, my
brother, my son, my cousin is not a rapist, perhaps an idiot, a rude, a lout, yes,
but not a rapist.

In the program they have opened a line for people to send their
comments on WhatsApp. They make hypotheses about how you could have felt. The one
with the operated noses raises her voice: no, no, you didn't enjoy. And what a
barbarity is that that he invited them to breakfast! The lawyer tries to chime in,
caresses his tie before speaking. He turns to another kind of artillery, he says:
group sex, anal sex.

Why does he say sex all the time? Calling what you have
experienced sex is the same as calling a scratch a caress. The presenter joins:
fifteen seconds. And then: too bad there isn't more time, I'm loving the debate.
Well hey, kid, you're welcome.

There are psychologists who contact from other parts of the

world. They enter live by video call. You're fed up, fed up, fed up. Pictures of
people screaming. All those women who group together and scream what you didn't
scream. They know everything about you.

As?

Well, Miriam, because you're a star. And there are people

breaking their souls on television sets. Runaway ministers and tear-jerking female
announcers with ash blonde highlights. They make you sick, their rage irritates
you, that superficial indignation, how their voices tear, competing to see who is
the most dedicated, who hates your attackers more, even more than you. And who is
the one that harbors the most viciousness, and the most disgust, and how they would
cut off their dicks and make them eat it. Yes, just like that, because that's how
offended they feel. All those girls who looked like they wouldn't have spoken to
you in their lives if they had met you in high school. Of having called you the fat
one, the Bufi, the Zampa. And that now, suddenly, they are your standard-bearers.
They join hands and shout: justice, sister, all united. Exactly the kind of girls
who never wanted to do work with you, who huddled together at recess and huddled
together, who looked at you apprehensively: please don't touch me with her, get all
the Miriams in the world out of my sight.

Yes, they are the same.

But that is not all. Have you heard? There are guided tours of
your portal. Not to your house, where your mother lives, but to your other portal,
your great stage. People come in small groups like in Pompeii. They stop in front
of the bench, put their hand to their mouth, their fingers hooked: oh no, how
scary, how horrible. But they are never satisfied. They still want more. More of
fear, more of horror.

Tell me everything.

The La Bahía hotel where you might have been raped—in a bed, on a
carpeted floor, with a tiny shower to wash off traces of semen—and then, if you'll
come with me, here to the right you can see the Turkish supermarket that the victim
described to the police. We will make a stop in case anyone wants to buy a bottle
of water.
 Do you know if there is a souvenir shop?

But this is just the beginning, the rest will come later. People
will mention you in their final degree theses, they will write novels and reports.
Essays, poems, plays. Because what an injustice, we have come this far, it is time
for things to change. And you, Miriam Dougan, you inspire them.

Sister. Friend. If you sit next to Miriam, you catch the plague.

I do believe you. Free. Without fear.

Do you know what a tampon is?

Intertwined hands. Together as sisters.

And yet.

You turn off the light and lower the volume on the TV. You settle
under the blanket.

Today and always, in the middle of the darkness of your living

room, you are totally alone.

Well, she was squatting on the ground, or sitting, I don't

remember very well... She was getting dressed, looking for her clothes, just like
we all did at that moment...

I don't remember exactly what my friends were doing, nor in what

order we left the portal, I just know that I wasn't the last.

We went staggered. As we ejaculated, well, we left.

Someone was standing next to me as I buckled up, maybe it was

Kaplan.

No, we didn't ask him anything, I don't know, it didn't come

up... It may sound weird, but that's how it was, we didn't speak to each other when
we finished...

Yes, so what happened is that I was a little late because I

couldn't find my jacket... I couldn't see my jacket, and after a while, I found it
crumpled up next to some watered-down vats... So I I sat on a step to check that
nothing was missing... That I had my cell phone, my wallet...

No, of course I didn't think she would have robbed us, I was just
looking in case... in case something had fallen out of the pockets with the hustle
and bustle: the ID, some card, the typical...

She was crouched down with her cell phone in hand.

Fully clothed.

No, I had no idea that his phone was broken.

 No, I didn't speak to him on that occasion either, I didn't think
it was relevant...

Yes, and what happened next was that she asked us where we were
going to have breakfast.

Turns out he already had a girlfriend. And he wanted her. But

there is also the gang. They are his soul, his heart, his clan, his pack. Although
at that time he had only known them for five months.

The first time Adam Kaplan had any kind of contact with them was
at the pool tournament they organized at Harvey's. His cousin, who was nicknamed El
Chivo, convinced him to sign up and that same afternoon he introduced him to El
Estudiante. The place was in an alley that went down to the beach. It was large,
with old Formica tables and yellowed, sweaty walls. Kaplan couldn't help but notice
the decor: football team scarves, intimidating stuffed animals, warped photos
pinned to the walls. Everything covered in a sordid aura of goo and scab. It was
sweltering hot that afternoon, so a lot of the guys were shirtless, especially the
ones who could flaunt abs. Also—surprisingly—there were girls who occasionally
walked up to the bar in shorts. They ordered small mugs of beer with lemon, and
while they waited, they slapped the flies away and lifted the hair on the nape of
their necks to fan themselves with their fingers. It was hard to get close to them,
to get their attention. They had taken a place at the little wooden tables that
faced the street and consistently looked towards the horizon. They didn't seem to
be there for the tournament, and only when it was the Student's turn did they get
up to hang around the billiard tables and utter phrases like: how's the
championship going or nice play, even though it was obvious they didn't give a
damn.

It was said in the neighborhood that the Student was a good

match. At least Kaplan had heard it on more than one occasion. When he wasn't in
the library, engrossed in his doctorate, he spent hours killing himself in the gym
or playing pool. He lived with his mother and a little sister who attended the
conservatory. And to embroider the curriculum, he was one of the few kids in the
neighborhood who did not have a criminal record. Although to tell the truth, the
crimes of El Chivo and Ray Papke were not to put the cry in the sky either. Thefts,
traffic tickets. Small-time jerks, no more.

Kaplan often remembers that tournament. A hunch struck him, as if

it were the beginning of something momentous. The Student was in the lead. He had
won four games, but he showed no emotion. It looked like something out of an old
movie, the kind where guys meet in smoky bars and say goodbye by flicking their
white fedora. From time to time he leaned against the wall of the arcade machines
and smoked, squinting his eyelids. There was always someone who came up to him to
chat. And it was not lost on Kaplan that his cousin, the Goat, was one of those who
begged most insistently for his company. Every two by three he could be seen
orbiting around her, laughing at all the jokes. He laughed even at comments that
weren't jokes, that were just comments. And the truth is that he seemed a bit of a
jerk, the typical cartoon ball henchman. Even Kaplan couldn't help but feel a
little cringe.

During the tournament, he came to many more conclusions. For

example, that the Student was not a guy who would bear to lose, and that he lived
fully aware that his physical attractiveness was exchangeable for any kind of
baseness. He found it impossible to contain his reactions, and the only one he
truly respected was Ray Papke, while the rest of the world seemed to bore him
intensely. Therefore, Kaplan was tremendously relieved when the Student celebrated
one of his moves: what an axe, he said, are you sure you're the Goat's cousin or is
one of you adopted? And then he introduced him to the rest of the crew.

It clicked right away, of course. Kaplan was a cool guy. After

the tournament, he stole a crate of beers from a restaurant bar, and later, at the
disco, he kissed that aunt who had fallen asleep between two armchairs on the nose.
Big, they called him, idol, teacher.

On Saturdays they went to soccer, to billiards. They would set up

impressive barbecues at Ray Papke's chalet, where they stocked up on vodka and
farlopa, and the girls would end up jumping topless into the pool. Although nothing
more mythical than the graduation party of those high school girls. It was El Chivo
— always El Chivo — who found the event on Facebook by chance. A party in a house
on the outskirts, Risky Business type, but better: full of young women who were
just beginning to taste alcohol. And how easy it was to sneak in, how blatantly
easy it was to cajole them and watch them fall one by one, lost drunk. Until very
recently, Kaplan found himself reliving that night in his mind every now and then.
It gave him a rush of energy. Sometimes, before falling asleep, he would masturbate
thinking about that party. In those girls.

But that was not enough. If he wanted to be a definitive part of

the group, one of the clan, then he needed a baptism of fire. For example? You
gotta fuck a fat one, said Ray Papke. But I already fucked one in high school. The
Goat chuckled. That does not count, this is another type of dust, a more choral
activity. Group sex? Kaplan nearly choked on his beer. He looked at them one by
one. A sarcastic smile tingled on his lips. And do you often do this? No, only when
it comes down to it. They burst out laughing and he joined in their laughter.
According? According. But there is another condition: the one who chooses the fat
one is the Student.

By then, Kaplan had been dating Violet for several months, who is
a bit of the type of girl he likes to show off. The jeans look great on him, and
his eyes are a very deep blue, like the color they put the planet Neptune in
science documentaries. Kaplan drew on that comparison shortly after meeting her,
and she was impressed. I wouldn't share Violet with anyone, no sir. Let them touch
it, come on, let them dare. Besides, she wouldn't give up either, she's pretty
decent. In fact, Kaplan often catches himself thinking that he might marry Violet.
It is his better half. He never protests, nor does he blame him for bullshit, and
he has even forgiven him for several slips. But obviously he doesn't know the half
of it. The other kids in the group, with the exception of El Chivo, also have
girlfriends, and even so, they never miss the opportunity to fuck a girl in the
bathrooms of a bar. Sometimes they go further and approach the polygons to look for
prostitutes. They do it with blacks or Asians. It makes them sick, they say.

But well, despite everything, they are not bad people. You can
always count on Ray Papke to lend you his car. And his cultural level is amazing.
He is passionate about music and World War II planes. And she cried a lot at her
grandmother's funeral. And even the Goat, who is sometimes most despicable, has
proven to be quite loyal. It was he who accompanied Kaplan to get the tattoo. He
told her: you'll see what a joke fucking the fat woman. And Kaplan laughed. That
his cousin had the rennet to blurt that out, as if he were skinny... The Goat thing
with the aunts is kidding. Sometimes it would be said that the group is their only
asset to have sex.
 It was easy with this girl from Tinder, the very pig... It should
be given with a song in the teeth. Now she is a victim through life, but she looked
very loose in the messages she sent to the Student. And also the day of the
esplanade. They all agree on that, she was totally horny, delighted to be the
center of attention and to have four hunks all to herself. And that is precisely
what screwed him up, that his feather duster was seen. But it doesn't matter,
because they won't stop insisting. They trust that when appealing the sentence, the
videos will be reviewed again. Apparently, a committee of experts is going to
analyze them from beginning to end. So calm down, don't panic. Clearly the aunt was
looking for him. You will regret having reported and having had the balls to appeal
later.

Kaplan takes a last drag on his cigar and stomps the butt onto
the ground until it leaves a charred skid. He exchanges glances with the Student,
who is pale, sweating like a chicken, and has a pink haze in his eyes from not
having slept. The heat is stifling, pasty, the kind that undulates the trees on the
horizon when you go down the road. And Kaplan takes a breath, puffs. Because, damn,
let's see if everything is resolved quickly. Let's see if they leave them alone for
once. He can't wait, after so many months behind bars. Anyway. The forehead is
massaged. A little adjustment in the knot of his tie, the jacket he last wore two
years ago, at his brother's wedding. Who was going to tell him that the next time
he would get so elegant... But hey, enough of jar eating, the lawyer must be
waiting.

The girl who comes out to greet you at the hairdresser must not
be much older than you. He takes your coat and tells you to take a seat in an
armchair next to the table with the magazines. On the walls there are photographs
of beautiful women with their hair blown out by the wind, and a delicate aroma of
aerosols fills the room. You take out your phone, look for a more or less decent
angle, and take a selfie that you immediately send to Vix.

Are you going to cut it a lot at the end?

I think so, I'll send you a photo later

Auntie, I'm arguing with Hugo right now.

and so? by Whatsapp?

yes, I'm fed up with him passing my plans with those of the uni

You reread the message before replying, you actually understand

Lachance's position. Can you imagine Vix in shrapnel mode proposing multicolored
plans just like she sometimes does with you.

damn, vix, don't force him if he doesn't feel like it

I'm not saying he always comes, just make an effort, I spend my

life with his fucking friends

yes, but you already knew them from school, they are not new
people

oh, aunt, I don't know, it's just that I have anger and
anxiety...

let's see, if he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to, don't be

dramatic either

Do you think that getting angry with your boyfriend because he

ignores your plans is being dramatic?

You snort. Because yes, you think so. And then the girl who took
your coat earlier comes back.

well, vix, what do I know.

“Your turn,” the girl says, and she flashes a gorgeous Price Is
Right stewardess smile.

You follow her to the back, where there is a row of sinks and
shelves full of hair lotions. He tells you to take a seat, and then:

"What do you want to do to yourself?"

When you explain it to him, he is unable to hide an exaggerated

gesture of surprise, almost fright —another sign of how young he is—, and while he
adjusts your neck over the sink and checks the temperature of the water, he
repeats: what a pity, how if your hair were a little animal that had to slit its
throat. You close your eyes. The stream of shampoo runs down both sides of the
skull with the consistency of egg white. The girl buries her hands in your head and
massages your temples until the egg white turns into a reef of foam that tickles
your forehead.

Mr. Kazatchkine called today. Not surprisingly, he calls almost

every day. He insists that you have to decide soon. They only give you two weeks if
you want to file an appeal. He adds, incidentally, that some points have not been
very clear to him. He always apologizes first: sorry if I make you relive that
awful moment. And then: can you describe again what the ending was like? How did
they leave? They parted?

He's an older man, older than your mother, who invariably wears
slate-gray suits and burgundy paisley-print ties. He has barely any hair left, and
the wrinkles give his eyes a tired St. Bernard look. Sometimes, while you're eating
dinner, you picture him working late on your case, tucked into bed with his back
against a tufted headboard. He pushes up his glasses and massages his eyelids,
taking dizzying notes in his synthetic leather notebook: cum, lubed up, now leave
me, where are you going to have breakfast?

The hairdresser rinses out the shampoo, asks if it burns the

water. You shouldn't be thinking about anything, let alone the appeal. The
psychologist has advised you to count backwards by threes every time you get stuck
in an obsessive thought. One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four. In case that
doesn't work, you also wear a hair tie around your wrist. When you get anxious,
stretch the rubber as much as you can and release it wildly, until you do maximum
damage. That has been recommended to you by Vix, he read it in a magazine. One
hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four. The stream of water tickles your temples,
blocking one ear and then the other. You submerge yourself in the silence of an
abyssal sea. This girl, the hairdresser, so young and so petite, seems capable of
trusting the devil himself. Who knows if she too, sometime, some guy. Right now
there are four women on the premises. Mentally solve the rule of three. Only
sixteen percent of women report.
 Do you fancy a tea or a coffee? No, thanks. It's cold without the
towel wrapped around your head. So how do you want the cut? Because of the chin?
Sure? Yes, sure. Because that's how the dilemma will finally end. If you should
wear your hair loose, or in a ponytail, or if perhaps the bow is still the most
appropriate. Because curly hair is too provocative, too sensual. That you have
heard. Shall I do your nails? We have gel, acrylic and shellac manicures. They take
out a triptych with the designs, and they put it in front of you like a dessert
menu. You nod. No, no nails, no way. You cut them on purpose and you haven't
painted them in weeks. Neither do the eyes. No, really, no manicures. You just want
to go unnoticed, blend in with the cement of the sidewalks, be part of the scenery,
a filler chapter, not to be noticed, not to be seen. Make you small, small, small.
A tiny dot in the room.

You take your phone out of your bag while you wait for another
employee, one with horn-rimmed glasses, to finish spraying hairspray on an old
lady's bodice. Apparently the young girl only washes heads. You tap the screen and
the phone comes to life. Two missed calls from the lawyer. You sigh. You just want
it all to end. And it is that also, if they knew, if you confessed that, but how
are you going to.

The young girl comes back and puts one of those huge bibs on you
that Velcros up in the back. Adjust the chair as the senior hairdresser approaches
and straightens your head with both hands: This way? she asks, bringing the comb to
your jugular like a razor. Yes, you consent. The edge of the scissors caresses your
skin, the strands falling to the floor like streamers. A few shorter curls roll
down the mound of your shoulders and then tumble off. It's funny, but you feel for
that hair that piles up at your feet the same attachment that you would feel for a
piece of fluff. As if it didn't fall from your head, as if it belonged to someone
else and you just witness the scene from a corner. That lack of synchronicity,
you've heard, plagues stroke sufferers, too.

One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four.

I wish I had a stroke.

Ninety-one. Eighty-eight.

Where are you going to have breakfast?

Mr. Kazatchkin. Pattie Douglas. Miriam Dougan.

An office cluttered with dark brown furniture. The door locked

and the venetian blinds halfway up. The sun pours in through the three windows to
the left. A wall clock shows nine in the morning.

W. KAZATCHKINE: Do you really have a reason not to go ahead?

MIRIAM DOUGAN (looks at her hands thoughtfully): Yeah...

actually, I'd like to put this behind me and live like any other girl.

W. KAZATCHKINE (nods, tucks in the corners of his mouth): Sure, I

understand...but other than that, is there any other reason? Because you'll be able
to live like any other girl very soon. This process would only take a few more
months.

MIRIAM'S VOICE OFF: Tell him. The Kaplan's kiss. His hot tongue
in your mouth. Come on, are you going to hide it?

MIRIAM DOUGAN (looks up, as if startled by something, but

maintains a calm tone): If the decision is up to me, I prefer not to continue.

W. KAZATCHKINE (stares at her, it's a neutral, expressionless

look, with no prevailing emotion): Yeah... But you wouldn't even have to appear...
It's not going to be as stressful as the trial. Now you would leave everything in
my hands. And we are already well advanced. For our part, we would allege vexatious
treatment and intimidation.

MIRIAM'S VOICE OFF: You'll think it's nice. Throwing more years
at them after keeping part of the truth from you. Because it was your fault and you
know it. You lied. You fooled around with them. And this poor man, who lives in
poverty too. Bullying, he says. And vexatious treatment... Horny, slut, it was your
responsibility.

PATTIE DOUGAN (leaning forward, placing both hands on a bag in

her lap): What do you recommend, Mr. Kazatchkine? I mean... You're a father too,
and as a father... What do you think...? (She is silent, with the conviction that
Mr. Kazatchkine will be able to deduce where her question is going.)

W. KAZATCHKINE: I... as a parent... well, I would go ahead with

the appeal, of course. I understand that you are wanting to shelve the matter and
continue with your lives..., and obviously these procedures would lengthen it a
bit... But we would get those men to stay in jail longer, which is what they really
deserve... (Grabs pen from desk, taps rosewood tabletop.) And I can assure you that
we have everything to gain, especially now that that prom case has come to light...
Luckily, the media have echoed. That benefits us. Everyone has seen the photographs
and how one of the girls was drunk and then abused. (She taps her hand with the
pen.) With the aggravating circumstance that she was also a minor.

PATTIE DOUGAN (turns to face her daughter): Honey, it's the home
stretch. To harden the penalty. And then you can live more relaxed.

W. KAZATCHKINE: Understand that we don't have much time. In six

days the deadline for filing the appeal is fulfilled... (Shrinks her lips.) Of
course, we have not stopped. I have advanced work in case they decide... but I need
a definitive answer today.

PATTIE DOUGAN (nods repeatedly, like one of those dashboard

dogs): Sure, sure, we get it. (He turns back to his daughter.) Right?

Miriam remains silent, keeps her fingers crossed to prevent them

from shaking. Feeling a drowsiness that leaves her without energy, she lets go of
the reins. Another part of herself picks them up. One who swallows, and is scared
to death, forcing her to shrug and nod in what seems like a clear gesture of
agreement.

Mr. Kazatchkine grips the pen.

W. KAZATCHKINE: So we go ahead?

Pattie caresses Miriam's hand with the tips of her fingers. He

looks up at the lawyer.

PATTIE DOUGAN (now without any inflection in her voice): Yes, we

continue.

Of course, by now everyone has heard of that girl, the one who
was celebrating her graduation and who appears in several photos, drunk or passed
out, on a huge double bed in what looks like a suite, and who is pixelated and with
her clothes askew, as the four of them embrace her and surround her, hunching over
her, encircling her, compressing her. With the buoyant smiles. The red and
glittering pupils due to the effect of the flash.

Vix refolds the newspaper that she has taken from a high pile at
the entrance of the faculty and takes several swallows from a cardboard cup, where
her milk tea has already remained cold. On the tiled wall in front of her, some
glass boards notify exam dates, a change in the schedule in the Mythology subject,
and the celebration of the seminars on Literature and Cinema that will begin next
week. Vix went to sign up that same morning and, incidentally, asked if students
from other careers could come. Just in case he decides to tell Miriam about it,
although he's not sure if he wants to tell her. She's still pissed off about him
calling her dramatic with all her nose. And on top of that, when he left the
hairdresser's, he sent her a photo of his haircut and then he began to tell her I
don't know what the lawyer's move was. Not the slightest allusion to his row with
Hugo.

Sometimes—too many—Miriam behaves that way, as if everything

always and at all times revolves around her. And Vix is already fed up with that
psychological swing. What happens is that, of course, it is never the best time to
throw it in his face. She can't put herself in his shoes, she can't imagine what it
must be like to take pills for anxiety, and then many others for depression, which
from what she understands are opposite disorders. He also has no idea what it's
like to live a few kilometers from some guys who raped you and, to top it off,
people don't stop commenting on it and airing your traumas on television.

She gets up from the bench in the hall, where she has been
sitting for a long time, and walks towards a trash can to throw away the glass with
the remains of tea. As he stretches his back muscles, he yawns. She's stalling
until Manon gets out of her Renaissance Theater class, and then they're going to
eat at the Physical Sciences canteen, because that's where Manon's new date is
studying. Vix can't hide his fascination with her. He doesn't look like anyone I've
ever met in high school. She's cultured and outspoken, and talks about really deep
topics that she must have read a lot of books and biographies for, and even the
boring sections of the newspapers. So Vix hopes that by sticking with people like
Manon, she too will eventually become a more charismatic person.

Since he still has a few minutes to spare, he collects his notes

from the bench and heads down a corridor where the doors open into huge, sunny
classrooms. It's almost lunchtime, so they're all completely empty and wide open.
College is awesome , Vix thinks. She could walk into one of those classes at that
very moment and no teacher would chase her to ask: what's your name, what grade are
you from, you can't be here, you should go meet your classmates. So, for no
particular reason, he goes and does it. He goes into the nearest classroom and
takes a seat on a bench. On the blackboard are messy notes on Speculative Fiction,
Euripides, Cupid, and the unconscious mind. Vix leans back and tries to make sense
of the sentences, to find some kind of connection. She's totally engrossed, when
the phone suddenly vibrates in her duffel bag. He does not articulate any movement
at first. And for a fraction of a second, he lets his mind wander through the list
of names he wishes would appear on the screen: Manon, Miriam (perhaps), or that
classmate who has promised to leave his Linguistics notes for him. However, she is
almost completely sure who it could be, and she is unbearably lazy to take her
mobile from the books and confirm it.

Because indeed: Hugo.

Vix chewed on her lip. He doesn't quite unlock the screen, but
instead leaves his eyes immobile over the beginning of the message: I'm sending you
the photos from Saturday at the bowling alley... He takes a breath and drops the
phone into the bag. Now she feels guilty, she hasn't even answered the wasap that
Hugo sent her last night wishing her to sleep well, precious. And the most painful
thing is that there is no going back. Because weeks ago, long before that last
discussion, she had already lost the desire to see him and she can no longer ignore
that they are at a point where their paths diverge. The phone vibrates again.
Repeatedly. The photos from Saturday at the bowling alley going into a whirlwind.
And he doesn't want to see them. She doesn't want to look at him in the photos. Her
naive smile as she spent the night with Manon and other class people, having told
her she had a horrible migraine.

When the phone finally goes silent, Vix takes a deep breath and
spreads her arms across the table. Rest your head on one elbow. He needs to get all
that shit out of him, to talk about it with someone, but the only person he thinks
he can open up to is Miriam. His parents don't count, of course. And Manon and the
other companions would not be able to give the matter the magnitude it deserves. On
occasion, they've casually hinted that Hugo is just a boyfriend with an expiration
date, and while they'd comfort her at first and make a moderate effort to be sorry,
in reality they'd just see it as a necessary incident. and unavoidable. A drama in
which to take just enough time.

Miriam, on the other hand, would see it for what it is. The end
of an era. Because he knows his entire career. It was there before and during, and
it will be —so it hopes— after. And that's why he's the only person who can help
her.

Right now, Vix admits it, this dilemma with Hugo is the main
problem of her life, and she can't help but let everything else around her blur
into a web of diffuse and subplots. Which includes—as bad as it sounds—Miriam's
appeal and her PTSD. And that doesn't make her feel guilty. On the contrary, it
irritates her that she can't convey any of her concerns to Miriam. Never. Because
obviously she shouldn't have them, since her parents are still married, she doesn't
keep an eye on her weight all the time, and besides, it didn't take her long to
find a boyfriend when she proposed. Not to mention, of course, that she has never
been abused.

On the contrary, practically since she has known her, there has
always been some drama brewing in Miriam's life: the overweight thing, her issue
with Jordan, the result of an AIDS test, a threatening letter in the mailbox, a
panic attack. , trial, release, appeal. By all accounts it's obvious that Vix's
problems sound ridiculous by comparison. Mediocre dramas that sooner or later end
up afflicting all human beings and that, therefore, it is not appropriate to claim.
Suddenly he feels a surge of rage that warms his chest. Head up. Right now I would
like to write to Miriam, and tell her: look, I know that yours is worse, but my
problems are also important, I wish I could tell you about them without you calling
me dramatic.

She takes her mobile out of her bag with the intention of
releasing all those words that burn her fingertips. But when you turn on the
screen, Hugo's string of wasaps jump to the pupils. He sighs, turns off the phone.
He picks up the bag from the seat next to him, and then the books, which he snaps
onto the wooden board. Without giving himself a second to think, he rushes out of
the classroom and lets himself be absorbed by the comforting bustle of the
corridors.

-And what are you going to do? Paola brings the cup of chai latte
to her lips without actually drinking. I think they just want to scare you.

You shrug and look down the road. It's a bright February morning
that smells of wet concrete, and although there's a messy wind blowing, and you
have to keep your coats on, you've decided to take a seat on the terrace of the
cafeteria because smoking is not allowed inside.

"So you're not considering filing a complaint again?" Paula

insists.

—In that other time —you point out— is the key —and your own
voice seems strange to you, artificial, as if it no longer fits well with sarcasm.

In a matter of two weeks you have gone through the police station
three times, and the truth is that you are ashamed to return. During the last visit
the policeman kept rubbing his face, as if trying to stay awake.

"I think it's probably just one or two people, what happens is
that they're very heavy," Paola says, and delicately places the cup on top of the
saucer, as if it were inconsiderate to make loud noises in your presence.

"Yeah," you say, "maybe."

But you don't really think so. Those people who call you on your
cell phone and leave little notes in your mailbox are different styles of insults.
Some abandon themselves to the rudimentary relief of chaining curse words; others
are more subtle, they threaten you by keeping their composure. That's why you
signed up for karate classes. And now you have to tell your mother that you have
left him. Everyone with that bullshit in their mouths: you have to learn a martial
art, so you'll feel more confident.

You pick up the glass of smoothie and take a couple of gulps

without feeling like it.

"I've been doing karate balls for three weeks," you say.

Paola looks up. This is the first person you've confessed to, and
you're surprised that you don't feel guilt, or relief. For days, it is as if you
have atrophied pain threshold. The stimuli only affect you at an epidermal level,
and you sense that everything that breaks your precarious stability — insomnia,
appeals, college exams — has ended up settling in your life like a chronic illness.

Paola takes out the pack of cigarettes and rearranges the bag on
her lap. The wind lifts her hair. There's another couple sitting several tables
away, they're about your age, wearing knit hats and mittens. They are smoking, too,
and you wonder—just as you wonder now about any human being who sneaks into your
periphery—do they recognize me? You look at Paola, who is now struggling to fit her
flowered lighter into the pack. Actually, you don't really want to be there, and
you've only agreed to meet her because she hasn't stopped intercepting you at the
neighborhood stores for weeks.

“Actually you're right about that karate thing,” he says. As much

as you train, you will tell me what you could do against Dwayne Johnson, The Rock.
He flashes a horizontal smile. He puts so much effort into wanting to support you
that you don't know if he really understands you. And then he adds, "Have you
written anything in the diary?"

You pinch your lip before answering. A couple of weeks ago,

coinciding with the official statement that the prosecution was going to appeal the
sentence, Paola waited for you —or rather, she pretended to be found— when you left
the gym and gave you a leather-covered notebook. It was very elegant, probably
quite expensive, with a little cord to wrap it around and an illustration of
dandelions on the cover. She called it a gratitude journal, and the idea was that
each night you would write down five or six things that you felt lucky about. It
doesn't have to be anything spectacular, Paola clarified, sometimes the small
details make the difference. Something like: I petted a dog today or I ate an
amazing chocolate cake. Yes, very good, you got it. You thanked him for the detail
and when you got home you hung the bag from the knob of a closet. Unless your
mother has cleaned up, it should still be in the same place.

"The truth is that I still haven't thought of what to write," you

say.

"Yeah... but you really have to try." It is a way to calm the

mind.

You nod. You vocalize a kind of monosyllable, to see if that way

you can get him to leave you alone. And it probably works, because Paola takes a
sip of the chai latte and is silent for a few seconds, her head turned toward the
cars coming in and out of the roundabout.

"I guess you're doing better in college," he says finally. There

people are busy with other things, not gossiping all day like in the neighborhood.

You let out a snort of laughter. The university is, in fact, the
new nerve center of debate. Between class and class, your classmates heatedly
comment on the injustices of the sentence. They call meetings and invite you to
round tables in gloomy classrooms with vomit-colored walls. That girl, they call
you, the one with the rape.

"Yeah, well, there's less gossip at the university, but the topic
is on everyone's lips." You brush a lock from your forehead and are surprised that
it ends abruptly, at chin level. You keep forgetting that you no longer have the
mane of before. A few tables away, a metallic groan is heard. The couple who were
smoking get up in unison. They stub out their cigarettes against a glass ashtray
and go back into the cafeteria with their glasses half full. You look at Paola
again. The truth is that I am a little fed up with everything.

-Already...

"Finally," you sigh. And how are you doing? I feel bad always
hogging the conversation.

“Oh, all right,” he says, waving a hand in the air, dismissively.

"How about Jordan?" —A kind of wind cools your skull, but you
know it's a temporary vertigo. Which is only due to the unusualness of the context
and the question.

"Okay, all right," he repeats.

She leans over to pick up the mug and drains the last drops of
her chai latte. The infinitesimal rictus of her eyebrows betrays how eager she is
to drop the subject. Does it feel so bad? You know I could be more sincere. I could
say: well, girl, everything is going great for me, wonderful, addictively. But he
shuts up. Because it would be like planting your miseries in front of a magnifying
mirror: this here, this emerald green valley is my life, and this pestilential
quagmire, yours.

"Jordan says hello," he says finally.

Oh why not. You nod wearily. Jordan is always sending you regards
through other people: Paola, Vix, Lachance. However, he has never called you, and
has not even been able to write you a miserable message. Sort of like Tallie, who
was so nice the day she found you and in the ER too, but then she just vanished off
the face of the Earth. Although at least Tallie's attitude is consistent. He does
not give in to the comfortable hypocrisy of sending you deferred greetings.

Another who has continued in his line, demonstrating an admirable

coherence between his words and his actions, is Lukas. Sometimes, you see him from
the window when he goes for a walk with the German shepherd. He crosses the street
diagonally and disappears at the crossroads that leads to the park. His other dog,
the dachshund, died of old age about six months ago, but the news only reached you
because a neighbor told your mother.

"And how are you doing with the appeal?" Paola then asks.

"That's up to the lawyer." He takes care.

"It's a drag, but I'm sure it's going to be worth it." She lets
out a snort, which must be the closest she gets to swearing. Your statement is
consistent, and instead theirs...

You lower your eyes. The dense, salty ball in the center of the
throat. Suddenly you find yourself exhausted, an impostor in front of that virginal
purity of Paola who goes around giving out gratitude diaries and who isn't even
capable of swearing. You nibble a little skin on your lip. You could almost burst
into tears.

"Yes," you murmur, "everyone is convinced that they will get a

tougher sentence."

And Kaplan's kiss, I like you all, where are you going to have
breakfast?

There are so many people supporting you all over the country.

You turn your eyes to the road.

-I already know it.

That's true, there are many. Too many. I wish you weren't so
popular. On the day the sentence was handed down, a bunch of women camped out in
front of the courthouse steps. They wore T-shirts with marker-written messages and
held up peach roses. That is now the symbol with which they identify you. Since all
the colors were already in the grip of AIDS, homosexuality, and breast cancer,
you've been assigned this one, peach, a shade halfway between pale orange and grimy
pink. It reminds you of the dye of petticoats.

But judging by her gesture, Paola must love all that display, and
even the fact that there is a symbol that represents you. A rose, no less.

“You should be proud of what you've created,” she says with a

smile. All those women taking to the streets to show that they are on your side.

You breathe deeply. The wind lifts the dust accumulated on the
edge of the road. A plastic bag takes flight. And again that feeling that the world
is upon you, that it is loaded with noises and bubbling colors. You clench your
teeth. Anxiety is tied to your legs. If you could right now scream, run, lose
consciousness. And Paola, my God, who never tires of being positive, of smiling. I
wish it would go away. I wish she and all those women would go home and mind their
own business and shut the fuck up.

“I just want them to leave me alone,” you say. I'm fed up with
having my shit removed.

You change position and cross your arms in a solid knot.

"Yeah, I understand you," Paola murmurs. There are very

opportunistic people, but others do care about you.

"Oh yeah, sure." You lower your eyes. In my opinion, none of

those people are doing any of this for me. They just want to get a cut.

Paola frowns.

"Well...let's see...what they want is...something for the women."

They want justice.

"Yeah, it's nice to say it like that, but until now no one has
given a shit about being fair to me... No one has ever backed me up."

Paola swallows. Her fingernails drum on the table.

"Yes, I understand what you're saying... It's just that now...

-Now what? Now I have friends?

He shrugs, probably going to muddle through without any prior

introspection.

-If he responds.

"Are you my friend now?"

"Well... I don't know...

You let out an offensive laugh. Out of the corner of your eye you
can see how Paola settles back in her chair. The noises from the street have
stopped, and suddenly the only thing that can be heard is the nervous percussion of
her nails on the aluminum dashboard. So you remember Vix.

He hasn't called or texted you in about two weeks. It's a bit on

the edge, actually. And now that Paola twists that topic, you start to think that
you would have really liked to have a friend. An old friend to indulge in girly
feats with: wearing identical bracelets, making daisy wreaths, writing friends
forever on a bathroom door. Vix was the closest, but it was late, and now it's
obvious you guys are not on the same page anymore. On the other hand, he must not
be able to cope with his class group, attending all those exhibitions of
photography and conceptual cubism.

Even Lachance has him fried.

The cafeteria door opens wide. He lets out a woman who is looking
up at the sky and immediately buttons up her trench coat. Paola shakes a brioche
crumb off the table.

"I know that we," she begins to say, "we haven't exactly been
very good to you."

For a few seconds he seems to be waiting for a reaction from you.

A gesture of agreement or any other unequivocal sign that you grant him absolution.
But you don't intend to give him that pleasure. Your eyes are riveted on the fluff
on your coat when you hear her say:

"Look, I'm sorry we were so dumb." What I meant was that... if

there's something good in all this... it's that things are changing. All those
girls that go out on the street...

"All those girls two months ago would have called me fat to my
face without flinching." You shake your head sharply. Maybe not even two months
ago, maybe right now, at the bus stop, after any demonstration.

—Well, I don't think that happened... and anyway...

—Besides, I'm not here to be anyone's inspiration.

"Yeah, I meant...

—What happens is that now they feel sorry for me.

"It has nothing to do with grief.

-Of course.

Paola turns her face to the side, wrinkles her mouth, and relaxes
it again.

—Well, what difference does it make if it's pity?

—What does it matter? I don't like that they pity me.

"You see, I've never quite understood that expression." It seems

to me the typical rudeness that people say arrogantly. Paola looks at you with a
tender gesture, like a stone soaked in a balm of medicinal plants. And I don't
understand that aversion to the word sorrow either. I know that they have also felt
sorry for me at times, and I did not find it offensive. In fact, I think it's the
natural reaction.

You remain silent. To tell the truth, you only said that sentence
because it sounded resounding and heroic. And it's probably nothing more than a
scene you've seen exploited ad nauseam in millions of movies. A cold breeze coils
around your neck, where your hair used to protect you.
 "I'm very sorry for what happened to you, Miriam," Paola then
says. But I don't want to help you just for that.

You nod. You look up at the sky to hold back a bubbling of tears.

—You see, I'm saying all this because... —Paola sighs, massaging
her forehead. The wind bends a row of tulips in the clump of the rotunda. Listen...
mine isn't comparable to what happened to you, far from it. But I insist so much
because... I don't know if you know that two years ago I had to remove myself from
Facebook... There was a guy who wouldn't leave me alone. I was terribly afraid, I
put comments on all my photos, and every time I published something, I was always
the first to react, as if I had a sixth sense, I don't know ... Can you imagine,
and he told me that he knew where he lived, the names of my sisters and my
parents... I blocked him and everything, but he created new profiles, I had a
terrible time... I felt very... vulnerable. I spoke with a friend of my parents who
is a psychologist. And I thought about reporting it too, but in the end I didn't.

-Why not.

I don't know, I was embarrassed. Paola dips the teaspoon into the
cup and drags a few rims of foam to the edge. I thought people were going to laugh
at me. For playing the victim, you know.

-Already...

—For several months my father accompanied me everywhere because I

was afraid to go out alone. And that's why I was very angry when that day, in the
emergency room, you considered not reporting.

You look at her until she finishes speaking. A ray of sunlight

finds a hole between two silvery clouds and bathes the opposite façade in light.
Songs come out of an open window.

-How did you see me? -questions.

Paola tilts her head, drops the teaspoon on the plate with a
misplaced gesture.

"I mean," you clarify, "what did you think as soon as you saw
me?" Do you think he was in shock?

“Of course you were in shock. I made that very clear at the
trial, and so did Tallie. Why do you ask that?

Well, because honestly nothing seems real to you anymore. Because

with each passing day uncertainty grows deeper inside you, and you fear that your
imagination has begun to build even your emotions. Sometimes, you are looking out
the bus window, or sitting relaxed on a terrace, or you suddenly find yourself
laughing while watching reruns of Friends, and then doubt stabs you from the
inside, the same one that consumed Paola. Maybe I'm blowing everything out of
proportion?

The Student's sister has the same face as him, the same features
as him, the same thin-lipped smile, and the same brown hair that would blend
wonderfully with a blurred English countryside in the background. Student's sister
has longer hair, loose in waves to her waist. And in his physiognomy stand out the
same soft eyebrows, the same chin, the same straight and slender nose, and even the
same bony fingers that now play with a golden heart-shaped key chain.

For a long time, she has been waiting leaning against a car in
front of the grocery store, flanked by two little friends whose biotypes follow her
same pattern. His lip curls when he sees you pass. It leaves two extremely white
incisors exposed by the threads of the orthodontics. He must not be more than
thirteen or fourteen years old.

Bitch, my brother better be free.

She's wearing shamrock hairpins and a blue crochet sweater.

Fat, slut, whore.

All those words that surely you are not allowed to say at home
and that do not combine at all with your singing conservatory voice.

Bitch, you know you're lying.

Clench your fists. Walk towards you. It stops an inch from your
face.

You better tell the truth.

And the truth, at least as you remember it, and that it must be,
or that it is, almost certainly, the closest to the objective version, because you
have it fresh and raw, and you have relived it thousands of times inside your head,
is that this guy Kaplan, the guy with the science fiction eyes, was walking past
you when you left the bar and also a few minutes later, when you turned the alley
that leads up to the avenue. I was telling you about a nudist beach. The one that
starts a couple of kilometers beyond the promenade, do you know which one? Yes,
woman, just behind the dune. Have you ever been? Oh yes of course. The other one,
the chubby one with the goatee, who was called El Chivo, came and went and drank
from the nose of a vodka bottle. Streams of alcohol ran down his beard. Are you one
of those who get so wide topless? Well yes, maybe —chuckles—, I'm not going to tell
you.

"Ah, then I'm sure you are," El Chivo blurted out arrogantly,
"you've already confessed to us that when you grow up you're going to be a horny
nurse."

"Lost horny," you pointed out.

"Do you know what this bone is called?" The Goat pointed to his
crotch. He let out a laugh, and glanced sideways at the Kaplan, as if to see if his
joke was successful.

"There aren't any bones in there," you said.

"Well, I find her hard as a bone."

He shot you a look. He winked at you. And you burst out laughing.
The alleys smelled of piss and reheated food. Trash cans regurgitated plastic bags,
pizza boxes, donut wrappers. And even flowers. Red roses split in two.

When you left the avenue, the cathedral clock said two past four,
that's what you think you remember. And you fixed your eyes on the Student's back,
on his chestnut neck and on the eagle embroidered on his jacket. He was a few steps
ahead, talking to this other guy: Ray Papke, who everyone always called by his
first and last name. It had been like that all night. All damn night talking to
him. And you meanwhile? Well, quiet, hiding. Her detachment offended you, but you
didn't want to appear hysterical, especially in front of her friends.

You crossed a deserted park, a parking lot. you were tired A bit
dizzy too. It would have been wonderful if, at that moment, the Student took your
hand and said: okay, kids, every little owl to its olive tree, see you next time,
we're leaving. (In case they ask you. In case they ask you in a trial, that was the
ending you expected.)

And yet the one who put his arm around you was the Kaplan. He
started humming the song from a pasta ad, and you started laughing. You followed
the game and you began to dance the melody in the middle of the street. Your throat
was burning terribly. Because of the tequila, you suppose, and also because of the
hashish, which, judging by the appearance of the stone, must have been of the
highest quality. The Student then approached. He planted a dry kiss on your mouth.

"Hey, what's up," he blurted out. Does this menda turn you on?

He was pointing at his friend with his chin. A flash of sarcasm

in her eyes, as if the question contained a secret. You looked at the Kaplan, you
burst out laughing. Well, the truth is that yes, you thought. So you said it out
loud:

-The truth is yes.

You wanted to see if he would get jealous. Or horny. You weren't

very sure how to deal with his attitude. He was acting the same way he was that day
he drove you home, like, frankly, he didn't give a damn about you. And that's why
you were excited that your complicity with the Kaplan made him uncomfortable, that
he began to be mischievous and distribute taunts. Until suddenly, without rhyme or
reason, the Student began to laugh —besides, without measure, showing all the
molars and their fillings, what was that about?—, and as he walked away again
leaving you alone with Kaplan, everything the former longing gave way to a haze of
bewilderment. You felt disappointed. And also a bit of an idiot.

But the fact is that Kaplan, who was still rooted to his spot,
looked at you with his science fiction eyes: are you serious?, do you like me?, and
you looked down, a strange, nervous laugh escaped you. . You hid your face: sorry.
And you started walking faster, a little bloated from the alcohol. The other three
were ahead, they had just turned a corner and El Chivo stopped in a doorway. He
spoke to a woman, a girl perhaps, you couldn't make out her features from that
distance. You were only struck by how she hugged her bag to her stomach. Perhaps
she was afraid that you had cornered her to rob her.

-What do they do? -said.

The Student then retraced his steps. He caressed your hair,

twisted a white lock between his fingers.

"So you like my friend Kaplan," he said.

 "Well, yes, a lot." You made a playful gesture and poked him in
the chest, right in the center of the ribs. At this rate, I'm going to like him
more than you.

"Then kiss him."

-That.

You looked at Kaplan, you had him a span. A misplaced grimace.

"No, what are you up to?"

—Don't cut yourself off for me.

-Beautiful. Does it make you want me to kiss other guys or what?

- Yes, it turns me on.

You wrinkled your brow. You remember a sting of rage, the furious
heat in the chest.

—Very well. You looked haughtily at the Kaplan. A peak nothing

more.

But the fact is that you closed your eyes, and you let his tongue
enter slowly, to caress your teeth. The Kaplan's lips were chapped, an astringent
taste in his mouth from the cigarette he still held in his hand. It was hot. A warm
breeze moved your hair. Stringed music was coming from the Turkish supermarket
across the street, and then a chatter of girls crossed the street. His tongue moved
very slowly, then suddenly a pinch. A hand that eagerly squeezed the meat of your
ass. You widened your eyes:

"Well, okay.

Then a scratchy whisper: come on in! El Chivo was waiting on the

doorstep, holding the iron door with an urgent gesture. There was no trace of the
girl who a minute ago was clinging to her bag tooth and nail. Is he inside? you
said, and then: where are we going? But no one answered your questions. The Student
turned his head, took you by the hand: come. And the Kaplan: come on.

It smelled of cold stone and bare plaster. You let yourself be

guided by their hands, you could no longer tell who, you stumbled up the stairs.
The small windows that overlooked a courtyard had frosted glass. And a step, a
turn, another section. Several floors above, a dry cough was heard. The hiss of a
griffin. Where are we going? The overhead light—dim, white, insufficient—went out
with a sharp click. And the heart that pounded against your gut, that sounded the
alarm, as if he already knew.

The jingle of a belt. A pang of fear. And someone who holds your
hair and bends you at the waist. You can't talk or scream. sleeping limbs. And you
think, I'm in the dark. I'm alone. And I don't know who they are.

It turns out that the psychologist thinks the gratitude journal

is a fantastic idea. Miriam only mentioned it in passing during one session, the
typical filler anecdote that she didn't expect to lead to alternate dialogue. Why
do you resist writing anything? the psychologist asked. And Miriam didn't know what
to answer. She left the office with homework for the following week: write down at
least five reasons why she considered herself lucky.

With the intention of giving the task more solemnity, he has sat
down at the desk, has turned on the lamp, has opened the notebook, and has even
come to rest the tip of the pen on the beige sheet of recycled paper. She's still
in her pajamas from yesterday, and she's wearing one of those terry cloth headbands
to keep her hair out of her face. She's tired of the new cut, it gets in her eyes
all the time and she only manages to tame it with the blow dryer. Let's see if it
at least grows fast. Miriam crosses her arms over the notebook. As the psychologist
suggested, she has forced herself to meditate previously to let positive thoughts
flow. However, everything that crosses his mind sounds simple or artificial, or he
realizes after a while that he is plagiarizing it from something integrated in his
memory, but that it is not his original idea. Finally he closes the journal, and
gets up from his chair. He drops onto the bed. Half an hour later, she is totally
slumped over with her eyes riveted on her mobile. Chaining videos of Japanese women
who make their own moisturizing cream.

He has just started a tutorial when his mother peeks out from the
hallway.

“Oh, you're awake,” he says.

-Yeah.

Pattie pushes the door. She pauses as Miriam listens as she

scratches the beveled outline of the doorknob with her fingernail. She knows that
she has come, as usual, to assess her state of mind, and sure enough, a few seconds
later, Pattie can't help but ask:

-How are you?

Miriam shrugs without taking her eyes off the screen.

-Well then. Normal.

His mother shakes her head. He looks around the room looking for
something to comment on in order to prolong the conversation. He then notices the
leather-bound notebook resting on the desk.

-What's that? he asks, taking a few steps in to get a closer look

at it.

—Nothing, a notebook.

-Is very pretty.

Pattie has stopped by the table and is admiring it without laying

her hand on it, the way she would examine a piece through a museum window. One can
never anticipate the reaction of a teenager when fussing with their personal
belongings.

“By the way,” he starts to say, “have you talked to Vix lately?
He hasn't called for several days.

—Well, she'll be busy, I don't know.

"Are you angry?"

 -Not that I know of.

"Why don't you call her?"

Miriam clicks her tongue.

—I don't feel like talking to anyone, enough that I put up with

Paola's small talk the other day.

"Well," Pattie sighs, leaning against the edge of the desk,

busily buckling and unbuckling the metal strap of her watch for a moment. I
understand how you feel, but if you isolate yourself it's worse.

“Oh, Mom,” Miriam shifts abruptly, “don't be the Dalai Lama. And
besides, what do you know? I have not isolated myself from anyone. If I haven't
talked to Vix lately, it's because he's always with Lachance and his college stuff.

Pattie bites her lower lip, she's trying to put herself in the
shoes of a teenager at a forced march. He wants to add something wise, something
powerful and moving. Although most likely his words only sound rancid and cavernous
to Miriam. So in the end he just mutters:

—Well, daughter, if I don't say anything, I just wanted to know

how you were.

—Well, perfectly.

For several seconds they both remain silent, with their eyes
focused on different levels of the bedroom. The only thing that breaks the silence
is the steady, cowering click of Pattie's watch strap, who after a few seconds lets
out a sigh and leaves the room.

On the mobile screen, a Japanese woman is massaging the ends of

her hair with coconut oil until Miriam closes the page in disgust. She finds
herself weird after mentioning Vix. In a mechanical gesture, he looks for his name
in WhatsApp and enlarges the profile photo. She goes out with Lachance, of course,
smiling like a slut. Miriam puts the phone away, she doesn't feel like writing to
him at all, especially seeing how easy she is lately. If only I had the same thing
with her that Tallie and Paola have, a symbiotic, intense, bomb-proof friendship.
And also, to be honest, she's fed up with always being the friend with the shitty
life.

He looks for the tobacco on the nightstand and settles on the

windowsill, where for a few minutes he paws at a cigarette without lighting it. It
is a clear, sunny day, and only innocuous clouds paint the sky like chalk strokes.
Small inflorescences sprout on the branches of the chestnut trees, and looking at
the count, Miriam deduces that it has already been spring for three days. He lights
the cigarette and his eyes meet again with the gratitude journal. He looks at him
indifferently. The truth is that even the name seems like a nonsense, the typical
corny hipster. Those notebooks are for a different type of girl, he thinks. Intense
that photograph clouds and sunsets and out-of-focus raindrops.

In any case, and to entertain herself with something, Miriam

leans over to reach the notebook. Earlier he left a pen stuck to the first page, so
he retrieves it and chews on the plastic cover while staring at the blank page. He
scribbles her name: Miriam Dougan. He watches it. He slides his hand down and
writes it again. Several times, in multiple dimensions and fonts. Miriam Dougan.
Miriam Dougan. Miriam Dougan. With straight and disciplined lines in the first
strokes, and then recharging it with scrolls and arabesques. Then their fingers get
packed, they spit out words on the lined paper. Imbecile, they draw, and also: sow,
idiot, slut. Next, in vociferous capital letters: is she a liar??? The question
marks are incorporated later. He insistently goes over the curves, adding more
volume, more relief, so that now they stand out much more than the sentence. For a
long time, he stares at the words as he smokes and blows sideways. Who you really
are, Miriam Dougan, the real me. You would have to exfoliate layers and layers.
Because not even the psychologist is able to explain it. And also, how is he going
to blurt out certain thoughts like that? He is afraid. Very afraid. And an
atrocious shame that hardly lets her sleep.

During the last session the subject of the underage girl came up.
Her counterpart at the graduation party, who was drunk and suffered groping and
harassment. However, Miriam does not see herself capable of feeling compassion. He
doesn't identify with her at all. Sometimes, she doesn't even identify with
herself.

And he does not want to see the photographs, or to be mentioned

to him. He has not inquired in the newspapers. When the psychologist asks her why,
she says that it bothers her. But the truth is that that girl from the prom seems
like a fictional character, a docudrama, or the typical tabloid story. He doesn't
know how to feel about it. And how could I confess it to the psychologist. That
sociopathic tendency. That pathology.

Miriam crushes her cigarette against the ceramic ashtray. Before

closing the gratitude journal, he tears out the page he scribbled on, and also the
two consecutive pages. It is not going to be that those viciously marked lines have
been printed on several layers of paper. Then she breaks it all into tiny bits,
squashes them into her fist, and walks straight into the bathroom. He doesn't come
out again until a couple of minutes later, when after several flushes from the
cistern, he loses sight of them.

What if he liked the girl? Well the truth, not so much. I was a
bit chubby. But hey, at five in the morning and with six or seven drinks, a girl is
a girl.

The one that was really good was the one from the graduation
party, that little girl, she had tiny tits. And what a mouth to suck it.

The one on the portal was a whale, they say.

No, damn, that's not it either. She had her pounds, but she was
attractive, with symmetrical features and such. The eyes were quite pretty. The
skin, the hair. You know, the kind of person who gets better physically as you get
to know her.

Now Adam Kaplan sits in the afternoons—these recent precious

afternoons of freedom—in a shady corner of his parents' garden and watches the
twilights fall. He visits close relatives and has long telephone conversations with
distant ones, who keep repeating to him what a good boy he is, and that surely all
this will end very soon and then we will go out to celebrate. Some nights, he makes
plans with his longtime friends. They drink beers on the beach or meet in some
apartment and watch soccer games on television. It does not go unnoticed how the
people around her try to fill in the silences. They tell him anecdotes from the
last fifteen months. They take it upon themselves to convince him that he hasn't
missed much.

Another activity to which Kaplan dedicates an enormous number of

hours is making obsessions dizzy. For some time now, he has suffered from a sick
desire to fully enjoy every moment. Sip it in silence. Alone, if possible, in the
hope that it will last longer. Because that is precisely the only thing that
remains: today, now, the immediate present. And the clear awareness that he could
lose everything in the blink of an eye.

The rest of the people around him—his parents, his little

brothers, his acquaintances—all have the guarantee that he will continue to renew
himself now. Tomorrow, next month, in two years, in ten. They advance stocked with
futures. But in prison there is none of that. Jail is a time sink. A black hole
that breaks your life without giving you the option to use it in anything
worthwhile. That's why today, tonight, sitting at a table of six in the harbor inn,
Kaplan makes an inexpressible effort not to think about it. He sips his wheat beer
slowly and lets the lightness of the atmosphere embrace him. In the air, it
registers smells of hot broth, grilled bread, vegetables softened in frying pans.
And from the bar, he hears hullabaloos that get confused and overlap: customers
asking for more rounds, coats hissing, glass crashing, women wiping their mouths
with paper napkins and then keeping them crumpled in their fists.

Around him, his friends continue to tell stories and Kaplan can't
stop the traffic of useless thoughts. He observes, for example, that the sweater of
one of his colleagues is riddled with brown lint, and perhaps, if he returns to
prison, by the year he is released, there will be no trace of that item of clothing
left. And one day, already gray and wrinkled, he will ask: do you remember that
sweater you wore during dinner at the inn? And his friend will frown: which sweater
are you talking about? Because, of course, for him a million years will have
passed, a million now, and fashions will have come and gone, and sweaters will have
torn, or shrunk, or replaced.

Kaplan shifts, and the synthetic leather of the stool groans.

You, who are in Babia.

One of his friends throws him a crust of bread.

Yes, he sighs. I want to enjoy the beer because... well, because

you never know when it's going to be the last.

Another kid, one with a cap turned upside down, gives him a
friendly flip.

Come on... How will the last piece be?

What's up, are you going to kick it as soon as you leave the bar?
Is a truck going to hit you or what?

You do like your cousin. Look how calm he is.

Damn, is that the Goat does not give for more.

They laugh. They joke. They try to downplay the matter, but they
see the Kaplan's withered face and they pick up the mooring lines again.
 Let's see, Kaplan, don't get all slutty. Your lawyers are
awesome.

I want to believe...

Yes, man, trust me. The one in the cap crosses his arms. The
videos are still there, aren't they? They will be reviewed by other people who know
about the law.

Yeah, but the videos don't add anything new.

Well, whatever. If they have encouraged you to appeal, it is

because they know that this circus has neither head nor tail.

Exactly, the one with the balls jersey supports him. The decision
is up to the judges, and no case of the greengrocers who appear on TV.

I'm telling you, Kaplan. You don't step in jail again.

And yes, they may be right. Kaplan seizes on every argument his
colleagues throw at him. Optimistic and flimsy perceptions, but you need to believe
with all your might. El Chivo sends him messages every day, he is very confident.
And even Violet —who, to the surprise of many, has forgiven him— is of the same
opinion, because damn, it's clear, that aunt wanted to, flirted with them to death.
Isn't it obvious? If he even gave him a snog on the way to the portal. What the
hell did I expect.

But, of course, now none of that works for them. Because the girl
may suddenly not want to, the girl may be petrified, the girl may be having the
worst moment of her entire life and still shut up, because the girl is paralyzed
with terror, and the girl may go into shock and remain silent. . There is even the
possibility that the girl thinks: no please, and that her brain screams it with all
its might, but that the voice still does not come out. Not the slightest vibration
in his windpipe. The lungs swelling and emptying without breaking the resistance of
the vocal cords. And not a trace of the word that must have exploded against his
incisors and burst his diaphragm with pure fear: NO.

Because that's the way things are. The girl may not say anything.
The girl can exhibit the serenity of an amoeba. And then: murderer, rapist, son of
a bitch.

There is no right.

Of course not, man, and that's why you've won this trial.

Have confidence.

How were you to know? Is it your fault that she stays quiet? That
bitch. Because that girl wanted to, she was wet, she stuck their cocks up her
esophagus like a sword swallower. It's in the videos. That bitch wanted.

Now it says NO. Now he says: I closed my eyes.

And how were you to know?

Exact. The others didn't know either. None.

It's the word of four against yours.

 I submitted because I was scared.

And what do you tell me, crazy?

How was I to know.

Miriam opens the door to the Physiology department, where she has
gone to deliver an end-of-semester paper. The professor looks at her out of the
corner of his eye, as if disapproving for having waited until the last day of the
term. Write down his name on a piece of paper. Beside him, a laptop hums with the
power of an old refrigerator, and behind the window behind him the cedar branches
respond to the wind in a slow chime, each in its own way, as if pulled by invisible
lines. The professor hastily flips through the stapled pages and places Miriam's
work on top of a mountain of booklets also delivered that morning. It is seen that
she is not the only one who has rushed to the deadline.

When he leaves the building it has begun to rain and the clouds
stretch to the horizon gray and fleecy. The leaves lurch toward the garden
enclosures, drawing propellers through the air in a flicker of yellow. Miriam zips
up her jacket. It's the time when many class shifts end, and the morning is so ugly
that no one feels like walking, so all the buses come laden with warm, chattering
faces. By the time Miriam reaches the soccer field, the rain is so strong that many
students have chosen to take refuge under the canopies of the faculties. They
huddle inside their coats and smoke one cigarette after another, waiting for it to
clear up. Miriam calculates the distance to the next stop, it's at least a five
minute walk, so she pulls her hood over her head and decides to go into the
cafeteria in the center of campus.

It's a busy place, especially on a rainy day, although probably

all those people should be somewhere else right now: a classroom, a hands-on lab,
the library. Miriam looks around for a free seat and orders a cappuccino at the
bar. As she sheds her jacket, she hears someone shout her name from one of the back
tables: Miriam!

He turns by inertia, he imagines that it is another Miriam that

they call. But there is a girl who smiles at him and who is standing up. He has
short hair, a Burberry-esque scarf draped around his neck, and he's waving
exaggeratedly at her with both arms.

“Hey, Miriam. Come.

Yes, he remembers her. Her name is Eve. She is tall, sociable,

and one of the first people Miriam met when she started her degree. For a couple of
weeks they sat together in all the classes, attended the same seminars just to save
themselves the embarrassment of wandering alone. Then Miriam stopped attending
college. Without prior notice. Phone numbers had not even been exchanged.

Some of the girls sitting with Eva are familiar to him. They are
moving the chairs and have begun to vacate a piece of bench where scarves and coats
of all sizes and furs are piled up. With her jacket half unbuttoned and her bag
hanging from her elbow, Miriam approaches the group and takes her seat where she's
been assigned. He places his coffee on the table, smiles shyly. She is so nervous
that she tries to minimize her movements. She is terrified of spilling something,
poking her elbow, trampling on a coat. He even tries to catch air and expel it
softly. That's how terrified she feels.

Eva introduces her four companions, although Miriam only retains

the first two names: Wilma and Zaza. The rest lose them, partly because of the din
of the coffee pot and partly because of that crushing anguish of having suddenly
become the center of attention.

"Hey, what a surprise," says Eva, "what are you doing here?"

He has a big, healthy smile that shines even from inside his
pupils. Miriam's fingers hold the outline of her cup, but she still doesn't dare
lift it from the saucer.

"You've cut your hair, haven't you?" Eve continues. It fits you
well.

Miriam nods, fingers her curly ends, murmurs, YES, as the other
girls look up at her and exchange approving smiles.

"And how come you're here?" says Eve. Do you have any practice?

"No, I've come to deliver a job.

- Ugh. An unfamiliar girl waves her hand in the air. Physio's,

right?

-Yes, that.

—Damn, I finished it last night at two in the morning. Has he

also given you a bulldog face?

Miriam smiles.

"It seemed like he was sparing my life."

Around the table, laughter alternates with snorts. A couple of

light insults are also heard, dedicated to the guy in question.

"That man is bitter," says Eva. He has begun to roll a cigarette

with a pinch of tobacco that he has just taken from a tin. Then add—: what topic
have you chosen for the work?

-Endocrine.

“Oh, cool. We already have that one, but it doesn't matter,” he

says. It is that we are going to exchange the notes that we have compiled for the
works. At the moment we have Lymphatic, Digestive and Endocrine. We only have…” he
laughs. All the rest.

"That's a lot, isn't it?" Miriam asks with an awkward gesture.

"Well, yes, rather. Eva smiles, tucking a lock of hair behind her
ear. On the other side of the window, the students walk protecting their chests
with the folders or with huge blocks of photocopies that they have just bought in
reprography. Despite the drizzle, almost no one carries umbrellas, and tiny white
droplets land on their hair and shoulders. Eva slides her tongue along the edge of
the rolling paper. Are you going to enroll in Legislation and Ethics next semester?
We were talking about that, because the other option at eleven in the morning is
Computer Science, so...
 "Yeah..., the truth is that I haven't thought about it yet."

Miriam picks up the cup, brings it to her lips. He takes a short

sip of the coffee and puts it back on the saucer.

"Hey, if it's because you can't go to class, don't worry, I'll

leave you the notes," another of the girls intervenes. She has gorgeous jet-black
hair peeking out from under a French beret. Miriam smiles gratefully, she feels bad
for not remembering her name.

“Sure,” Eve says. If the schedule doesn't work for you, don't
worry. Or if one day you need anything...

Leave the sentence unfinished. Clearly Miriam is missing too

much. She has already missed some of the subjects because she did not show up for
practicals, and as is logical, so many absences have not gone unnoticed by her
classmates.

"Well, I hope I'm not too far away…" He runs his fingertip along
the edge of the table, insisting on a rough stretch of plywood. It's just that
these past few months... well, I've had some problems.

In the pause that follows, the girls back her up with indulgent
smiles or nods. They make an effort to show support, each in their own way, but all
on the same page. Just like the branches of the cedars resisting the ravages of the
wind.

"You did well then," Eva says. Things must be given the priority
they deserve.

-Look. The girl next to him has taken a page out of a folder. If
you understand my handwriting, I can leave you almost all the course notes, he
says.

It is seen that they are notes taken in a hurry, trying to

agglomerate the information. And it is curious how certain peculiarities stand out
in the spelling, a glimpse of the personality of that girl who spreads out the
tails of the consonants like dead insects.

"It's very well understood, thank you."

On the other side of the table, Eva is immersed in a conversation

with Zaza. Thus, looking at them from the front, Miriam thinks that they look like
characters from different eras put together by mistake. The contrast of Eva, who is
pale and blond, with a twenties haircut and a sky blue Lacoste jumper. And Zaza,
who wears two scrawny braids, a violet eye line, and a flowered bandana tied at the
nape of her neck. She looks very lively, gesturing with her hands and her eyebrows,
and Eva listens to her spellbound, nodding and pinching the center of her lip. On
the bench beside her, the duffel bags and sticker-lined folders stand out against
the gray, windy day outside. And Miriam perceives that the heat is beginning to
penetrate her feet. Everything is exactly as you imagined. The dynamics of the
university, where he does not detect any desire to group people into categories.
And he listens to those girls laugh, joking with that complicity still in the
making, and he wants to stay. She wants to find herself sitting among them one day,
and pinch her lip while a friend confides a secret to her, while another girl looks
at her from afar and reflects: one day I want to meet here in the middle, pinch my
lip while, and so on.
 The girl in the French beret that, a moment ago, Miriam thinks
she has heard is called Lilly, throws a sugar cube at the one with the sprawling
handwriting.

"You, who get soggy," and then he turns to Miriam. You'll get
used to Rita, she's always on the vine.

And this Rita pretends that she sulks. Miriam smiles, wants with
all her soul to participate, to venture out with a joke, but she still doesn't feel
quite integrated. Uncross your arms. He suddenly notices Rita's folder, sticking
out of a leather bag and lined with vintage brand stickers. One of the stickers,
Miriam refines her vision, has that shape. Those contours, that color. Although
from that distance you don't know. He is only able to see half. But if you tilt
your face. The piece seems Or is.

-What's that? -ask.

Rita turns to the folder, her fingers brushing the handle of the
bag.

-The fact that?

“That sticker.

Miriam points to what looks like a rose. In a shade like orange.

What would come to be called salmon color. Or peach.

"Ah, the rose..." Rita says. Do you know her? It is the symbol of
those demonstrations of...

"And are there stickers?"

-Yeah. —Rita then opens a side zipper and takes out a very fat
wad, like a wad of stickers. Want a?

"Oh, I didn't know they made…stickers," Miriam finishes saying,

and meanwhile Rita has already reached across the muffin-strewn plates and hands
her a generous taco. Miriam is about to say no thanks, but sees herself reaching
out in turn and taking the stickers, which she glances over quickly.

“Thank you,” he says.

This girl, Rita, has a nice look. Blue, bulging eyes like grapes.
But in a sexy way.

—Hey, shall we meet tomorrow for the library?

Zaza just said that, apparently to no one in particular, because

I've leaned back in his seat with his eyes turned towards the bar while he twisted
his braid around his finger.

"And Professor Wagner's class?"

- Wow, passing.

"I'm going," Eva says. Are you coming tomorrow, Miriam?

"Well..." Miriam straightens her back. It's just that I've missed
so much... I have to organize myself again, and I don't know if I'm going to have
time to study for the exams either.

Eve nods. He loosens his eyelids with a little pity.

“Listen, we haven't started studying yet either.

"Of course, woman," Rita points out, "don't be overwhelmed."

"You'll get organized. We stayed a few days to study in the

library.

"Yeah..." Miriam bites her lip. I just don't know if I'll be able
to keep up with you... Right now there's something going on at my house... —she
takes a breath, shakes her head in the direction of her half-empty cup of coffee.

Eve purses her mouth. And that other girl in the French beret,
the one she thinks her name is Lilly, clicks her tongue in dismay.

"There are times that are fucking shit," he says. I also had a
horrible time last year and I almost couldn't come to class... In the end I gave up
the course, but hey, that's behind me, and now I'm starting again.

"Are you repeating a grade?"

The girl nods and simultaneously swallows a mouthful of peach

juice.

“Yeah,” she says, “I'm the retard of the group. She lets out a
laugh and looks at Eva, who shakes her head in a motherly cadence. It must be an
inside joke.

"Let's see..." Eva says. Each one has its rhythm. And that
measuring time by cycles is an invention of the human being.

He lifts his chin solemnly, then twists his mouth comically.

"Why yes?" -Add.

"No doubt." The repeater in the beret turns to you. Here Mother
Superior Eva has taken us all under her wing and has planned study groups to get us
on the right track.

A hint of admiration can be guessed in his tone. Eva puts her arm
around his back, outlines her smile with very healthy teeth. Her forehead is shiny
and uneven from acne scars that she doesn't try to hide with makeup or brown
moisturizers. Zaza interrupts them, starts talking about a bookstore where they
sell second-hand compendiums. Priceless, he says. And Miriam notices that her
muscles dissolve into a strange laxity, as if she had just come out of a Thai
massage session, or a loud, hurricane laugh, or a disproportionate squeal from the
top of a mountain. It's an amazing, wonderful feeling, she feels exhausted and
relaxed at the same time, and she wishes it would continue to rain, that the day
would stay gray and windy and horrible, while she hides in there, evaluating
handwriting and cracking inside jokes, letting the conversation drift. towards
crucial and primal issues such as study groups and the cycles of time.
 As soon as she hears her mother put on her shoes, pick up the
keys to the chiffonier and put them in her bag, and then close the door with a
resounding click, Miriam wakes up and migrates from the bedroom to the living room
with the blanket and the mobile and the pack of cigarettes. He draws the curtains
that Pattie has drawn. If any window is open, it also closes it. She should be
going to class today, and yet she spills out on the couch, turns on the television,
letting the morning shows and soap operas give way to tepid midday game shows. And
then the news, sports, weather, after-dinner movies about murderous babysitters and
drug-addicted teens, and in between, endless commercial breaks recreating beaches
and wheat fields. Screens, Miriam thinks, are such a comfortable space in which to
stare dead.

Next week is the big day. The court will hold a public hearing in
which five magistrates will hear the arguments of the parties to the case. Then
they will retire to deliberate, and a few hours later, they will announce the
ruling. She already knows the process by heart, Mr. Kazatchkine has explained it to
her a hundred times. From their position, they will demand that the penalty for the
continued crime of rape be increased. The prosecution will request that the factors
of intimidation and violence that were not appreciated during the trial be taken
into account. And the defendants, for their part, will demand to be acquitted.
Almost certainly, Mr. Kazatchkine says, they will insist that she agreed to have
sex. That is also on TV. All holy day. Although not on the channels that Miriam
chooses to go into torpor.

Lying on her back, she lights a cigarette and, for a long time,
she tortures herself by looking on her cell phone for the consequences of lying in
court. Then clear the history. Children's voices are heard on the stairs. More ads
on TV. Wholegrain cereals, a sugar-free soda, all-terrain vehicles that cross
reddish deserts. This stretch of life is the same, Miriam thinks. A subsection, a
parenthesis. An advertising break in which there is no other attitude than leaving
a dead gaze.

Turn your head. Try to relieve the tightness in the neck. The
television casts mauve flickers onto the stucco ceiling. Pieces of that morning on
campus filter through his thoughts. Eva sent him a wasap two days later: if you
come to study at the bible. Miriam replied that I have things to do. He would like
to see them again, but he doesn't know, he can't, he doesn't feel part of the
universe in which they live. Also think about Vix. And in the percentage of girls.

And then turn on the phone again. And he looks for her.

After so long avoiding her. After vilely ignoring her. From the
moment it came to light. The photographs, the testimonials. The rejection that
caused him.

But now, for some reason, he seeks her. He types quickly, as if

he were afraid that everything would suddenly disappear, of not being able to cope,
of backing out.

He doesn't know her name because she is also protected by the

media. However, it is not difficult to find the terms that catalog it. The four
horsemen and the prom. The four horsemen and the unconscious girl. The four
horsemen and a minor. As expected, she is pixelated, although she is seen to be
pretty and slim with gorgeous straight shiny auburn hair. The image gallery
displays several photographs in what appears to be a parents' bedroom. The
predictable assortment of mahogany furniture. The bombastic curtains.

The young woman in a central shot, at the foot of the bed,

vanished. And then they. Their smiles pointing at the camera. All in chorus, just
like they did in the portal. Miriam feels her heart race. The hand of the Goat
under the skirt. In the photograph it is not appreciated how far, but it has a lot
of arm tucked in. And then the Kaplan, kissing her breast over the striped pattern
of her bra. His sci-fi blue eyes piercing the image matrix, the camera shutter, the
lens with all its converging and diverging lenses, and grafting directly into
Miriam's pupils, which are now very dilated due to a defensive reaction from the
body, and also to the lack of light in the room. A chill shakes his spine. In an
unconscious reaction, she digs her nails into her palms, leaving her flesh strewn
with nervous crescents. It makes her sick to no end to see those hands, those arms,
those mouths working their way across her body, squeezing and compressing and
scrubbing until they are sated. It causes her almost more hatred and disgust than
when she thinks of herself. In your case. In the portal.

At the bottom of one of the photographs, a kind of confession: «I

did not report it because at first we were chatting with them. We fooled around a
bit and played a game of smacking ice. I thought people would say it was my fault,
that I brought it on myself."

From what is also said, after groping her and taking those
photos, the Kaplan slapped the girl—jokingly, they claimed—to see if she would wake
up. They recorded a video slapping him. And Miriam feels an incendiary rage that
overflows her. The urge to grab them by the neck, and gouge out their eyes, and
kick them until they were breathless.

He tries to recover. Put the phone away. The cigarette has been
consumed forgotten inside an ashtray. On TV, a bunch of steel gizmos make doll
heads wholesale. Miriam searches for the remote control on the floor to turn it
off. Then she stands up, folds the blanket, and heads down the hall with a hiss of
short, gritty steps. But today, instead of locking himself in the bedroom, he
throws his pajamas in the washing machine and takes a shower. Then she dries her
hair, tweezes between her eyebrows, and dresses in street clothes. She also decides
to get a different hairstyle. Nothing special. Just something other than your
everyday limp ponytail.

There is still bustle in the street, and for a long time, he

walks aimlessly past sweet shops and bars and appliance stores. The sky above the
buildings is the color of beaten concrete. And perhaps for this reason, bright
colors stand out more. Miriam narrows her eyes. On the walls and in the windows, he
can see a profusion of posters. Blue, orange, pale pink. Flooding the boulevard.
Walking cautiously, he approaches the window of a shoe store. Examine the poster
closely. It shows several women looking up at the sky. The style is simple, with
smooth and solid lines, somewhat didactic, like illustrations in textbooks. Below
the women, a heading that reads: «All united for a fairer world. Concentration in
favor of the hardening of the sentence of the four horsemen ». He feels a kind of
shock. She has heard it on the news, that demonstrations would be called on the
afternoons prior to the ruling in the appeal, and for several minutes, Miriam
remains motionless, listening to the agitated sound of her own breathing. He
scrolls through each of the women on the poster, spanning a wide variety of styles
and races, ranging from children and teens to adults and seniors. They're all
smiling, she likes that, and they're holding up signs that say I BELIEVE YOU.
Miriam turns. The perpendicular streets, now you can see better, are plagued with
billboards as well. Even the stalls at the craft fair each have their copy. And as
you widen your field of vision, you pick up more and more detail. On the ledges of
some windows and in the baskets of the bicycles rest peach-colored roses. And there
are stickers like the ones Rita gave her attached to the windows of some cars: WE
BELIEVE YOU. Miriam swallows. He feels that bubbling in the soft tissue of his
nose, and what comes to mind, almost like a spark, is the girl with the reddish
hair, passed out in bed, drunk, small and undressed.
 He puts his hands in his pockets and is about to start walking
when he hears behind him:

“Hey, Miriam.

Recognize that voice. He turns with a huge smile.

"My God, Jordan!"

He has been left standing in the middle of the street, next to a

stall where comics and nuts were sold before. For a moment, he doesn't seem to know
how to act, but he relaxes as soon as he sees Miriam walking in his direction. And
then they merge into an embrace so prolonged that it drifts into a kind of rocking.

"But, my goodness, how are you?"

Jordan smiles, and Miriam suddenly discovers that she had

forgotten the uniqueness of his features. That crooked mouth—exactly the same as
always—and the impeccable behavior of her hair.

More than once—very many, actually—she had imagined this moment.

With Jordan, above all, and also with Lukas. The settings were varied: Dreams, the
pool, a sunset in London —where they would already be twenty-five years old and she
would share a flat in Candem with bohemian and supercool people. But in all those
fantasies that his mind concocted, the reunion was infected by a listless and
passive-aggressive tone. Perhaps a suspicious smile, a sarcastic greeting: hey,
don't get too close, I'm not going to report you for harassment. And then a solid,
somewhat ceremonious coldness that would dissolve as the conversation progressed.
What he certainly didn't expect was this uproar of laughter and hugs, and damn, my
goodness, how are you doing, as if all those months of absence hadn't been, after
all, an avoidable circumstance.

"Are you going to the neighborhood?" he asks.

Miriam nods. She is so excited that she is surprised that she

does not feel any kind of shame or resentment. As if for an instant her emotions
had condensed into a small, dark ball that she is able to keep at bay.

As they walk along the line of trees, the streets begin to grow
dark, and the storefronts and windows explode in a riot of electric lights. The
buses pull up to the curbs and drop off briefcases and umbrellas and faces red from
the cold. Jordan also brings red cheeks, and Miriam can't help a little pang of
nostalgia. She had forgotten how handsome he was, although this is a beauty she
admires without much lyricism.

—I still hang out with Paola from time to time —he says then—, I
imagine that he will have told you about it.

"Yeah," Jordan replies.

After the initial enthusiasm, it seems a bit cut off. So Miriam

decides to make it easy for them, and along several sidewalks they chat about
school and family, until the conversation trails off and turns to the only subject
that's really on their minds.

"Well, how are you doing?" Jordan finally asks.

Miriam gives herself a few seconds to think.

 -Do not say-. Sometimes I'm kind of fine... and other times I'm
in the ass... It's hard to explain.

-Already. It must also be a pain in the ass that the subject is

on TV all day.

"You have no idea."

Jordan smiles. A while before, shortly after seeing her, he was

about to tell her that he thought she was very pretty, but he immediately realized
that it was probably because she had lost a lot of weight in recent months, and it
did not seem right to mention it. Sometimes, when Paola tells him about Miriam, he
gets the impression that she's talking about someone he's only known from afar. He
fails to establish a connection between his classmate, the girl his girlfriend is
dating, and that other girl who was raped. Not even now, with Miriam in front of
him, is he able to integrate them all into the same person.

“Listen…” he murmurs, “I know it's no use at this point, but I

wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I didn't call you.

Miriam purses her lips, not feeling like going into an apologetic
spiral.

“It's okay,” he says, and then adds, “I've missed you. Everyone
in general, and that you were jerks in high school.

He lets out an instant laugh, as if granting him permission to

laugh too, but Jordan just nods withered.

"I've missed you too," he murmurs. Although he probably only said

it for reciprocity, because it's relevant.

Miriam clears her throat.

—I've also missed Lukas, I don't know if you know...

“Yeah,” Jordan says quickly. It didn't feel right to me.

They resume the streets that go up to the neighborhood. On the

lampposts, the wind shakes the posters of the women who look at the sky. Naturally,
Jordan noticed them several days ago. And also in the roses on the balconies, on
the banners, on those stickers that the girls wear in their notebooks. Paula, of
course. And even Tallie McGrath, who is always protesting everything, bought roses
for her window and her brother's window.

Right now, walking silently next to Miriam, Jordan feels the urge
to explain a lot. That he intended to call her, he swears, that he often considered
it, but then he decided that a little later, that when the situation calmed down,
that she seemed annoyed in the corridors of the institute, that perhaps he
preferred to avoid her, that when he finished exams, than in summer. Until, in the
end, he did nothing.

Although what he did do, at least, was take on a bunch of really

big guys once. They were making fun of her in the changing rooms of the sports
center and he told them to shut their mouths, what the hell were they going to do,
that they would be damned if they didn't shut up for once. But even so, she
couldn't feel it as something heroic because she never saw herself able to reproach
Lukas for his attitude. He still needed the support of the group. Although later,
when he finished high school, all those dramas and intrigues, and those immovable
positions where he was the king of the mambo, became insignificant. Now she hangs
out with other types of people and she wouldn't be able to tell Miriam a joke about
her breasts. It has nothing to do with the rape thing, it just feels weird thinking
about it.

When they reach the corner of the park, the breeze brings a smell
of stagnant water. Jordan clears his throat, his lips dry.

"Do you like the university?" He asks to say something.

Miriam shrugs.

“I think so,” he replies, “although I suppose I'll like it better

when I relax.

“Yeah, sure.

—And what about you with the practices to be a piece of wood? Can
you keep the joints you confiscate?

Jordan smiles. About half an hour ago he had no idea what it

would be like to meet her again, and now he hates having to leave. But he can't let
Lachance down. The poor guy hasn't raised his head since Vix dumped him, and, in
fact, he's about to bring it up with Miriam, when, thinking about it, he thinks
it's really seedy to gossip about the group after all this time.

“Hey,” he starts to say, “if that's okay with you… maybe we could
meet up sometime.

Miriam purses her lips, taps her finger on her temple in an over-
the-top number.

“Okay, okay,” she finally says, “but don't give me the pain in
the ass about the bra size.

Jordan turns, her eyes widening, even giving the impression that
she's gone several shades of color.

“Boy, breathe, that was a joke,” Miriam snorts. Almost gave you
an aneurysm.

He lets out a laugh.

“Well,” he says, “for what it's worth, I'm over those fetishes.

Miriam nods, her smile snapped back.

“Listen…” he murmurs, and looks down at the ground. He first

notices Jordan's shoes, which seem to be of good quality, the hard, lace-up kind. I
guess you've heard all kinds of things about me... and I know I don't have to prove
anything, but...

"Right," Jordan snorts. You don't have to explain anything, I

don't sweat what they say out there. I am on your side.

Her voice trembles.

“Thank you,” he says.

 And Jordan reaches out, gives her a loving squeeze on the
shoulder.

-I trust you.

You walk into the kitchen, hold your phone in both hands and,
leaning against the wall, slide your finger down the list of names. Kazatchkin
Lawyer. Your heart beats in your temples, your blood fills with cortisol. But
better not to listen. You can't be spinning continuously. No more lists of pros and
cons. No more thinking. So you hit the call button. A tone. Two. Your body shakes
like a reactor. Halfway through the third ring, you take the phone away from your
ear and hang up.

You walk into the living room, where you drop into an armchair
near the window. Flashes of sunlight come in from the street and chime on the
polished surfaces of the balconies. You feel a mixture of strength and terror,
neither emotion particularly overpowering the other. You sigh. You scratch
compulsively with your fingernail at a grain on the windowsill. You squeeze the
phone and the heat of your perspiration leaves a thin layer of steam on the screen.
Your brain sends the command to unlock, dial again. But your body hesitates, and
without giving you any other option, you sit up suddenly, go to the hall, and take
the green canvas jacket from the coat rack, the keys, the bag, the bus card.

When leaving the portal, it is cold and a terrible sun. Too much
light washes out people's faces and makes the whole street look like a poor
quality, overexposed photograph. You get on the bus mechanically. You don't
remember if you have had to wait a long time, if you have joined a queue or even if
you have respected it. Luckily, there aren't many other passengers, so you find a
seat by the window, and cross your legs in a hysterical knot. Your mind wanders. He
never stops building scenarios in which the lawyer tells you: nothing's wrong,
those details aren't important, but then there are alternative versions in which he
raises his hands to his head and holds the breath in his cheeks: holy virgin,
that's perjury, you could go to jail. You look at the people around you, holding on
to the bars or slouching in the seats. They look like a parade of extras thrown
there by handfuls to make bulk. Impossible to retain their faces or decipher what
they speak. Your hands are shaking. The jaw. The knees. Better not rehearse the
conversation. Better to let the words come out untouched and sanitary once you're
in front of Mr. Kazatchkine.

You start to get dizzy and you want to take off your jacket, but
no one inside the bus has taken off their outerwear. Not even those who wear
scarves or cotton caps seem hot. So you don't react either because then you would
give a weird impression. Grotesque, even. That you sweat because you are nervous or
on the verge of a panic attack. And why would anyone have a panic attack on a
clear, beautiful spring morning?

When you get off the bus, a light breeze cools your sweat. The
roundabout and the avenues unfold enormously, bathed in that radioactive light. You
cross the streets in a hurry, you feel like throwing up, you overtake other
passers-by and you think: what will my life be like tomorrow, next month, next
year. Will I also be able to walk at ease? What effect will my behavior have today?
Will they go free? Will I be damned? Will they tear down all those posters of women
who look at the sky and then put up new ones with my face crossed out, my eyes
hidden and a black rectangle that says: Rat, miserable, manipulative?
 Spotting the blue glass building puts your entire body on guard.
What the hell are you doing here? You've lost your mind? Go away, run away, you're
not ready. Well of course not, Miriam Dougan, you've gone there on autopilot, and
it turns out that now there are a million details that you have not stopped to
think about. You have not taken into account, for example, that you would have to
cross the hall and talk to other people. The concierge, the secretaries, any of
those slick, coiffed receptionists who will no doubt ask you: do you have an
appointment with Mr. Kazatchkine?

Well no.

And as you shorten the distance, your brain floods with air, a
puncture pierces your sternum. You breathe. It's unbearably hot on that patch of
sidewalk, and even hotter inside your duffel jacket. And suddenly a dizziness, a
black lightning, as if someone had turned off the light switch.

When you come to, you find yourself sitting on a chair in front
of a sturdy rosewood cabinet. A woman you have never seen in your life hands you a
glass of water. Standing on the other side of the chair—which, now you notice, is
not a chair at all, but one of those padded green easy chairs with carved claw legs
—Mr. Kazatchkine leans over and looks at you of concern.

-Are you OK? -ask.

You take the glass, and the woman who had crouched beside you
stands up and smoothes her dress.

“You passed out at the door,” he says. You are white as a sheet.

Your mind suddenly clears. Recap. The reasons you're there and
why you can't leave until you tell Mr. Kazatchkine everything, who keeps repeating:
are you okay? are you sure? He has put his hands in his pockets and is rummaging in
there with something that makes a crunching sound. A set of keys perhaps, or a
cough drop wrapper.

"I came to talk to you," you tell him.

And although you wait for a physical reaction—again heart

pounding, cold sweats, unbridled shaking in the legs—your body remains warm and at
rest. Even the sternum prick is gone. It's a relief. You look at Mr. Kazatchkine,
who nods. Then he takes one of his hands out of his pants pocket and points down a
hallway you don't even know where it leads to.

"Do you want to eat something first?" Or go to the bathroom to

freshen up?

You shake your head emphatically. No, no way. Because if you

don't act immediately, if you go now and intersperse any type of activity, perhaps
the escape mechanisms will be reactivated in your nervous system. In fact, a
general tingling is beginning to invade you, and you squeeze the glass hard with
both hands to contain the tremor.

"I'd rather go in now," you say.

-Whatever you want. Mr. Kazatchkine's brows frown, and all the
lines around his eyes change direction. Everything is alright?

“Yes,” you say, “but I have to rectify some details in my

testimony.
 You have planned how you will start your dissertation. She will
explain to him that she has been a bit blocked, focused on her things, and that she
has not been able to see further. Although being completely honest, maybe what he
needs is to vent to someone, and that's why he has run there. Because no one else
could think of it.

Miriam reaches out and rings the bell again. She's tempted to
squeeze a few times in a psychotic way, ding dong, ding dong. And when Vix finally
opens the door, barefoot and with her sweater askew, it's easy to deduce that she
has been forced to dress in a hurry.

“Miriam,” he says without surprise, indicating that he's also

taken it upon himself to peek through the peephole first.

"Caught you at a bad time?"

"No, I was just... I had fallen asleep and was in my underpants."

She flexes her knee and places the tip of one foot on the opposite instep. Well,
uh... do you want to come in?

Vix's house is bigger than hers, with plenty of spare rooms

popping up along the hallway, and her parents have come up with all sorts of wacky
functions for it: guitar room, office, paint shop, guinea pig room

Miriam lets Vix lead her into a huge living room with jungle-
patterned wallpaper. From the mess on the little table and the way the cushions are
scattered on the floor, it's clear that he's been lounging in that part of the
house.

-Do you want to drink something? -ask.

Seeing that Miriam is slow to make up her mind, Vix turns and
walks briskly towards the kitchen. He takes a tray and loads it with two cans of
Coca-Cola Zero, a box of pasta and a bag of Doritos started and then closed with
clips.

-And your parents? Miriam asks.

"They've gone to visit my aunts."

He follows her silently back into the living room. Let Vix place
the tray on the couch table, pushing aside some decorative paperweights. How
serious is it? She doesn't seem at all willing to break the ice. So Miriam takes a
seat, straightens her pant legs, and begins:

—You see, I've come because... well, because I wanted to

apologize for having missed a bit of you.

Vix takes a drink of her Coke, and takes a long time to remove
the glass from her lips. In his eyes there is a strange sleepiness. And Miriam
deduces that more context needs to be added. Take air.

—Damn, Vix, it's just... I've screwed up a lot of things and I

was ashamed that...
 -Listen. Vix holds up her palm. He looks away to gauge the
distance from the table, then sets the glass down and pushes it away from the edge
with his fingers. He turns back to Miriam. It's okay, okay?

Miriam throws her body back.

"I still want to explain it to you."

Vix shakes his head. He is surprised that unexpected and stupid

tears suddenly make the letters engraved on the box of cookies dance. Miriam leans
towards her.

"Hey, are you crying?"

-No. Vix pinches the tip of her drenched nose and reaches across
the table for a packet of tissues. Shit, sorry, it was just seeing you at the door
and...

"Fuck, Vix...I'm really sorry...I didn't know you were so..."

“It's okay,” Vix repeats. It's not because of you, besides, I

already know that yours is worse...

"Worse than what."

Vix doesn't respond right away. She keeps opening and closing
little boxes on the table in search of something to dry her tears with.

—Nothing, seriously. And as Miriam keeps glaring at her, Vix

holds back a sob. Damn..., I don't know if you've heard it out there, but it's been
almost a month since I left him with Hugo.

He lets out a sigh and finally finds a tissue with which he

presses his eyelids and then rubs his nose. Obviously, it is not the first time
that he has cried over the subject of Lachance. He has already cried many times.
Above all, the day he met him in the park to give him the blow. And then back home,
in the elevator, in the bathroom, before and after dinner, rinsing off the
toothpaste, wiping down the acne wipes, and finally, in spades, under the covers.
In college, by contrast, he showed no emotion. She only mentioned it in passing,
because that same week she was invited to a birthday party and someone blurted out:
where did you leave your boyfriend? Well, I don't have any more, she said. But
since she was quite drunk, she giggled and infected the others, and after a while
she felt guilty and disgusted. Then she also cried, waiting for the subway on a
deserted platform. It was the last time. And never again.

However, now he can't stop. Now that Miriam is in front of him,

Hugo's name gains weight and volume and becomes compact inside the room.

"Fuck, I'm sorry... I didn't know anything," Miriam says, her

hand still on her lips in a horrified gesture. And how are you?

-Good. A sob cuts the word in two. Well... not very well... but
it's what it's about.

Miriam sighs, taking Vix's hand and squeezing it.

"Sorry Vix, it has to be horrible after all this time." Maybe

it's something temporary and in a few months...
 Vix shakes her head emphatically, the tightness in her chest
beginning to loosen. Miriam clicks her tongue.

—I should have been with you, and on top of that the day I told
you that you were making a drama...

“Well, that doesn't matter anymore,” Vix mutters. Besides, you're

not there to take care of other people's shit either. She presses the tissue
carefully to her eyelashes, then blows her nose and takes a sip of Coke. He looks
back at Miriam. And how are you doing? I've been following the news.

—Yes..., well, you already know that in three days is the appeal.

-Already. Vix nods. I was going to call you that same day, I
swear..., it's just that I got into a spiral of anger because I felt horrible about
Hugo, and...

—Vix, seriously, you don't have to justify yourself. Miriam

purses her lips, chews on her nail. He's in a hurry to keep talking. I come from
the lawyer. And she notices that her saliva turns pasty, that her heart is beating
in her jugular. It's just... I didn't tell the whole truth at the trial. Come on,
what... I lied.

Vix leans back. Wrinkle the nose, the forehead, the eyes.
Contract the entire gesture while repeatedly shaking your head.

—What nonsense, how can you lie.

Miriam takes a deep breath. She's surprised she's not feeling

more shaken up, not having walked straight home from the office to crawl under the
duvet and swallow two clonazepam pills. It was the reaction you would expect. And
yet, as soon as he left Mr. Kazatchkine's office, he experienced a strange and
contrived energy. A toxic euphoria, like the one that people who survive an
earthquake must feel, even though the world is collapsing behind them.

“I hid some things when they asked me,” she says, staring at a
thread on her sweater that she has begun to twist between her fingers. For
example... I did flirt with them, and I also made some... sexual jokes...

Now she is the one who reaches for one of the handkerchiefs that
peek out of a cardboard container. She leans back against a cushion and gasps a
couple of sobs that leave her speechless.

—It's just..., I mean, I didn't say all that nonsense that they
said, I promise you..., but I did freak out and blurt out some nonsense... I just
confessed it to the lawyer.

Her shoulders jerk in a minimal gesture, she presses her

handkerchief to her mouth. When he looks at Vix, his eyes narrow tired and full of
unknowns.

-And what did he say?

—Nothing... That it is not necessary to bring those data to

light, and that they are not conclusive... He told me to shut up. I thought that
was illegal. The fact that he has information and still shuts up...

—Well, then it will be because that information is not that

bad...

—I don't know, Vix... I denied those things because they didn't

benefit me. I was scared... They are attitudes that would have left me very bad —he
leans back. Dry heat weighs on him like the weight of seven blankets. I lied in
court... The lawyer has told me that this is a crime of perjury, but that it
doesn't change anything and we should move on.

"Well, that's it, isn't it?" He is the one who knows how to do
these things.

Miriam scratches her clavicle bone.

—Yeah... When he told me, he relieved me a lot... And now, on the

other hand, I feel strange, I don't know..., with those lies.

“Miri…” Vix leans toward her, places her hand on Miriam's wrist.
Listen, I'm sure they're not real lies and what's happening is that you're taking
it seriously. You have to be hysterical just three days before the appeal is
resolved, it would happen to me.

Miriam shakes her head.

“I kissed that other guy,” he murmurs. What was being said in the
neighborhood is true, I kissed Kaplan's pig... After having hooked up with Alex.

Saying their names like that, crude and of their own free will,
pronouncing them as if they were close people, friends, or acquaintances, or people
perfectly integrated into her life, she feels a nausea that turns her guts. As if
two universes oscillating at different frequencies had collided with a deafening
bang.

“Well, even if you hooked up with that asshole,” Vix protests.

That doesn't matter too.

“No, Vix, listen.

"I don't need to listen to you. Vix shakes her head, grits her
teeth. Did you know where they were taking you? When you kissed that…shit…did you
know what was coming next? No, right?

“No, of course not, but I…” Miriam covers her face with both
hands, a groan coming from her throat. It is that I no longer know if I gave them
foot...

"Foot to what, fuck?" To make a movie? Vix softens her tone.

Don't talk shit, Miri.

Miriam lets out a breath. Tilt your head back and rest your neck
on the backrest. Tears run hot to her temples.

"I'm terribly scared," he murmurs. When I left the firm I felt

better. It's been like some kind of weird shot, but now…” He lowers his eyes. I
think I need to tell it.

"You've already told the lawyer."

"I mean, I want it to be known." I don't want to keep this

inside.
 - Let's see, please. Vix narrows her eyelids. Please think about
it. Those things you say... are bullshit... They raped you, you didn't incite them.

A rattle of raindrops suddenly hits the window. In a matter of

seconds, the light inside the room dims to dilute the outlines in shadows. Miriam
sniffles. Vix's hand tightens on her and she feels the metallic cold of her
bracelets against her skin.

"I'm going to tell it," he says.

“Holy shit, Miri, seriously.

The wind whips the awning violently, and for a moment Vix
considers whether she should get up and fold it. He looks back at Miriam, who looks
up with a haunted expression. Click your tongue.

“Okay then… Well, you know I'm going to be by your side to the
death.

Miriam nods. He blinks, and two huge tears fall onto the seat of
the sofa.

"I'm sure the judge will say it's okay too," Vix continues. I
don't know about laws, but I'm very sure.

Miriam lets out a bitter laugh.

"How are you so sure then?"

—Well, because yes, because fooling around and kissing a boy...

Or two boys, or ten, I'm sweating..., it doesn't mean that you give them a free
hand to do whatever comes out of their noses.

Vix makes a fuss. There is violence in his tone. Rage.

Aggressiveness.

“My name may be out in the open,” Miriam says. That anguishes me
a lot... When I see all those people demonstrating, I think: if they only knew...

“Maybe you're subconsciously looking for some kind of self-

punishment,” Vix says.

But Miriam no longer listens to her, she is incapable. She is

immersed in the blackness of her narrative. She is back inside the portal, in the
dark and half-naked, inside a sweaty cubicle where she is struggling to breathe.

—It's just, Vix, I swear... I was so scared... I don't know why I

kissed that boy, it was just to be an idiot, but in no way... really... Because
they They didn't force me to enter, they shook my hand and pulled me, but not hard
or anything, they didn't force me... and I followed them, although I didn't
imagine... I thought they wanted to smoke a joint or get some lines... .

Vix nods several times.

"Yeah..." he sighs. Are you going to go to court then to tell it?

-Yeah.
 "Well, I'm going with you.

The rain has grown thick and gusts against the sill like a
barrage of marbles. Miriam sniffles. Through that beige stupor in the living room,
he can see how Vix is still squeezing his hand.

“The truth is, I didn't come to your house to talk about this,”
he says finally. Well, a little yes. But I had come to tell you above all that I
missed you.

"I know," Vix replies, "I know you too."

Miriam nods. Then he fixes his gaze on the unruly thread of the
sweater. He tries to start it in vain with several jerks, and in the end gives up.

“You know, sometimes I think…” He clicks his tongue. Now she is

stroking the shaggy thread, as if she forgives her stubbornness. Whatever happens
with the appeal... I wonder if I'll ever get over this... I don't mean next year,
or five or six years from now, but in the future. If I will live quietly in my own
apartment, if I will have friends, a family and all that...

"Of course you'll have it if you want to," Vix protests.

"It seems to me that I am going to live in fear forever."

Vix scratches an embroidered flower on a cushion cover.

"It won't be forever.

On the other side of the windows, the rain has calmed down,
perhaps even stopped altogether, but it's impossible to tell from that distance
from the window. Vix changes position on the couch. He senses that there must be
some combination of words that she can say to make Miriam feel better, to give her
hope. And he also intuits that this is precisely his responsibility. He stares at
Miriam, who is still obsessed with the bloody thread. Her hair covers her face like
a curtain, and Vix reaches out and grabs a strand of it.

“By the way,” he says, “I like your new look.

"Oh yes, you haven't seen it in person..." Miriam raises her

head, rubbing her fingertips together. It has grown a bit.

-Looks Good.

-Know? she says then, and a delicate tremor runs through her
lips. That bullshit that I suggested they have breakfast is also true.

Where are you going to have breakfast?

The words are born in his lungs, and without stopping at any of
the lobes of the brain that govern analytical thought, they rush to his throat,
abrupt and disorderly, and arrange themselves in a row as if by magic. This has
happened to Miriam more times. When she feels very embarrassed, for example, or
when she gets so nervous that she suddenly goes blank. And then he starts talking.
At school, without going any further, he reacted that way when he needed to fill in
a silence. Because a classmate messed with her, or because a teacher scolded her.
That kind of things. So, in summary, it can be said that Miriam's attitude is a
reflex act that breaks out when she considers —or rather when her subconscious
deduces— that words can soften a coming illness. A tragedy about to explode.

Where are you going to have breakfast? And he remembers it very

well, even after all this time. Because when he asked the question, he didn't
conceive that they could incorporate some response on their part—a snort, a
disgusted gesture, a contempt: and what does it matter to you.

When the most terrible thing already seemed to be left behind,

this bombshell: Where are you going to have breakfast? Because if she showed them
now that she was afraid, that she wanted to cry, that she could call the police as
soon as they were out of sight, then maybe the worst wouldn't have happened and
would happen later. Right now. Immediately. That they beat her up, that they throw
her to the ground, that they kick her and take off her clothes, that the nightmare
begin again.

And even though she's almost crying, her hands shaking and her
temples aching, and she's noticed the thread of blood oozing from her knee as she
pulls up her panties, as she brushes off her leggings, still sitting, or squatting,
or crouching on the floor, her hair blowing to one side, dirty, grimy, sandy, as
she retrieves her phone from a puddle, wipes it on her sleeve, discovering the
cracks in the screen, trying to regain control of your voice: Where are you going
to have breakfast?

Although it sounds very strange, out of place, a somewhat

grotesque dyslexia of emotions. But Miriam warns —or it is her instinct that senses
it again— that with this proposal she shields herself. That the scene achieves
closure. Because, kids, where do we have breakfast, peace here and then glory, all
friends, and have a great time.

After evaluating the clarifications provided by the complainant

regarding her first statement, no element is inferred that could affect the initial
conclusion.

The complainant could have exaggerated in her first testimony,

she could have declared that the defendants used force, or that they put her in the
portal under threats. However, not only did he not do so, but he risked a negative
evaluation of his first statement by providing information that could, in any case,
have benefited the defense. It is concluded, therefore, that there are no more
details that can remain hidden, since the attitude responds to a clear feeling of
guilt.

On the other hand, the complainant's version is corroborated by

police and psychological expert evidence, concurrent testimonies from the two
witnesses who took her to the hospital, and a history of sexual offenses of the
defendants. In particular, there is also documentary evidence, materialized in
video recordings, where it is clear that the complainant found herself suddenly in
a remote place, and surrounded by four older men with a strong complexion. If we
pay attention to the videos, we can observe the young woman in a central position
and a lower plane with respect to the defendants, who at all times seem to enjoy
the situation and even pose in a boastful attitude. On the contrary, throughout the
entire sequence, she keeps her eyes closed and an absent rictus. No reciprocity is
perceived on their part.
 Finally, during the fourth session of the trial, the medical
experts clarified that the absence of consent is compatible with the absence of
injuries, and that the reaction manifested by the victim is more instinctive than
rational. This is explained in the theory that, faced with a situation in which the
person feels that their life is in danger, the action of the superior brain is
avoided, and action is taken with the primitive brain where the limbic system is
located.

In extreme circumstances there are different responses. Reactive:

fight, defense or request for help. Or passive: of rigidity, relaxation, or even
showing rapprochement with the aggressor to avoid greater evils, which would also
be compatible with one of the last clarifications of the complainant when she
declares that, after finding her destroyed mobile phone, she proposed to the
defendants go to breakfast

Considering all the data provided by the defense and the

prosecution, taking into account the latest statements by the complainant, and
according to the agreement of the commission of experts in sexual crimes, it is
concluded that the defendants should have understood the prostration and
humiliation that they imposed on the young The fact that she was initially
participatory, following the jokes and friendly character, even when the comments
were of a sexual nature, far from misleading about her consent, it must be
concluded that it was a circumstance used by the defendants to consummate their
abuse. with prevailing.

Therefore, the sentence of each of the defendants for the crime

of sexual assault is raised to a total of fifteen years.

Six months later

A girl. She is sitting on a step in front of a garden of firs and

cedars, between whose clearings sprout golden sculptures of Greek gods. It is a
secluded area from the university, on the other side of the dining halls, and
although it is already mid-October, it still resists the good weather. The breeze
starts a sound of waves from the grass. Dove-gray stratocumulus clouds sail in the
sky. The girl likes autumn. He considers that it is the season to get going, to
make decisions, to reflect.

Next to her is a large canvas bag with notepads sticking out of

it and one of those manuals with soulless covers written by professors. Among the
rest of the contents—a linen scarf, a plaid case, a metal cigarette case—there is
also a leather notebook, which the girl carefully removes from the bag now. Pay
special attention not to wrinkle the tapes that are used to close it. With a
gesture of not being in any hurry, he places it on his knees and caresses the
covers. Trace the illustrations of the dandelions with your finger. A warm air
moves the curls that have been allowed to grow again to the middle of the back.

He breathes deeply, he has all the time in the world, and for a
few minutes he allows himself to observe the weight of the clothes on his body, the
coolness of the stone stairs passing through the fabric of his jeans, the smell of
broth tablets that perspire from the ducts. of ventilation. She opens the notebook
and smoothes out the first page, a beige sheet of recycled paper, although she can
tell from a league away that it's not really the first page, but that some sheets
have been torn out earlier. Now the girl raises her eyes to heaven. A choreography
of birds tear diagonally the frayed contrails of the planes. She taps the end of
her pen on her forehead, then clears her voice, as if it helps clear her head. Then
start typing:

"To all the people who didn't leave me alone. Mom, Vix, Paola,
Jordan, Irene, Eva. And to all the people who, without knowing me, went out into
the streets, and held signs, and were moved and exasperated by my case. Thanks from
my heart".

The girl looks up, directing her eyes towards a thicket where a
sparrow hops through the dry leaves. He puts the pen to his lips. Think. The drowsy
tone of a class can be heard through the open windows. It is not a murmur that
distracts her, on the contrary, the cadence of voices comforts her. He picks up the
pen, clears his voice. It's a gesture that definitely helps her think.

look at that girl

XVIII Tusquets Editors Novel Award 2022

Cristina Araújo Gámir

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Cover illustration: © Elizabeth Lennie, A Hot Night

© Cristina Araújo Gámir, 2022

The Tusquets Editores Novel Award has been sponsored by

the Antonio López Lamadrid Fund established in the Foundation

Jose Manuel Lara

All rights reserved for Tusquets Editores, SA

Av. Diagonal, 662-664 - 08034 Barcelona (Spain)

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First edition in electronic book (epub): October 2022

ISBN: 978-84-1107-184-0 (epub)

Conversion to e-book: Planet Realization

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