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Monday
‘Good morning, everyone!’ Pummel enters the classroom right on time as the bell rings. Pummel is our maths teacher and his real name is actually Mr Pommel, but the nickname given to him by his students long ago is much more fitting, because Mr Pommel is – well, he's very fat. And about as tall as he is wide. When he walks through the school corridors, it looks like a big ball with a white beard is rolling towards you. Nevertheless, he has the respect of the entire student body. Not because he is particularly strict; he simply treats us fairly, and we appreciate that.
On Mondays, we have basic maths in the first block. Ninety minutes of probability theory – not really everyone's cup of tea. At least not mine. In the twelfth grade, everyone struggled with these tricky integral calculations; I loved them. Logical and comprehensible, you just had to be careful not to make any stupid slip-of-the-pen error, then they would miraculously dissolve into nothingness. At least it was clear and unambiguous! That stupid probability, on the other hand... Somewhere in my head, a wall always goes up, and then nothing works anymore. I can't stand tree diagrams anymore.
‘I hope you had a pleasant weekend and also had the opportunity to take a look or two at your maths book.’ Oh yes, Pummel is already standing at the blackboard. His cheerful grin is met with tired muttering from most of the students.
I raise my eyes briefly to give him an annoyed look, but freeze in surprise: Pummel is not standing alone in front of the class. There is someone else standing next to him. A boy (or should I say a young man? Some of us are nineteen, after all), whom I have never seen before. I'm quite sure about that, because I would have definitely remembered him. Just look at his clothes: black Docs (exactly the kind I've wanted to get for years), black leather trousers with a studded belt and a tight-fitting, slightly tattered, coarse-meshed, dark red wool sweater that shows more than it covers (he's not wearing a T-shirt underneath!). In addition, jet-black, thick curls frame a strikingly pale face. He has a lot of kohl around his dark eyes, which further emphasises his gothic appearance. Although – do gothics wear red wool sweaters? At least three silver-coloured rings sparkle on his left hand, the thumb of which he has casually clamped behind a belt loop. His fingernails are also painted – black, of course. My parents would probably disown me if I walked around like that. I can't see his right hand clearly, but he's holding his rucksack with it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce your new classmate? This is Friedrich Baum.’ Pummel made a sweeping hand gesture. ‘Please sit down, Mr Baum.’
Frederick?! What kind of a stupid name is that? He himself seems to have no major problems with it. He looks around leisurely and then strolls over to my table.
‘Is this seat taken?’ Some actors would kill for a voice like that. It's hard to describe: firm yet soft, a bit dark yet not too deep, a bit like black-velvet sugar beet syrup. That's probably the best way to put it. Um...
I just nod. Robert, who was my neighbour at school until the summer, had to change schools after he failed his advanced course completely and had no way of repeating it at our school. Well, who would voluntarily choose French as an advanced course?
‘Great.’ Friedrich slams his backpack on the table and plops down on the chair next to me. “Do you have a sheet for me?”
I tear three out of my folder, which earns me an amused sidelong glance.
The rest of the class is also still paralysed. Some of the boys make a contemptuous face, but for the girls, Friedrich seems to be the new star. If I'm not mistaken, Melanie is even drooling. Most of them at least have such an ecstatic expression on their faces that I have to seriously worry about Friedrich. They will surely pounce on him in a moment. Fortunately, Pummel intervenes.
‘Let's start by reviewing what we covered last week,’ his voice booms through the room, waking even the last of them from their lethargy. “Who wants to go to the blackboard?”
Friedrich has taken a pencil out of his backpack and is writing attentively.
During the break, Friedrich is besieged. The girls in particular are really pushy. Each wants to be closest to him, to touch him, and if they are not careful, their eyes will surely pop out of their heads. I am curious too, but I keep unobtrusively in the background. You don't have to throw yourself at him like that, it's embarrassing.
Friedrich doesn't seem to mind the hustle and bustle. He doesn't really seem enthusiastic, but he doesn't offend anyone either, instead patiently answering all the questions: That he comes from Rostock, that he was expelled from school (although he remains silent about the reasons ), that he only ended up with us today, two weeks after the start of the school year, because of a mistake in the school administration, that he now lives in Friedrichshain (Why isn't anyone laughing at this point except me? At least Friedrich lifts his head and grins at me.), that he has chosen German and English as his advanced courses (which means that I will run into him quite often there), that he is already nineteen, that his rings are made of silver (he actually has two more on his right hand), that he is an only child, and so on.
Jochen, who is a little further away from the dense crowd than I am, studies him with a scowl over the heads of the girls. ‘And what's with the gay get-up?’ he demands, with a threatening undertone in his voice. ‘Are you a fag or what?’
The girls turn to him angrily, and I am also quite indignant. Okay, Jochen is someone who – unlike me, for example – has some say in our class. He is something of a leader, but sometimes just a stupid loudmouth (which nobody says to his face if they want to survive the day unscathed). His clique includes the most popular students in our year, and the chic Melanie, who was just idolising Friedrich, is of course his girlfriend. Maybe that's why he's so pissed off, but that's no reason to insult Friedrich like that! Hello? Does he tuck around? Does he wobble his bum when he walks? Does he drool after every ass? Does he have a nasal voice? Does he look like a wimp? And where on earth is his feather boa? Frederick is not gay! Never! He's just... quite strange. And apparently quite popular right away. Jochen is probably just worried about his rank.
‘Are you gay or what?’ Jochen repeats challengingly.
Friedrich looks up and stares at him calmly for a while. Then he smiles indulgently. ‘Yes. So? Do you have a problem with that, babe?’
Jochen's mouth falls open. He probably didn't expect that answer. Neither did I, though. It's the girls who, as always, are the first to react and loudly express their regret:
"Are you sure?’
‘Oh well, typical! Always the most interesting men...‘
’What a shame!"
The school bell ends the break and with it my paralysis. I just manage to see Friedrich wink at me cheerfully, then he disappears into the dense crowd at the entrances.
Jochen, who is still standing next to me, shuts his mouth and looks grim. ‘I'll get you for this,’ I hear him growl before he too disappears into the school building.
I don't really pay much attention to the following double chemistry lesson. Fortunately, we are not experimenting with any explosive substances today (when do we do that anyway?). My thoughts revolve far too much around the Friedrich problem. Problem? Actually, I don't have one with him. I hardly know him. At least I know that he is not taking a basic chemistry course. So he is probably struggling with biology. Not much better. And I know that he's gay. Do I have a problem with that? I've never known anyone who was gay before. I mainly got my knowledge from biology class, feature films and the kind of suggestive jokes that circulate in the schoolyard and especially in the sports changing room. OK, I admit it: I haven't got a clue! Shit, why Friedrich of all people? I was just starting to like him.
The last class of the day is German. I am already sitting at my place on the left side of the u-shaped tables when Friedrich enters the room. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he heads straight for me.
"Are you sitting here alone, too?’
I nod. A different seating arrangement in every course can drive you crazy. But you get used to it. Since the beginning of the twelfth grade, I have managed to have an entire bench to myself most of the time. Only in maths, chemistry and art did Robert sit next to me.
‘Do you mind if I sit next to you?’ Friedrich is still standing next to my seat and looking at me intently.
‘No,‘ I reply uncertainly. “Why do you ask?”
’No reason.’ He tilts his head and smiles. ’Are you afraid of me? I won't bite.’
Given his appearance, I wouldn't be so sure about that. Who's to say he doesn't secretly fly around at night sucking the blood of innocent virgins? Or rather, young men?
‘What's Meier like?’ Friedrich has taken a seat and glanced at his timetable.
‘Quite okay. As long as you can imagine being a wild boar.’ I have to grin when he looks at me in confusion. “You'll see: Meier is... weird. But okay. By the way, I hope you know Faust by heart. At least the first part of the tragedy.”
Friedrich's expression is wonderful. It's as clear as day that he only understands Bahnhof.
‘Meier,‘ I explain, “is a Faustian through and through. Get ready for a wealth of quotes.”
’I see.’ Friedrich gives me a look that belies his words and changes the subject. ’Tell me, do you have something against me?’
I notice how I am blushing. ‘No, why?’
‘Well, you were so...’ He searches for a suitable word, ‘...dismissive’ earlier. ‘Could it be that you have a problem with me being gay?’
I turn even redder, if that is at all possible, and lower my eyes. ‘No, I, um...’ I had actually completely suppressed the subject for a moment. ‘I don't know,’ I admit. ‘I don't know any other gays.’
Friedrich struggles to suppress a grin. ‘But that's just what you believe. Just because no one in your immediate environment has come out doesn't mean that none of the people you know are gay. Or lesbian. Do you know the quota?’
"What quota?’
‘It is estimated that ten percent of humanity is homosexual. Probably even more.’ Now he can't help grinning. “And now do the maths.”
I actually do that. “That would mean that there are sixty lesbians and gays at our school alone,” I whisper to him, because in the meantime the bell has rung and Meier has started the lesson.
Friedrich winks at me and puts his finger to his lips. He obviously prefers to listen to Meier's comments on the Vormärz. I, too, try to concentrate on Georg Büchner, Ludwig Börne and Heinrich Heine, but I can't quite manage it – and German is my undisputed favourite subject. Sixty students – that's a damn lot. Who could be one of them? Friedrich, of course. But that still leaves fifty-nine. It's strange that none of them have attracted my attention so far. On the other hand, I can understand it: who would voluntarily make themselves a target of ridicule and hatred? The only one who doesn't seem to care is Friedrich. Like it or not, his behaviour commands my respect.
The bell startles me out of my thoughts.
‘So, ladies and gentlemen,’ I just catch Meier's last instructions, ’you can pick up your copy of Danton here at the front. We'll talk about it in two weeks, by then you should have read the work. See you tomorrow.’
Friedrich brings me a copy of the book while I'm still packing up my things. He seems to be really taken with Büchner. ‘I've read Danton before,’ he explains enthusiastically. ‘The play is really great. And Büchner was only twenty-two when he wrote it.’
‘He didn't live much longer, either,’ I interject, to show that I also have a little knowledge of the subject, and shoulder my backpack.
Friedrich nods thoughtfully and reaches for his bag. “Do you have another class now?”
I shake my head. Six hours on Mondays is enough for me.
‘Me neither.’ Friedrich looks at me with a strange smile that annoyingly makes me blush immediately. “Then we can walk together for a bit. Where do you live?”
I tell him the street.
‘Cool, that's almost around the corner from me. I live on Scharnweber.’ Friedrich seems really pleased.
As we cross the schoolyard, I see Jochen standing in the smoking corner with some of his clique. The looks they send Friedrich's way couldn't be called friendly, but that doesn't seem to bother him.
The underground is packed, as usual at this time. We stay at the door. It's only a few stops. When we get off at Samariterstraße station, Friedrich shakes like a dog.
‘I hate crowds,‘ he explains succinctly when he notices my questioning look. “Actually,” he adds thoughtfully, “sometimes I think I hate people in general.”
’I know the feeling,’ I say.
Meanwhile, we have reached the earth's surface and are standing on the busy Frankfurter Allee.
‘I have to go that way,‘ I explain, pointing to the right.
’I know.’ Friedrich looks at me for a moment as if he wants to say something else. But then he seems to change his mind. ’See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, see you then.’ I turn around and make my way home.
Tuesday
I stand in front of the mirror, which is still a bit foggy from the shower, and look closely at my naked reflection. My dark brown hair is sticking to my head in a mess and water is dripping down my neck. Occasionally, one of the long strands curls, but compared to Friedrich's curls, it looks almost ridiculous. Annoyed, I brush it out of my forehead and, as so often, I am dissatisfied with myself and my body. It still seems much too gangly. No wonder my father always calls me Hungerhaken (literally translated as ‘skinny rake’, but used here as an insult) and complains about my poor feed conversion. My ribs are clearly visible; my arms look kind of too thin and my hipbones seem to want to pierce through the thin skin at any moment. No matter what I do, no muscles want to show up, and not even the tiniest shred of fat seems to want to spend the rest of its existence on my scrawny frame. I mean, you can look like that at fifteen or sixteen, but not at eighteen and a half! The only thing I'm really satisfied with is my shoulders. They're exactly what they should be: slightly sloping, grippy, nicely rounded, with an almost perfect transition to the upper arm. But who is interested in my shoulders? If I am to believe the conversations of our girls during break time, they have completely different physical demands; and a six-pack is the most harmless of them.
Jochens clique, on the other hand, is of the opinion that it really only depends on one particular muscle. But I can't talk about that either. The furthest I've ever gotten with a girl is touching her breasts. I don't know what the others find so great about it; for me it was a bit embarrassing, but she obviously liked it. Her name was Claudette, it was on holiday in France and so it was a few months back. I'm obviously a hopeless late bloomer. For the girls in my year, I'm at best the dear buddy with whom you can fool around a bit. Most of them are already in a relationship anyway. So no chance for me.
Sighing, I turn my back to the mirror and reach for my shorts. I have to hurry if I don't want to be late.
Obviously, Friedrich has been assigned to a different PW course than me; since all students who are not among the buddies who attend the advanced history or geography course have to take political world studies in the basic course, there are four of them in our grade level alone. In any case, I don't see him until the end of the break today. Our PW teacher had nothing better to do after class than to take up hours of my time discussing my presentation for the following week. Annoying.
When I finally make it out into the yard, the break is almost over. Friedrich is, as he was the day before, surrounded by his female fans, who still find him insanely interesting and oh-so-exciting. What they want from him, though, is beyond me. In any case, he's much too busy to notice me.
When the bell rings, I throw the rest of the apple, which I have nibbled on during the few minutes of my break, into the nearest rubbish bin and join the stream of students heading for the entrance of the school building. Quite a distance ahead of me, almost at the door, I see Friedrich's red jumper flashing, then Olaf the Viking pushes himself behind him and almost completely obscures him. The stream of students suddenly comes to a halt, a scuffle at the door, then it continues smoothly again. But something has happened, I saw Friedrich stumble before he disappeared inside the building. I can only make faster progress with difficulty, pushing my way through the crowds and squeezing myself, half squashed, through the entrance door, which is much too narrow for the stampede of students. I spot him in a blind spot next to the stairs. Friedrich is leaning against the wall, pressing a handkerchief to his nose. He looks up in surprise when I step up next to him.
‘Come on.’ Actually, I can't see blood, but should I just leave him there? I push him in front of me to the toilet rooms.
The students we meet in the hallway look a bit strange, but leave us alone. Exhaling, I close the door behind us, throw my backpack in a corner and turn to Frederick. His nose is still bleeding.
‘Do you get that a lot?’ I ask innocently, rummaging through my backpack for a crumpled black scarf.
Friedrich laughs angrily. “About every time someone sticks their elbow in my face,” he growls, holding his head over one of the sinks while supporting himself with his free hand on the edge of the sink.
I look over at him, confused. ‘Are you saying that was intentional?’ I think of Olaf the Viking. After all, he is one of Jochen's closest friends. And I still remember Jochen's hate-filled expression all too well.
Frederick shrugs. I turn on the cold water and hold the cloth under the jet until it is completely soaked.
‘Lower your head a bit,’ I instruct Frederick, and gently wring out the cloth. Then I put it on the back of his neck.
The school bell announces the start of the next lesson. We will be late, but I don't care about that at the moment. What is more important is that Friedrich's nosebleed is actually subsiding. After a while, he sits up and hands the cloth back to me.
‘Thank you.’ He washes his face and then takes a look at himself in the mirror. ‘How do I look?’
I look at his reflection. The kohl under his left eye is a little smudged, but that's not too noticeable. ‘Good,’ I say, and the next moment I'm blushing too. ‘I mean...’ I stammer, ‘uh, normal... well, um...’ Shit, how embarrassing. He must think I'm crazy.
Friedrich's reflection can't help but grin. ‘I see.’ He turns to me and blinks. ‘You're sweet, Moritz. Really.’ With that, he turns to the door. ‘Are you coming? We're already late anyway.’
As we enter the English room, all eyes immediately turn to us. Mr Zänkel, our English teacher, looks up from his book and gives us an angry look. He can't stand it when someone is late for his lessons and usually regards it as a sign of personal disrespect.
‘Sorry we're late, but Friedrich didn't feel well,’ I mutter an explanation and sink into my seat. Friedrich prefers not to say anything.
‘All right,’ Zänkel says graciously and turns to Jochen, who sits next to Olaf the Viking in the window row and whispers spitefully with him. “Mr Lehmann, can you speak up a bit, please? I don't understand if your talk has anything to do with our lesson.”
Jochen shakes his head and shoots a hostile glance in Friedrich's direction.
‘In that case, keep quiet so that we can continue our discussion. Lore, can you explain that again, please?"
I take my copy of Huxley's Brave New World out of my backpack and slide it across the table so that Friedrich can read along, and so we can now follow the discussion as well.
Before Jochen and Olaf leave the classroom after the lesson, Jochen stops briefly at my bench. ‘If I can give you one piece of good advice,’ he turns to me, ‘then this: Stay away from the fag. Otherwise...’ His voice sounds ice-cold.
‘Otherwise – what?‘ I ask angrily. What's with this stupid mind game?
’Otherwise, one might assume that you might have something in common with him?’ Jochen leans on the table with his hands, bends his upper body forward and looks at me with hate-filled eyes. ‘What were you doing in the toilets for so long?‘ He straightens up again, gestures to Olaf and leaves the room. The Viking throws me a kiss before he follows him; his brutal grin makes me shudder. That was a clear threat.
’I'm sorry.’ Frederick's voice pulls me out of my thoughts abruptly.
‘What?‘
’I'm sorry you're in trouble because of me.’ He has already shouldered his backpack and is standing next to the bench, waiting. His eyes rest thoughtfully on me. ’Maybe you should really stay away from me.’
I don't know if I should do that. I don't know what to do at all. I'm a grown man who should make his own decisions independently. Do I have to howl with the wolves just because Jochen calls the shots? On the other hand, I have to admit that I'm afraid. Olaf has a reputation as a notorious thug, not for nothing does he bear his nickname. Shit. And I don't even have anything against Friedrich. I actually like him quite a bit, even though he's a fag... I mean, even though he's gay. And sometimes he says strange things. That I'm cute, for example.
‘Think about it.’ Friedrich is still standing in front of me. And his voice sounds somehow disappointed. Damn it, what does he think I should do?
I just nod and grab my backpack. Art is on the programme for the next hour. That should give me enough time to think, if only because Friedrich has signed up for music.
Okay, I thought about it really thoroughly. Not only during the art lesson, but even during the subsequent double period of sports. Since I took volleyball for lack of sensible alternatives, not only was I of no great help to my team, but I also got the ball smashed into my head twice, so that I thought I saw stars.
And now I'm standing here at the school gate and I'm still not really sure what I should do. Is it easier to have Jochen and his followers as an enemy or to disappoint Friedrich? It's clear that he would be extremely disappointed in me. Wouldn't it be something like treason if I turned away from him for the sake of my own protection? What do I care about Jochen and his pipes? So far they haven't given a damn about me. They just don't like the fact that I get along well with Friedrich, who doesn't fit into their world view and should therefore be avoided by everyone. They are probably also jealous of him because, despite everything, the girls are keen on him.
Finally, Friedrich leaves the school building and saunters over to me. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he asks quite innocently. He has obviously noticed that I didn't immediately run away in panic when he appeared.
‘Hm,’ I say, taking another deep breath. Eeny, meeny, miny... Oh, what the heck, bite me in the ass. ’I was waiting for you. Didn't want to ride alone.’
Although he tries hard to appear calm, I notice that he is really happy. ‘That's good,’ he explains, unconcerned. ‘I don't feel like driving alone either.’
‘Tell me, are you in a hurry?’ We have left the underground station and are standing at the edge of Frankfurter Allee.
I was just about to say goodbye, but Friedrich's question forestalls me. I think about it. ‘Nah. Not really. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Friedrich tilts his head and looks – embarrassed? ‘I'd like to invite you. For a coffee. To my place.’
Oh, so that's what this is about. ‘Why's that?’
"No reason.’
Right. He just wants to chat me up, no doubt. Get me drunk with, er, coffee. Damn, I should start getting rid of my prejudices. ‘Now?’
Friedrich nods.
To be honest, I am a bit curious. For all I know, he lives here alone. Without parents. ‘All right,’ I concede. ‘But I have to be home by eight at the latest, otherwise my parents will get nervous.’ Let him think I'm a bit paranoid.
Sure, I should have guessed: Friedrich lives in one of those old apartment buildings that were rented out in a semi-legal manner until recently, in the backyard. And of course, right at the top. I almost collapse from exhaustion on the fourth floor. At home, we live on the first floor. When I imagine having to walk down and up all these steps just to take out the garbage or get the newspaper...
‘Here we are.’ Friedrich unlocks a door and pushes me into the hallway.
On the left wall hangs a tall mirror with a dark wooden frame adorned with an intricate Celtic relief. On the upper edge of the frame, a winged wooden dragon stretches out, peering down at me with watchful red glass-stone eyes. Opposite the mirror hangs a simple coat rack. Below that, on a shoe rack made of light softwood, are a pair of burgundy Docs and two pairs of basketball shoes, one of which is already quite worn out.
I leave my shoes in the hallway and follow Friedrich into the only room of the apartment, which is quite large. The walls of the room are painted in a warm red tone, but not completely: each red field, i.e. each wall, has a white frame along the sides, the floor and the ceiling, which is also painted white. This prevents the colour from being too intrusive and the room retains a certain lightness and spatial height. To the right of the door are two tall windows, one of which extends to the floor and has a metal railing. To the left, in the corner, instead of a bed on a slatted frame, there is a wide mattress. Next to it is a dark, solid wooden desk and a tall wardrobe made of the same material. The opposite wall is practically invisible. It disappears under the ceiling behind overflowing bookshelves. Many of the titles mean nothing to me, and if Friedrich has really read all these books, that's another point where I have to admire him without envy.
In the meantime, Friedrich has actually made coffee in the kitchen, which is in front of the living room when viewed from the hallway, and now he comes in with the steaming pot and two cups. He sits down on the mattress, carefully sets the pot down, pours and hands me one of the cups. ‘Sugar? Milk?’
‘Black.‘ I reach for the cup and take a deep breath of the soothing coffee aroma.
’Good.’ Friedrich grins. ’Why don't you sit down?’
I decline while I take a first sip. First, I want to look around a bit. There are a lot of photographs hanging above the desk. One of the pictures in particular catches my attention. I turn to Friedrich in amazement: ‘Tell me, that's Brian Molko, isn't it?’ There's no doubt about it, and he's photographed in a decidedly lascivious pose.
‘Hm.‘ Friedrich gets up and steps next to me while I try to decipher the writing on the photo.
’‘To Free with love’?‘ I have to grin. “I see, ”Free’. Well, when you have such a complicated name…‘
’You know Brian Molko?’
‘I appreciate the music of Placebo,‘ I correct, tapping with my finger on the Sleeping With Ghosts CD, which is lying on the desk in the midst of all kinds of odds and ends. “But you obviously know him personally. ”With love’?’ Hm, somehow Molko always seemed a bit strange to me. Should he also be...?
Friedrich has to grin, too. ‘Well, I met him once, after a Placebo concert. It's a complicated story, but in the end I somehow ended up backstage there.’
‘And that's where you got the autograph?’
‘Not quite.’ He takes a last look at the picture and then turns to me. ‘He gave it to me the next morning.’
‘The next...? Does that mean you spent the night at his place?‘
’You could say that.’ Friedrich takes another sip from his cup and gives me a mocking wink over the rim.
Huh? ‘Wait a minute...’ I have a bad feeling. ‘Are you saying that you... you did it...?’ I am at a loss for words. I can't and don't want to imagine what the two of them...
‘More coffee?’
I swallow dry. ‘Thanks...’
‘Thanks – yes? Or thanks – no?’ He chuckles.
‘Uh, yes...’ I hold out my cup and let him refill it.
Friedrich sits back down on his bed and taps the mattress next to him with his left hand. “Come, sit down. It makes me nervous when you're standing all the time.”
I sit down, but of course not right next to him.
He crosses one leg over, turns halfway around to me and smiles mockingly. ‘My God, are you always so intimidated?’
Not usually, but then I am here with Friedrich. And alone at that. Do I know what he is up to? Maybe he'll decide to jump me at any moment? Hello, he did shag Brian Molko, didn't he! OK, I admit the comparison is a bit far-fetched. If he regularly sets his sights this high, I don't think I stand a chance. Er, I mean, of course, I have nothing to fear. Shit, I'm already all mixed up. He must have put something in the coffee. I eye the cup suspiciously and then over to Friedrich, who watches me with an amused grin. ‘What's in it?’ I ask.
Friedrich stops and his grin gives way to a surprised expression. ‘Well, coffee.’
"Really just coffee?’
‘Of course. You wanted it black.‘ His confusion seems genuine. “Why, is something wrong?”
’No, everything's fine.’ I decide to believe him and quickly change the subject. “Tell me, what's it actually like to be gay?” I'm really interested in that now.
Friedrich shrugs his shoulders. ‘Just normal. I don't know anything else.’ He grins again. ‘Why, what's it like being straight?’
Stupid question, okay. I sip my coffee and blush.
"Do you actually have a girlfriend?’
Damn, how did I know that this question was going to come up? ‘No,’ I growl dismissively into my cup.
Friedrich is silent, but when I raise my head, I see that he is looking at me with a peculiar expression in his eyes. He smiles. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.’
I'm getting angry. Does he want to make fun of me? Just because he probably has already had more sex than I will have in my whole life? ‘Oh, yeah?’ I snap. ‘Well, now you know: I'm a late bloomer, a miserable failure, a zero! Are you satisfied now?’ I want to jump up, but Friedrich grabs me by the arm and holds me tight.
He looks at me in amazement. ‘What's the matter with you? I didn't mean to upset you. I'm really sorry if I gave you that impression.’
‘Let me go.’ I try half-heartedly to break free, but he doesn't let go.
‘No, please listen to me.’ Friedrich waits until I look at him. ’You're not a failure. Whoever tries to convince you of such nonsense is a failure himself. Moritz, you're a really nice person, you look good, you're likeable. And sooner or later you're bound to find someone who appreciates you. It doesn't matter when that will be – tomorrow or a year from now. Your only problem seems to be that you don't believe any of this. That you don't trust yourself. And that you apparently believe you can only exist in front of others if you can tell stupid bed stories like they can."
I'm pretty stunned at first and don't know how to react. No one has ever talked to me like that before.
Friedrich leans back and smiles indulgently. He has let go of me. I can leave if I want, but I don't want to anymore. First I have to think about what I just heard.
"Are you hungry?’
Friedrich's voice pulls me out of my brooding. I stupidly left my watch at home this morning and have no idea what time it is, but when I consider that we've been here for quite a while and I haven't eaten since breakfast, my stomach starts to feel queasy. Food, excellent idea. So I nod.
‘Pizza or noodles?‘ Friedrich grabs the empty coffee pot and gets up.
’I don't care. Which is faster?‘
’It's not much of a difference.‘
’Then noodles,’ I decide and follow him into the kitchen.
The kitchen has golden-yellow walls up to a height of about 1.5 metres, above which they are white. To the left of it is a flat kitchen cupboard for dishes and such things, and opposite it a cheap wooden shelf with unidentifiable boxes, storage tins, pots and pans. In front of the window, a somewhat worn, rust-coloured couch, a low, dark wooden table and two rickety rattan chairs. I carefully settle down on one of them while Friedrich fires up the electric kettle, fetches a pot from the shelf and, after a brief search, also produces a still half-full pack of spaghetti.
Fifteen minutes later, I have a steaming plate of pasta in front of me and am fishing for the jar of green ready-to-use pesto. Friedrich seems to be as hungry as I am; in any case, we gobble up the spaghetti as if we were trying to set a new record. After that, I'm really full for now. Noodles, in the truest sense of the word. I have to giggle.
Friedrich raises his head and looks at me questioningly. His black curls fall across his forehead, and I suddenly notice that he has a really beautiful face. Prominent, narrow, with clear lines, the straight nose, clearly visible cheekbones, the almost black eyes, which appear even darker due to the kohl, of which he has not skimped on today either, the sensual mouth... Good heavens, the lack of food must have damaged my brain. Sensual mouth? I shake my head unwillingly, push the plate far away from me and get up.
‘Thank you, that was really good.’ A little uncertain, I look around. ‘Don't you have a watch here?’
Friedrich points to the right. On the shelf, between a pepper mill and a stack of cookbooks, I spot an old-fashioned alarm clock with a large dial. It's only just after six. ‘Are you leaving already?’
‘Not really.’ My parents don't usually arrive before seven, either. I've also eaten. And homework... Who's thinking about homework? You can always do it later. ’If you want to put up with me for a while?’
‘Gladly.’ Friedrich grins and gets up as well. ’Then you could give me a little help. After all, I'm about two weeks behind you.’
Great, so it is homework after all. Even worse – private lessons? But I can't refuse Friedrich's trusting look. ‘All right,’ I sigh resignedly and trot after him into the other room. ‘What's the problem?’
‘Actually, I just need to know what you've covered in English so far. And in PW, I'm obviously missing three or four worksheets. I don't think our courses differ that much, do they?’
‘Nope.’ I'm relieved and rummage in my backpack for the folders. So it's just a little jump start after all. “The Mehlert and the Schot are generally considered the dynamic duo of political world history,” I explain to him. “Their lessons are almost perfectly coordinated so that one can fill in for the other if necessary.” I hand him the copies. ‘The only question is why all this. So far, no one has ever seen either of them sick for a day.‘
’Hm.’ Frederick glances over the pages with a furrowed brow. ’Can I borrow these until tomorrow? Then I can work through them today. Tomorrow I'll copy them and give them back to you.’
‘Sure.’ I open my English notebook. “This one is a bit more extensive, though. Do you have your own Huxley yet?”
He shakes his head. ’When would I have had time to get it? Tänkel, though, told me where to buy the book. I'll go there tomorrow.’
It is just before eight when I finally arrive home. It's not that easy to condense the essence of five double periods of English into an hour and a half. But we both did well. By the way, Friedrich seems to be pretty capable. Sure, he complained about biology for a moment, but that's his own fault. I chose to take it, because I knew from the start that genetics would be really hard. He could have done the same. In English, he understood more than I did.
I'm going to eat something first. It's funny how intellectual exertion makes you hungry. Or should I start with the Spanish text for tomorrow first? Maybe I can combine the two.
Wednesday
I hate Wednesdays. Math lesson zero – what kind of sadist actually comes up with such timetables? It's still light early, but autumn is just around the corner, and I don't even want to think about winter yet... To make matters worse, it's only on my way to school that I remember that Pummel has announced a test for today. I feel sick to my stomach. But I feel even worse when I enter the maths room and dark looks meet me from the back row of the bench by the window. Shit, I hadn't even thought about Jochen anymore. Up to now, Jochen had hardly given me a second glance, and now I've suddenly become the focus of his attention. As an object of hatred, no less. A dubious honour. Well, at least I'm not alone – Friedrich shares my fate. What a comfort. I settle into my seat and, with shaky hands, dig through my backpack for the maths book, indulging in the illusion that I might be able to solve this problem after all.
‘Morning.’ Friedrich slams his backpack down on the table in a good-humoured mood and plops down on his seat next to me. For a change, he is wearing a skin-tight black shirt with a very narrow row of red rhinestones at the bottom hem, which shows off his slim silhouette to its best advantage. Unlike me, however, he doesn't look so ravenous. He has a tattered red cloth wrapped around his neck, and he now plays with the tatters, lost in thought, while humming softly to himself. How can he be so lively so early in the morning?
I give him a grim look and return to my book. However, that doesn't help me much either, because two minutes later the bell rings and Pummel enters the room, carrying a thick stack of paper under his arm.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ his usual greeting rings out in our sleepy ears. ’I'll now distribute the worksheets, and then you have exactly twenty-five minutes to complete the tasks. And I implore you not to use any aids other than those specified. I don't want to have to punish any attempts at cheating.’
I take my sheet and skim it. Great, Pummel has thought of everything: Not only do the tasks seem impossible to me already, but he has also taken the trouble to prepare two different worksheets, thus dividing the class into two groups so that each student has different tasks to do from the student sitting next to them. Copying is useless.
‘Shit,‘ I curse quietly.
Friedrich looks at me questioningly from the side and then glances at my sheet. “Do you want to swap?” he whispers to me. “These are pretty easy.”
I shake my head sadly and screw on my pen.
’Twenty-five minutes.’ Pummel looks at the clock. ’From now!’
Twenty-one students are leaning more or less eagerly over their worksheets. You can almost hear the thoughts crackling. Unfortunately, not much is crackling for me. With great difficulty, I solve the first task and I'm not even sure if I'm right. But the test doesn't seem to pose a problem for Friedrich at all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him hastily putting columns of numbers on paper. After he has filled the first sheet, he briefly lifts his head, looks at me from the side and grins conspiratorially. Then he pulls a new sheet out from under the other one and continues his work. He pushes the used paper into the middle of the table with his elbow as if unintentionally. What for? The tasks of the two groups are completely different. It's a damn decent move of him to let me copy, but... I take a closer look at the sheet and have to control myself not to show my surprise too clearly: the solutions on the paper belong to my tasks! Now I understand why Friedrich worked so feverishly; he had to hurry to solve my test first and then still have enough time for his own tasks. Shit, this person is an angel. I give him a grateful look, which he doesn't even notice, and set about transferring the solutions to my own sheet as inconspicuously as possible. In doing so, I can even see that the task that I worked on independently is actually solved correctly. So I'm not completely stupid after all.
‘One minute to go!’ Pummel looks at his wristwatch while twenty-one pens race across the squared paper at top speed, filling it with rows of numbers. “Five, four, three, two, one – stop! Over! Pens down!” Pummel grins and lets his attentive gaze sweep across the class. ’Please pass the sheets from back to front. Please sort them into groups."
The rustling of paper and murmuring accompany this procedure. Friedrich has somehow made the paper that I used as a template disappear and passes the other sheets to Renate, who is sitting in front of him, with an air of innocence. He doesn't look at me or say a word to indicate what he has done. The rest of the lesson goes as normally as ever.
After the bell rings, I stay seated. My next double period is in the same room, so I don't have to rush.
Friedrich packs up his maths things and glances at his homework book. Then he looks at me. ‘What do you have now?’
"Spanish. And you?’
‘PW.‘ He gets up and grabs his backpack. “I'll see you at recess then.”
I nod. “Thanks, by the way.”
’For what?’ He tilts his head a little and looks at me cheerfully. Then he turns on his heel and strolls out the door.
During the break, I find Friedrich, as before, in the midst of his entourage of female followers, who are surrounding him. Today there are only six of them, but that's enough.
‘Would you like a piece of my cheese sandwich?’ a pretty brunette from the twelfth grade flirts with him just as I join the group.
‘No thanks.’ Frederick smiles a little tensely and turns to me. “I'm hungry for something heartier. Will you come with me to the kiosk, Moritz?” And with a glance at his female fans, he adds: “You wait here a moment, okay?”
The six nod and stare after him rapturously as we hurry towards the school building.
Our school has a large, light-flooded dining room on the ground floor, which for some reason I don't understand is called a cafeteria (they only serve school meals there). There is also a small kiosk in the hallway where you can buy sandwiches, sausages, drinks, cakes and sweets. However, Friedrich leaves it and instead heads for the coffee machine, which is also located in the hallway. I also get a coffee and follow him, balancing the hot paper cup between the thumb and index finger of my left hand, to a niche in front of the windows facing the schoolyard. There are chest-high round bistro tables on which we can place our cups.
‘That was a close call.’ Friedrich takes a look through the formerly white curtains out into the courtyard. Then he turns to me. ’They're really starting to get a bit annoying.’
‘Poor you.‘ I can't help but grin. Any other student would probably be over the moon with so much popularity among girls. No, probably not any other student, I correct myself in my mind, just any other student who likes girls.
’So, here you are.’
I turn around to face the source of the sanctimoniously friendly voice, but I know immediately who it is. Jochen swings into view and joins us at the table. His shadow, Olaf, appears behind him. The Viking seems to have gained a few more muscles since yesterday.
Jochen looks around the hallway for a moment, then fixes me with his cold gaze. ‘I warned you. But obviously you didn't want to listen to my well-intentioned advice.’ He no longer sounds friendly, quite the opposite.
I feel goosebumps form on my back, and there's nothing I can do about it. ‘Are you threatening me?’ Fortunately, my voice remains firm. What is all this about anyway? Am I in the wrong film, or what?
Jochen contorts his face into a spiteful grin. ‘Why? You getting cold feet, asshole?’
Friedrich puts down the coffee cup he has been holding the whole time and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘Do you have a problem with Moritz?’
Jochen turns his head in his direction, and in the eyes with which he scrutinises Friedrich, a damn unpleasant mixture of disgust and hatred is reflected. ‘You're going to have a problem with me in a minute. Or with Olaf.’ He exchanges a quick glance with the Viking and purses his lips disparagingly. ‘By the way, how's your nose?’
‘None of your damn business.’ Friedrich looks him calmly in the eye. ’Now get lost, please. We want to have a coffee here in peace and don't value your company.’
It is clear to see that Jochen is on the verge of exploding at any moment. Red spots appear on his face and his jaw muscles are clearly tensing under the thin skin. Just before he erupts and possibly jumps Friedrich's throat, the school bell ends the break. A few seconds later, the hallway is already full of pushing, loudly chatting students on their way to their classrooms or wanting to grab a quick snack at the kiosk.
‘This will have consequences,’ Jochen hisses at us, full of hatred, before he and Olaf disappear in the dense crowd.
Friedrich empties his coffee cup, then looks at me. ‘Can you tell me what I've done to him?’ he wants to know. His tone of voice sounds extremely angry.
I shrug my shoulders. ‘You're not howling with the wolves. And Jochen is the leader of the pack.’
German class is starting a bit slowly. Sybille is giving a presentation on Heinrich Heine. The subject matter is not uninteresting, but Sybille manages to put everyone to sleep with her monotonous delivery. Instead of trying to speak as freely as possible, she reads the sheet stoically and therefore speaks much too quickly. After the first few sentences, I stopped taking notes and just stared bored at the worksheet. Frederick next to me actually dozed off. From time to time I have to nudge him, so he does not even start snoring. After half an hour, the agony is finally over. Sybille shuts her mouth and Frederick his eyes open again.
‘Miss anything important?’ he whispers to me and yawns discreetly with his hand over his mouth.
Now it's getting interesting. Mr Meier hands out the ‘Silesian Weavers’ and leaves us alone with the text for the time being. Then we start discussing: understanding, analysis, claim, effect, background... In no time, the remaining sixty minutes are up, and we still haven't discussed everything. Mr Meier is satisfied with us and dismisses us for the break.
I have to go to the fourth floor to my PW room. Friedrich can stay on the second floor, the French room is right next door. ‘Will you wait for me after class?’ I want to know.
He nods. ‘We'll meet at the kiosk, okay?’
‘I still have to go to the bookstore,’ Friedrich explains on the way to the subway. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
I do, and so, not twenty minutes later, we find ourselves in a well-known large bookshop. Friedrich is already holding three books, including Brave New World, which is what he actually wanted to go for. Nevertheless, he still can't be moved away from the well-stocked shelves. I have meanwhile made myself comfortable on a soft padded bench, which is located in the middle of the shop for customer convenience, and am flicking through Hermann Hesse's Under the Wheel.
‘So? Found anything?‘ Friedrich plonks himself down on the bench next to me and glances at the title of my book. “Oh yes, Hesse. I had a phase when I was sixteen or seventeen, I devoured almost everything by him. Have you read Demian?”
’Of course I have,’ I reply testily.
Friedrich seems a little surprised by this reaction, but he shouldn't imagine that he is the only one with a basic literary education.
"Are you finally done?’
‘Yes, darling, I just have to pay.’ Friedrich almost laughs himself to death at my bewildered expression, while I suddenly feel an irresistible urge to throw a few large-format encyclopaedias at his head.
‘Asshole,‘ I growl, but then just follow him to the checkout, where he pays almost fifty euros for four books without batting an eyelid. The Hesse, which I now buy even more out of spite, seems almost like a bargain by comparison.
’Are you still mad at me?’ Friedrich walks up the stairs to the exit of the underground station next to me.
I give him a sideways glance, growl something unintelligible and take the last four steps in two long sentences. I haven't said a single word to him since we left the bookshop.
‘I know I sometimes act a bit arrogantly,’ Friedrich continues, holding me by the sleeve to make me stop. “I'm sorry. I don't usually mean it.” He smiles a little. ’At least not to you. After all, I know you're not a jerk like Jochen or Olaf.’
‘Great, that's really reassuring.‘ I'm still a little annoyed.
’Moritz, I'm serious: I'm sorry.‘
’It's okay,’ I wave him off. I can't really stay mad at him any longer, so I change the subject: ’Don't forget, you have to read another twenty-six pages of Huxley by tomorrow.’
‘I know.‘ Friedrich looks at me and seems relieved that I am still talking to him after all. “At least I have something planned for tonight.”
’Well, then have fun.’ I have to grin a little. ’See you tomorrow. Bye, Mr Baum.’