When I approach the house, Gran’s voice drifts through the open kitchen window. “Max! Somebody’s waiting for you in the living room! Comb your hair and wash your hands before you go in, will you?” I search for an excuse, any excuse, but nothing comes to mind.
Normally, Gran is my guardian angel, but at moments like this, one of her principles gets painfully in the way—the principle that you must be honest. Not just to a few close people, but to everybody... all the time. Secrecy hides in the long grass of treason, is one of her favorite proverbs. She’s convinced that honesty and integrity will set you free. Maybe not right away, but eventually. So talk I did when long lines of journalists showed up at the doorstep of our rickety home.
I couldn’t even get really angry at her, as it was abundantly clear that she herself suffered as much as I did. To see her granddaughter grow paler and paler with every interview because of her principles must have been extremely painful for her.
Without all the media attention, the news of a burned-down farmhouse in a small, insignificant village probably wouldn’t have reached beyond its borders. The fear of a 16-year-old pyromaniac girl would have faded away within a few months, transforming into tales that grew taller each year, eventually claiming their place in local folklore as a cautionary tale warning children not to play with fire. If only I had been that lucky. There must have been very little real news that summer, as journalists came back again and again, milking every drop of superstition, paranoia, and bad blood from the locals. Only after what seemed like forever did the stream of journalists dry up, making it possible to leave the house again. At first, only for short walks, but a bit further each day.
When I enter the kitchen, Gran is nowhere to be seen. I briefly hold my hands under the water tap, then dry them by rubbing them over my hair in a feeble attempt to tame the jungle on my head into something more presentable. I cross the hallway, open the door that leads to the furniture graveyard we call our living room, and step inside.
On the sofa with the big floral print and giant scorch marks sits a big—no, enormous—man, wearing a crumpled, smudgy suit. He completely covers the full width of the couch like a melting marshmallow in the sun. His belly stretches his shirt to the breaking point, testing the buttons that barely manage to fulfill their assigned task. Even with the top two buttons undone, the collar of his shirt cuts so deeply into the soft flesh of his neck that it disappears all but completely.
In contrast to his enormous body, his head is remarkably small. He sizes me up with two tiny, maliciously glinting, pig-like eyes. Somewhere above his first chin, two little pouting lips make an effort to produce a convincing smile: a meticulous row of sharp little piranhas in an ocean of flesh. I don’t bother to smile back. I understand full well that it’s all part of the interview ritual, only meant to put the interviewee at ease. I’ve become immune to this ritual a long time ago. What prevails is the sense of surprise. Not about who is sitting here, but that there’s someone here at all. That fire happened way too long ago to be considered news anymore.
“Hello, my name is York, York Longshot. And you must be...” He casually glances at a smudgy piece of paper. “Maxime Kwintens.”
“Max.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s my name. If you want to interview me, it might be a good idea to have your facts straight.” The smile on his face melts away as if it were a snail covered in salt. Remarkably fast, his expression changes into something much more honest; that of a predator observing his prey. “Good. I see we can leave all the niceties behind us. That will make this quite a bit easier.”
“For what paper do you write anyway?” I ask, trying to assess the seriousness of his visit. “I’ve been interviewed countless times by now. I really don’t have anything new to add.”
“Well, it’s a good thing then that I don’t work for a newspaper anymore. I did until two years ago, being the star reporter of The News Chronicle, but you could say that I outgrew them and had to let them go. Now I run a juice channel with millions of followers, committed to the truth behind the truth. I go where no newspaper dares to go. Catchy slogan, right?”
I try to play it cool, but I can’t deny feeling intimidated. This is getting out of hand. I know that gossip channel. It’s immensely popular because it mixes just enough facts into its poisonous stew of lies, filth, gossip, paranoia, and xenophobia to fool its impressionable followers into believing it’s real news. The only thing it truly satisfies, however, is their unhealthy curiosity about the private lives of the hottest celebrities of the moment and the dramas surrounding them. Celebrities, they first place on a pedestal, only to knock them down later with slander, gossip, and lies. It makes sense in a cruel and cynical way. The only thing readers love more than seeing people rise to the top is seeing them fall down again. His gossip channel is probably worse.
It's clear that this interview will not be like any I have done before, so I resort to the contingency plan I developed for extreme situations like this: the innocent girl routine. A tactic I hoped I would never have to use and hate to play.
“But... but... sir... why are you here? Being such a famous reporter and all?” I sound as naive as possible.
“What do you think, girly? That burned-down farmhouse alone would have been reason enough to pay you a visit. The followers of my channel love stories about pyromaniacs and homes going up in flames, as long as it's not their own, of course.” The jovial wink he gives me makes his face ripple as if a pebble has been thrown into a puddle of mud. “But... when they find you next to that farmhouse, a 16-year-old girl who was never meant to be there, well... that gets the juices flowing, right? The newspapers may have lost interest by now, but I feel there’s a much bigger story to tell, a scandal maybe. Time for a more human-interest approach. So... where shall we start?”
"Eh… maybe I should ask my father first, Mister… eh... Porkchops, was it? He has to give permission, you know. I’m still underage, and he’s very protective.” I even manage to blink innocently a few times. Sometimes it works, really, but this man doesn’t seem impressed at all. Smug and complacent, he leans back..
“Ah, yes, the man in the wheelchair. Well, I did a bit of research, and my sources assure me that you don’t give a shit about what he tells you. So, I suggest we stop fooling around.” His tiny eyes burn self-assuredly into mine, still I notice that the drops on his face are growing exponentially, and his breathing is becoming more laborious. He’s sweating like... well... a pig. His hand, quite accurately resembling a meatball sprouting five mini-sausages, reaches for his handkerchief, with which he starts dabbing his forehead.
“No wisecracks? No sharp comeback?” he sneers. “Good! You will have realized by now that I always get what I want.” I don’t answer, it’s no use. Of course, he interprets my silence as encouragement, they all do. “Although the fire was spectacular enough,” he proceeds, “there was something off. Everyone was saved, despite the fact that everyone was unconscious, and you, who was not supposed to be there at all, was found among them. That brings me to my first question: why? Why were you there?”
My voice is only a whisper. "I don't know." It's true. I really don't know how I ended up there. One moment I was in bed trying to find some sleep, and the next, I was staring at the upper window of the farmhouse.
"A bit louder, please. I can't hear you."
"I don't know."
"A sudden case of amnesia? How convenient. Let me help you. It was a slumber party thrown by supposedly your best friend. I asked myself... if she's your best friend, why weren't you invited? So, I had a little chat with her." No! He wouldn't! I think, panic clawing at my stomach. "At first, she didn't want to talk to me, but I can be really persuasive, as you know by now. And do you know what she told me? That she was afraid of you. She thought you were a freak."
“That’s enough.” My mouth is so dry that my voice cracks, but I can’t keep quiet any longer. This innocent schoolgirl routine isn’t working. How could it? I have to do what I do best: fight back. This fat smudge smeared on our couch has abused me long enough.
The fact that my best friend abruptly broke off our lifelong friendship is still too raw. She had been my only real friend ever. Inseparable since daycare, even though we were totally different. The princess, dressed in pretty pink dresses, with long ribbons in her immaculately brushed hair, and the tomboy with dirty nails and countless rips in her faded jeans. And yet... it had been a perfect match, until the moment she suddenly broke up with me half a year ago. No signal, no warning. This is none of his business; this is personal.
Porkchops doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He goes on, convinced his prey will not escape him now. “She also told me strange things happened around you. Things she couldn’t explain.”
"Stop," I say, louder now. Again, a smile ripples his face, which he dabs vigorously with a fully saturated handkerchief by now.
“You are a smart girl. You know how this will go down. You can choose. Your story or the story of your so-called friend on my channel tomorrow.”
He’s convinced I will give in. His victims always do. The problem is that I don’t give in... ever, and the more he’s convinced that I will, the stronger my resilience grows. Who or what does he think he is? I look at his smug face, sweat streaming from it now. Suddenly, his eyes wander to the window. “Warm in here... Do you mind if I open the...?”
“Really?” I answer, slipping seamlessly back into my innocent girl routine. “I actually think it’s rather chilly. Better keep the window shut. My Gran is always worried I’ll catch a cold.” “Not warm?” Porkchops stares at me in astonishment. “Actually, I think I will turn the heat up a bit. Better safe than sorry, I always say.” I cough demonstratively into my hand. Now he looks genuinely alarmed. “This is not right. What are you doing?” “Me? I’m not doing anything. We’re just talking.” “No, you’re up to something.” He gets up from the couch and, and much faster than I would’ve expected from someone his size, he dances between the damaged furniture to the door like an elephant-ballerina. “Need some fresh air. Back in a moment.” When he reaches the door, he turns to me one more time. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but it will not succeed.” “I always get what I...” He takes one step over the threshold, but too late he notices that his foot is caught by something. He trips, tries to regain his balance, but with little success. Slowly, but accelerating fast, his gigantic body tips over. Frantically swaying his arms, he lands backward in the enormous tub Gran always uses to wash our clothes in. The gigantic explosion of foam and water is a sight to behold. Only with great difficulty, and soaked to the bone, he wrestles himself out of it.
"Really?" I answer, slipping seamlessly back into my innocent girl routine. "I actually think it’s rather chilly. Better keep the window shut. My Gran is always worried I’ll catch a cold."
"Not warm?" Porkchops stares at me in astonishment.
"Actually, I think I will turn the heat up a bit. Better safe than sorry, I always say." I cough demonstratively into my hand.
Now he looks genuinely alarmed. "This is not right. What are you doing?"
"Me? I’m not doing anything. We’re just talking."
"No, you’re up to something." He gets up from the couch and, much faster than I would’ve expected from someone his size, dances between the damaged furniture to the door like an elephant-ballerina. "Need some fresh air. Back in a moment."
When he reaches the door, he turns to me one more time. "I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but it will not succeed." He takes one step over the threshold. Too late he notices that his foot is caught by something. He trips, tries to regain his balance, but with little success. Accelerating fast, his gigantic body tips over. Frantically swaying his arms, he lands backward in the enormous tub Gran always uses to wash our clothes in. The gigantic explosion of foam and water is a sight to behold. Only with great difficulty, and soaked to the bone, he wrestles himself out of it. “Never... ever... really... always...” I can hardly contain my laughter.
“A lot cooler, right?”
“You... I... I’m not done with you. I will be back. I always get what I want. Always!” Swearing and splashing, he leaves the house, wrestles himself behind the wheel of a car that seems ridiculously small for a man his size, starts the engine, and turns unexpectedly fast onto the dirt road that leads away from our house.
Only then do I allow myself to wonder what happened. How did that tub end up right outside our living room? The voice coming from behind me has only a hint of laughter. “Mmmmm... Not sure why, but suddenly this seemed the perfect place to soak the wash.” I turn on the spot.
“Gran? But...”
“Principles are all good and well, Tinderstick, but you don’t have to feed yourself to the wolves out of courtesy. That’s another principle of mine.” The wink she gives me makes the wrinkles around her left eye contract in an irresistibly charming way. “A bit of water and soap wouldn’t hurt him anyway, don’t you think? Although he might be allergic to it.”
I look at my grandmother with my mouth open and then fly around her neck to hug her.