The Number 7 (27 page)

“It's fine! It's fine!” Gerhard shouted. “He's just drunk. It's fine!”

“He's not very good target practice!” Litzing shouted across the tracks, laughing violently at Pontus lying in a drunken heap in the dust.

Gerhard swiftly lifted Pontus. He felt his uncle's weight and nearly buckled under the pressure. The stench, the heaviness, the gun. It all left Gerhard feeling nauseous. He needed to get Pontus away from here. He needed to take control. Österberg watched coolly as Gerhard slowly dragged Pontus away from the platform.

Litzing replaced the pistol in his belt. “Too easy. He'd be impossible to miss.”

Gerhard dreaded having to tell Lasse what happened when he returned home. The story would put Lasse into a frenzy. His brother was already obsessed with the war, and Litzing's actions would only fuel his fascination.

So Gerhard decided not to tell. Lasse didn't have to know what happened.
The less he knows the better
, Gerhard thought quietly to himself as he stumbled up to the house with his uncle. Still, something in his silence left him feeling guilty, empty. Lasse would want to know what happened; he deserved to know. But it was easier pretending life was still safe, and things were still normal.
It's easier this way
, Gerhard sighed, collapsing on a bench in front of the house.
It's better this way.

Like most things, the week of the art exhibition came up faster than I had expected. In the interim, Mr. Franz had me busy reworking my project so it could be better displayed. I had to dissect each page, sometimes transferring all of my photos and text from the back of one page to the front of another. I had to create a mat for each folio and mount them properly. All in all, I had seven frames. Seven pages of matted photos and memories of my mother. I found the end product to be rather spectacular. And when I showed them to Greta and Dad, the three of us had a good nostalgic cry. Dad expressed his ceaseless pride, and Greta gave me butterflies by complimenting my “sincere artistry.” I was on cloud nine.

On top of all of that, it was the second half of my sophomore year, bringing a change in schedule. I had enrolled in Photography II, as had Gabe, and my American History class was replaced with a special elective offered on the history of the Brandywine Valley. It seemed Chris had opted out of this class, and as luck would have it I was left sitting next to Jennifer Adams. She sat smugly in her desk, proudly applying a very familiar shade of red lipstick.

“It looked better on my car,” I muttered under my breath.

“And you look better on a broom,” she smiled coyly into her compact.

We spent the rest of the class purposefully avoiding all interaction. I only saw Chris in the lunchroom, usually sitting at his table of other misfit high schoolers, and more than once our eyes met across the room. He was better at holding the eye contact than I was, and I usually found myself feigning a distraction. My table, too, had rotated in the changing of the semesters, and I traded my seat next to Allison for one next to Gabe and his friends. They welcomed me happily. Sitting beside Gabe was excitement in itself, but seeing Allison's face when I made the switch was a sweet added layer of icing on the cake. I'd been ignorant of how far jaws could actually drop. Allison's reaction set me straight: four-and-a-half inches.

News quickly spread around the school of Gabe and me being together, though neither of us actually discussed it. I was content with my final decision. Gabe made me unbelievably happy, but I couldn't deny—though I'd never admit it to anyone—a minuscule touch of remorse that I wasn't going to explain things to Chris. Knowing him, I was pretty sure he wouldn't want or care about an explanation. Or did he? Still, there was that unmistakable twinge. Didn't I owe it to him? Didn't he deserve to know?

The Saturday before the exhibition, Rosemary took Greta and me to the King of Prussia Mall—a monstrosity of a shopping center—to seek out an appropriate dress for my big debut. Having never been to this mall, Greta was immediately in shopping heaven. She excused herself from Rosemary and me and took her purse and her debit card on a much-anticipated rampage. Later in the day, she referred to it as her “epic comeback.” She hadn't done that type of shopping since we'd left North Carolina, and it was funny to see her back in her element. By the end of the day, Greta struggled to juggle her eleven shopping bags in various sizes and colors. Every time she set them down and picked them back up, she had to count to make sure everything was accounted for, like a shepherd looking after her flock.

But Rosemary and I were on a completely different mission than Greta. We needed to find something for me that was stylish but not too showy. I wanted something a young, urbane artist would wear, and Rosemary was more than eager to help.

I tried on long shirts with leggings, dark skinny-legged denim jeans, black slacks and black vests, silver dresses and purple pumps, red blouses and white minis. I examined patterns that ran the gamut: plaids, stripes, polka dots, and houndstooth in a variety of electric colors, and accessories that would turn heads. But nothing seemed like
me
. As Mr. Franz had explained, many of the exhibit patrons would wear tuxedos and gowns, but it was also quite acceptable—especially for the artists—to wear something a little less formal. Rosemary seemed to agree with my idea of taking liberties and wearing something more unique and stunning. To me, this exhibition was more important than homecoming and prom combined. To me, this event was so much a part of me, and no outfit seemed to be as perfect as I needed it to be.

“What about something of your mom's?” Rosemary at last suggested. Despite being a little jealous I hadn't thought of it myself, the sentiment was so appropriate and wonderful I wanted to hug Rosemary for suggesting it.

I was so eager to raid Mom's old clothes that I insisted we leave for home immediately to comb through the wardrobe bags Dad had never been able to throw away. And why should he? He had two young daughters who would, one day, very much want to know their mother. Apparently, not only had that day arrived, but Dad's salvaging of the clothes provided a goldmine of outfits for me to sort through.

I never thought I'd be okay going through Mom's old belongings with Dad's new girlfriend, but the situation presented itself, and never once did it feel awkward. Rosemary pulled dress after dress out of long plastic clothing bags and eagerly held them up for my approval. We created three piles: the “Yeses,” the “Nos,” and the “Maybes.”

“Your mother had really great taste,” Rosemary complimented, pulling out Mom's old pink sequined dress.

This dress, I knew, my mother wore to her thirtieth birthday party before she'd been diagnosed. Dad had arranged the party, specifically stating on every invitation that the party had a “black” theme and every guest should arrive in black dress, only. Wasn't it a surprise then, when Mom pulled up in a black limousine wearing a hot pink sequined dress with the smallest bit of black trim? It was a memory I didn't personally have stored away, but one I cherished just the same.

“She looks like she was a lot of fun.” Rosemary held up the dress, and I tried it on immediately.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my bedroom vanity in Mom's birthday dress paired with black Chuck Taylors—my perfect outfit. Then Dad knocked on my bedroom door telling me I had a phone call. It was exactly what I didn't want to hear.

“They say it's walking pneumonia.” Gabe coughed into the phone. “I'm on antibiotics for two weeks and I'm not allowed out of the house. I'm grounded by bacteria, Lou.” Gabe coughed again.

The gallery event was in three days, and my date—my amazingly wonderful, adorable crush—was bedridden. I should have seen it coming. I was naïve to think this night could go so seamlessly.

“I'm really sorry,” he apologized, but there was something strange in the way he said it. Like he wasn't being completely honest with me.

“Is there anything I can do?” I offered, my voice laced with despair.

“I'll let you know,” he responded curtly. “Listen, I've got to go.”

I thanked him for calling, passing on my wishes for a speedy—though it wouldn't be speedy enough—recovery, and set down the phone. Rosemary, who'd been sitting on my bed listening to the entire conversation, looked at me with compassionate eyes.

“Walking pneumonia,” I informed her, and she nodded in understanding. I slowly began taking off the dress, my mood the complete opposite of how I had felt putting it on.

That night as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I kept replaying Gabe's tone over in my head. Something wasn't right about it, but I couldn't pinpoint what. I thought about how I had ended up here: the conversation with Greta over the breakfast table. What had compelled me to utter Gabe's name? What was it inside me that picked Gabe over Chris? I didn't know.

And then my mind wandered to an alternate universe. What would have happened if I had said Chris's name instead of Gabe's? How would it feel sitting at Chris's lunch table next to him with his arm around me? I closed my eyes and pictured myself tying my sneakers, smoothing down Mom's dress and skipping down the front stairs, two by two, to answer the knock at the door and find Chris waiting to take me to my art show. I imagined Chris's beautiful tan skin, his dark hair pulled back in true debonair fashion. He looked uncomfortable in his tux, but exquisite. In that picture, I saw that he was destined for greatness. He was handsome and tall, and that familiar careless grin and twinkle in his eye let me know that we were going to have an amazing time together, no matter where the road took us.

I sat up in bed and looked around my dark room, eyeing the sequined dress suspended from a hanger on my closet door.
What if I'd made a mistake?
What if this was my chance to choose a different path? Maybe Gabe's sudden illness was a sign that I was meant to be with Chris. The thought was agonizing, and part of me felt like a fool for even considering it. But Rosemary said that she had seen me happy. Perhaps I was destined to be happy with Chris, not Gabe. I was desperate to know.

If I had picked up the telephone and called Chris that instant, he would have answered. But I couldn't pull the trigger. I needed to sleep on the possibility. If my mind was still unsure in the morning, I'd visit Chris at Fat Bottoms and ask him to take me to the art show. And then, maybe, I'd finally be rid of this feeling of uncertainty. Walking pneumonia could quite possibly end up being the fork in the road toward a different happiness.

I woke up the next morning nervous. I hadn't slept well because I wasn't able to stop my mind from fluctuating between Gabe and Chris. I'd thought this part was over. I had finally made up my mind, and then Gabe had to throw a monkey wrench into the entire situation and make me start doubting myself. Was it fair for me to ask Chris to replace Gabe? Absolutely not. I knew what I was formulating in my head was so completely selfish and absurd that I didn't dare ponder what Gabe would think of me if he found out. But I also knew that life presented roadblocks and offered escape routes and second chances. Maybe somewhere, someone was telling me I chose wrong. Maybe I was being given another chance. And I knew where to find that other opportunity: he'd be starting his shift at Fat Bottoms at around four o'clock. And that's where I was going to be, exploring a different path.

For an entire month after his meeting with Litzing, Gerhard barely saw his brother. Lasse's mind seemed to be somewhere else; he seemed distracted. Most nights Lasse finished his dinner and went straight to bed. At first, Gerhard didn't want to bother him. But by the fourth week, Gerhard's concern had grown too great. He didn't like how distant his brother seemed. Something was wrong.

For the first time in his entire life, Gerhard felt disconnected from his twin. Since birth, he and Lasse had sensed each other's pain, known their inner desires, and recognized their deepest fears. But now, Lasse seemed far away in a place he didn't share with anyone. Lasse had also grown quiet; his once boisterous laugh was seldom heard, his smile rarely seen. Somehow, somewhere, Gerhard had lost his best friend.

Lasse was only one of Gerhard's problems. On July 8, 1940, the Swedish public officially learned about the formal agreement between Sweden and Germany: one daily, round-trip train from Trelleborg to Kornsjø and another weekly train from Trelleborg to Narvik. Each train carried approximately five hundred Nazi soldiers and supplies. This agreement, now a legal arrangement, was the result of Swedish Prime Minister Per Albin Hansson's desire to maintain peace. He continued to tout Sweden as a neutral country, but this, of course, was the greatest trick he would ever perform.

In an attempt to remain impartial, Hansson exported relief supplies to Norway, Denmark, and Finland, while also transporting iron ore to Germany. The duplicity and compliance left Gerhard bewildered.
On what side of the war did his country stand?