Chapter 4

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why did I have to go and do that? I had retreated to the toilets during the first break, and was leaning my head against the wall of the cubicle, berating myself for doing something so completely out of character. I had meant to keep a low profile - at least for a year or so - while I gathered enough intel to be able to play the part of Charlie Andersson convincingly. And what had I done? I had faced down the number one big stupid bully of our entire year and I had made him look a fool. Well, ok, he had always looked a fool, but nobody had ever dared do anything to stop him. Jacob was the brains of their little gang - admittedly, that was not saying much - and now I had made both Henrik and him look like fools within the span of a single morning. They were not going to take defeat and move on. They would come after me. How could I possibly win without resorting to violence?

The thought pulled me up straight. Violence? Did I just ... Yes, just now I had thought to myself that I would have to take care that I didn’t hurt them too much and land myself in juvenile detention. Well, I was right, wasn’t I? What my little scrabble with Henrik had shown me was that I wasn’t just stronger than he was, I was an order of magnitude faster. I had read his movements and reacted as if he was operating in slow motion, and holding him had required very little physical effort. The biggest boy in 7th grade. Now that was food for thought. I absolutely could not resort to violence unless there was no other option though. I had to go about this cerebrally. And from now on, I would be less conspicuous. I would think before I acted or spoke. I stayed in the toilet for the entire break, worrying.

Then the bell rang, and I had to hurry to class.

Second class of the day was biology. I was the last one through the door, and for some reason I still remembered where I used to sit; at the very front, next to Anders. I took my seat just as Ms Jonsson stepped up on the dais at the front of the classroom. When I saw her, I felt my face break out in a big smile. What a teacher she had been. Best teacher of this entire school, that’s for sure. What I didn’t recall from my previous life, though, was how hot she was. Early forties, just like myself, but very fit and with an admirable bosom for such a small frame. Why hadn’t I noticed? As an adult, I definitely wouldn’t have said no to a little rumble in the haystack with Ms Jonsson. What was her first name again? Elisabeth? I wondered why a beautiful woman like her was still unmarried at her age. Maybe she was into the ladies? Suddenly an elbow dug into my side, and I snapped back to reality.

“I said Karl Andersson” she said, an amused smile playing on her lips.
“Here” I said, and felt something stir in my pants. Jesus, this was not going to be easy.
“Anna?”
“Here”
“Therese?”
“Here”
“Martin?”
“He’s sick,” someone said from the back of the room.
I drifted off again and rested my eyes on a girl on the other side of the aisle. Linda? Yes, that was it. Apart from her acne, she was gorgeous. Why hadn’t I noticed that first time ‘round? Short, maybe 145 or 150 cm tall, definitely less than 40kg, perfect little perky breasts, cute face with an upturned nose and freckles. Stunning. Apart from her zits. Had they been the reason why I didn’t notice her? I felt my cock swell even more, and automatically lifted my backpack from the floor and put it in my lap to hide my magnificent boner. Oh, that’s right. That’s what I used to do when I got an erection in class ... Somehow, my brain had remembered that movement and executed it flawlessly in response to the stimulus. B.F. Skinner would be proud, I thought, and chuckled to myself. Linda appeared to hear me, because she looked up and met my gaze. She blushed and I quickly looked away.

Ab-so-lutely gorgeous, I thought to myself. When you live to be 41 and spend a decade of your life married to a woman gradually closing in on menopause, your standards of beauty shift. What’s a bit of acne on a pretty young girl in comparison to cellulite and twenty kilos of fat in all the wrong places on the average 40-year-old female? Hell, even Ms Jonsson looked attractive to me now, and I could just imagine her stripping out of those tight jeans she was wearing and...

Again, an elbow stabbed me in the side.
“Sorry? I wasn’t paying attention, Ms Jonsson.”
“I think you were paying attention, just not to the right aspect of biology,” she quipped. I grinned and looked around, but I appeared to be the only one who understood her remark.
“I’m sorry Ms Jonsson,” I said, feeling my cock strain against the fabric of my pants. Pushing harder on my backpack, I met her knowing gaze.
“The question was: What is an ecosystem?”
Trying to reel in my mind and not think of what Ms Jonsson would look like naked, I answered quickly:
“An ecosystem is not a well-defined term, but in general you could say that it is the sum total of all biotic and abiotic components of an intricate, interdependent weave of energy flows and material flows. Plants, animals, fungi, bacteria, minerals, chemical energy, water, air and land - all of it is part of the ecosystem. But an ecosystem can be smaller too - like the ecosystem in this river or that lake. Or even metaphorically, the ecosystem of commerce in Europe.”
There was a stunned silence, and I adjusted my backpack again before I noticed everyone was looking at me.
Damn. I had done it again, and this time because I was all caught up in my hormone-infused fantasies.

Ms Johnson was the first to regain her footing.
“Thank you, Karl. That was a very good answer. Do you remember what the definition in the textbook was?”
“No Ms Johnson.”
“Oh well, let me just explain to the others what you just said...” she smiled at me before looking up at my class. She took my definition and ran with it, and explained how there were many different levels of ecosystems, and that indeed all of the biosphere could be said to be one single ecosystem. Then she continued interrogating the class about their homework, but never called on me to answer another question. When it was over, she dimmed the lights and turned on the overhead projector and launched into a lecture about the different biotopes of Scandinavia - although she used the phrase “types of nature” instead of “biotopes”.

Anders passed me a note during the lecture. It said:
“You didn’t do the homework?”
I rolled my eyes at him and shrugged. How was I going to explain away the answer I had just blurted out? Would he believe I had been reading a science mag?

Toward the end of the lesson, Ms Jonsson turned on the lights again and gave us some time to compile our lecture notes in groups of four. That was a good teaching technique that I had learned from her and often used with my own students. Discussing a lecture immediately after it was over, comparing notes and writing definitions, helped with retention. When Anders and I turned around to make a group of four with the pair sitting behind us, though, my ability to concentrate was out the window. Anna and Gunilla were both dressed in tight white low-cut blouses that revealed a whole lot more than they hid - at least when they bent forward to write. My eyes almost glazed over as I felt another rush of blood to my groin. The two of them were easily the prettiest girls in our class, and that was saying a lot, because in my eyes, all of the girls were pretty cute. I hadn’t thought so last time ‘round, but I did now.

“Hello? I asked you a question?” Anna was saying.
“Sorry, come again?” I said, and quickly raised my eyes to meet hers.
“What was the difference between the different kinds of lakes?”
“Eutrophic and oligotrophic?” I tried. Three pairs of eyes looked at me without blinking. I tried again:
“Nutrient poor and nutrient dense? The first kind is clear, the other murky because of all the organic ... stuff floating around.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Gunilla asked, almost appearing peeved.
“I just ... read it in a science mag the other day.” I ventured, trying to hide how anxious I was that they wouldn’t believe me. My answer seemed to satisfy them for now though.

We kept compiling notes for ten minutes or so, and I did my best to focus on the task. I could definitely help these kids understand the subject a bit better by adding bits and pieces that Ms Jonsson had glossed over. No. Not “these kids” - they’re my classmates for fuck’s sake! Get a grip. I’m fourteen years old, and these are the prettiest girls in our class. It’s ok if I seem a bit nervous or try to sneak a peek down their blouses - they’re used to it. I let my eyes roam a bit while I helped them make some connections. Anna was the taller of the two, at maybe 165 cm. Tall for fourteen, but she would add another ten cm to that in the years to come, I knew. Fit and willowy, she moved with the grace of a dancer, and her tall stature made me think she could be a model if she wanted to. Most kids in our class thought Anna was the prettiest girl, and she was therefore the most popular. She was also a really good handball player, and that gave major status in our town because the adult handball team played in the highest national division, and that status trickled down to the junior leagues. In my eyes, Anna had nothing on Gunilla, though. Anna’s nose was a bit sharp and her lips were a bit thin, which made her look slightly haughty to me (though she was always fun to be around, on the few occasions that our social circles had ever met). By contrast, Gunilla was a cutie pie. Blonde hair, rounder face, full lips and an upturned nose, refulgent blue eyes, and a body to die for. She was maybe 158-160 cm tall - as tall as she would ever get, actually - and probably weighed more than Anna due to her musculature. None of the other girls could ever beat her at the 100m sprint or swim as fast as she did, and she had the legs and butt cheeks to show for it. Not a single kilo of excess fat on her toned body, except for what was in her magnificent breasts. She got them when she was eleven, which had made her the most popular girl for a year or two, before the others caught up. Sitting this close to her, my hormones raging, I was almost having a hard time breathing right.

When the bell rang and informed us that it was time for lunch, Ms Jonsson asked the class to leave the chairs down for the next group and reminded us about the test next week. Then, as I was about to stand, she looked at me and asked me to stay for just a little while. ‘Oh, fuck’, I thought to myself. What now? Was she going to give me a lecture about ogling her and not paying attention? She didn’t look angry though. I shared a worried frown with Anders, and he gestured that he would wait outside. The sound of the door closing echoed ominously in the suddenly very hot and humid classroom. When she turned toward me, however, she didn’t look stern - she looked amused and slightly worried.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, Karl - please don’t look so scared.”
“I’m not scared - just concerned ... Ms Jonsson,” I added.
“I think there is reason for concern. Karl ... what you did this morning when you defended Agnes from Henrik and the others was very brave, but maybe you don’t realize the consequences?”
What? She knew about that?
“Yes, you see, some of the other teachers noticed your little scuffle, and the rumor mill works fast in the teacher’s lounge. Particularly when it concerns a promising student such as yourself and some of the ... Let’s say less promising students.”
“I see,” I said with a sinking feeling. This was exactly what I had been afraid of. The opposite of being inconspicuous.
“You don’t have eyes at the back of the head, so you didn’t see how Henrik and Jacob and the others were looking at you during the lesson - and you were perhaps paying attention to ... Other things - but I have a different vantage point from this dais and I am quite perceptive.”
“I know.” I said, and tried to think of what more to say.
“I also listened to you here at the end of the lesson, and you seem to know this subject matter very well - exceptionally well for a 7th grader, in fact. Why have you been hiding how much you know? Because you knew it would ruffle someone’s feathers? You know, it’s a bad idea to go through life pretending to be a lesser person, just so they won’t pick on you.” Her eyes pierced me, and I had to look away before I answered.
“I ... just really like biology a lot. All science subjects. So, my family subscribes to a lot of science mags, and I ... read a lot.”
“But why do you hide it?”
“I just ... I want to be inconspicuous, I guess.” I managed. I heard her chuckle and looked up to see her smiling warmly.
“Well, your answer this morning and your scuffle with Henrik - those were pretty much the opposite. So why did you decide that you’d had it?”
“I didn’t decide - I just acted impulsively. Maybe my prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed, you know.” I smiled wryly.
“And there you go again. That’s neurology.”
“Neuroanatomy.” I corrected her.
“Be that as it may, I’m glad you’ve decided to come out of that shell you’ve been hiding behind,” she continued, “but you need to be aware that there will be consequences. There is a dominance hierarchy - I think you understand that word - and when you decide to challenge that, the outcome is predictable: There will be trouble.”
“So what do you suggest I do about it, Ms Jonsson?” I started putting my things in my backpack.
“You need to write a formal letter to the vice principal. Have your parents sign it, and maybe your homeroom teacher, so that the vice principal knows he can’t sweep it under the rug.”
“And what do I write in this letter?”
“You write a detailed description of what happened this morning, and more importantly, you write about why it happened. It was a good thing you did, standing up for that girl - Agnes, was it? - but you could get in trouble for inciting violence. You might want to get other students to write similar letters, explaining how uncomfortable they are with all the bullying and sexual harassment going on, pointing fingers at who the troublemakers are.”
“You realize this will cause even more of an upset, right?” I asked incredulously. What she was suggesting was the very definition of being conspicuous. Everyone would hear about this.
“Well. It needs to be done. They are going to come after you. Violently, because that is the only language they know. If what I heard about this morning is true, you will probably hurt them as bad as they hurt you. I don’t want to see good students like you get the blame, so write that letter and express your concern, and make sure you get a signed copy saying it was received and read. Now get out of here and go eat. It’s meatballs and potatoes today.”
“Thank you, Ms Jonsson. And...” I didn’t know if this was a good idea, but I went ahead and said it anyway, “I’m sorry for paying attention to the wrong aspects of biology. You just look very good in those jeans, and my hormones are what they are. You’re the best teacher in this school, and I have nothing but respect for you.” Her befuddled smile as I stood up and walked out was a sight to behold. As the door closed behind me and Anders started asking questions, I decided to follow her advice.

The complex social hierarchies of a lower secondary canteen were a mystery to me at fourteen - back then I just acted on instinct - but at 41, they were a bit easier to decipher. After heaping our trays with meatballs, mashed potatoes, sauce and lingonberry jam, Anders and I walked down the central aisle. Our school had nearly 750 students spread over grades 7-9, and the canteen was therefore a loud and unpleasant environment, but thankfully students were organized in blocks of 250, and each block had lunch at a separate time. Toward the back of the room, the 9th graders occupied the best seats, away from all the bustle of the kitchen and serving area. Us 7th graders, of course, got the least pleasant tables, right by the kitchen doors where everyone left their dishes. Scanning the tables, I spotted some free seats over by the windows where 8th-graders usually sat. Some were already seated at that table, but there were no written rules against sitting with the older students, so I made my way in that direction. Anders hesitated.
“Uh ... our table is...” he started, but I kept walking.
“These seats look good to me,” I said, and pulled out a chair.
“What’s gotten into you today?”
“I just don’t want to sit over by the dishes. Besides, Jacob sits over there,” I nodded in his direction, “and I prefer not having to sit where I have to look at him. Bad for my appetite. And I really like meatballs.”
Anders shook his head, but sat down with me, shooting a nervous glance at the 8th graders at the other end of our table. I had already seen who they were, though. Two of them would go on to become pretty good friends of mine a year from now, when we started riding mopeds together; Jim and Peter. Now they pretended not to notice us. I scooped up a generous dollop of grub and stuffed my face with gusto.

“Seriously, Charlie, what’s gotten into you today? New look, starting trouble, acting all cocky - you don’t even speak like normal!”
I scooped up another mouthful to give myself time to think before I answered. Anders decided to append another question: “And what did Ms J say to you?”
“She gave me an earful for staring at her tits and not paying attention,” I lied.
“She does have great tits though,” Anders said, dreamily.
“Not nearly as good as Gunilla’s,” I said, preferring to continue on that line of thought rather than answer his questions. Our favourite topic of conversation, ever since we admitted to each other that we masturbated, had been tits and assess. Andy was more of a tits-guy, whereas I was an assman, but we both liked to compare notes. Sometimes, we traded porn mags just to get double the value for our money. He never liked buying them, but I had no compunctions about doing so, as long as we took the bus to a nearby town where nobody knew us. The 1990’s were a different place, I mused. Porn mags right in the open in any kiosk or food store or gas station, and nobody had any issues with young teens buying them. Two decades later, that was history. Porn flowed freely into any computer or smartphone, but god forbid that anyone would sell porn where there were kids!
“Fuck yeah,” he said enthusiastically, “did you see when she picked up her notebook?”
“I did indeed,” I said, and the image came back to me, causing me to get an immediate erection. Her boob had flattened against the table, threatening to come out of her tight, low-cut top. It was the stuff dreams were made of.
“I can’t wait until this afternoon,” Andy said with even more enthusiasm.
“Uh ... why?” I said.
“Seriously? We have bath today.
‘Bath’ was what we called swimming lessons, because they usually let us play in the pool after the swimming was done.
“Fuck, I thought we had regular phys-ed.”
“Look at it from the bright side - you don’t have to borrow any shoes.”
Andy was entirely correct, of course. It would be easier to borrow swimming trunks and a towel than to ask Mr Ollie for a whole sports outfit. The prospect of seeing the girls of our class in the pool appealed greatly to me. Gunilla in a swimsuit. Jesus. My cock grew even harder as the image popped up in my head, and I carefully adjusted my position to hide it.

Just as I was about to devour another mouthful, something wet slapped me behind the ear, and brown sauce and lingonberries splattered all over my shirt. The meatball that had hit me fell down on my plate as I heard the applause and ‘oooohh’s from the direction of Jacob’s table.
“Hey, fuck you!” “You fucking asshole!” shouted two girls who had apparently also been splattered as collateral damage.
I closed my eyes and bent my head as if in prayer. The laughter and applause continued, and then another meatball hit me - this time on the back.
Anders stood up and made a movement as if to grab a meatball from his own plate, but I quickly reached out a hand and grabbed his wrist.
“Sit down! NOT a good idea!” I said emphatically. Andy sat down, and there was more laughter and jeering.
“YOU STOP THAT IMMEDIATELY YOUNG MAN!” Came the enraged voice of one of the kitchen staff.
The laughter died down, but the girls on the table behind me were livid and screamed insults at Jacob and his friends. I didn’t even turn around. When no more meatballs came flying, the kitchen staff directed their attention to the girls and came over to put a lid on the situation. One of them also handed me a kitchen towel to wipe the sauce off my neck and shirt.
“Did you see who threw that?” the portly woman asked.
“I did,” said Andy.
“No we didn’t,” I said, looking at him sternly.
“Oh. I see.” said the woman, nodding as if she understood. “Well, I’ll have them all leave then. Can’t have this kind of disturbance in the canteen. Well done, not throwing something back my boy,” she said, and patted me on the shoulder. Andy shot me a guilty look.

There was a bit of a scene as the kitchen staff escorted Jacob, Henrik and the rest of the inbred morons out. This time, the applause was louder, and people even whistled. Jacob shot me a murderous glance just as he walked out the door, but Henrik didn’t lift his head. That’s right, I said to myself, you felt my strength, and I humiliated you in front of your friends - now you won’t even make eye contact with me, dipshit.
“Fucking assholes!” Andy spat.
“Exactly my sentiment. Little inbred assholes.” I said quietly.
“Inbred?”
“Jacob is Jehovah’s Witness, and so is Marcus and Daniel. Dunno about Henrik - he’s just a toady. You never knew they were Jehovah’s?”
“What’s Jehovah’s?” Andy asked.
“Christian sect. Conservative, superiority complex, think they’re God’s chosen children and purer than everyone else. Go around preaching to people and handing out pamphlets. You never had them at your door?”
“Well, sure I’ve met them, but ... I didn’t know Jacob was one. Doesn’t seem very christian to me.”
“He isn’t. He’s just part of the family, you know. Inherited all his views from them. Racist, homophobic, bigoted, looks down on everyone.”
“You know him?”
“Of course not. I’ve just met many others like him over the years.”
“That’s ridiculous. What do you mean ‘over the years’?” Bloody hell, there I was again, speaking without thinking.
“I just know what he’s like, that’s all. Superiority complex and inferiority complex all wrapped up in one. Thinks his shit smells better than most, yet has that nagging feeling he won’t amount to anything except for in his little circle of friends, so he needs to defend his social status. White trash.”
“What’s white trash?” Andy asked.
“Oh, you don’t know that? You know, like, people who live in caravans, smoke cigarettes, drink too much, only care about Hockey and their religion.”
“I see what you mean. Not that he lives in a caravan though - they’ve got a big house.” Andy objected.
“My point still stands. Trash. But I guess you can’t blame him. He was raised like that. In-group, out-group, us and them.”
“You can’t blame him? He’s a fucking twat! A fuckin inbred twat whose favourite thing in life is to make people suffer.”
“Yeah, well ... That’s all he knows, because he was raised like that. Everyone not in their social circle is their enemy. Of all human traits, that’s the one I dislike the most.”
“Who are you, and what did you do to Charlie?” Andy asked, but I could tell he wasn’t entirely serious. I wiped my shirt again and smiled at him.
“I’m still Charlie. I’ve just ... Been through some wild shit lately, and I’ve done a bit of thinking.”
“Like what?” he asked, frowning.
“Like, I’m going to really apply myself to my studies, and I’m going to make some changes.”
“You sound like my mother when she has decided to go on another diet.”
I snorted and almost spilled my milk.
“Well. Maybe I am going on a diet. Lose some of this...” I said, pulling at a roll of chub on the side of my stomach, “ ... start running every day. Get in shape. Your head works better when you’re in shape, you know. Wanna join me?”
“Seriously? You getting into sports?” Andy looked at me as if I was an alien.
“Of course not, Andy. Never sports - I hate competition - just exercise to get in good shape.”
“Oh, ok then.”
“Really? Awesome dude!” I was genuinely happy that he would join me.
“The purpose, though...” I added, and continued in a hushed voice, “is to score some pussy. Easier if you’re fit.” This time, he was the one to spill his milk.

We decided to leave school early and make sure we got to the swimming hall before our teacher, Mr Ollie, in order to ask him for a spare pair of towels and some swimming trunks. If you asked politely, he would usually be friendly enough and lend you whatever you forgot to bring. I don’t recall why we called him Mr Ollie, which was a peculiar nickname for someone called Olof, but perhaps he used to be good at skateboard tricks? Ollie was that basic trick where you kicked up the board and landed on it again, wasn’t it?

Our plan worked - at least partially. Ollie came in ten minutes before he expected our class to arrive, and was in a good mood. He had a temper, which we were very conscious of when we asked - very politely indeed - if we could borrow towels and a pair of swimming trunks for me. Whistling tunelessly to himself, he opened the door to the teacher’s changing room, where they had a stash of clothes that students had left behind, and rifled through the heap. Laughing, he tossed Anders a pink towel with elephants on it, and then found me a pair of blue speedos that looked a tad on the small side. “There you go. The pain will help you remember next time. You can share the towel.” Then he shut the door, and we heard him chuckle to himself.

‘Suck it up and deal with it’ I thought to myself, ‘this is what it’s like being a teenager’. Andy looked skeptically at the pink towel.
“I’ll ask Patrick if he will share his,” he declared.
“Give me the towel. I’ll use it,” I said, and snatched it from him.
“Really?”
“Really. Get over it, it’s just a towel and it’s perfectly fine.”

Since we were first, the sauna was empty, so we hopped in and spent ten minutes there talking about random stuff before the rest of our class arrived and started making noise out in the shower room. I carefully prodded Andy for some information about what was going on in our lives, and tried to remember details from last time I was fourteen. I guess he must have thought I had caught some strange kind of spotty amnesia, but I tried not to set off his alarm bells again. He definitely sensed I wasn’t my usual self, but hopefully he would chalk that up to stress and me having done some soul-searching. He asked what the “wild shit” that I had gone through recently was all about, and I told him it was to do with my family and I didn’t want to say too much about it. That seemed to go over ok.

When we walked out of the sauna and into the shower room, I sensed the delayed reaction more than saw it or heard it. I had just hung my pink towel on the hangers and gotten under a shower head when I noticed people had gone quiet. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked quizzically down the line of showers. Many of the boys were sneaking surreptitious glances in my direction, and at first I didn’t make the connection - had they spotted the pink towel? Then it dawned on me. They had noticed the enhancements.

As far back as I could remember, I had always been ‘a grower, not a shower’. After the enhancements, however, even flaccid, my penis was noticeably larger than before. Come to think of it, looking at the other boys, I was definitely the uncrowned king of this room. I had never been particularly self-conscious about my perfectly average penis, but their envious glances did feel good. At fourteen, things such as genital development, hair and whiskers were important. Nobody would ever admit it, of course, but the guy with the biggest dick automatically got a higher social status. Not necessarily the most important factor, obviously, but more important at fourteen than at any time later in life. Unless you were gay, I mused, as I turned off the shower and put on my borrowed speedos.

Which were small. Not too small to work, but definitely tight. Most of the kids in my class wore beach shorts instead of trunks or speedos, but these were swimmer’s trunks, skin-tight to reduce friction with the water. Tucking my schlong in wasn’t easy. Oh well. The guys might care, but the girls in my class probably had other things on their mind. Or would they notice?

As it turns out, they did. I had always worn shorts before, and this was the first time anyone saw me in speedos. As we walked by the benches to take our seats before the lesson, me very deliberately leaving the pink towel by the showers, I heard the girls start to giggle and whisper and saw them nudging each other and pointing discreetly in my direction. Pretending not to notice, but secretly getting a bit turned on by the prospect of these young girls looking at my junk, I stretched my back and faked a yawn before I sat down, just to give them an even better look at my groin. I heard someone gasp and saw some of the girls covering their mouths just as I turned around and sat. Well. Maybe that would give them something to talk about, other than me making a fool of myself in class or being pelted my meatballs.