Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

  Ebba’s class had already started, so Celia was officially on her own. Her first class—global economy—would start in 20 minutes. She scanned the schedule app on her phone and checked for the location of the classroom.

  Even though she took a few wrong turns in the winding corridors and multiple sets of stairs, she arrived with time to spare.

  She entered a sunny classroom that smelled of caulk and fresh paint. There was only one other student present, a guy who didn’t look up from his phone. She chose a desk toward the front. The window next to her stood open, allowing a gentle grassy breeze to float into the room. Celia gazed out at the school grounds and the forest beyond the campus hills. The river that ran through Björkby—Liljeån—coiled its way between the hills and trees, sparkling like a glittery string of tinsel.

  A beautiful school campus and a new MacBook. She could get used to this.

  Her new classmates trickled in with that first day of school airy and relaxed vibe. She kept looking out toward the hall for Alex, but there was no sign of him yet.

  A girl with sandy colored hair and a dusting of freckles across her nose grabbed the seat next to Celia. “Hej,” she said.

  Celia responded with a cheerful “hej!”

  Right after, a lanky woman dressed in casual capris and a flowy blouse trotted up to the front desk. She welcomed the class in English.

  All of the classes that were directly part of Celia’s program would be taught in English. Thank God for that; she was nowhere near ready to jump into full-time studies in Swedish.

  The teacher who introduced herself as Anna asked: “Did you all have a good summer?”

  While the class replied with nods and yesses, the door opened and Alex entered. Celia smiled at him.

  He must not have seen her because he passed her without responding. She turned around; he was taking a seat at the back of the room. She waved and tried to make eye contact. He gave her a blank stare and a muted flap of the hand in return.

  Celia kept her eyes on him for another moment. He’d been so friendly and outgoing when they hung out on Friday. Maybe he was just having a stressful morning.

  She didn’t have much time to reflect on it because the teacher now turned to Celia.

  “We have a new student with us this year. An exchange student.” Anna offered her an encouraging smile. “Everyone meet Celia Lindberg from the United States of America.”

  A unison of hellos sounded from the class.

  “Celia, will you come up and introduce yourself, perhaps show us on the map where you’re from?”

  Anna pulled down a full-length world map in front of the whiteboard.

  Celia scooted her chair back, making a screeching sound. Her hands were damp and her breath was quick as she approached the front of the class. The students were quiet with their eyes on her.

  “Hi everyone,” she greeted them. “I’m really excited to be here and work with you this year.” She pointed to the map and drew her hand to the west coast of the U.S. “I’m from Seattle,” she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

  The response was smiles, nods, curious eyes. They were a friendly lot.

  She said a few more words about herself before returning to her seat.

  The other students took turns introducing themselves. Celia counted 14 girls and 8 boys and tried her best to remember the faces and the names. She was able to get a few down right away. The girl next to her was Elin. Straight behind her sat Amanda, a girl who looked like she could be an H&M model with her dark skin, curly hair and vivacious personality. Another student with a memorable, confident shine was Samir. And then there was Alex. He kept it brief and simply introduced himself as Alexander Rosensköld.

  The rest of the class went by pretty quickly. There was no soft start: they went bang into the classwork, discussing East Asian trade. Celia found herself rather lost during the lesson. She was distracted by the new shininess of everything but also by Alex whose sullen entrance caught her off guard.

  After the lecture was over, a group of girls from the class congregated around her in the hall. They stood chatting with her for a few minutes, asking how long she’d been in Sweden and how she was liking it. They all seemed curious and excited that she was from the States.

  While they chatted she noticed Alex from her periphery, slanted against the wall, keeping a watchful eye on her.

  He made his way over as the group of girls dispersed.

  “Well, hello again.”

  There was a distance to his voice and posture. He seemed different from the other day. Leery, like something had changed. She tried to ignore his switch of attitude. “Hey Alex, what’s up?”

  He contemplated her with a strange expression.

  “Not much,” he shrugged. Without the flirty smile his face was sharp and angular.

  “Hey, are you OK? What’s going on?”

  “I’m grand. What’s going on with you?”

  “Not much either, I guess.”

  “You settling in?”

  “Uh … yeah.”

  “All right then. See you around.” And with that Alex strode off, leaving Celia alone in the hall, bewildered.

  She racked her mind for an explanation to why he was acting like that. She’d had a blast with him at the beach house and they’d parted as friends. Or so she thought.

  Had he been offended that she didn’t come to his after party? It didn’t seem that way at the time, but that was the only reason she could come up with.

  She hadn’t thought he was asking her to go home with him in that way, but maybe he was. Celia knew girls from her old school who’d been completely ignored by guys after sleeping with them or getting involved with them.

  Maybe Alex was doing this to her now because she didn’t sleep with him; because he felt rejected. Well, if so, good riddance. He could go ahead and ignore away.

  She was beginning to see why Ebba and Oskar had reservations about the guy.

  CHAPTER 5

  The school day was long for Celia. Overall she liked the vibe of her new school, but there was a lot to get used to. She felt uncertain and adrift compared to her classmates.

  All around her the Swedish students moved across campus with purpose and ease; all tall, tanned, and sparkling—radiating from the summer vacations’s abundance of long days and warm light nights.

  Celia’s dad had said to expect more of a college experience this year, and so far that rang true. The atmosphere of the school did feel more like a college. It was a good thing; she had just graduated from high school, she didn’t need more of the same. But still, it would take time to get into the rhythm of things.

  After her first day full of new impressions she couldn’t wait to get home. In part to kick off her tight shoes but also to chat with her parents.

  With a bundle of books and school material secured under her arm, she headed for the exit, scanning her phone for new texts from Ebba. They’d kept in touch throughout the day.

  Hurrying, she banged into someone. Her armful of stuff scattered across the floor.

  Damn it.

  She’d bumped into someone older, probably a teacher. She dropped to her knees. He did as well—said something quick and muffled in Swedish and helped gather her things. He gave her a quick look.

  After a split second his face shot back up, hard and fast.

  Celia looked behind her to see if something there had caught his attention. But it was her. He sat, transfixed, his eyes not moving from her face.

  She spoke to him in English: “I’m sorry. Can I help you…?”

  That rattled him into motion. He rose with her belongings in a clamped grip. He glanced over the exchange student pamphlet at the top of the pile before he held everything out to her.

  She jumped to her feet, grabbing her things.

  “Thanks,” she said, flustered.

  She didn’t wait for a response from him. If she kept moving she’d be able to catch the next bus.

  ***

&nb
sp; Celia arrived back at Erik and Anette’s before Anette got home from work. Her aunt and uncle had conveyed that she should always feel free to help herself to anything in the kitchen. In the beginning she’d felt strange about it, but now she was a little more comfortable rummaging around. She heated up a bowl of noodles and poured a glass of fizzy water and returned to her room.

  She’d already taken to her new bedroom with its light airiness, French windows out toward the woodsy backyard, and perhaps the best thing of all: the wood burning fireplace. She loved the thought of sitting in front of the fire on cold winter days.

  Her new MacBook was still in her school bag. Instead she went to the desk where she’d set up her old computer. As soon as she signed on, a message on her computer pinged.

  Video call request from Dad: Have a moment to talk? Mom and the dogs are here, too.

  Celia’s heart lifted with joy. She would be lying if she said she didn’t miss home—her parents, her friends, the family retrievers, and all the big and little things that equated to her life back in the States.

  She logged on to the chat.

  In Seattle it was only six in the morning. It was just now getting light there.

  Her mom and dad and the dogs were all tumbled in front of the computer, giving off that sense of happy chaos that Celia knew so well. The dogs immediately responded to Celia’s voice. Kip wagged her tail in Julie’s face while Sadie put her nose up to the camera, covering Celia’s screen with her big doggy smile.

  Celia’s mom laughed behind them. “Sadie, down girl.”

  After the dogs settled, Celia told her parents about her first day of school. Once they were done with all the general catching up, she found her opportunity. “Hey, there’s a thing I want to ask you…” she started. “Is there a woman in the family who looks like me?”

  “Your mom looks like you,” Jonesy said, pulling Julie toward himself, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “No, not Mom. Someone who really looks like me. On my Swedish side. Like an aunt or something?”

  Her dad answered, “No, why?”

  “I was looking at old family photos, and there was a picture of this little girl, she looked just like I did when I was that age. The picture was taken in the 70s. She would be just a little younger than you, Dad?”

  “A cousin maybe?” Julie asked, looking over at Jonesy.

  He shook his head. “On my dad’s side the siblings’ children were all boys. My mother’s sister Rut had two girls, but they were quite a bit older than us. Also blond, so they wouldn’t have looked like our Cee,” he said—using the nickname that he’d coined for her when she was just a baby. “There were no girls my age.”

  Celia stirred in her seat. She had thought her parents would know.

  “Probably an old picture of you that got misfiled,” her dad said.

  She cast her eyes away from the screen. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

  She had planned on telling them about the house that she inherited. Sans the part of how she was brought there. That wouldn’t land well. That would even freak out her dad who was the most laid back person ever.

  But now. Now she treaded more carefully.

  “So … you know how we used to go swimming in Torsjön?”

  “Sure,” her dad said.

  “Good times in the sun,” Julie remarked in her usual cheery manner.

  “Yeah, so, did we ever go to a house out there? Like, did farfar used to own a summer house?”

  Her parents responded with blank looks and head shakes.

  Jonesy said, “No—”

  “OK, never mind,” Celia said.

  She was sifting through her thoughts. It wasn’t just Erik and Anette who were unaware; no one knew about the house.

  Julie checked the time on her wristwatch. “Sweetie, I need to go or I’ll be late.”

  “I need to head, too,” Jonesy said. “Talk again soon, OK kiddo?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Celia said.

  “Love you, sweetie.”

  “Love you guys.”

  They said their goodbyes and Celia logged off.

  She poked at her noodles. They looked soggy and sad; she pushed the bowl away. Warily, she moved to her bed and pulled out the diary from under the mattress where she’d hidden it.

  She’d tried going through it before but was struggling to make sense of the Swedish. Her new laptop from school had a translation app downloaded. That should help. She propped herself in bed with the book in her lap and her new computer next to her.

  At the top of each entry, the date was scrawled. The date of the first post was March 3, 1983. The handwriting was eager and untidy.

  She thumbed through the journal—picking up on a smattering of words and sentences—trying her best to create a profile of the author. The writing seemed feminine, both in style and content. The person went to school. Liked math, excelled in gym class. Was embarrassed over how much food she ate in the school cafeteria. Celia paused on that. Eating disorder maybe?

  Halfway through, there was a small key taped to one of the pages. Celia pulled the key from the page. Where the key had been taped, a number was written: 2396.

  The key itself was small, like it would go to a locker or a padlock. There was a “W” engraved at the top of it. Celia rose and put the key in the inside pocket of her school bag. Her instinct was to protect whatever the key was hiding.

  She went back to the diary. It seemed that the handwriting became quicker and sloppier as the diary progressed. Just a little farther than midway through the book was the last post.

  The entry was short.

  She grabbed her laptop and typed in the text.

  The translation in English was choppy:

  Feeling crushed. The secret is suffocating me. I have to come clean. The other four want to keep it between us, just us. But I need to let it out and let it fly. Otherwise I’ll die.

  Celia read the text, four or five times. She put the computer down on the bed, with the diary still in her lap. Out the window, the late afternoon sky was curling into shades of dark blue and gray. She chewed on the pad of her thumb, deep in thought. Who was writing this?

  Was it the girl in the photo? The dandelion child?

  She looked at the date of the last entry.

  Whoever it was had stopped writing on September 20, 1984.

  CHAPTER 6

  Blood Pudding.

  The black slab of dubious content on the plate stared up at Celia, taunting: take a bite of me, I dare you. She’d already finished the cabbage salad from the school cafeteria’s salad bar, and she had scarfed down the potato cakes that while being bland, had a nice crunch and were perfectly edible.

  Left was her serving of black pudding—known as blodpudding by the Swedes—which had a generous heap of lingonberry sauce on it. She reasoned that if it were covered in the delicious tangy sauce that she loved to pair with meatballs, then she could somehow manage the content.

  It was lunch time, Celia’s third day of school.

  She sat together with Amanda and Elin at a round table in the cafeteria. She was getting on well with her new classmates, and she especially liked her current company.

  Amanda reminded Celia of some of her friends back home, all bubbly and bouncy. Elin wasn’t quite as effervescent but still had a genuine and warm way about her.

  “You don’t have to eat it you know.” Amanda gave Celia a good-natured laugh from across the table. “Although, I think it’s pretty good,” she said and took a bite of her own blodpudding, demonstrating its edibility.

  Elin wrinkled her nose: “It’s disgusting; don’t do it.”

  “I’ve promised myself that I’ll try new things and be adventurous,” Celia said. “It’s part of the cultural experience.”

  She forked a piece of pudding and shoved it in her mouth.

  Gross. She made a face and chewed slowly.

  Both Amanda and Elin laughed at her.

  “I tried to warn you,” Elin said.


  A few tables away Alex sat with some of his friends. He caught her eye. Whatever Alex had been upset over on their first day in school was now completely dissolved. The very next day he was back to being outgoing and friendly. Celia had no idea what that was all about, but she was happy to forget about it and start over.

  Alex mimicked Celia’s grossed-out expression, lifted up a slab of blood pudding and mouthed: Yummy.

  Celia made a face at him.

  Then her focus changed, to the table straight behind Alex where a girl sat. She had seen the girl, three lunches in a row. Every day the girl sat alone.

  Shoulder-length dark hair shielded the girl’s face; she was slouched down, staring at her plate. She didn’t talk with anyone even though there were others at her table. Celia thought perhaps the girl was new to Björkby, just like herself.

  She was just about to go back to her blodpudding when the girl rose from her seat and collected her tray. A moment later she was headed toward the cafeteria’s dish pit.

  On a whim, Celia got up. “I have to go say hi to someone,” she said and downed the last of her apple drink.

  “Nice excuse,” Amanda said, a smile playing across her face.

  “I’ll ease into the adventurous part,” Celia grinned. She quickly grabbed her tray, but by the time she got to the dish pit, the girl had left. She discarded her silverware and flung the mostly untouched pudding into the bin.

  Out in the hall, the lunch crowd was passing through: the girl had vanished into the body of students. She was craning her neck, scanning the corridor, when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Celia Lindberg?”

  She circled around.

  Behind her stood the teacher—the one who’d stared at her after they bumped into each other in the hall.

  She got a better sense of him this time. Tall, blond, and fit, he was the kind of teacher who would make her friends swoon, at least the ones who were into older men.