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Määnin tugged at his collar like it was trying to choke him even though it was way too big for him. The shirt used to belong to his father, sleeves too long, smelling faintly of beer and old cologne. Määnin should’ve been celebrating, but all he could think about was how he’d not gotten the grades to escape the mandatory education system. It would still be a few weeks until they found out if they’d gotten offered anywhere to study, but Määnin already knew he hadn’t.
He looked at Tommy, quite far behind him, grinning like he hadn’t just scraped through math by the skin of his teeth. Goofy and earnest, and Määnin hated how his chest ached at the sight.
Freppa, standing just ahead of Tommy, adjusted his tie. “Two hours of speeches for a piece of paper.” He mouthed, trying to lighten Määnins mood, seeing the dread on his face.
Määnin snorted, but when the music started and everyone rose for the graduates who soon would file across the stage, he found his eyes fixed not on the stage filled with roses and diplomas, but on Tommy, who looked like the whole world was waiting for him on the other side of the curtain.
With diplomas in hand, they all sung Den blomstertid nu kommer, Määnin getting distracted by the voice of Norrgård standing next to him, singing the words somehow with more meaning behind them, then what Määnin had given them before,
De fagra blomsterängar
och åkerns ädla säd,
de rika örtesängar
och lundens gröna träd...
Määnin suddenly felt nostalgic about Vörå, even though he wasn’t leaving. “De fagra blomsterängar och åkerns ädla sed”, fair flowering meadows and the noble seed of the fields… that was home. More home than his father’s house. More home than any couch he’d ever crashed on.
He looked out into the audience, searching for a familiar face. His father wasn’t there, work as per usual. But Freppa’s mother caught his eye. Marlene, eyes closed, swaying gently, as though the music in her head was being played at a slightly slower pace than the choir’s. It struck him suddenly, the way she always seemed to find something softer, slower, in everything.
The words rolled on, the whole hall lifting their voices, and for once Määnin felt something swell in his chest. Not pride exactly. Not joy either. Just… a stubborn kind of ache. This town, these fields, this language, vöörosprååtji, they were all in him whether he wanted them or not.
When the last verse ended and the room erupted in polite applause, Määnin blinked hard and cleared his throat. He straightened his back, tugged at his collar like nothing had happened. But his voice had caught on that lyric, and it lingered inside him longer than he’d admit.
Outside the school building, everyone was taking pictures. Parents forcing their kids into stiff poses, sun glaring off pure white shirts and bright summer dresses.
Marlene shoved a bouquet into Freppas hands and kissed his cheek so hard his whole face turned red. He laughed, embarrassed, but he also didn’t pull away.
Tommy’s father clapped him on the back like he’d just won an award, already talking about the shifts Tommy could pick up now that school was done. Tommy rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just shifted the flowers he’d been given into his other hand and muttered something about a summer break.
Määnin stood alone, tugging his tie loose. No one had come for him. He told himself he didn’t care, but the lie stuck in his throat. The crowd buzzed around him like a swarm of bees, classmates he’d known since kindergarten, scattering already, laughing like they weren’t scared. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the dirty looks from the adults around, and stared off past the playground where the birches lined the road out of town.
Then a voice called his name.
Tommy, jogging over with a ridiculous bouquet, petals already falling apart in his grip. He grinned, wide and dumb, like Määnin hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes convincing himself no one gave a shit. “Come! We are taking a picture!”
Before he could argue, Tommy had grabbed his wrist and was dragging him toward the rest of their class. Freppa was already there in the masses, arms crossed, pretending he didn’t want to be included. So, they stood together, Määnin in the middle, Tommy’s shoulder pressed warm against his, Freppa frowning like someone’s uncle, and the photo was taken.
Later, when everyone else had scattered off to graduation parties, it was just the three of them left loitering by the bike racks.
“So, what now?” Freppa asked, kicking at a pebble.
Tommy shrugged, “This is when life starts, right?”
Määnin snorted smoke out his nose. “If this is life, then I want my money back.”
And when Tommy laughed, really laughed, head thrown back, unbothered and bright, Määnin felt that ache again, sharp and stubborn.
***
The acceptances were published on a Tuesday morning. Määnin already knew what his said before he looked at it. His hands still shook, though, as he skimmed the lines: We regret to inform you… He snorted, closed the open tab on the house computer and lit a cigarette. Like a rejection could surprise him. Like the system had ever wanted him in the first place. Tionde klass, tenth grade, back to square one. Back to school like a fucking kid.
Twenty minutes later he heard the unmistakable sound of Tommy driving up too fast with too low a gear on his moped. As Tommy opened his visor, he looked like he’d won the lottery, “Mechanic, man! I’m in. They’ll actually let me tear cars apart legally.”
Freppa arrived three minutes later, they must have coordinated over the phone. “Healthcare assistant.” He muttered when he walked up to the steps where Määnin and Tommy sat, like it tasted strange in his mouth. “Guess they think I’m good enough to wipe asses.” He didn’t sound thrilled, but he didn’t sound crushed either. Just… accepting of his fate. Määnin knew Freppa wanted to get into electrical engineering.
Määnin leaned against the porch railing, smoke curling around his face. He wanted to sneer, to say something cutting, but all that came out was: “Good for you.”
Tommy didn’t notice the edge in his voice, or he pretended not to. He was already talking about workshop classes, tools, the possibilities of an apprenticeship. His words tumbled over each other like he couldn’t believe the door had opened for him.
Freppa gave Määnin a long look. The kind that stripped away any joke. “And you?”
Määnin flicked ash onto the gravel. “Tenth.”
A silence hung between them, heavier than the smoke. Tommy finally blinked, frowning. “Shit, I thought…” He cut himself off, but the unfinished thought sat there anyway.
“Don’t!” Määnin snapped. “Don’t fucking say you thought I’d make it. I didn’t. Everyone knew I wouldn’t.”
Tommy opened his mouth, closed it again. He just shifted his weight, awkward, like he didn’t know where to put his hands.
Freppa shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Well,” he said, flat as ever, “guess we’re all still stuck in Vörå anyway.”
Määnin barked a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. Congratulations, we all win.”
Määnin leaned against the railing, dragging hard on his cigarette. He’d told himself he didn’t care, that this was just another day with his friends. But the truth was that this was the last time they’d all be here together, in this way. After the summer, the world would start pulling them in different directions.
Tommy slouched on the stairs. He patted the space next to him until Määnin sat back down. Their knees brushed, and neither of them moved away. “Think they’ll write about us in the local paper when we’re famous?” Tommy asked, staring distantly at the fields.
“Famous for what?” Freppa aked.
Tommy turned his head toward them, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “For the band.”
Määnin snorted, exhaling smoke. “What band?”
“This one!” Tommy said, as if it were obvious. “The three of us. I’ll sing. You’ll play bass, because that is the toughest instrument. Freppa can play drums. Or triangle. Whatever.”
Freppa rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say no. And Määnin, staring at Tommy face in the bright sunlight, realized that maybe Tommy wasn’t drifting away. Maybe this was how they’d keep each other, when the rest of the world is pulling them apart.
***
The summer continued like nothing was going to change, no one dared commenting on the inevitable drift and no one mentioned the hypothetical band they hadn’t formed. They didn’t see each other much, Freppa and Marlene were on a road trip and Tommy worked a lot with his father. On a particularly warm Thursday evening Määnin rode his moped into town alone. The air smelled like cut grass and manure, his shirt sticking to his back from the summer heat. He parked behind Grillin and leaned against the wall like he owned the place.
Thåossin showed up ten minutes late, a half-crushed Marlboro pack tucked into his sleeve and that easy, older-kid swagger Määnin tried to copy without looking like he was copying.
“You bring money?” Thåossin asked, not bothering with a greeting.
Määnin dug into his pocket, pulled out a hand full of coins, and handed them over. “Blue LM.” He said, trying to sound like he’d been doing this for half his life.
Thåossin smirked, slipping the money into his wallet. “You’re predictable, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“Sure you’re not.” Thåossin said, then handed over the pack and a lighter in one fluid move. Transaction complete. But instead of leaving, Määnin stayed put, flicking the lighter on and off, the flame reflecting in his eyes.
Thåossin noticed. “Something on your mind?”
Määnin shrugged, lit a cigarette, dragged hard like it might burn the thoughts out of him. “Got my fate sealed two weeks ago.”
“Yeah?”
“Didn’t get in anywhere.” The words came out flat, he’d already rehearsed them too many times to count. “I’m headed to tenth. Might as well tattoo ‘failure’ on my forehead.”
Thåossin didn’t laugh. He leaned back against the wall, smoke curling lazily from his mouth. “School’s a scam anyway. You think anyone cares if you got a piece of paper? Half the guys I know are working as pig farmers without one.”
“Yeah, but Tommy’s gonna be a mechanic. Freppa’s gonna be a healthcare assistant. They’re going somewhere. I’m just stuck.”
Thåossin shrugged. “Stuck in Vörå? Welcome to the club. And if you really want to, you can apply again next year.”
Määnin looked down at his scuffed shoes. He wanted to say it wasn’t enough, that he needed a future this instance.
Thåossin flicked his cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on. I’ve got a new record in the car. Better than listening to your whining.”
Määnin followed without arguing, sliding into the passenger seat of Thåossin’s Volvo Amazon, the heat of the day still trapped in the leather seats. The engine rumbled to life, and then the music hit: loud, raw, and alive. The ’59 Sound by the Gaslight Anthem. Määnin didn’t understand the words, but he understood the feeling.
The Volvo smelled like stale smoke and spilled beer, leather seats gone shiny from years of being rubbed with denim and sweat. Thåossin’s arm hung lazy out the window, the next cigarette already glowing between his fingers, eyes on the road like he had nowhere to be but everywhere at once.
The stereo was turned up too loud for conversation. Määnin didn’t catch a word of it, English was just noise to him, but he didn’t need to understand. The songs carried something raw, something burning under the skin. Restlessness, heartbreak, whatever it was, it hummed straight into his chest.
He sat slouched in the passenger seat, pretending to watch the birches blur by, but really he was listening with every nerve. The guitars sounded like the ache in his ribs when he thought too much about how him and Tommy were going to slip apart and like the way summer nights always felt both endless and already over.
Thåossin tapped ash out the window, not saying much. He never did. He was already out of school, already selling booze and smokes to kids who worshipped him for it. Määnin had looked up to him once, maybe still did a little. But he didn’t need words from him. The music filled the silence, heavy and alive.
When the chorus of Old White Lincoln crashed in, Määnin felt it like a punch in the gut. He didn’t know the words, but he mouthed sounds anyway, copying the rhythm, letting himself believe for a second that he understood.
Thåossin glanced sideways at him, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Good shit, huh?”
Määnin nodded, eyes fixed ahead. “Yeah.” His voice was low, almost swallowed by the music. He didn’t add that he felt like the album had cracked something open inside him, a stubborn ache he couldn’t name.
The car roared on, engine growling under the music, smoke trailing out the windows behind them. Määnin leaned his head back, shut his eyes for a moment, and let himself drown in it, the hum of the tires, the taste of smoke in the air, the wild ache of an album he couldn’t understand but somehow knew by heart.
***
The days bled together after that. June passed in a haze of heat and noise; engines revving somewhere in the distance, the hum of lawnmowers, the occasional thud of bass from someone’s open car windows. July passed almost just as quickly.
Sometimes Määnin saw Tommy, but never for long. Once at the gas station, where Tommy was covered in grease up to his elbows and talking with some older locals who’s already studied mechanics for two years. Once at Grillin, where he sat at a table with a girl from Vassor, her nails painted blue to match her moped. He’d waved when he saw Määnin, grin easy, like nothing had changed. But it had.
Freppa sent a few texts from the road "You’d hate this, too many people," one of them read. Määnin hadn’t answered any of them.
The nights stretched out, heavy and too quiet. Määnin spent them driving circles around town, no destination, just chasing the feeling that something might still happen. Sometimes he parked by the sports field, smoked until the stars blurred, then went home reeking of bad habits.
One night he heard distant laughter from down by the throwing circle, voices, music, the sound of beer cans cracking open. He thought about going down there, but he didn’t. He told himself it wasn’t worth it, that he didn’t want to be the guy who showed up uninvited.
A few evenings later, Tommy showed up outside his house, helmet under his arm, hair sticking to his forehead. “You vanished” he said, half accusing, half teasing.
“Been busy.” Määnin lied.
Tommy grinned, like he knew better. “Doing what?”
Määnin shrugged. “Thinking.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “You think too much.” They ended up sitting on the porch steps, watching the last bit of sun slide behind the trees. They didn’t say much, they didn’t need to. The silence between them wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t empty either.
When Tommy finally stood to leave, he said, “We should still start that band, you know.”
Määnin huffed out a laugh, smoke curling from his nose. “Yeah. Maybe next summer.”
“No, as soon as school starts.” Tommy said as he stood up, but it sounded like a promise neither of them believed in.
When the sound of his moped faded into the distance, Määnin sat there a long time, staring at the empty road. He thought about the song in Thåossin’s car, about the way it made his chest ache like something alive was trying to get out. Maybe he understood it now, that restless, burning feeling. The one that came when you realized the world was moving on without you, and you still didn’t know where you were supposed to go.
***
School started again with the heavy thud of routine. Tenth felt like a waiting room nobody wanted to sit in, a mix of kids who’d screwed up their applications and kids who’d never bothered applying in the first place. Määnin sat in the back, hood up, killing time with half-hearted doodles on the margins of his notebook.
One afternoon, wandering the music room to avoid math homework, he spotted an old bass guitar leaning against the wall, dusty but still strung. He picked it up, fingers clumsy on the strings, but the vibration in his chest lit something stubborn in him. It wasn’t about being good, it was about the sound filling a silence he couldn’t stand. From then on, he spent breaks hiding in the practice room, plucking until the tips of his fingers burned. The words of Tommy lingering in his head, about starting a band and Määnin being the toughest, playing the bass.
A few weeks into the term, Määnin rode into town and spotted the kids he knew studied mechanics clustered by the ABC petrol station, mopeds lined up like trophies. Tommy stood with them, denim jacket collar popped, a cigarette hanging awkwardly between his fingers. He laughed too loud at something one of the older boys said, but otherwise his face remained stoic, concentrating on not smiling too much.
Määnin stayed on his moped across the street, watching. He knew that laugh, he’d seen it before, it was forced, stretched thin over nerves. Tommy was trying on a new skin, harder, cooler, but it didn’t quite fit yet. Määnin noticed Tommy slipping into another world, one Määnin wasn’t invited into. Did Tommy think he was cooler than him for having succeeded, because he didn’t need to shove it in Määnins face, he already knew.
When Tommy noticed Määnin, he quickly put out the barely smoked cigarette and started walking up to Määnin.
“First practice is on Thursday.” Tommy said nonchalantly.
“You don’t smoke-” Määnin started before he registered what Tommy had said “what?”.
“The band,” Tommy said, like it was obvious. “I told you. Me, you, Freppa. I found out that we can use the youth centre, apparently that’s why it’s there. Freppa said he’ll come if you do.”
“You’re serious?”
Tommy shrugged, grinning. “Course I’m serious. What, you thought I was joking?”
“Yes.” Määnin said flatly, but his pulse jumped anyway.
Tommy leaned forward, a strange intensity in his eyes. “Come on, Määnin. You’re the only one who actually knows how to play something. Tony said you’ve been playing at school.”
Määnin wanted to argue, wanted to say that plucking random strings in the practice room didn’t count, but Tommy was already on to the next thing, talking about covers, names, maybe writing their own songs “if it doesn’t sound like shit.” He had that look again, the one that made impossible things sound easy.
“Thursday.” Tommy repeated, as he looked at his new friends putting on their helmets getting ready to leave. “Old youth centre. Six o’clock. Don’t chicken out. You’re too tough for that.”
He left before Määnin could answer, grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The next afternoon, Määnin found himself staring at the bass in the music room again, dust catching the light. He picked it up, felt the strings vibrate under his fingers, and thought about Tommy’s voice: don’t chicken out.
He wasn’t sure why he cared. But on Thursday, after he’d eaten a microwaved meal and scratched something unreadable down on a school worksheet, he put on his helmet and left for the youth centre.
Tommy was already there, plugging in an ancient amp that buzzed when it turned on. Freppa sat behind the drum kit, expression unreadable, tapping one stick against his knee.
Tommy looked up and grinned. “Told you he’d come.”
And just like that, the band existed, three boys in a half-lit room, surrounded by borrowed instruments and no one knowing how to be a band.
The first chord Määnin struck buzzed, off-key and rough. But Tommy whooped anyway, voice echoing off the walls. “See? We’re already geniuses!”
Freppa rolled his eyes. “More like a headache.”
But even he was smiling when Tommy started humming something that might’ve been a song.
For the first time in months, the silence in Määnin’s chest cracked open, it filled instead with noise, with laughter, with the sense that maybe this was what it meant to start over.
***
Autumn settled in before they noticed. The nights grew darker, practice sessions stretching later, the air in the youth centre growing colder with every week. What started as a joke, three idiots with borrowed instruments, had somehow turned into the thing they all revolved around.
At first, it was fun. Loud, chaotic, full of laughter that echoed off the chipped walls. They played until their fingers hurt, covering songs half from memory, half from instinct. Määnin learned enough bass to keep up, and sometimes, when the rhythm locked just right, it felt like they were holding something bigger than themselves together.
Tommy was the sun in all of it, restless, always pushing for one more song. Freppa complained the most but never missed a practice. And Määnin, despite himself, started showing up early, pretending it was just to tune the bass but really just wanting to be there when Tommy arrived.
They got a little better. Not good, just less bad. Tommy started writing lyrics in the margins of his school notebooks and talked about needing to find a name for the band. Määnin pretended to roll his eyes, but he kept the scraps of paper Tommy tossed away.
By October, practice had become their rhythm, school, work, rehearsal, repeat. Sometimes Tommy would show up straight from the workshop, grease on his hands, smelling like oil and sweat. Määnin tried not to notice the way that smell lingered.
The others joked that Määnin took it too seriously, but they didn’t see what it was like when Tommy looked at him mid-song, that flash of recognition, like they both understood something the music was saying for them.
Freppa noticed, though. He’d roll his eyes when Tommy got too close, when Määnin tuned his bass just a little too long after Tommy complimented him. But he never said anything.
***
Practice had gone on too long. The air in the youth centre was thick with sweat, every surface coated with a fine film of dust. Tommy was buzzing as usual, still strumming on a guitar even though they’d stopped playing ten minutes ago.
“Listen, listen.” Tommy said, voice cracking with excitement. He half-shouted the lyrics he’d scribbled that morning, somewhat off-key but earnest:
Jeans on, smoke in his lungs, toughest guy under the midnight sun…
Määnin smirked, leaning against the wall. “That’s about you, then? Noticed you started smoking.”
Tommy shook his head. “Nah, man. You. Obviously.”
Määnin snorted, like it was a joke. But the ache in his chest said otherwise.
When practice finally broke up, Tommy drove off first, yelling something about finding more riffs at home. The room fell quiet except for the slow tick of the clock on the wall.
Määnin lit cigarette, too restless to leave. He caught his reflection in the window, denim jacket, smoke curling up past his face, and for a second it looked like Tommy’s lyrics staring back at him.
Freppa walked up behind him. “Do you ever get tired of it?”
Määnin glanced over. “Of what?”
Freppa levelled him with a stare “Of pretending you don’t notice.”
Määnin frowned, taking a long drag. “Notice what?”
“Jesus Christ, can’t you see? This whole band is just Tommy trying to keep you from spiralling. The songs, the jackets, the attitude, it’s all for you. He is asthmatic and he tried a cigarette for you!”
Määnin barked out a laugh, too loud, too forced. “Don’t flatter me.”
But Freppa didn’t blink. “I’m not flattering you. I’m telling you the truth. He worships the ground you stand on, and you act like you don’t see it because if you did, you’d have to deal with it.”
Määnin’s smirk faltered, cigarette burning down between his fingers. He turned away, staring at the black oil stains on the hoody Tommy had left behind as if they could swallow him whole.
Freppa slung his schoolbag over his shoulder, heading for the door. “You don’t have to admit it to me. But at least stop lying to yourself.”
The door creaked shut, leaving Määnin in silence. Only then did he realize his chest was tight, his throat raw, like Freppa’s words had struck deeper than any lyric ever could.
Määnin stayed slouched against the wall, cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers. He didn’t light another. He just let the smoke sting his eyes until they watered.
This whole band is just Tommy trying to keep you from spiraling.
The words looped in his head, louder than the amps had been all night. He wanted to laugh it off, as if it was Freppa being dramatic, Freppa being an ass, but it stuck like a splinter.
He kicked at an amplifier, the pain in his foot making him winch. “Fuck.” Every song, every lyric, every time Tommy glanced across the room, had it all been pity dressed up as admiration? Was the whole band just a fucking babysitting project?
His reflection in the window stared back at him, like a caricature Tommy had drawn into existence.
“Coolest guy in town.” He muttered bitterly. “What a joke.”
The silence pressed in until it felt like the room was shrinking around him. He grabbed his jacket, stormed outside, but the night air was no lighter. His moped sat waiting, but he just stood there, hands trembling around his lighter, like he didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, light a cigarette or smash the lighter to pieces.
In the end, he did none of it. He exhaled hard, and whispered into the cool air, like maybe the dark could keep a secret:
“If I’m only here ’cause Tommy feels sorry for me… then what the fuck am I?”