My Struggle: Book One by Karl Knausgaard

on the slopes behind our house. It had not occurred to me to invite him out on New Year’s Eve, the idea didn’t even exist as a possibility. Jan Vidar had a non-relationship with Per, they knew each other, of course, as everyone knew everyone else up here, but he was never alone with him and saw no reason to be either. When I moved here Jan Vidar hung out with Kjetil, a boy our age who lived in Kjevil, they were best friends and always in and out of each other’s houses. Kjetil’s father was in the service, and they had moved around a lot, from what I understood. When Jan Vidar started to spend time with me, mostly because of a common interest in music, Kjetil tried to win him back, kept calling and inviting him over, made inside jokes that only they understood when the three of us were together at school; if that didn’t work he resorted to more devious methods and invited both of us. We cycled around the airport, hung out in the airport café, went to Hamresanden and visited one of the girls there, Rita. Both Kjetil and Jan Vidar were interested in her. Kjetil had a bar of chocolate which he shared on the hill with Jan Vidar, without offering me any, but that fell flat as well because all Jan Vidar did was break his piece in two and pass me half. Then Kjetil released his grip, directed his attention elsewhere, but for as long as we went to the same school he never found any friends who were as close as Jan Vidar had been. Kjetil was a person everyone liked, especially the girls, but no one wanted to be with him. Rita, who was generally cheeky and tough, and never spared anyone, had a soft spot for him, they were always laughing together and had their own special way of talking, but they were never more than friends. Rita always saved her most mordant sarcasm for me, and I was always on my guard when she was around, I never knew when or how the attack would be launched. She was small and delicate, her face thin, her mouth small, but her features were well-formed and her eyes, which were often so full of scorn, shone with a rare intensity; they almost sparkled. Rita was attractive, but still wasn’t seen as such, and could be so unpleasant to others that perhaps she never would be.
    One evening she called me.
    â€œHi, Karl Ove, this is Rita,” she said.
    â€œRita?” I repeated.
    â€œYes, you cretin. Rita Lolita.”
    â€œOh, yes,” I said.
    â€œI have a question for you,” she said.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWould you like to date me?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œOne more time. Would you like to date me? It’s a simple question. You’re supposed to say yes or no.”
    â€œI don’t know . . .” I said.
    â€œOh, come on. If you don’t want to, just say so.”
    â€œI don’t think I do . . .” I said.
    â€œAlright then,” she said. “See you at school tomorrow. Bye.”
    And she hung up. The next day I behaved as if nothing had happened, and she behaved as if nothing had happened, though she was perhaps even keener to get a dig in whenever the opportunity arose. She never mentioned it, I never mentioned it, not even to Jan Vidar or Kjetil, I didn’t want to be one up on them.
    After I had said goodbye to Mom and she had switched the vacuum cleaner back on, I wrapped myself up warm in the hall and ventured out, my head ducked into the wind. Dad had opened one garage door and was dragging out the snowblower. The gravel inside was snow-free and dry, which aroused a faint unease in me, as always, because gravel belonged outdoors, and whatever was outdoors should be covered in snow, creating an imbalance between inside and outside. As soon as the door was closed I didn’t think about it, it never crossed my mind, but when I saw it . . .
    â€œI’m just off to see Per,” I shouted.
    Dad, who was having a tremendous battle with the snowblower, turned his head and nodded. I half-regretted having