The Outsiders - Chapter 1

 Sigrid

As I tie the laces on my trusty red Converse shoes it feels like I have a million butterflies fluttering around my stomach. I’m nervous and excited at the same time. I turned 20 three weeks ago and I’m about to enroll to the Norwegian Business School. I haven’t lived in Norway since I was three years old and now, I’m back in Oslo and today is the first day of school. 

My father is a freelance journalist and writer. Mom is a freelance photographer. I was only three years old when Dad got his first assignment abroad; in London and we moved there. In the following years my parents’ assignments took us to the US and Australia, and for the past seven years my family has called Pretoria, South Africa home. 

I’ve never felt a strong connection to Norway. I was only a toddler when we left, and we have only been back for visits once or twice a year. My passport says I’m Norwegian, but I honestly feel more South African. I’ve lived there since I was twelve and we’ve really settled in there. I think I shocked everyone; family and friends, when I announced that I wanted to go to college in Norway. I even surprised myself a little when I made the decision.

…

An hour later I’ve made it through a long queue to get my information packet, and I’m headed to the auditorium where the enrollment ceremony will be held. From what I’ve read about it on the student union website it’s pretty much an orientation meeting.  

By the time I arrive in the auditorium it’s starting to fill up, but luckily there are several available seats on the back row. I’ve always preferred to sit in the back of the classroom or auditorium.  I slide into the third seat from the aisle, put the envelope I with my information packet down on the desk in front of me and dig out my notebook and a pen from my well-worn leather messenger bag. Before I place the bag on the floor under my seat, I double-check that I’ve turned off the sound on my iPhone. 

A soft clicking sound catch my attention a few minutes later and I look up to see a man making his way toward the available aisle seat next to me. He is on forearm crutches, and I assume he wears braces on his legs. I can’t stop myself from watching him as he plants the crutches in front of him and swing his legs forward, so they land even with the crutch tips. He makes it look easy and his fluid almost graceful movements mesmerize me. 

From I was young I’ve been fascinated by people using wheelchairs, braces, crutches...; and as I’ve grown older my attraction has narrowed down to paraplegic men. There’s something about the contrast between their strong upper bodies and thin, motionless legs that I find incredibly sexy. I would’ve been even more attracted to this guy if he was in a wheelchair, preferably a compact manual one with a low backrest and a single footrest, but I also find braces and crutches appealing.

It doesn’t hurt that he is devastatingly handsome; straight nose, chiseled jaw, slightly shaggy dark brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. He is dressed in a pair of dark, loose-fitting jeans and a plain navy blue V-necked t-shirt that hugs him in all the right places and reveals a lean, yet muscular upper body. His feet are clad in a pair of Nike sneakers.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” Suddenly he is right next to me and the sound of his deep baritone voice startles me slightly.

“It’s all yours,” I announce while I smile at him and hope I sound less flustered than I feel. I also hope I didn’t mess up my Norwegian too much. It’s kind of rusty; English is my first language and although my parents always speak Norwegian at home, I’m not native fluent. 

“Thanks,” he says as he lowers himself down, so he is sitting on the side of the seat with his legs straight out in front of him. Then he slides his arms out of the cuffs of his crutches and lean them against the empty seat between us before he removes his backpack and places that on the same seat.  Finally, he unlocks his braces and uses his hands to swing his legs in front of the seat.  After shifting his weight quickly and very subtly he reaches for his backpack and get a notebook, pencil case and a bottle of water out of it.

He turns and smiles at me and I have a feeling he’s about to say something, but the lights in the auditorium dim and music start coming from the speakers around the room and we both turn our attention to the big screen above the podium.

After the ceremony in the main auditorium is over, we are divided into groups based on our majors and whisked off to other, smaller auditoriums to get more course specific information. The guy on crutches vanishes surprisingly fast and when I enter the auditorium my class was told to meet in, he was nowhere to be seen. I feel a bit silly, but I really hoped he’d be in my class. 

…

The rest of the week is a blur of activities. In addition to starting classes there are lots of activities to help people get to know each other. 

I’m surprised by how hard people are partying. Most of my fellow students get drunk every night that week. It’s not something that appeals to me. 

I drink alcohol; I just don’t see the point of drinking just to get wasted. I think I’m seen as boring by many because I don’t drink as much and leave the parties early, so I’ll be able to focus on school the next day. 

Over the next couple of weeks, I settle into life at school. It’s busy, but I find most of my subjects interesting and dive eagerly into my studies. The social side of things aren’t great. I feel like an outsider.  Most of the activities my fellow students invite me along to involves partying and drinking, which is just not my thing, so I end up declining. 

I miss my friends and family back in South Africa and try to find time to FaceTime with my friends as often as possible. I sometimes regret not joining my friends who have opted for studies in the Cape Town region; most of them are enrolled at the University of Cape Town (UCT) and some at Stellenbosch University (SU). 

Thankfully I enjoy my studies, and I have connected with a few people. Just not the one I hope to get to know more than anyone else.

I see the guy on crutches around a few times, but only from a distance. Sometimes he uses a wheelchair; sometimes he uses crutches. The sight of him makes my heart skip a beat (or three) and I wish I could work up the courage to approach him.

Jonas

A couple of weeks into the semester, I wheel into the cafeteria at lunchtime. It’s packed, I look around the room, hoping to spot an open table. They’re all taken. Just as I’m about to turn around and leave, I spot the girl I sat next to at the enrollment ceremony sitting alone at a table. 

There was something special about her. She didn’t seem fazed by my disability, and she clearly didn’t recognize me, and treated me just like anyone else. Which is refreshing these days. I’ve seen her a few times over the last couple of weeks but haven’t managed to find the courage to approach her. In a spur of the moment, I turn my chair and head in her direction. 

As I approach the table, I see that she’s reading something on her phone and hasn’t noticed me coming. Which doesn’t surprise me, according to a friend of mine using my chair is my stealth mode since it’s so quiet compared when I’m tall. The sound of my crutches usually gets people attention before they see me. I’m not so sure about being stealthy, I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb either whether I’m tall or in my chair. 

Being a somewhat familiar face to many because of who my father is and give or take a decade older than most of my fellow students doesn’t make it easier to blend into the crowd.

“Hi,” I say, to get her attention. She looks up from her phone with a surprised look on her face.

“Oh..eh…hi,” she replies, clearly taken aback. Or is she hesitant?

Crap. She doesn’t seem thrilled to see me, but I figure I’ve already made it this far, so I might as well finish what I started so I carry on.

“You probably don’t remember me, I sat next to you during the enrollment ceremony,” I start, not liking how hesitant I sound.

“I remember,” she replies softly, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

“Would you mind if I join you again? It’s packed here and…” When she doesn’t reply, I add; “Or are you waiting for someone?”

“No, I’m not waiting for anyone. Feel free to join me.” She’s smiling when she ends the sentence. This is working out better than I feared. I notice she’s got an odd accent, I can’t place it, but it seems like she’s not a native Norwegian speaker. Which surprises me, because she’s blonde and Nordic looking, so I assumed she was Norwegian.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling back at her. I slide the chair across from her out of the way and roll up to the table. After securing the brakes on my wheelchair I shift my weight quickly and as discreetly as I can muster. Then I extend my right hand across the table.

“I’m Jonas,” I say with a smile as she grabs my hand and shakes it firmly.

“Sigrid,” she replies, smiling back at me. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re Norwegian?” I blurt out, instantly wishing I could take it back. I hope she’s not offended.

“Born here by Norwegian parents but raised in mostly English-speaking countries. My family’s been based in South Africa for the past seven years. Before that we lived in the UK, US and Australia. We usually visited Norway once a year, a few times two. I’ve never felt a strong tie to Norway to be honest, it’s just where my grandparents and some other family live.”

“So why did you choose to study in Norway? I’m sure there are schools in South Africa, and I know for a fact the climate there is much nicer,” I say, leaning my elbows on the table. I’m rewarded with a little laugh from Sigrid.

“You’re right about both. Figured I’d get to know the country my passport says I’m from and I wanted to try to learn the language properly.  And my grandparents aren’t getting younger, so I figured I’d use this opportunity to get to know them better before it’s too late. I wasn’t exactly close to them growing up, so they were very happy when they heard I was coming to Oslo to study.”

Before I can reply Sigrid shoots me a question, which confirms my suspicion that she has no idea who I am. 

“What about you? I’m not very good with Norwegian dialects, but it sounds like you’re from this area.”

“Born and raised in Oslo. Lived here my whole life, except for a year in Stavanger when I did my military service at a naval base there,” I tell her.

“So, you know the city well then?”

“I’d say so,” I reply, wondering where this is going.

“I could definitely need some tips from a native, to feel less like a clueless tourist trying to navigate a foreign city,” she says with what looks like a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“I think I can be of assistance with that,” I reply, while returning her smile. “What’s your major by the way?”

“International management. Played it safe and opted for a degree that’s taught in English. What about you?”

“Business administration. Honestly, it’s sort of surreal to me that I’m a student. I never was much of an academic. Three years ago, I was working as a carpenter and intended to do that for the rest of my professional life.”

“So, what happened?” she asks. 

“Workplace accident.”

Image credit: Chat GPT

To be continued...