The Pirate

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There was a knock on my bedroom door. I looked up. Mom opened the door. She had a downcast expression.

“Come have a chat with me, Jón.”

She wasn’t angry. I hadn’t done anything. I’d even been unusually quiet. But whenever I heard that tone in her voice it meant she blamed me for something, like the time she found cigarettes in my pocket. Her voice sounded dry and windy. This time, though, she clearly wasn’t angry. She was almost friendly. She must have some news. I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table. What was up? What did she want to tell me? Was she about to tell me I was adopted? That I wasn’t my father’s son, but the son of the famous Icelandic author Þórbergur Þórðarson? I’d long suspected that. I was so very like Þórbergur. Maybe Dad was always so weird around me because he wasn’t my real dad. And maybe he was always so annoyed at Mom because she’d cheated on him. Understandable. Perhaps I had other siblings out there. But maybe it wasn’t that at all. Could she be about to tell me they were going on vacation, and they were inviting me along? I never got to go anywhere with them because I was so much trouble. Recently, though, I’d been very calm. Could it be that Mom was rewarding me for being good by inviting me abroad? But where? Mallorca, perhaps. I’d need to get myself some cool swimming trunks and a necklace with my name on it. I’d go to the beach and have my picture taken with a parrot on my shoulder. Or were we going to London, instead? Mom had visited her friend in London several times. Now, perhaps, I’d get to go along with her. I’d rather go to London than Mallorca because I might get to meet a real punk and go to some gigs. And then I’d be able to buy some proper punk gear. I couldn’t imagine punk stuff was easy to find in Mallorca.

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