She lit another cigarette, a long Peer 100. She smoked and tapped her ashes onto my empty plate. Marlies started muttering. She could just as well have been talking to Matthew and Melissa. I stood next to the kitchen table and watched from the corner of my eye as an enormous dark patch spread rapidly over Martin’s light red shorts. Martin scooted his chair close to the table so Marlies wouldn’t notice anything if she stood up. But she stayed in her chair and told us that she didn’t like the television show and hadn’t liked the last May Festival and she definitely wouldn’t like the next episode or the next May Festival, either. “Why didn’t you like the last May Festival?” Martin asked, pulling in his stomach because the mush had reached his waistband.

“Because I’ve never liked it,” Marlies said.

“Come on, Martin, let’s go,” I whispered.

“Why do you watch the show if you don’t even like it?” Martin asked.

I bent down as if I had to tie my shoes. I looked under the table. The ham-and-pea goo kept spreading. Martin’s calf was covered with goose bumps, and a trickle of greenish canned pea liquid ran down his leg.

“Because the other shows are even worse garbage,” Marlies said.

“Unfortunately, we really have to go now,” I said.

We stood up, and Martin slipped close behind me. “Bye, Marlies,” we said, and Martin followed me out right on my heels.

“Thanks,” I said outside. “For that you can lift me a thousand times.”

Martin laughed. “But not right now,” he said.

Behind Marlies’s house he took off his shorts and shook out the pocket. The ham and mush fell on the grass. We pulled the pocket inside out and scraped off the peas and clumps of mashed potatoes.

“I need new shorts,” Martin said.

Our hands were sticky. We held them out to Alaska, but he refused to lick them clean. Martin pulled his shorts back on and we ran to his house.

We stopped abruptly when we saw Palm standing at their garden gate. We hadn’t expected to see Palm. We thought he’d be out in the field.

“Let’s go to my house,” I whispered. “I’ll lend you some shorts.” But his father had seen us.

“Come here, right now,” he shouted, and we approached the fence behind which the dogs were barking. Alaska tried to hide behind Martin’s legs.

Palm stared at Martin’s shorts. “Did you piss yourself or what?” he yelled. He stank of schnapps and shook Martin by the shoulder. Martin’s head swung back and forth. Martin didn’t say a word and shut his eyes.

“It’s not his fault,” I said. “He scooped up my peas. It’s not his fault, Palm.”