The Weight of Water
Author: Sarah Crossan
Date: 2011-12-25 12:27:29+00:00
Keywords: Middle Grade; Realistic Fiction; Childrens; Emigration & Immigration; Fiction; Juvenile Nonfiction; General; Juvenile Fiction; Social Topics; Family; Bullying; Romance; Coming Of Age; Young Adult; Soc
Description: _______________'Poignant, powerful, just perfect' - Cathy Cassidy'This poetic novel is sheer perfection ... I loved it' - Irish Examiner'A compellingly beautiful, utterly seductive debut novel ... Do not miss it' - The Scotsman_______________Sarah Crossan's exquisite debut novel explores first love, friendship and quiet courage. It will leave you sad, happy and wanting more. Sometimes I want to tear off my clothesAnd show them I'm the sameUnderneath –Maybe better. Life is lonely for Kasienka. She misses her old home in Poland, her mother's heart is breaking, and at her new English school frien
Publisher: A&C Black

For Mum and Dad

Contents

Part 1

Leaving Gdańsk Główny

Stansted

Dwellings

First Day

Year Seven

The Bell

What I Try Not to Hear

Pale

Mute

Search Engine

Noise

Before England

Rain

Swimming

Disco

Deceiver

Road Atlas

The Odyssey

Kanoro

When I Go Swimming Again

Mistaken

Group Work

William

Small Secrets

Drip Tap

Meal Times

Wanted

Examinations

Novice

Christmas

Mama’s Mama

Snow Meal

Change

Happy Slapping

Games

Radio News Flash

Prize Night Envy

Anyone Else

In the Dark

Time to Grow

All Wrong

Karma

If I Were on the Swim Team They Might See Me

Name Day

The Hunt

Maybe

Art Class

Not Alone

Thursday

Grating

What William Says

Back in Gdańsk

Finding Tata

I Wish Tata Were Dead

Questions

Dare Devil

I Try to Tell Mama

The Pity Club

Smokers’ Corner

Oh, to be Musical

Floating

Rumours

When Boys Fight

Late Nights

Life Saver

Higher

Dear William

First Kiss

Assembly

No Offence, But . . .

Wrath

Teachers

Misread

Talking

Part 2

Gummy Bears

Partners

Love is a Large W

Kenilworth Castle

Lottery

Ending the Odyssey

The Bungalow

Cold Hot Chocolate

Blame

A Letter I Never Send

The Bell Jar

Skin Deep

I Didn’t Mean to Go Back

Melanie

The Gospel According to Tata

Lady Godiva

Ready

Guilty

Motherless

Desperation

Hope

Split

Part 3

Dalilah

The Veil

July 7

In Mama’s Absence

Maybe I Should Not

Confidence

Practice

Ms Morrow

Family

A Solution

Allegiance

Cracked

Sleepover

Cooking Stones

Good News

Vacant

Rebellion

Betrayal

Lies in the Dark

To London

Fear

Starting Blocks

Home

Gold

Metamorphosis

Forgiveness

Reunion

Treat

Resurrection

Side by Side

Epilogue

Butterfly

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Part 1

Leaving Gdańsk Główny

The wheels on the suitcase break

Before we’ve even left Gdańsk Główny.

Mama knocks them on some steps and

Bang, crack, rattle –

No more use.

There are

plastic bits

Everywhere.

It’s hard for Mama carrying a suitcase

And a bulging laundry bag.

It’s hard for Mama

With everyone watching.

She’s shy about the laundry bag,

An old nylon one

Borrowed from Babcia.

Tata took all the good luggage

When he left us,

When he walked out

On Mama and me.

‘There are clean clothes in it,’

Mama reminds me,

Like this were something

To be proud of.

And she won’t let me carry a thing

Except

my own

small bag.

‘You guard our passports, Kasienka.

Good girl, Kasienka.

And the money.

We’ll need those pounds.

Mind the money and the passports.

Good girl, Kasienka.’

Mama prattles as I scuttle along

behind her

Dodging business suits and

backpacks.

There is no one to recognise Mama

In the crowded station.

But all the same, she is shy

About that laundry bag.

‘Now keep close, Kasienka.

Keep close,’

Mama mutters as we leave Gdańsk Główny

And step aboard a bus for the airport

While I cling to the belt of her coat,

Too old for holding hands,

Even if she had one free.

Stansted

We weren’t on a ship.

Immigrants don’t arrive on

Overcrowded boats any more,

Swarming wet docks like rats.

It isn’t 1920, and it isn’t Ellis Island –

Nothing as romantic as a view of

Lady Liberty

To welcome us.

We flew into Stansted.

Not quite London

But near enough.

At immigration we queue

Nervously and practise English in our heads:

Yes-thank-you-officer.

I know I am not at home

When talking makes my tummy turn

And I rehearse what I say

Like lines from a play

Before opening my mouth.

At baggage reclaim

The laundry bag

Coasts around the carousel

And people look.

Someone points,

So Mama says, ‘Leave it, Kasienka.

There’s nothing in that bag but long

underwear.

We won’t need them here.

We’ll need galoshes.’

Mama is right:

The air in England is swampy,

The sky a grey blanket.

And rain threatens

To drench us.

Dwellings

Mama rented a room

In Coventry.

This is where we’ll live

Until we find Tata:

One room on the fourth floor

Of a crumbling building

That reminds me of history class,

Reminds me of black and white photographs

Of bombed

out

villages.

There is a white kitchen in the room,

In the corner,

And one big bed,

Lumpy in the middle

Like a cold pierogi

For Mama and me to share.

‘It’s just one room,’ I say,

When what I mean is

We can’t live here.

‘It’s called a studio,’

Mama tells me,

As though a word

Can change the truth.

Mama stands by the dirty window

With her back to me

Looking out at the droning traffic,

The Coventry Ring Road.

Then she marches to the kitchen and

Plugs in the small electric kettle.

She boils the water

Twice,

And makes two mugs of tea.

One for her,

One for me.

‘Like home,’ she says,

Supping the tea,

Staring into its blackness.

Mama found the perfect home for

A cast-off laundry bag.

Yes.

But not a home for us.

First Day

Mrs Warren asks, ‘Do you speak English, dear?’

Crouching down,

Resting her hands on her knees

As though summoning a spaniel.

Her voice is loud

And clear,

Her tongue pink

and rolling.

I nod and Mrs Warren smiles,

Then sighs,

Relieved.

‘So what’s your name, dear?’ Mrs Warren asks,

And I’m glad, because I was afraid she had mistaken

Me for someone called Dear,

And that I would have to

Respond to that name

For ever.

‘My name is Kasienka,’ I say,

embarrassed to use my

crooked English.

Mrs Warren stands up straight

and stretches her back.

She sighs,

Again,

And ridges appear on her brow.

She looks at Mama

then back at me.

‘Well . . . Cassie, welcome!’

I want to point out her mistake,

Give her a chance to say my

Name properly.

But Mama touches my shoulder.

A clear caution.

‘We’ll start you in Year Seven

And see how that goes.’

Year Seven

I am twelve.

Almost thirteen.

I’ve budding breasts and

Monthly bleeds,

But I am in a class with

Eleven-year-olds.

Mama isn’t troubled.

Until I learn to read

Austen in the original

I should stay with the

Younger ones, she says.

But Mama is wrong.

Some of them have never even heard of Austen.

I understand numbers

Better than anyone in Year Seven.

The planets too.

In lessons I have to

Hide my face

With a book

So teachers

Don’t see my tonsils

When I yawn.

I don’t read well

In English.

That is all I can’t do.

So they put me in with eleven-year-olds.

The Bell

There is a bell,

A pealing chime to signal

When everyone moves.

We are ruled by its shrillness.

Like sleepwalkers we stand

When it clangs

And return to silence

At its command.

Teachers try to lead the processions:

‘I will decide when the lesson ends,’ they insist.

But they cannot compete

With The Bell.

What I Try Not to Hear

Polish words bounce about the classroom

And it should feel good to hear it but

I try not to listen;

Two boys in my class are saying things a girl

Should not hear

If she is any kind of

Lady.

They laugh, loudly, because the teacher

Is right there listening,

Not understanding,

Thinking they are being

Good

When really they are being

Horrible,

When really they are talking about

Her chest.

Konrad winks and wields his tongue

As though he would like to lick me.

But he is only eleven; he is doing his best

To shock,

And I know that if I flirted with him

Even a little,

He would probably be

Terrified.

Pale

The brown children

Play with the white children.

The black children

Play with the brown children.

They charge at one another

Hands up, like antlers,

Hitting and howling.

I’m not welcome to play.

The reason: I’m too white.

No one likes too-white,

Eastern white,

Polish winter white,

Vampire-fright white.

Brown is OK – usually.

But white is too bad.

At lunch time

I hide

In the corner

Of the yard

By a drinking fountain

Hoping only to be

Left alone.

It’s the best to hope for

Among all the raised antlers.

Mute

Mama took a job

In a hospital.

Until we find Tata

We will be poor.

We will need the money.

Mama’s job is to clean and carry.

She doesn’t have to speak to

Anyone.

Mama’s long vowels scare

The older patients.

They’d prefer to hear

A familiar, imperial voice

Than know a Pole is

Bringing them breakfast.

On her first day

A woman with crust in her face

Asks Mama where she’s from,

And when Mama tells her,

The crusty creature snarls and says,

‘I’d like someone English,’

Politely adding, ‘Please.’

Mama doesn’t have to speak to

Anyone

Usually.

In fact, they would rather she didn’t.

She just has to clean and carry.

‘Please.’

Search Engine

Mama goes to the library

To check the internet.

She thinks

Google might know where

Tata is.

But it doesn’t.

When she types in Tata’s name,

Google spits back

Thousands of hopeless links.

Poor Mama is too tired to cook

When she returns from her

Trip to the library,

So I make dinner:

Porridge with raisins and honey.

We eat in stodgy silence,

Ignoring each other

As best we can

In the small room,

Though I don’t know why.

At ten o’clock

Mama lets me have the bed

To myself,

Then trickles in

An hour later.

Her feet are cold,

And she is shivering.

Mama sniffs.

‘Are you sick, Mama?’

She doesn’t speak.

She pretends to be asleep.

But as a car trundles by outside,

I make out, in the gloom,

The flash of a tear

On the side of Mama’s face.

And though I want to console her,

I can’t think how,

Without making her mad.

Noise

There are nasty people in our building.

Mama tells me not to talk to

Anyone,

Or look at

Anyone,

Especially when she’s at work.

If they stop me on the stairs,

Or try to get into the room,

I’m to pretend I don’t speak English

‘Because there are nasty people here.’

They are not English people.

English people do not live in this building –

It could not be home for them

Because they wouldn’t fit here,

In a place infested with aliens.

Sometimes we hear children squalling

And small dogs barking,

Then yelping and whining

Long into the night.

A man shouts:

MUTT. MUTT.

And I wonder if he is shouting

At a dog or a child.

One night a barbarian knocks

When Mama is singing.

Her eyes are shut

And she jumps

When the pounding fist

Thunders against the door.

‘No noises!’ he shouts.

‘Against rules here!’

Mama storms to the door,

Opens it brandishing her sheet music –

The Barber of Seville –

To prove her singing

Isn’t noise.

‘Against house rules!’

The man shouts again,

His face a knot.

Mama gasps,

Presses a hand to her heart

And bangs the door

shut.

She isn’t afraid of him,

As I am;

She’s shaken

By his ignorance.

‘No noises,’ she repeats quietly.

As Mama starts to put away

The sheet music

I say,

‘No, Mama, sing quietly.

For me.’

And I sit up on the kitchen counter

To hear her soaring Rosina,

And remember Mama as she was,

Poised and powerful,

Lungs that could cut glass.

Before Tata left.

Before Coventry.

We hear nasty people every night

Cursing Christ and

All the Saints In Heaven.

Mama blesses herself,

Showers the room in holy water

And insists I say my prayers,

Which I do,

Hiding underneath the feather duvet

Hoping God will hear me

Here

In Coventry.

Before England

Mama pitched a coffee cup

At the wall.

Tata shouted:

‘Are you crazy?

Are you? Crazy!’

Babcia picked up the pieces

As usual,

And mopped up the coffee.

Mama stamped her way

To the pantry to

Knead dough.

Tata turned up the television.

I had two parents then,

But I couldn’t be in two places,

So I sat with Babcia,

Away from them both.

Mama showed me the note from Tata

The day he disappeared.

Ola, I have gone to England

Is all he wrote.

I got no note.

And no mention in the one to Mama.

Mama cried for two whole years.

And Babcia held her all this time.

I didn’t cry, even though Tata forgot me,

Even though I had a right to cry.

Babcia said, ‘He didn’t leave you, Kasienka,’

Which was a lie.

Because he didn’t take me with him.

She just meant, Behave yourself –

I’m dealing with your mother.

Then a cheque came from Tata,

In an envelope

With a clear postmark.

And Mama knew what to do.

Now we share a damp bed

In a strange place.

Mama is still crying.

But Babcia isn’t here to hold her.

And my arms are too short for the job.

Rain

It rains relentlessly.

Rain

Rain

Rain.

All.

Day.

Long.

It is in my knuckles and my knees –

The damp.

And I’ve no galoshes

Or welly boots to wear.

So I wear my snow boots to school

To keep my feet dry.

The other children stare.

But I don’t care.

At least my feet are dry.

Mama says, ‘Don’t worry, Kasienka,

They have summers here too.’

But I don’t know

About that.

Swimming

Mama pays,

Reluctantly:

Presses two coins into my palm

As though she’s passing me a secret.

Tata taught me to swim.

Taught me to be strong.

It was no good grumbling

Or wrinkling my nose

Or crying – like a girl –

Tata didn’t care about that.

‘Kick your legs

From the hip,

Not the feet.

Now climb towards me

With your arms.’

After swimming Tata

Bought me ice cream:

Blueberry in a cup,

‘For my Olympian.’

I never want to

Paddle and play in the pool.

I’m here to work hard.

Do lengths.

Up and

Down,

Up and

Down,

The power of my own body

Fluent, fluid,

Propelling me forward

Like a pebble from

A catapult.

A boy from my school is here.

A boy from Year Nine,

I think.

He is perched on the edge of the diving board watching me.

Up and

Down,

Up and

Down.

And when I am below him

At the deep end,

He gets up, raises his arms,

And like a hunting hawk

Plunges into the water

Effortlessly.

Surfacing, he bobs about

Gazing again.

So I swim fast,

To outswim his stare

And make Tata proud,

Even though there’ll be no

Blueberry ice cream

Today.

I don’t know the diving boy,

The gawking hawk boy.

But he is in Year Nine.

And he is older than me.

Disco

A poster in the classroom

Announces a dance.

A disco.

For Year Seven.

Everyone’s excited.

And Everyone’s going.

Everyone but me.

For three reasons:

I’m twelve.

Almost thirteen.

Not eleven.

Deceiver

In the City Arcade

There is a shop where

Each item is one pound.

They sell everything

In that shop

For one pound.

Just one pound.

There are bags of chocolate for one pound.

And orange Halloween decorations.

They sell fairy wings

And cricket sets.

It’s astounding:

Everything one pound!

Mama picks up a box,

Turns it over in her hands.

It is just one pound.

But after inspection Mama

Puts it down, slowly,

And moves to the cashier

To pay for my socks and knickers.

It is a box of make-up –

Creams and powder shades:

For eyes and lips and cheeks.

In my pocket I have a five-pound note

Babcia gave me

Before I left.

And I want to buy Mama

The big box of make-up

She can’t afford

Or pay for my own socks.

But I want the five pounds too.

I want the five pounds more.

I make a fist around the note in my coat pocket.

‘Good girl, Kasienka,’ Mama says.

Mama says, ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’

Every day.

Even when I’m not so good.

Road Atlas

Mama found a map

In a shop called

The British Heart Foundation.

She says:

‘Tata is somewhere in this city,

And we are going to find him.’

She speaks like an officer

Commanding a line of troops –

Forgetting we are only two

And presuming I wish to enlist.

She unfolds the map

Across the floor

To prepare a plan of attack,

Flattens it carefully

And says:

‘This is where we live,’

And points, with a pencil,

To an empty space.

‘How lucky we are,

Kasienka, love.

So close to Tata.

He is here. Somewhere.’

Mama looks up and I clap gently,

Fraudulently applaud her project,

While my insides tighten at one question:

What happens if we find him?

Mama waves the pencil over the map

And it flutters from the movement in the air,

As her heart must flutter

Whenever she thinks of Tata.

I wish my heart did that

When I thought of him.

Or anyone.

But there is no space

In my belly for butterflies.

The Odyssey

I

Mama makes me knock and

I inch forward

To tap lightly –

Once.

But when Mama tuts

I knock again.

Once.

Twice.

Harder

This time.

A round man in a string vest appears.

He shakes his head, wags a furious finger.

‘No,’ he growls. ‘Whatever it is you want.’

Mama prods me.

Pushes me forward –

Me and my English.

‘We are looking for a man,’

Is all I can say

Because I am mesmerised by the puffy nipples

Poking through the holes in the man’s vest.

‘Do I look like some kind of poofter to you?

Get lost. Go on!’

He slams the door

In my face.

Just once.

HARD.

‘What’s a poofter, Mama?’ I ask.

‘A type of landlord, Kasienka,’ Mama says,

Very sure of her English.

II

The old lady wants to help.

She looks sorry

For not knowing more,

Tells us she will ask her friends

At Tuesday bingo

If they’ve seen Tata.

Her head rolls to one side,

Heavy with regret,

And this makes me feel

Very small.

III

There is no answer

At the next house,

Just drawn curtains

And a closed wooden door

With the paint peeling.

IV

When it gets dark,

I want to go home.

‘One more street, Kasienka,

Then home. I’ll make bigos,’ she says.

But Mama misunderstands.

When I say home, I don’t mean

The Studio.

V

She is too tired to make the bigos,

And throws together cheese sandwiches

For dinner instead.

Then she unfolds her map

And marks the streets we have searched.

‘It could take us for ever,’ I complain,

Though not too loudly,

For fear of pinching Mama’s mood.

‘You in a hurry to be somewhere else?’

Mama asks

And goes back to the map,

Leaving me to my pessimism and

French homework.

Kanoro

Kanoro lives in our building.

In the next room.

He shares a bathroom with Mama and me.

But he is not a nasty person:

He is beautiful.

He is blacker than anyone I have ever met.

Skin like

Wet ink.

And he scares me,

Until he smiles:

Pink,

All gums,

A smile that makes his eyes twinkle.

In Kenya he was a doctor.

‘For children,’ he explains.

Again the smile,

The gums.

The twinkle.

In Coventry he is a cleaner

At a hospital,

Like Mama.

‘I like to work in hospitals,’ Kanoro says.

Mama laughs:

‘They think you are nothing,

These receptionist women and porter men.

But you are better than them;

You are a doctor,

And they don’t know it.

Ignorant English.’

Kanoro shakes his head

And like stars at dawn

The twinkle disappears.

‘It is Kanoro who is ignorant,

If he thinks he is better.

There is honour in all things,’ he says.

Mama winces, then smiles.

And in her smile there is an

Inky glint.

When I Go Swimming Again

The staring boy is there,

Sitting on the tiles

With his feet in the water.

Kicking.

I hurry to the other end of the pool,

Head down,

Hands hiding my chest,

Planning to dive in,

To save myself.

But somehow I stumble

And fall,

Making a mighty

SPLASH

That attracts too much attention.

Mistaken

When Mama said,

‘We’re going to England,’

I didn’t see myself

Alone.

I knew I’d be different,

Foreign.

I knew I wouldn’t understand

Everything.

But I thought, maybe, I’d be exotic,

Like a red squirrel among the grey,

Like an English girl would be in Gdańsk.

But I am not an English girl in Gdańsk.

I’m a Pole in Coventry.

And that is not the same thing

At all.

Group Work

Five foreigners in my class

And, very strange,

Quite coincidentally,

Teachers never put us

To work in the same groups.

Each group must be given

Its fair share of duds.

No need to overburden

One particular person.

This isn’t prejudice:

None of the smart ones

Ever end up together,

None of the dim kids either,

Or the noisy, naughty ones.

Teachers aren’t stupid.

But maybe they think we are,

When they pretend to make

Random selections.

The teachers who do let us choose

Make the mistake of thinking

Everyone will find a place;

But there are always

One or two of us,

Left sitting,

Desperately scanning,

Hoping to be considered

By a group of unpopulars

With too few people

Before the teacher turns,

Detects the exclusion

And with a wagging finger says,

‘You! Work with them.’

There is eye rolling and chair scraping

As we shuffle forward,

Unwanted and misused,

Like old boots dragged

From a river.

William

The boy from the swimming pool,

The boy from Year Nine,

The watcher,

Is called William.

He tells me I’m a mean swimmer

And should be on the school team.

I didn’t know there was a team,

But I should be on it,

William says.

I’m mean,

William says,

Pushing his hair

Out of his eyes

And hitching up his jeans

Which are slipping around his hips.

He doesn’t say much more –

He just stares,

And this staring brings my dinner

Back into my throat:

Green beans and bacon.

I swallow it quickly.

And with twisted tongue tell him

I’m twelve,

Almost thirteen,

In case he thinks otherwise.

When I talk he looks at me

Like I am amazing

And then he says,

‘Why are you in Year Seven?’

And I don’t want him to think

I’m stupid, so I have to say,

‘It’s because I’m Polish.

I’m in Year Seven because

I’m Polish.’

This is the truth

And yet, it is only

A small piece

Of it.

Small Secrets

I tell Mama about the swim team

But not about William.

‘No time for this, Kasienka,’

Mama says. ‘We have to find Tata.’

She points to the map

Pinned to the wall like ugly art.

I nod, yes, though I do not want to look for Tata –

Tata does not want to be found;

He is in hiding – he is hiding from us both,

A truth that makes me grind my teeth sometimes.

But I don’t tell Mama this,

Even when we’re searching.

Night after night,

Street after street,

One door at a time,

And it’s raining,

And I’m hungry,

And teary,

And tired,

Because hope is all Mama has.

And I cannot take it from her.

Drip Tap

There is a leaky tap in the kitchen,

in our room, where we sleep.

All night it plays a rapping rhythm

against the metal sink,

And Mama, next to me,

murmurs along to its beat.

I want to get out of bed to tighten the tap,

stop the dripping – the rapping-tapping.

It’s times like these Tata would be useful.

He’d have a box of tools

And no fear about waking Mama

to get the tap fixed,

though she might grumble.

Meal Times

He uses sharp spices

Which we taste in our dinner

Through the walls.

Mama invites Kanoro

To eat with us,

To share our evenings.

Sometimes he brings his bright rice

with him.

And he always brings his smile and

Twinkling eyes.

Wanted

Mama is wasting money

We don’t have.

She prints posters

With Tata’s picture on it

And the word MISSING.

She makes one hundred copies

On purple paper,

So people will notice them

Stapled to the trees

Around Coventry.

They are like wanted posters,

But Tata is not a criminal.

They are like posters people

Put up when they’ve lost a cat,

But Tata is not an animal.

I’m embarrassed for him

In case he is living in Coventry

And doesn’t want to be found –

Like some criminal or animal.

When we’ve put up

half the posters

I tell Mama

it’s enough.

Her mouth becomes a hard line.

She snatches the pile of papers from me.

‘Kasienka, do you know

That you are useless?’ she snaps.

The answer to this question is

YES:

I know.

I am useless.

Examinations

They have come up with a

Civil way for saying we are slow,

But it all means the same thing:

I get extra time because

I have special needs.

No one wants to be special at school.

I simply want to be the same as everyone else.

No one wants to have special needs.

In the maths exam I don’t need the extra time –

Finishing the paper is as easy as

Finishing a plateful of raspberries.

I have an hour left over

Which annoys the invigilator

Marking his own exams.

‘Read over your workings,’ he grumps.

But I don’t.

I don’t need to read over

Anything.

Because I don’t have special needs.

And I’m not eleven.

Novice

I teach Kanoro chess.

He doesn’t even know

Where the pieces sit.

So we take our time

Setting up the board,

Making our moves,

Watching for mistakes

And ignoring the clock.

We are competitive,

And we are generous.

Kanoro wins game three –

Checkmate.

He laughs, his mouth a wide

Sunlit cavern.

And Mama laughs too,

Lips barely parted,

Her nostrils giving it away,

And her eyes, which,

For a moment,

Lower their longing,

And seem to see

Me clearly.

Mama offers to restore

The family pride –

Takes my seat

And lines up her troops.

‘I’m a lucky man,’ Kanoro says,

Looking closely at the squares

On the chess board,

And I don’t know if he’s

Talking about his win

Or something else entirely.

Christmas

Babcia arrives carrying two heavy suitcases,

Though she’s only staying one week.

She doesn’t like Coventry

at all:

It’s too warm to be winter and

No one speaks Polish.

‘Why don’t they try?’ Babcia bleats.

Mama points a finger at Babcia –

‘You don’t speak English, Mama.

Only a little Russian.

Why don’t you try?’

Babcia sniffs –

‘I’m an old woman,’ she says

and Mama smiles.

Babcia tells Mama to come home.

‘For the New Year concerts.

For the skiing.’

Mama turns her back on Babcia

And continues with the cooking.

Babcia sings as she sews,

Old parsnip fingers guiding the thread.

She quilts patchwork bedcovers

From old shirts and skirts –

Clothes no one wants

Babcia turns into magic.

Kanoro comes to dinner

On Christmas Eve

And Babcia shrieks –

‘So so black!’

in Polish of course.

Mama frowns and we sit to eat.

We sing carols,

Eat boiled ham,

Open small boxes

Wrapped in bows,

And it is good enough.

Mama’s Mama

In Poland, Mama and Babcia

Didn’t argue. They were on the

Same side.

The opposite side

To Tata.

In England, Mama gets prickly

Whenever Babcia

Mentions Tata

Or complains about him.

Mama gets prickly about

A lot of things.

She won’t let Babcia

Help in the kitchen

With the cooking,

Won’t let her mend the curtains

Which are ripped and frayed,

Or take me shopping

For new goggles.

‘She’s my daughter.

I can buy her what she needs,’

Mama says, though this is a lie.

Mama is always annoyed with Babcia,

But Babcia hasn’t done anything wrong

That I can see.

The night before Babcia leaves

I am in Kanoro’s room

Watching television

When the squabbling soaks through the wall.

‘You must think of the child, Ola.

You come back to Poland

When you find him.

It isn’t fair on the child.

Let me take her home.’

‘Her home is with me, Mama.

I can take care of her. Don’t

You see how happy she is?’

‘Are you blind, you mule?

You live in a dump.

Her only friend is that black man.’

‘He is a good man.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘He is a doctor.’

‘You are pigheaded.’

‘Pigheaded, Mama,

Is better than old

And ignorant.’

‘Lord have Mercy!’

I shoot Kanoro a look,

Embarrassed,

Wishing he hadn’t heard,

Wishing the walls were stronger,

When I remember he can’t

Understand the Polish they are using.

And I am grateful.

I do not want to go back to the

room.

I do not want to choose

Between Mama

And Babcia.

But when dinner is ready

Mama knocks on the wall, as usual,

And there is no more

Quarrelling in the room.

They make an excellent effort

To pretend everything is well.

Snow Meal

When they say it might snow

I sit by the window,

My fingertips pressed against glass,

Waiting.

I know it’s childish,

But I want to

Build a tubby snowman,

A man with button eyes

And a long carrot nose.

Kanoro watches with me;

He’s never seen snow

And never built a snowman,

So we’ll make it

Together –

And it will remind me of home

For the few hours it lives.

When they say it might snow

We sit by the window,

Our fingertips against glass,

Waiting.

Suddenly a scattering

Of children emerges

And dance to silent music

Together in the street.

A few flakes are falling.

They melt into the ground

Like stones thrown into a lake.

Kanoro pulls on my elbow.

‘Let’s go. It’s snow!’ he says.

There isn’t enough settling to

Make a snowman’s big toe,

Even if we collected all the snow

In the street.

Kanoro rushes to his room

And returns wearing

A thick woollen coat,

Though there’s no need for it;

No chance of real snow landing.

Outside Kanoro opens his mouth

To taste the snowflakes.

And I do the same.

A cool dusting fills

My mouth with memories

Of winter.

We look up at the night sky

And eat our snow meals.

Change

The exams have been marked

After the break

And Mrs Warren admits her mistake:

So I start in Year Eight

Where I should have been

All along.

Again,

No one talks to me

At all.

So I sit

On my own

At the front of the classroom

Furiously trying to keep up

With the bored teachers

Who don’t seem

To notice I’m new.

In assembly I spot William.

He nods, a secret salute,

Then sits on the opposite side of the hall

Next to a boy with big teeth

And a thin moustache.

And I spend assembly

Pretending not to look at him.

Happy Slapping

In science, Clair shows me

Her mobile phone and on it

A video

Of a cracking attack

On a boy

At a bus stop.

Not for money.

Not for revenge.

Not really for fame either –

It’s just for fun:

To see someone

Suffer.

Slapped.

I look up and laugh

Sheepishly,

And Clair approves –

‘I’ll send it to you,’

she promises,

Then shepherds the phone to

The row behind

So they too can

Feast on

The fun.

I do not mention

I have no phone.

Games

They pick teams and I am not last

To be picked because Clair chooses me.

Clair chooses me third out of six girls

And I am in her team for rounders.

I can catch, and I can hit, and I can run

And when I do she squeals, ‘Go, Cassie! Go!’

And afterwards, when we are getting changed

She says, ‘The other team were crap!’

And I wasn’t on the other team.

Radio News Flash

A Croatian builder was attacked
last night in Birmingham
on his way home from work
with his own hammer . . .

Three fourteen-year-old youths
are now in custody awaiting bail . . .

Witnesses say the attackers shouted

‘Give us back our jobs, Polack!’

before bludgeoning his skull
with the forged steel head . . .

The thirty-year-old father from Moseley,
now in the Birmingham Specialist Unit,
is said to be in a critical but stable condition . . .

Mama puts a piece of

Potato into her mouth

But doesn’t chew.

Kanoro looks at her

Meaningfully.

What do meaningful looks mean anyway?

Prize Night Envy

It takes two hours to honour those smarter than us

And watch them parade across the polished stage

To receive award

after award.

Mama sits with the other parents.

She looks puzzled because I’m not called

Forward for a medal or a trophy.

I don’t even get a certificate she can

Stick to the fridge.

Clair is sitting next to me

Defacing the programme.

She sneers when other people win

And groans instead of clapping.

There are sports awards.

William wins a swimming medal – gold –

And when he sits

Back down he passes the medal

Along our row so I can touch it.

Stabbing jealousy makes my head spin,

And then there’s guilt in my gut

Because William looks so proud,

And he has been so nice;

He deserves this medal.

I pass it back along the row

And Clair turns to me and says,

‘You’re friends with Will?’

And I shrug;

I don’t think we are friends

Exactly.

For the finale we stand in our rows

Like dishevelled soldiers

And sing ‘God Save the Queen’.

I don’t know the words.

I just open and close my

Mouth and look straight ahead

Hoping no one will notice

The treason.

Anyone Else

I am the best runner in the class.

It’s not arrogance, it’s a fact:

When I’m in a team

We win.

But Clair doesn’t pick me any more.

She looks past me,

Through me

To anyone else.

Instead of me

She chooses Bella

who won’t bat because she has her period,

And Rachel

who can’t run because she forgot her trainers.

She chooses girls who won’t catch

or race

or jump

Because they just

Can’t be bothered.

Then I am the last standing

So Clair has no choice;

She has to take me.

And I am in her team,

But I know this makes her

Mad

Because she rolls her eyes

And whispers something

To Marie that I can’t hear.

But she wants me to see her whispering

Of course.

When we play I am told

To field,

Way back

By the bushes

Where the ball

Never falls.

And when I bat

No one cheers any more.

No one cares that I get a rounder.

Only when I’m caught

OUT

Are they satisfied.

In the Dark

The worst thing:

I don’t even know

What I did wrong.

Another thing:

I’m meant to know

What I did wrong

And fix it.

Clair says, ‘Don’t worry about it,’

But I do.

How can I forget it

When she won’t let me?

Time to Grow

Girls in England

Have long hair.

Hair that’s flat

And sits neatly

On their shoulders.

My hair is short

And black,

And sticks up in

The morning

Like moody fur.

The girls in my class

Speak to me, finally.

And Clair asks about my hair –

Why it’s short.

‘Is it because you’re a lesbian?’

She wants to know.

It’s true that

Some boys have

Longer hair than me.

So, I decide to grow it.

And wear a flower in it,

So I won’t look

Like a Polish lesbian

Any more.

All Wrong

Today I was told

I have the wrong bag.

Today I was told that

My bag is ridiculous.

I have looked carefully

At the offending bag.

It’s an ordinary satchel

For school books,

With sections

For smaller items.

Today I was told

It is all wrong.

I’m looking at the bag.

I’m desperate to know

What doesn’t work.

But I just can’t figure it out.

Karma

If I were back in Gdańsk, I wouldn’t be friends

With a new girl either.

If I still had Magdalena

To copy homework from

And sit with at lunch,

I’d ignore a new girl too,

Like we snubbed Alexsandra who stood

Far enough away

To be discreet.

Close enough to be invited.

We just ignored her.

We played doubles, pretended not to notice

She was holding a racket and

Wearing shorts with pockets.

Why did we do that?

But we weren’t mean to her.

We didn’t whisper and laugh,

Avoid touching her in case we caught something.

We simply ignored her.

If I Were on the Swim Team They Might See Me

Sometimes I want to tear off my clothes

And show them I’m the same

Underneath –

Maybe better.

It doesn’t matter what I wear.

I always look different:

My clothes are too heavy –

That much I can tell.

And I have no real vision,

I just don’t see what’s wrong.

If I were on the swim team

I’d wear a costume

Like everyone else,

There’d be more skin than fabric.

If I were in the swim team,

They might see me.

Name Day

As I rub away cold sleep,

Mama pulls out a box

Wrapped in starry blue paper,

A card taped to the top –

Kasienka on it

In neat script.

I sit up in the bed

And rip open the paper.

Mama cheers: ‘Your own iron!’

I want to stop unwrapping.

I want to cry.

What do I need an iron for?

We already have one, which leaks,

like the tap

in the kitchen.

When I take the box out of its wrapping

I see Mama’s mistake – or mine –

It’s a hair iron,

‘A straightener,’ I say,

Genuinely joyful

And read the box aloud:

Ceramic plates.

Mama shrugs. I shrug.

We don’t know if ceramic plates is good –

It sounds good,

Printed in bold, square letters.

Later on, after we’ve lunched on fresh golabki,

And I’ve straightened my hair,

Mama, Kanoro and I march to the cinema.

We gorge on sweet buttered popcorn and

Orange sodas.

We sit in the front row, me in the middle,

Smiling all the way

Through a sad film.

The Hunt

They don’t have to say

a thing.

They just have to stare

At my hair,

For me to know

It isn’t enough

To impress them,

Though it’s so straight now

You could paint with it.

Clair confirms that

It is still too short,

I still look gay –

‘Are you gay?’

A paper appears in my locker.

FYI: You smell like old meat.

I hurry to the toilets to sniff myself,

And when I’m there,

Clair and Marie arrive

With a gaggle of girls.

‘Can you smell something?’

Clair wonders,

And Marie holds her nose,

And then the other girls too.

They are hunting,

Circling me to prevent my escape.

They yap and snuffle,

Jostle to be close to Clair,

Covering their mouths

To stifle laughter.

I am a fox surrounded by beagles.

They will eat me alive and spit out the fat.

I am their prey and there is nothing

I can do to stop them pouncing.

Maybe

Leaning on the lockers,

Chewing on a straw,

Clair pretends she can’t

See me because she’s

Alone –

Without the pack.

I close my locker loudly,

With a

BANG

And for a second she shudders

Then turns

And shows off her braces.

‘Hi, Cassie!’ she says,

Blinking.

That’s all.

And I wonder if

This means

We’re friends.

Art Class

A shadow frowns over my sugar paper,

And then a warm voice: ‘That’s good, Cassie.’

Arlene puts her picture down next to mine.

She’s slight, with round glasses that hide

half her face.

We sit together using our thumbs

To blend chalk dust into

Fat green marrows,

And I think, maybe she’s the one,

Maybe she’s the friend

I’ve been waiting to find.

But Clair tracks me down at the sink

Where we go to wash the colours from

Our hands.

‘Is it true what you said about Arlene?’

I gaze at Clair,

Too amazed to protest.

Arlene looks sideways at me.

She wipes her hands on her trousers

And backs away from the

Danger of friendship.

‘Arlene’s a bit sensitive,’

Clair hisses and slinks away too.

Nothing more.

In the sink the colours have washed away,

And the water runs clear.

Not Alone

William finds me in the dining hall.

He moves to my table, drops his tray,

And sits.

He slurps and burps,

Wipes his mouth on his sleeve

And stares.

Year Nine boys watch us

From across the hall.

They are gesturing,

Guffawing.

‘My friends,’ William says,

‘Are idiots.’

And then, ‘You haven’t been to practice.’

I shake my head and sip my Coke.

I know it’s better when I don’t talk.

‘So maybe I’ll see you at the pool this week.

Maybe you’ll be there on Thursday,’ he says.

He waits for me to speak.

I nod and

Dip my chips

In ketchup.

‘So you’ll be there on Thursday,’

He says.

Walking to science he takes my hand

and squeezes it

As though testing a piece of fruit in a market

Before buying.

Then he puts his hands into his trouser pockets

And says, ‘I’ll see you at the pool then.

Thursday.’

Thursday

In the changing room

I check myself in the mirror.

I want to be sure

I look normal.

I do not:

I am sharp-cornered,

Like a piece of Swedish

Self-assembly furniture

Gone wrong.

I am all lines,

No curves.

My fingers and toes are too long.

My nose is pointy, my bottom flat.

When did this happen?

I tiptoe to the pool,

My towel hiding my shape.

Apart from a lone lifeguard

Sitting in what looks like

A baby’s high chair

The place is deserted.

I cannot see William anywhere.

I drop the towel and let the water

Take me.

And I do lengths:

Up and

Down,

Up and

Down,

Waiting for William

Who never shows up and

Trying not to think about

Rejection.

Grating

I am hairy.

I have thick

black

shoots

Under my arms

And on my legs

And between them too.

I am hairy.

I did not know this until

I noticed the women

In the pool

With their velvety skin.

I am hairy.

So when I get home

I swipe Mama’s razor,

Sneak down to the bathroom

And work on the problem.

I rest one hairy leg on the toilet seat

And drag the blade up it.

I scream. Loudly,

Like someone is trying to murder me

And Mama runs up the hall

And knocks on the door:

‘What is happening, Kasienka?’

She wants to know.

She wants to know

I’m not being murdered.

Little red rivers

Run down to my ankles

And pool on the toilet seat.

‘I’m OK, Mama,’ I say.

I have not shaved the hair

But grated the skin.

There is pink flesh

In the blade,

No hair at all.

When I emerge from the bathroom

I am still hairy.

And covered in cuts.

What William Says

I wanted to call you

But I didn’t have your number.

If I had your number

I would have called

For sure

You know.

I was really sick.

I was so queasy

I couldn’t eat.

I couldn’t get out of bed.

I had a stomach bug, the doctor said.

Anyway,

If I’d had your number

I would have called

For sure

You know.

Sorry I didn’t show up

At the pool.

Man, I was so sick.

But I couldn’t get in touch with you.

Let’s do it another time.

I won’t be sick.

I’m done with sick.

You know.

For sure.

Back in Gdańsk

I dream about Tata.

We are in a train station.

Maybe we are in

Gdańsk Główny.

People are

Milling yet purposeful,

Like ants

Around a sugar bowl.

Mama and I are trailing

Tata

Through the crowd.

He glances back,

Encouraging us.

Then disappears

Suddenly.

And I wake up

Soundlessly sobbing.

Finding Tata

Mama will not give up.

It is cold and drizzles most nights,

So Mama buys a scarf and umbrella,

But she will not give up.

Even as a door closes

She looks to the next one,

Each time with a sleepier smile,

But she will not give up.

Her boots need to be reheeled.

They are worn out, as I am,

From the hard pavements.

So Mama borrows my boots

Though they’re a little tight,

But she will not give up.

I wish Mama would give up.

And stop dragging me around after her

Like a human dictionary.

I Wish Tata Were Dead

Dead fathers don’t deliberately leave home.

They can be sainted.

We can hold candles to their memories

And keep their headstones clean.

You can’t do this with a missing father.

Questions

Kanoro is in our room

Holding hands with Mama.

They look like they are praying.

Kanoro’s face is moist

And his eyes are cloudy,

The stars bitten out.

Later I want to know the story,

The reason for the quiet closeness.

‘Did he explain the scar on his cheek?’

Mama won’t tell.

Mama says, ‘Always too many questions

With you.’

So I decide, right then,

Never to ask her anything else ever again.

And to tell her even less.

Dare Devil

Marie Mullen is the messenger:

If I agree to do

Three dares

In three days,

Dares Clair will devise,

I’ll be allowed to sit with

Everyone

During lunch

For a week

As a trial.

I think it’s a joke so I laugh.

Marie Mullen glances about –

She thinks I’ve seen something

Funny.

What kinds of things? I ask.

Marie Mullen says: ‘I don’t know.

Take a piss on the tennis courts.

Ask a sixth-former on a date.

Drink a litre of olive oil.’

Did you do all that?

Marie Mullen looks away.

I’m sorry for her,

But my answer is no –

I’d rather eat alone all year

Than piss on a tennis court.

I’d rather eat alone for ever

Than jump at Clair’s bidding.

This is what I tell myself.

I Try to Tell Mama

And all she says is,

‘Girls are like this.’

As though I’m like

This too.

The Pity Club

Not all girls are savage.

Some stand away

When Clair starts.

Some turn their backs.

They won’t take part.

They are The Pity Club –

The girls who look at me

With sorry eyes when

I’m the only person

Without a partner in PE.

But they have their own group,

And it’s established.

And exclusive.

And a newbie would

Mess it all up.

So –

They aren’t cruel.

They are The Pity Club,

And I don’t know what’s worse:

Pity or persecution.

Smokers’ Corner

William leads me to a corner of the playground.

I pat down my hair and flatten out my skirt

Expecting to be kissed.

But when we get there it’s crowded

And smoky and William doesn’t kiss me.

He doesn’t move any closer at all.

Marie and Clair are there.

They run their hands through their hair,

Reminding me I’m missing something.

William pulls a pack of cigarettes from

His blazer pocket and holds it out to me.

I’ve no choice with the girls gazing and grinning.

When I inhale it’s like breathing in dirt,

The kind Mama shakes out of the rug.

William smiles, takes the cigarette from me,

Inhales, swallows, licks his lips.

Then he blows the smoke out through his nose

Like a shaman, and I am bewitched.

When I looked at William

I saw a swimmer.

Now I see a smoker.

And it doesn’t matter.

He talks easily to the girls

Because he is older and that

Means something.

Before we leave, Clair,

Watching me over his shoulder,

Kisses him on the side of his mouth.

I am speechless:

I am so jealous I want to hurt William.

Even though he didn’t do the kissing

I want to pinch him. Or worse.

I hug myself so I will not harm him

And so I do not have to hold his hand

As we walk back

Across the playground.

Then he says, ‘So, are we meeting tomorrow?’

And I forgive him for the kiss.

Because even if Clair wants him,

I think

He wants

Me.

Oh, to be Musical

I wish I knew how to play a complicated musical instrument,

Like a clarinet maybe,

Or a flute,

So I’d have practice using my mouth

And fingers,

And taking long breaths,

All at once

To create something

Sweet.

I have never kissed a boy,

And even though

I’ve seen it done

Day after day

On television

And in films,

So it shouldn’t be too difficult,

Because the movements are natural

And smooth,

I am not a naturally smooth person,

So how will I know what to do

When –

If he leans in with his head slightly tilted?

Should I tilt too?

And my mouth.

Should I open my mouth?

And my tongue.

Oh.

It is too much to think about.

It will be like playing a clarinet with no lessons;

It will take me years to learn this –

How to kiss.

Floating

William is at the swimming pool.

He is standing far away from me

In the shallow end,

Ripples sloshing his sides.

And he is watching me

As I cast aside my green towel

And pour myself into the

Safety of the water.

We swim to the middle

To meet each other,

Then lie on our backs

The water supporting our weight.

Sometimes our wrinkled toes touch

Accidentally.

Sometimes on purpose.

And for a moment I think it might be

The happiest I’ve ever been

Until Clair surfaces from the deep end,

Like a serpent from a swamp,

And wipes away my smile

By smirking herself.

Rumours

Clair sent a text message to Marie,

And now Marie is
forwarding it
to everyone else in Year Eight.

Except me,

Because I don’t

Have a phone.

Arlene shows me the message:

Guess what Cassie woz
doin with Will at the
swimming pool?!

SLAG!!!

Now I’m scared to talk to William,

Or even look at him,

In case they think

It’s true.

When I go into the cloakroom,

All the girls from my class

Stop talking and

Stand with their

Arms folded,

Glaring.

Clair is there,

Of course.

In the middle.

And she is simply smiling.

‘Why won’t you talk to me?’

William asks at lunch.

He is frowning

At the floor.

I can’t answer.

I am ashamed

Of the rumours;

I want them to stop.

I want them to stop

More than I want him

To kiss me.

When Boys Fight

A drove of spectators circles them

Baying for bruises and blood

And chanting

Like football fans

Or football hooligans –

Fight. Fight. Fight.

And no one stops this easy entertainment –

They just sell more tickets.

When two boys fight they are like

Warring walruses:

They plough into each other

Thumping and cracking,

Faces tight, fists curled,

And they do not stop

Until there is a winner,

Until there is no more need to fight.

Sometimes it cannot end this way.

If a teacher shows up it ends when they are

Forced

apart

And taken, in all their bloody glory,

To the headteacher

Where they are spoken to

About fighting,

About using their fists

To settle squabbles.

And either way, it seems a better fix

Than whispers and giggles.

So maybe what I should do is

Hit Clair –

Knock her down

And we could brawl in the playground too,

With everyone watching.

Then people would know

I’d been in a battle.

Late Nights

There is a flu epidemic –

Old people are sick with feverish coughing,

So Mama works late; she helps nurses

Change beds, mop vomit,

Deliver meals around the wards.

For a few glorious days

We don’t search the streets,

And I am grateful.

Mama asks Kanoro to watch me.

We sit on the floor in his room

Eating meat rolled in flat bread,

Guzzling tall glasses of cold milk.

Kanoro remembers stories

Of elephants and tribal chiefs.

They are myths and histories

Meant to entertain,

They are not his own truths,

not for me.

Yet I tell him about William.

I tell him all about William and the

Tumblings in my tummy,

And he nods with a knowing

That makes me blush.

And then I speak about Tata,

Destroy the sugary fiction

Mama has tried to turn into truth.

I tell him,

‘In Poland there is a saying:

Running away makes you guilty.

I am afraid of what we will find,

Kanoro, if we ever find Tata.’

And he says,

‘I told Ola, I told your mother,

Do not follow a person

Who is running away,

But she will not listen.

She does not understand.

She loves your Tata,

I think.’

Kanoro shakes his head

And offers me more peppery lamb

Which I take and eat,

Chewing on the gristle

And swallowing it.

Life Saver

We are in an empty swimming pool.

The water is warm and for some reason

There is sun on my face.

I am in the deep end wearing arm bands

To stop me going under.

William is there too.

But he isn’t in the pool.

He’s in the lifeguard’s chair

Watching as I struggle to stay afloat.

Finally he jumps into the pool

Straight from the chair.

I’m kicking, sinking, but

He drags me to the side,

Up on to the pool’s edge

And gives me mouth to mouth.

His lips and mine are wet

As they press together and

His breath fills me up.

I don’t need resuscitation

But he has his hands on my chest

Between my breasts,

And he’s pushing and pushing

Trying to jump-start my heart.

When I awake I am gasping.

Then I roll over and see Mama watching.

She’s bleary-eyed and half asleep

But even so, I do not want to

Have dreams like this

Lying next to my mother.

Higher

We are in the park

On the swings

But I don’t feel like a little kid

Because we are not swinging,

Just swaying.

William takes out his cigarettes

And offers me one.

This time I shake my head – no –

And he doesn’t care.

He puts the cigarettes back into the recess

Of his blazer

And sways –

Not forward and back

But side to side

On the swing

So as he comes close

I can smell him,

I can smell his chewing gum.

Then he gets off his swing and starts to push me

So I am swinging

Higher and

Higher.

And I am laughing because,

Actually,

I do feel like a little kid

After all.

And I like it.

Dear William

I don’t want you to write a poem for me

But it would be nice if you did.

And if you bought a rose for me

It would be OK too

But I don’t want you to buy flowers

Necessarily.

I don’t want you to carry my book bag

But if you feel like doing that

Spontaneously

I wouldn’t stop you.

I wouldn’t stop you being romantic

If that’s what you wanted.

First Kiss

Oh God.

Oh God.

It is so embarrassing

When he tries to kiss me

And our faces collide like cars

In a traffic accident.

As he leans in

I open my mouth

Too

Wide

Like a yawn

And his pursed lips disappear into

The hollow of my mouth

So I feel like I am swallowing

Him.

He pulls away.

He looks at me like he

Is trying to figure out an algebra problem.

I am too difficult for him.

When he turns away,

Because he is embarrassed too,

I still have my mouth open

Yawn

Wide

But now it’s because I am in shock

From the accident

And I can’t close it.

Assembly

Why would Clair

Steal a pair of scissors from the art room

And then,

Sitting behind me in assembly,

Listening to the Head of Year

Make announcements,

Cut chunks from my hair?

I was trying to grow it.

I was trying to get it right.

Her stunt makes the others girls

Tee-hee-hee.

At least she got some tee-hee

Titters from it.

Later Clair apologises,

Hands back my hair and,

With big eyes and a sticky pout says,

‘Don’t be like that, Cassie,

Was just a joke. Innit?’

What kind of joke is this?

Maybe it’s an English joke

I can’t yet understand.

But I suspect I understand

Perfectly.

No Offence, But . . .

I shouldn’t take things the wrong way

Because they are ‘just joking’

And they mean ‘no offence’

And they laugh – ha ha ha –

Because ‘not really’

Makes everything they do

Mean nothing

At all.

Wrath

I will find a way

To take revenge

On Clair,

For the hair –

And on her whispering friends too.

I will find a way

To watch with glee

As Clair

Feels despair

Along with her

Cheerleaders.

I can be angry.

Not always

Good Kasienka,

As Mama thinks.

Teachers

Why can’t they see what’s happening?

Why don’t they notice the looks,

The smirks, the eye-rolling?

And why don’t they ask if I’m OK?

I’ll tell them I’m not.

I’m not a liar.

Or a slag.

Why do they always ask Clair
to pass out the books

And Marie to read her homework aloud?

They see what they want

Because if they didn’t it would be a lot of work,

And they don’t have time for this;

They have to mark, and teach, and stop the

Boys from killing one another

With their teeth and fists.

This is more important than spotting snickers.

But why can’t they just ask if I’m OK?

Misread

I don’t want to be secretive.

Mama and I share a bed.

Every night it’s her and me together.

There are just some things

I can’t say.

Mama isn’t a good listener.

Sometimes, when I speak,

And think I’ve said something,

Mama hears something else

Completely.

And the reaction is unexpected.

Like last week – I asked for money

To buy a tube of mascara.

She raised an eyebrow

And tapped her tummy.

I didn’t understand.

‘Vulgar girls – always having babies –

Don’t be one of those, Kasienka.

Be a good girl.’

Now someone tell me –

How can mascara make me pregnant?

So when I come home with fresh-chopped hair

I don’t tell her it was Clair in assembly

Sitting behind me with blunt scissors.

I tell her the teacher did it.

I tell her I got gum in it.

Because Mama won’t understand –

And she will find a way to blame me.

The story makes Mama laugh:

‘I told you that habit was disgusting.

But you never listen to Mama!’

Talking

Kanoro listens without saying,

Just ignore it (which I can’t),

Or, They’re jealous (which isn’t true).

Instead he nods and says:

‘There is no hyena without a friend.’

And then: ‘What will you do?’

I like this question. He believes

I can do

Something.

So I tell him about my empty plan

To get revenge

On the hyena.

Kanoro looks sad and says:

‘Happiness should be your revenge, Kasienka.

Happiness.’

And though he is right,

It makes me feel worse

Because I do not know

How to be happy.

Part 2

Gummy Bears

When he tries to kiss me

I do not open my mouth at all

And neither does he.

We kiss,

Dry lips on dry lips,

And it is nice.

But it is not enough

And I feel my mouth open

And his too.

And something that is not my mouth

Is inside my mouth.

And it is easy:

Kissing William is like
having a Haribo

In my mouth.

It is easy.

Kissing William
is just like sucking on a gummy bear.

Partners

William corrects my English.

Gently.

And smiles when I mispronounce things

Because he thinks the mistakes are cute.

And for the first time

Ever

I can be wrong

And it’s OK.

Better than that –

It’s cute.

And he thinks I’m clever too,

And asks for help with his

Simultaneous equations.

And when he gets something muddled

I smile

Because it’s cute.

And so it’s perfect.

We’re partners.

Me on numbers.

Him on words.

Love is a Large W

Love is watching

Love is waiting

Love is wanting

Love is worrying

Love is wishing

Love is willing

Love is whispers

Love is wet

Love is wordless

Love is Him

Love is Me

Love is We

Love is . . .

Love is . . .

Ah.

William.

Kenilworth Castle

We went on a school trip to Warwick Castle

But I couldn’t believe in that place –

So symmetrical,

So perfectly preserved,

So clean

It reminded me of Disney Land –

What I imagine Disney Land would look like.

I could make no sense of its shine.

When I tell William he agrees.

We both think castles should be crumbling

After all those years,

To prove they’ve seen

Real history.

And history is struggle

And war,

We think.

So he takes me to Kenilworth

On the bus with him.

To see the ruins in the rain.

Elizabeth

Kept her favourite here,

In Kenilworth.

And Time stood still when she came:

The Great Clock Tower

Stopped

For her

And they feasted and frolicked,

Elizabeth and her favourite –

Right here.

And it is the most romantic place I’ve ever seen:

Kenilworth Castle continuing to

Crumble, as it should,

in the rain.

Lottery

Kanoro slumps on the stone steps

Of our old building

Clasping a piece of paper

In his fist

Like it’s a losing lottery ticket.

He pats the step

Inviting me to sit too.

We watch the traffic,

The women pushing prams and

The gangs in hoods.

I can tell from his silence that

Kanoro holds a heavy confession.

I think he wants to reveal the terrible tale,

The one he told Mama,

The horrible one I can’t know.

But it’s worse than that.

It’s Tata.

‘Your father’s address,’ he says,

Slipping me the paper

He’s been holding.

I take it,

Afraid to look,

Though I don’t know why.

‘Go alone, Kasienka.

Don’t take Mama Ola.’

‘Is Tata alive?’ I ask.

Kanoro nods and shakes his head.

Which might mean

Tata’s half dead,

Or should be.

Ending the Odyssey

The driver won’t reopen the doors

Once they’re closed,

Even when a man runs

To catch up

And raps on the glass

Begging to be admitted.

The driver doesn’t even look

Across at the man,

At the closed door.

He acts like he can’t hear him,

But we all can.

Someone has smeared something red

Across the window of the bus.

It smells of tomato.

It may have been a

Piece of pizza.

The woman next to me

Keeps muttering to herself

And laughing.

The children at the back

Shout at a passerby,

Words in a mixing bowl.

I ring the bell,

A small red button

On the metal post,

And in my head a booming

As I signal stop,

And in my heart a bomb.

When the driver slows

And pulls over,

I consider sitting back down

Next to the muttering woman

And the smeared window,

And getting off at a different stop

Where there’s nothing to unravel.

And no answers to fear.

The Bungalow

A woman opens the door

To the squat house.

She is wearing slippers

And a pink dressing gown

Though it is still light out.

She is distracted by a noise inside,

The sound of a small child crying.

She turns away for a moment

And then looks at me again.

I tell her my name.

And some of my story.

She ushers me in:

She wants me to meet the child

And wait for Tata.

Cold Hot Chocolate

I know the sound of Tata’s whistling.

He’s over a block away

When I hear him coming

Carrying the melody.

When he sees me

He isn’t surprised – or pleased.

And neither am I, yet I say,

‘I’ve found you, Tata!’

A line I’ve practised for days.

For months.

Tata’s whistle I recognise,

But I don’t recognise Tata.

He has a weak beard

Which stops him from smiling

And he is thin.

He looks at the woman

Who says, ‘I know.’

But what does she know?

She takes the child upstairs

And I hear crying –

Coming from the woman,

Not from the child.

Tata leads me to the large kitchen

And makes hot chocolate

Using a clean, steel kettle.

‘It is hard thing to explain –

to a child,’ he says

Without looking at me

To see how much I’ve grown.

I don’t listen much.

His little bee sting words

Hurt.

Tata peels an orange,

The skin coming away

In one expert movement

Creating a bitter coil

On the counter.

He splits the orange in two,

Rests one half before me,

Eats the other half himself,

Pips and all.

Tata looks at the clock above the sink.

The hot chocolate is untouched

And cold

In the cup.

I am cold too

So I stand to leave.

‘Will you come and see Mama?’ I ask.

Tata looks at the clock again

And says,

In English,

‘Eventually.’

Blame

My stomach tightens into a rock

Because I am so angry with Tata.

Every time Mama looks at

Her map on the wall –

Every time Mama pulls on

Her coat and walking shoes –

Every time Mama opens up

Her purse and frowns –

Every time Mama comes to

Bed and lies awake weeping.

I am so angry that

My stomach is a stone

I wish I could throw at Tata.

A Letter I Never Send

Tata,

We came to Coventry to find you,

Mama and me.

We looked and looked.

Now you know we are here

I’m not looking,

I’m waiting.

I don’t want to wait and wait,
what’s the point?

Mama loves you again;
she’s sorry.

Can’t you be sorry too?

Then we can go back to Babcia,

back to Gdańsk,

home.

Please, Tata.

Kasienka

The Bell Jar

It was in the sixth-form section

Of the library.

I liked the fuchsia cover. I liked her name.

Plath. A name like a heavy breath.

And I read. Slowly I read. In English.

About Plath’s desire to die.

And I wonder if I could do that.

I wonder if I could surrender.

And take my last breaths

Instead of living with a rock

In my belly.

Skin Deep

‘She isn’t even pretty,’

I tell Kanoro.

We are shelling peas for dinner,

Popping more into our mouths

Than we put in the pan.

‘She isn’t as pretty as Mama,’

I tell him.

Kanoro isn’t surprised.

He shakes his head.

He sees Mama’s grace,

And sometimes he creates it.

‘And the child isn’t as pretty as you,’

Kanoro says.

He knows this will make me cry,

Which I do.

I Didn’t Mean to Go Back

To see Tata,

And Melanie,

And the baby

Briony,

Who is my sister,

Although they haven’t said so,

And I don’t ask.

It just happened,

Quite naturally,

And I never

Mention it

To Mama.

Something draws me.

It isn’t the hot chocolate;

I never can finish a cup.

It isn’t the monstrous television;

It only ever plays cartoons.

It is, maybe, the calm family feel

Of the kitchen,

Where Melanie

Throws food into the microwave,

Clothes into the washing machine,

Going about her chores with pleasure – ease –

And not complaining, or too tired to play

With the baby

Or talk to me

When Tata’s not around.

Melanie

I don’t want her to be nice.

It isn’t her job.

And it makes me feel wicked

When she offers me a piece of cheesecake,

More than I could possibly eat,

With as much cream as I like.

It would be easier if

She hated me,

Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty.

She could turn me away

When I stand at

The doorstep

Hungry and tired –

The out-of-date daughter.

She doesn’t do that.

She wouldn’t.

Because she’s nice.

She makes milkshakes.

Any flavour I like.

She asks about me :

About school,

Swimming,

Poland –

Never about Mama,

Of course.

I don’t always respond.

I sulk a lot.

To show her what she is

And what she’s done.

But she doesn’t seem to notice.

She doesn’t expect me to like her.

No moods when

I ignore the child.

And when Tata’s around

She leaves us alone.

She knows she isn’t welcome,

Isn’t a part of this history

Or of us.

I want to hate Melanie,

But I can see why Tata wants her.

And sometimes, when Melanie

Leaves the room

I wish she’d stayed,

Because she’s easier to be with

Than Tata;

She looks me straight in the eye

Which is more than he can ever do.

The Gospel According to Tata

Tata didn’t teach me to lie,

Now he’s condoning it,

Every time I land at his door

And he doesn’t mention Mama.

Every time he offers me money

To pay for my silence.

Tata took me to church

Though I protested some Sundays

Because virtue matters,

He’d said.

Tata taught me prayers

That took hours to recite –

The Holy Rosary and

How to hold the beads,

To count the prayers,

Do daily worship.

Tata wrote the rules

We had to follow –

Rules he never read

Himself.

Tata’s ashamed

Whenever he has to see me

And be reminded of the sin

He never planned to commit.

Lady Godiva

The long-haired Lady Godiva rode naked

As a new lamb

Through the Saxon streets of Coventry.

Her husband should have loved her more.

He should have loved her enough to

Concede,

To keep her safe from Peeping Tom.

Now, in Broadgate,

There is a statue, a misplaced tribute

Outside a coffee shop.

And no one stops to look up

At the brave, bronze Lady Godiva,

Who cared more for others

Than for her own modesty,

Apart from the odd teenage boy

Who doesn’t really look at Godiva

But at something else,

And misses the point completely.

Ready

Mama listens to Madame Butterfly and

Sings along to ‘Un Bel Di Vedremo’.

When she hits a high note,

One only she can reach,

She raises her hands

Like a soprano on stage at

The Grand Theatre.

She is so bold

I imagine she is capable of anything.

So I tell her the truth.

She shuts off the music,

Sits on the bed and twists her

Hands in her lap.

I see she is seething,

But her mouth stays still

While I tell her everything

Except who found Tata.

And then she says,

‘You should have told me sooner.

Do you think Mama is an idiot?

This woman must think Mama is an idiot.

Tata thinks Mama is an idiot too.

It’s Tata and Kasienka now,

Isn’t it?’

I want to tell her that it will

Never be Tata and Kasienka –

It’s true, Tata doesn’t want her,

But he doesn’t want me either.

Mama is up and out the door

Before I can defend myself,

Before I can beg her to stay,

Before I can say ‘I love you

The Most.’

Guilty

We are playing Scrabble,

Staring at plastic squares and

Pretending to practise our English,

Permitting Polish and Swahili,

When Mama returns.

We know where she’s been because

Her face is swollen,

And she cannot speak.

Kanoro stands and moves to the door,

But Mama puts a hand out to stop him.

Stay.

‘Stay,’ I say,

Holding on to Kanoro’s shirt tail.

He brews Mama a drink

With something in it to help her play

Scrabble without wheezing.

Mama can’t look at me,

Even when I set down a long word.

I am glad Kanoro is here.

I wouldn’t have known

What to do with Mama

When she came home

All mixed up,

Like the letters in the Scrabble bag,

Carrying with her a terrible sadness

And showing it off so

Unashamedly.

Motherless

Mama is so angry with me.

White,

Light,

Silent anger.

She cooks my meals,

Washes my clothes,

Sleeps next to me at night.

But Mama slams the pots
so I can hear her anger,

And burns the stews
so I can smell it,

And she avoids my eyes;

Not an easy thing to do

When we live together

In one room.

She looks at me sometimes.

Sometimes I catch her looking.

And when I do

She turns away –

Slowly,

Deliberately.

Enraged.

When I tell her I made

The swim team

She still won’t look.

She won’t look at me when I sit

Opposite her at dinner

Trying not to spill anything,

Even eating the onions.

She won’t look at me

In bed at night,

And if we accidentally touch,

She shakes me off like

She’s been bitten,

Like I’m poison.

So now I’m feeling too

Brittle to look at her.

Instead I stare at the

Hem of her dress,

Or a clip in her hair,

Or the rings on her fingers

When we speak.

And it all makes me feel

Like going swimming.

Desperation

It is

Not my fault

Tata doesn’t

Love you

Any more.

Can I say that to her?

Hope

Someone was cruel to Mama at work.

‘Sorry,’ I say.

Mama sniffs.

And now she wants to go home.

‘To Gdańsk?’ I ask.

She nods.

She hasn’t showered in days.

‘Really?’ I ask.

She nods again.

‘When?’ I ask.

Mama shrugs

Then puts her head into her hands and weeps.

Split

There are many Kasienkas now.

She has split into pieces and

Scattered herself about like fallen fruit

Beneath a leafless tree.

One Kasienka is Mama’s girl –

The Kasienka who chews quietly

And sleeps with a teddy bear in her arms.

She is muted and hidden and

Wants nothing more than to run to Tata –

To form a real family again.

Another Kasienka is Tata’s pilgrim,

The tight-lipped teenage Kasienka.

She is frightening and moody.

She is also William’s Cassie,

Shy-eyed and broad-backed –

A swimmer, but a girl before anything else:

A girlfriend with a mouth and breasts.

Cassie belongs to Clair too,

She smells of cabbage and fear.

She is a dumb, defiant victim.

But she is easily demolished.

If only I knew Kasienka’s Kasienka:

When I search for myself in the bathroom mirror

I cannot find her at all.

When I am alone

I do not know who I am.

When I am alone

I am nothing.

Part 3

Dalilah

You are the new girl in the class

And maybe they will hate you

Instead of me.

They do it like this:

They look,

They whisper,

They laugh.

And it doesn’t sound like much,

But when it happens

Every day

It feels like you’re walking uphill

Carrying a giant boulder on your shoulder.

You are the new girl in the class

And maybe they will hate you

Instead of me.

Maybe they will notice your shoes.

I do.

They are not like everyone else’s:

They are thick and buckled

And you’re wearing knee-high socks

Which no one does.

But I only half want that –

I only half want you hunted.

Mostly I want a friend.

So when the teacher says,

‘Lily will need a partner,’

I throw up my hand,

Offer up myself to you,

And you look at me and smile

And that

Makes

My

Day.

The Veil

Dalilah wears a purple veil and she is so pretty in it.

She is

All eyes.

I make myself jealous looking at her,

Imagining my face framed,

My hair hidden beneath folds of fabric.

When I see women in the street

With veils down to their feet,

Chadors,

I am jealous too,

Jealous of their concealment,

Of a robe that would cover me

from head to toe

And hide me from the world.

It would be like a kind of armour,

A veil like that,

A veil that covered me

from head to toe

So no one could get in.

July 7

At 8.50 a.m. The Bell rings and we stand

To remember

What happened.

But Clair is looking at Dalilah

Forgetting,

Not remembering at all.

And at break we are surrounded

And Marie says,

‘Why did you say they deserved it?

I heard you. I heard you whisper to Cassie.

I heard you say that.’

And Dalilah looks at me because she was standing to remember

What we were all too young to remember

While Clair was standing looking at her.

In Mama’s Absence

There are balloons all over the place.

There are red balloons in the house

And more in the garden.

Helium balloons on string

To keep them from being

Captured by the sky.

William’s grandmother

Is having her birthday party

And she wanted balloons

Instead of waxy candles that would

Ruin the cake.

There is a barbecue in the garden

And William’s father

Is wearing a stripy apron and

Cooking everything outside.

Meats mainly.

There is music

Coming from two heavy black

Speakers

Connected to an iPod

And a bouncy castle for the kids.

We both want to bounce

But his cousins are on it and they’re

Young –

And we don’t want to

Be like them.

Then William’s grandmother

Crawls into the castle and starts to jump

And jump

And I laugh

Out loud

With William.

I do not think she is like

Any grandmother

I have ever seen before.

I could not imagine Babcia

Bouncing.

So it’s OK for us to jump

Too.

And we do.

We hold hands and jump and jump

And I squeal a little

When I fall over,

When I fall on top of William,

Which I do

Again

And again.

William’s father doesn’t scowl

When we close

The bedroom door,

Just says, ‘Be good, kids.’

He turns on his computer

And asks me to choose a song.

I point to a track I don’t recognise

And he says, ‘Cool,’

And I feel good.

Music fills the small room as

A firework explodes inside my belly and

Colour spins and sparkles in my gut.

When he smiles it is like having a torch

Shine right at me

Lighting up all the dark corners,

And I cannot imagine why everyone

Is not in love with him.

William leans in

Opens his mouth

And I do too.

But not too wide.

Just enough

To give him room to breathe into me.

I close my eyes,

Let William lead,

And try not to pant too loudly

As we do things

Mama would hate.

When we have kissed enough

I ask him where his mother is –

Why his mother is missing –

And he shows me a photograph

Of a woman with no hair and says

‘Mum died.’

And then we hug

Until it is very dark outside.

And I tell him how sorry I am.

And I tell him about Mama

And Tata,

And revealing our feelings

Means more than the kisses ever could.

And inside I am bursting to tell Tata how grateful

I am that he was missing and

Not dead.

Maybe I Should Not

Be thinking of William

And aching

In this way.

But when Mama sees me and

Doesn’t look closely enough to notice the scandal

Printed all over my skin,

I do not feel guilty at all.

Confidence

When I tell William

All about Clair

He says, ‘Stand up for yourself.’

William is in Year Nine.

He could save me from the pack

But he does not want to:

He knows

I can save

Myself.

And this makes me glow

And love him even more.

Practice

Girls shouldn’t want to

Beat each other –

But I want to beat everyone,

To know I’m faster,

And stronger

Than the girls in the other lanes,

Than Clair in lane four.

It isn’t meant to be a competition.

We’re just training.

No prizes or trophies for coming in first

Today.

And yet.

When I hear the whistle,

I dive with a fierceness

I don’t expect,

And a passion for first place

Propels me

Through the water

To the other end and back again.

I take breaths

Only every four strokes,

Preferring to see the

Blinking tiled bottom of the pool

Than the clumsy splashes

Of my teammates,

Than Clair out ahead of me.

When I pull myself from the pool

Ms Morrow approaches and says,

‘Nice one.’

Then, one after another,

The other girls emerge too.

Some shake their heads,

Others prefer to cut their eyes.

Clair won’t look,

She turns in the water

And does backstroke

Up to the other end.

‘She wants to be team captain,’

Marie tells me later.

‘So be careful;

There’ll be trouble if the coach

Chooses you.’

Ms Morrow

Ms Morrow does not know.

She does not know but she suspects.

After practice she keeps me back

To check.

And this is what I have been waiting for.

But I do not know what to say.

Or how to tell what’s happened.

When Ms Morrow says, ‘What’s going on?’

I cannot tell her everything.

So I tell her nothing.

Family

When Mama and Tata stand together

They do not look right:

Tata is too shiny for the room

And for Mama

Now.

Together they are tuneless;

The sounds they make are ugly,

Like knives being sharpened

Against stone.

Together they are waxwork statues;

Recognisable

But lifeless.

Tata will not look around the room

Even when Mama says,

‘Look!

Look where we have been living!’

He is staring at his smart, shiny

Shoes and will not notice

There is only one bed in the room

And the kitchen is in here too.

‘Look!

Look how we have been living!’

Mama shouts.

But Tata is staring at his tight, shiny

Shoes and will not notice

That Mama’s clothes are frayed and frumpy

And mine are too.

Tata merely mumbles and goes on

Looking at the floor

While Mama keeps condemning him.

Tata is as silent in the room

As he was before we found him.

When Tata has gone Mama whispers,

‘Look . . .

Look at what your father has become.

And Kasienka

loves Tata

more than

she loves

Mama.’

A Solution

Melanie is standing at the school gates

holding Briony

by the hand.

Briony is wearing a green dress

and licking a melting ice cream.

Melanie waves and I wave back

and then we walk

together to her car

Where she buckles Briony in

and Briony rubs ice cream

all over the seats.

Melanie is taking Briony to the pool

And thinks I might like to come too,

Which I do.

I do not do lengths up

And down

The pool because

The wave machine is on so I splash

And play with Briony

And we pretend we are at the beach,

The wild ocean lapping us,

Launching us on to the shore.

Melanie does not change into her costume;

She sits by the side of the pool

Chat, chat, chatting on her phone

And not watching us at all.

So when a wave takes Briony away from the edge

Into the gyre of water

And spins

Her

About

And around

Up and down,

Melanie will not save her because she is

Chat, chat, chatting on the phone.

And for a moment I pause

And wonder what life could be without

Briony.

Allegiance

When Tata gets home from work we sit

Around the dining table

Like a real family

Eating spaghetti bolognese,

Wearing bibs like babies and

Trying not to flick sauce on our faces.

Melanie says, ‘She was amazing.

She saved her life.’

Then Melanie says,

‘We would like you to come and live with us,

Kasienka. Here.’

I stop eating my pasta to look at Tata,

To see if this means he has left Mama

For ever.

And Melanie says,

‘You would have your own bed.

You would have a room to yourself

And a computer, if you like.’

Tata has been telling tales,

Stories that make Mama

seem bad.

When he looks up he is frowning

And then he looks at Briony

and I know this means that he will not

be back

To live with us;

That it is Melanie and Briony

For ever.

She serves éclairs for dessert,

Expensive chocolate dribbled pastries

That Mama could never afford,

And I wish I could take mine home.

To give to Mama.

As a treat.

Instead of eating it

Myself.

When I am helping to load the dishes

Melanie takes my arm and says,

‘Will you come and live with us?’

But Melanie does not know

How Mama would feel.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t live here.’

I won’t leave Mama.

Cracked

I cannot make Mama whole again.

Tata stole

pieces

of

her
and now she is

Jagged at the edges –

Cracked.

When I get home I take off my shoes

To keep the carpet clean

And do my homework

Without asking questions.

I tiptoe.

I am silent.

She does not look at me

Any more.

She lies in bed

With a book and a

Glass of wine

Held to her heart.

Sometimes she drinks

Half a bottle,

And maybe she drinks

Even more.

And then she goes to sleep

Without saying

goodnight,

Without turning off the light,

Without checking I’m all right.

Sleepover

We devour too many liquorice laces,

Too many cans of Coke

And buckets of popcorn,

So when we try to sleep

It’s impossible;

We keep thinking of funny things

To tell each other

And secrets to share,

Stories we forgot were important

Until we turned out the lights.

When I admit the reason Dalilah cannot

Sleep over at my house,

When I tell her there would be

Three people

In one bed

If she stayed,

She says, ‘I used to sleep with Grandma

When I was little. It wasn’t so bad.’

She does not feel sorry

Or come closer to comfort me:

Instead

She tells her own secrets

And they are just as strange

As mine.

And I do not feel sorry either.

When the birds start fidgeting,

When the darkness has lifted,

We are still awake

And cannot imagine sleeping

With so much on our minds.

So we go downstairs for breakfast.

Cooking Stones

Ms Morrow says I’m the

Best swimmer in Year Eight,

Maybe in Coventry.

She wants me to come with

The team to a swim-meet

In London

In two weeks,

To race

Against girls who

Could beat me.

Schools from across the country

Are competing.

Ms Morrow gives me a blank permission slip

To take home.

Mama shakes her head:

No. Absolutely. No.

She doesn’t give a reason.

She doesn’t have to.

The reason is clear:

I don’t deserve it.

Kanoro says:

‘Patience can cook a stone.’

I know he means I need to give Mama time.

I know he means she’ll stop blaming me

When she’s feeling well again.

I know he means other things too.

But I am thirteen and

Mama’s forty-two,

So she should know better.

Isn’t that what they say?

She should know better.

Good News

Kanoro received special papers,

So he’s going to work in London

At a place called St Bart’s,

As an actual doctor

For children.

When he tells Mama and me

He is so excited

He knocks over a lamp and

Rubs out the light.

Mama doesn’t care about the lamp:

For the first time in a month

She laughs

and runs to hug Kanoro.

My feelings are untidy:

I am happy

to see Mama this way,

I am sad

Kanoro must leave,

And I am confused:

I don’t know why they are both

So thrilled

When Kanoro’s news

Means he will leave us.

Vacant

I tell him

not to warn me.

I do not want

to say goodbye.

I am used to lost

Goodbyes.

And so,

One day,

When I get home,

His door is open,

His bed is stripped,

His books are gone,

His room is empty.

And I change my mind:

I want to say goodbye

After all.

Rebellion

William says I should go to London

Anyway.

He doesn’t always do what

He’s told.

‘No one does,’ he tells me,

Kissing me,

Showing me.

We walk past my bus stop

And I don’t go straight home

To Mama.

‘I’ve lied too much already,’

I say.

And he says,

‘Then what’s one more?’

And this is true.

What harm can it do,

To lie

Just once more?

Betrayal

When I go to Tata’s house,

To ask him to sign the slip –

He’s my parent too

After all –

He isn’t there;

It’s just Melanie and the child.

So I plead with her to sign.

And she does,

With a blunt pencil

From Briony’s toy box.

Then she takes a

Colouring book,

And on the back

Copies down the date.

‘I’ll tell your father,’

she says.

Every day after school

I train for the competition;

Every day I am cleansed

By this daily baptism.

Every day I am swallowed and saved.

Mama doesn’t care

Where I am any more.

She’s happy to have lost me

To the water.

Lies in the Dark

Mama is asleep when I

Tiptoe out

Of our room

With my kit in one hand

My permission slip in the other.

I packed my bag last night,

And hid it under the kitchen sink.

I leave a note, so she won’t worry,

A lie scratched out in the dark

About an open house at the school.

From the bus stop

I can see our window,

And I wish Mama would appear

And wave goodbye.

Goodbye and good luck.

She doesn’t, of course.

Mama’s groaning in her sleep,

Groaning and dreaming of

Tata and Kasienka

Plotting against her.

To London

Some rules are universal:

The back of the bus is reserved for the popular.

So I’m at the front behind Ms Morrow.

And William is somewhere in the middle

With the other older boys,

Huddled around a phone watching YouTube.

The back is where Clair sits,

Surrounded by a horde of wild approval.

They actually applaud when she boards the bus,

A smattering of claps and hoots

Like echoes in a jungle.

She smiles shyly, fakes embarrassment,

And looks past me for once.

Ms Morrow turns around and says, ‘Excited?’

I pretend not to have heard

And take a book from my bag

Because I have already told

My last lie.

Fear

The echoes – the shouts and splashes,

Carry through to the changing room

Where I am pulling on my

Nearly-not-there costume.

The girls in my race are taller

And leaner, with polished toenails and shaved legs

And I am not sure I will be able to get myself

out of the changing room

And into the pool at all

If everyone’s looking.

Clair appears from a cubicle

in her own costume,

More womanly

Than all the rest –

Her breasts round,

Her nipples quiet –

And she wishes me luck

By tousling my short hair.

Now I know there’s only one way

To get Revenge.

Starting Blocks

The cheering and chants

From the throbbing crowd

Fade to nothing

When I’m on the

Block.

I only hear an underwater din,

A ringing-babbling-vacuum,

And a kind of coaxing

Coming from the water.

In the bright light the people look

Like ghosts, and then I see one – Tata –

Standing up in the crowd,

Quiet and stern, as focused as I am.

And then I spot William too,

Holding up a sign with my name on it.

There isn’t time to check whether they’re real

Or phantoms in my mind.

There isn’t time to check for Mama.

We’re on our marks.

Ready.

Set.

Go.

Home

Water is another world:

A land with its own language

Which I speak fluently.

It’s alien and dangerous.

I can’t even breathe down here.

Treading water

Works only if I relax;

If I fight,

I sink.

I have to trust myself,

Trust the territory and

My own body,

The power of each limb.

It’s the silence I want.

And the weight of the water

Over me –

Around me –

The safe silence of submergence.

At the pool’s edge I might be ugly,

But when I speak strokes

I am beautiful.

Gold

Tata hugs me when I finish

Even though I am wet

And he’s wearing a suit.

‘My Olympian,’ he says,

And looks so proud

I couldn’t care less

Who sees me crying.

Metamorphosis

Clair tears open my cubicle door

Without knocking,

But I am already fully dressed.

‘You think you’re something,’

She barks.

There are two girls behind her

But they are far enough away

For me to know they won’t interfere.

I step close to Clair and whisper,

In a language I think she’ll understand,

‘Why don’t you just piss off.’

The girls behind her giggle and

Clair gapes, about to retaliate,

When suddenly she sees my joy,

My win,

And her power dissolves.

The two girls cough and step away

And Clair is left

To face me unsupported

Which she cannot do.

‘Whatever,’ she says and

Turns, runs, shouts –

‘Wait for me!’

Forgiveness

Mama does not know how to say sorry,

But now Kanoro has gone

She is lonelier than me,

And much quieter,

So quiet I sometimes check she

Hasn’t died of heartache.

With Kanoro gone

And Tata gone

Maybe Mama is unhappier

Than I can understand.

When she sees the trophy,

A golden swimmer

Diving from a marble platform

Into space, she says,

‘It wasn’t your fault, Kasienka,’

And that’s as much as she can admit,

Or as happy as she can be for me.

And for now, that’s OK.

Reunion

I am sitting on the

Front steps of our

Building, chewing on a

Peperami, waiting for William,

When Kanoro arrives

Without warning.

I jump to greet him

And he takes me

Into his arms without embarrassment.

‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.

Mama was standing at our window

Watching me and is down the stairs

Before I have a chance to answer.

Mama runs to Kanoro.

They look stupid together:

Mama is bright-white.

Kanoro is too-black against her.

And yet, the picture is pretty good.

Treat

Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.

She wears a yellow dress

And shoes so high

She wobbles when she walks.

Mama wore that dress once before,

In Gdańsk,

When Tata took her to the theatre

And they came home

Holding hands.

But Mama and Kanoro

Are not hand holding

When they get back from dinner

At all.

They are holding their tummies

Because they ate too many

Tacos

And then they are holding their sides

Laughing.

Kanoro sleeps on the couch

And in the morning,

After tea and toast,

He honks his horn,

Waves from the window of his

New car and disappears

On to the ring road.

I watch Mama closely,

Afraid she will rearrange herself

Into grief.

‘People usually come back, Mama,’

I say, and she nods

As she folds the sheer yellow dress and

Lays it neatly in a drawer.

‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.

Resurrection

Mama is alive again,

A little bit alive.

She isn’t singing.

But now and then she

Hums

Without meaning to.

Side by Side

Clair still stands in the centre

Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.

I can feel their desperation,

The thirst for admission.

It is a dance for popularity,

Swapping places every day,

Knowing that tomorrow

Any one of them could be

out.

Maybe it’s lonely for Clair

There

In the centre

Directing the dance.

She ignores me again,

Which is better than being bullied.

Dalilah and I stand together

Side by side.

There is no one in the centre,

We’re just looking out

In the same direction

Not desperately at one another

Fearing betrayal.

Epilogue

Butterfly

Now that I can front crawl,

Back crawl,

Breaststroke,

I am breaking out.

Ms Morrow is teaching me

The butterfly.

When I am in the water

My body moves like a wave:

There is a violence to it

And a beauty.

I lie on my breast,

My arms outstretched

My legs extended back –

Waiting to kick.

And I pull,

Push,

Recover.

This is how the Butterfly works.

I have to hollow out spaces

For breathing,

And if I miss them

I can’t swim.

But I do.

I know when to come up for air

When to keep my head down.

At practice,

On the starting block

I am not frightened at all:

I am standing on my own,

And it

Never felt so good.

Acknowledgements

This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.

Many books influenced my writing, and it would be impractical to mention them all, but I would like to highlight Odd Girl Out by Rachel Simmons, which informed so much of my understanding about girls and bullying.

I am especially grateful to Mum, Dad, Jimmy and Andreas for their love and support.

Glossary

Mama – Mum

Tata – Dad

Babcia – Granny

Gdańsk – a seaport city in Poland

Gdańsk Główny – a train station in Gdańsk

Pierogi – boiled dumplings of unleavened dough often stuffed with potato

Bigos – traditional Polish stew

Golabki – stuffed cabbage rolls

Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney

First published in Great Britain in January 2012

This electronic edition published in January 2012
by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP

Copyright © Sarah Crossan 2012

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved

You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means

(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781408824641

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