We Come Apart Page 5

and goes to the counter to pay,

  but she leaves her bag right there

  on the seat,

  wide open

  like a bloody invitation.

  ‘The bag,’ I whisper to Nicu.

  ‘Tea bag?’ he whispers back.

  He looks into his mug,

  stirs it with the spoon.

  I don’t hang about.

  I sit next to him,

  pretend to put my arm around his shoulder,

  then slip my hand into

  the woman’s

  fake Gucci

  and find her phone.

  Job Done.

  Nicu doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing,

  thinks I’m trying it on,

  and leans into me.

  ‘Relax, mate,’ I tell him,

  and drop the phone into the pocket of his blazer.

  The woman comes back,

  grabs her bag

  and is gone.

  And then we’re off too,

  up the High Road to the Italian,

  where we order meatballs

  and salad,

  a pizza with extra olives.

  And for dessert two slices of tiramisu.

  Thank

  you

  very

  much.

  ‘I like these eats,’ Nicu says.

  The waiter gives us the bill.

  I rummage and rummage around my

  bag,

  pretending to look for my wallet.

  ‘I left it at school. It’s at school.

  Oh, crap.

  Have you got any money?’

  ‘No.’

  Nicu looks like he might

  cry.

  I told him it was my treat.

  ‘I tell to you this.

  I tell to you I have no monies!’

  He’s almost shouting,

  frantic,

  while the waiter looks on.

  ‘Give him your phone,’ I say.

  I manage a wink.

  Nicu blinks.

  ‘Give him your phone.

  It’s in your pocket, Nicu.’

  I point.

  Nicu reaches into his blazer

  and finds the iPhone.

  I snatch it

  and wave it at the waiter.

  ‘Can we leave this here and come back?

  I’ll bring you the money for the bill in an hour.

  No.

  Half an hour.

  I promise.’

  I do a drama on him.

  Make my voice EastEnders shaky.

  He nods

  and

  lets us leave,

  lets us swagger out of that place

  without paying a penny.

  ‘You make me bad boy,’ Nicu says

  when we get to the park.

  We’re on the slide again,

  at the top of it,

  chewing on liquorice laces.

  ‘I made you a bad boy?

  Oh, come on, Nicu,

  I think you were a bad boy well before you met me,’ I say.

  And he gives me that smile.

  NEW TEACHER

  On top of slide

  I think I should say to her my secret,

  my special confidential.

  But I am afraid

  in case Jess not understanding,

  in case Jess slide away

  and

  never come back.

  I can’t tell to her

  how one day

  I dream to escape Tata and Mămică

  because of person they want me to become.

  And

  how I have too much shock thought every day

  in and out my head

  of seeing future wife in white bling dress.

  Jess is the danger girl.

  She is the danger to big plan that

  Mămică and Tata have for me.

  But she is also the helper girl.

  She say she is going to teach me to speak proper

  if it bloody well kills her.

  ‘This will be the most help,’ I say.

  She say,

  ‘You can’t speak like a twat, if we are going to be mates, Nicu.’

  ‘I agreeing, Jess. I not wanting to be twat.’

  She puts her hand in face and giggling.

  All this tell me one thing:

  Jess is kindness.

  When I ask:

  ‘Jess, what is mate?’

  she tell me

  a mate is someone you can chat with.

  ‘You know, about anything, secrets and that.

  Stuff you don’t tell your parents.’

  ‘Like dreams?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘Confidentials?’

  She rub my hair

  and butterfly float in my belly.

  ‘You do this to mate?’ I say.

  ‘Only if I like them,’ she say.

  Maybe if I kiss her I can say:

  And this too?

  But I’m OK that Jess is my mate

  (my first English mate),

  so I stop thinking about kiss.

  Bad Friday

  He sits in the library

  at lunch,

  flicking through books with loads of pictures

  in them.

  I see him on Wednesday

  when I go in there with Shawna to

  copy her homework.

  He looks up,

  but before he can wave or call out my name,

  I turn my back on him.

  And then on Thursday

  Liz wants to photocopy some form for her mum

  and he’s in there again,

  different book,

  same lonely look.

  I just peer through the window on Friday,

  and of course he’s there again,

  turning the pages

  of some big book,

  his eyes really wide.

  ‘What you staring at?’ Meg asks,

  spooking me from behind.

  ‘You know him or something?’ she asks,

  spotting Nicu.

  ‘No,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Why would I?’

  She snorts.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not as if you speak Polish or anything?’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say,

  and we laugh,

  like friends,

  so loudly that Nicu turns.

  He sees us.

  And so I stop.

  I stop laughing.

  THE BUTT

  Before I coming to school

  in new country,

  I not understand how hard

  it will be.

  Education is very important thing

  here.

  Very important thing

  for to get jobs,

  cash,

  houses,

  holidays,

  cars,

  shoes.

  Back in village,

  going to school not so important for us children.

  Political persons don’t

  care if I go or not.

  Parents

  same.

  But,

  back in village,

  no person does the laughing at me

  behind my face.

  Even in front of my face

  it happening.

  In class,

  out class,

  in corridor,

  out corridor,

  in yard,

  out yard,

  in canteen,

  all place.

  Snigger, snort, chuckle,

  chuck paper,

  pens,

  pretend knives, guns, bombs,

  weapons of massive destruct into my feelings.

  But

  they don’t seeing

  what I seeing.

  They don’t hearing

  what I hearing.

  They don’t emotion

  what I emotion.

  I think
maybe Jess is different.

  I want to know an answer.

  The Three Bitches

  Liz is all like,

  ‘That pikey’s staring again, Jess.

  I reckon you’re in there!’

  She smirks and

  and Shawna goes,

  ‘Eww, man, I think he really fancies you.’

  She sticks out her tongue,

  blue from the gobstopper she’s been sucking,

  and waggles it.

  Meg lets out a laugh and says,

  ‘Maybe he wants to show you a good time in his caravan.’

  Everyone in the corridor can hear,

  and she thinks

  it’s well funny,

  like we haven’t heard the gypsy joke

  a hundred times today

  already.

  She reaches into her locker and

  pulls out

  a book,

  holds it up:

  Big Fat Gypsy Weddings.

  Where the hell did she get that?

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ Meg high-fives Shawna,

  and they squeal

  like ugly sick pigs,

  like nasty little witches about to brew up

  something poisonous.

  ‘Gonna cut out some pictures and post them around

  the place,’ Meg says.

  ‘Might give a few to Dan, so he can

  put ’em up in the changing rooms.’

  Liz is like, ‘That’s hil-ar-ious.’

  And I could say,

  But is it?

  Is it hilarious?

  Cos I think it’s boring.

  I think you’re boring.

  All of you.

  And anyway he doesn’t live in a caravan.

  He lives in a flat.

  But I don’t say anything

  cos I don’t wanna be on the receiving end

  of Meg’s bile.

  ‘I’ve got French,’ I say instead,

  and turn away.

  Behind me I hear whispering.

  Nothing else.

  I keep walking.

  TOSSING AND TURNING

  I sleep bad these nights.

  The tip-tap-tip

  in my head

  still happen in new country

  because too many times

  I thinking of Jess.

  I thinking what Mămică and Tata would say

  if they knew Jess was so much

  in

  my

  mind.

  Inside and out,

  she is beauty full.

  Shag/Marry/Dump

  ‘Right,’ Meg says.

  ‘Mr Pitcher, Mr Morgan and Mr Betts.’

  Shawna screams.

  ‘That’s just nasty.

  Can you even imagine?’

  Liz laughs.

  ‘No. Cos I’m not imagining,

  but you must be.

  Rank!’

  The bell for the end of break

  rings

  but

  Meg drags on her fag

  like she hasn’t heard it.

  Everyone else smoking behind the drama block

  leaves for their lessons.

  ‘You’ve got to decide.

  Shag, marry or dump?

  Go!’

  Shawna shrugs.

  ‘Shag Mr Pitcher, marry Mr Morgan, and dump,

  definitely dump, Mr Betts.’

  Meg turns to me.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ she says,

  like it’s a crime.

  ‘This one’s just for Jess.

  Right,

  Dan, Kenny and…’

  She pauses.

  Shawna and Liz wait with their mouths open.

  I see the horrible machine of Meg’s mind

  as she searches for the name.

  His name.

  I cross my fingers that it won’t be him,

  that she’ll say Ryan,

  cos he’s the most obvious choice.

  Then she finally says it:

  ‘Nicu.

  Go on then, Jess.

  Shag, marry, dump?’

  It’s a trap.

  I mean,

  I know it’s a trap,

  so I say,

  ‘I’m not getting married, Meg.’

  ‘Why? You a lezzer?’ she asks.

  Shawna moves away from me,

  just a bit.

  Liz chucks her fag.

  ‘It’s a crap game,’ I say.

  ‘We played it in Year Eight

  and it was crap then,

  too.’

  Meg throws her fag butt on to the ground,

  grinds it to dust with the heel

  of her shoe.

  ‘Do you fancy Dan or something?’ she asks.

  I almost

  crack up laughing.

  That’s what she thinks?

  That I fancy Dan?

  ‘Know what, Meg,

  you can shag them all.

  But it’s a good job it is a game

  cos I don’t think anyone’ll

  be queueing up to shag you.’

  THE LAST LAUGH

  Big Fat Gypsy Weddings pictures

  are in everywhere:

  school changing place,

  canteen,

  locker,

  and

  teacher board.

  Many photos of

  wives with

  epic dress and comic hair

  or

  husbands with

  golden smiles and diamond eyes.

  I don’t rip pictures away.

  I don’t rip away

  because

  these gypsy weddings are

  not my peoples,

  not my weddings,

  not my me.

  So

  I have last laughing.

  After very short timing

  Big Fat Gypsy Weddings pictures

  look sad,

  like death sunflower.

  Finally,

  they flop down

  dead.

  And

  I have one more

  last laughing.

  A Quick Word

  I’m washing gunk off my hands

  after pointlessly playing with

  papier mâché for two hours,

  when Dawn moseys over.

  ‘Can I have a quick word, Jess?’

  I show her my sticky palms and say,

  ‘One sec,’

  knowing her quick word

  will totally turn into some

  clock-watching psycho session.

  ‘Just wondering how you’re finding the scheme.

  Any positives from this whole thing yet?’ she asks.

  ‘Uhh, like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Have you learned anything?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Or maybe you made a friend?’

  I sneer.

  ‘Friends?

  With that lot? Yeah, right.

  You must be joking.’

  Nicu is on the other side of the room.

  He waves a papier mâché pig

  and gives me a thumbs up.

  I guess Nicu is my friend.

  In a way.

  We hang out,

  I can rely on him and he’s never tried

  to hurt me.

  So why haven’t I given him

  my number?

  I mean,

  what would be the harm?

  NUMBERS

  On eat and fag

  break at

  reparation scheme,

  the others message

  on phones with

  fast fingers.

  Everyone do swapping of numbers.

  Not me.

  I go to pond and

  swap sweets with swans.

  I hear foot crunching on stone.

  ‘Hey, you didn’t give me your number,’ Jess say.

  My breath become heavy weight
.

  ‘You want my number?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, what is it?’

  I tell it to her,

  and

  she tell hers to me.

  And I photograph hers in my head.

  Quite Nice

  I’ve no shortage of boys

  wanting me,

  after me,

  telling me

  I’m the golden sun

  and bloody silver moon.

  In Year Seven

  Keith Woods

  passed me a note

  in science

  that said

  ‘Your reelly cute!’

  and I let him

  kiss me with

  his mouth open

  more than once,

  his tongue

  far too flappy

  for my liking.

  In Year Eight,

  Michael Mensah

  asked me out,

  and I said yes,

  and spent the next three weeks

  battling with him

  while he fought to

  get my bra off.

  In Year Nine

  Noah Stein

  told everyone

  I was hot,

  and I liked that,

  and when he put his

  hand up my skirt

  I didn’t say no.

  Not the first time anyway.

  And this year,

  even though I’m still in Year Ten,

  a load of sixth formers have been

  chatting me up after school,

  messaging me,

  saying stuff that would make Mum’s eyes water.

  But it’s all the same.

  It’s all about them.

  What they want.

  What I can give.

  Down the youth offenders’ place