We Come Apart Read online

Nicu Gabor

  talks to me

  and listens to me

  and wants to do things for me.

  His voice dances

  with words that are all messed up

  but actually mean something,

  and whenever we’re together

  he makes me

  laugh

  and laugh,

  sometimes until my ribs hurt.

  Nicu:

  he’s more than quite nice.

  GIFTS AND TALENTS

  How do English boys impressing the girls?

  Chocolate?

  Cider?

  Car?

  What is the secret?

  I want to impressing Jess with being

  her listener,

  her joker,

  her doer.

  Maybe if she see me back in Pata

  as talent wrestler,

  making throws

  and

  takedowns,

  she be in the full impress with me.

  Cleaning

  I know I was young

  cos I couldn’t

  work Terry’s phone properly.

  I took a ten second video of my own face

  before he snatched it back.

  ‘Are you stupid? This. Here. The red button.’

  He hadn’t beaten Mum up,

  just given her a toothbrush and told her

  to clean the toilet

  while he watched.

  But then he got bored,

  wanted to see the end of some Spurs match,

  so that’s when he had the idea to give me his phone,

  to record it,

  save the memory of Mum on her knees.

  ‘And next time the bathroom’s a pigsty,

  I’ll make you clean it with your tongue,’ he warned her.

  Mum didn’t answer.

  She just nodded

  and reached for the bleach.

  ‘Record until she’s done,’ he told me. ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said,

  and as he left the bathroom

  Mum glanced up at me,

  and I knew then that Terry had forced

  me to be on his side,

  leaving Mum on the other,

  leaving Mum alone.

  I knew right then

  that Terry had found a

  very important

  role for me.

  HATE PAGES

  On my mathematic book

  some peoples write:

  Isis Slag.

  On my science book

  some peoples write:

  Taliban Gooooooo Home.

  On my French book

  some peoples write:

  Voted out of Britin Fuck Off.

  On my mathematic book again

  some peoples write:

  Rat Boy Gypsy Scum.

  On

  English

  geography

  history

  book

  they write:

  Stinking Gyppo.

  I do ripping of hate pages.

  Scribble

  Nicu and I are only in one lesson together –

  design technology,

  and

  while he’s up at the teacher’s desk

  getting something checked,

  Dan grabs his work book

  and scrawls

  Stinking Gyppo

  across it.

  ‘Dick!’ I say aloud.

  Meg sniggers into her hand.

  ‘Yeah, you should tell Dan to write that on his maths book

  next lesson.’

  I don’t bother telling her I’m actually talking about Dan.

  ‘Dick,’ I say again,

  this time

  looking right at Meg.

  BAD TACKLE

  If you not do school homework

  you do

  detention

  for to write

  punishment words.

  But

  I don’t write punishment words.

  I look out window at P.E. teacher playing football with crew lads.

  I see.

  I see

  crew lad football tackle into Obafemi.

  I see

  geezers laughing,

  Obafemi foot holding.

  Teacher doing the five highs with Dan and other crew.

  I see

  everything.

  Don’t Make It Easy

  Terry’s got the paper open in front of him

  on the kitchen table

  and he’s jabbing at some article

  with his finger,

  prodding a picture of

  a slightly scruffy bloke

  like he might actually be able to hurt

  him a bit

  by attacking the newspaper.

  ‘They’re only here five minutes

  and the council’s putting them in houses

  down Lordship Lane.

  It’s disgusting.

  Taxpayers’ money

  putting up scroungers

  who’d pimp out their

  own kids for a pound.’

  I want to roll my eyes

  and make Terry

  tell me exactly where these foreigners

  are living.

  Because I’ve seen the estate where

  Nicu lives and it’s worse than

  this one –

  windows covered in

  bed sheets,

  gangs of kids everywhere

  and loads of people with dogs on chains –

  a total hellhole.

  I say,

  ‘Yeah, it’s terrible, Terry.’

  ‘Are you taking the mick?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say

  quickly.

  ‘No, I mean it, it’s terrible.

  Loads of foreign kids at school too.’

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t make it easy for them,’ he says.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Nah, I don’t make it easy,’ I say,

  thinking of Nicu.

  And actually,

  this isn’t even a lie.

  THE GHOST

  At school I try to be so much low key,

  to not catch her gazing

  or

  have my body in her space.

  Sometime I follow like ghost

  to where she goes:

  I sit behind in canteen,

  so I can watching her without notice,

  spy her hair flowing,

  her shoulders dancing when she laugh.

  One time I see her white skin between

  jumper

  and

  trouser.

  A dream!

  Like desert oasis.

  And she never see my follow,

  my spy,

  my ghost.

  But my voice, hair, skin

  don’t make easy my blending in.

  Maybe

  I need to do

  gel style hair

  like Dan and his crew,

  show my undergarments

  above tracksuit,

  walk more like

  gangster man.

  Maybe then I can becoming

  important

  part of here.

  Big

  question mark.

  A Bit Much

  Liz is all like, ‘He keeps staring at you!’

  And Shawna says,

  ‘Doesn’t he wash his hair?’

  I take a bite from my limp pizza

  and say, ‘I’m doing time with him

  down the park.

  He said he used to ride a pony or a horse or something back home.

  He’s funny.’

  ‘You mean he actually is a pikey?’ Meg says.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Yeah … he’s probably one of them Roma ones.’

  ‘Maybe. So what?’

  ‘So what? So brilliant.’

  One side of Meg’s mouth twists into a smi
le and

  I know then

  I should’ve kept schtum.

  Information like that is jackpot gold

  to a bitch like her.

  ‘Oi, gypsy boy! Oi, gypsy boy!

  When you gonna show us your donkey kong?’

  Meg shouts across the canteen.

  Nicu doesn’t look up.

  Just keeps chewing on a roll,

  gazing out the window.

  But Dan and his gobby mates have heard,

  sidle over.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Dan asks.

  Meg cups her hand around Dan’s ear

  then puts her lips to it,

  whispering,

  whispering,

  thinking she’s so hot and mysterious.

  And I know what comes next.

  ‘Ee-aw! Ee-aw!’

  It starts with Dan.

  Not that loudly.

  Then his mates join in.

  ‘Ee-aw! Ee-aw!’

  Then Meg too.

  ‘Ee-aw! Ee-aw!’

  Nicu still doesn’t know that this crap is

  aimed at him.

  He’s smiling at a dinner lady now,

  with that puppy smile

  that makes her well happy –

  I mean, she’s like forty years old.

  Why wouldn’t she love that face?

  Dan picks up his plate

  and marches over to Nicu.

  He thinks he’s Kanye bloody West.

  Everyone knows Dan lives with both parents in a massive semi

  up Crouch End way.

  Thinks he’s a rude boy.

  I watch.

  Can’t look away.

  Know I should leave.

  Know I should tell someone.

  Know I should do something.

  But

  come on,

  this is Dan Bell-end we’re talking about.

  Standing up to him would be

  one hundred per cent suicide.

  Nicu looks up.

  At last.

  But smiles

  too sweetly,

  too innocently,

  too much like a typical foreigner

  who just doesn’t get it.

  Until he does.

  Until Dan tips his chips over Nicu’s head.

  Until they are tumbling down his shoulders.

  Until ketchup is slathered through his hair and

  Dan is laughing,

  and his mates are laughing,

  and most of the idiots in the room are laughing.

  Then

  Meg saunters over and casually launches half a muffin

  at Nicu’s face.

  ‘A bit much,’ I murmur.

  And Liz is like, ‘So what? He’s weird.’

  And Shawna says, ‘I think the hair’s an improvement

  actually.’

  Nicu is silent.

  His hand curls around his carton of apple juice.

  The sparkle trickles out of him,

  and I’d bet anything

  that in his head he’s telling himself to be

  a good boy, a good boy.

  I mean,

  what else can he do

  with Dan and his boys surrounding him,

  hoping it’ll kick off?

  I can’t stay.

  Can’t see any more.

  ‘Fuck this,’ I say

  and, leaving my tray where it is,

  go for a smoke behind the drama block.

  RED FACE

  I see on floor

  chips and

  red

  ketchup.

  Happy is not my blood.

  My only happiness.

  I see the angry in Jess face,

  angry not at me,

  at them.

  I see her push door with

  aggressive and leave.

  Leave everyone in the laughter

  at my pain.

  Picking

  I blow smoke rings into the air.

  Without turning around I know

  Nicu’s there,

  ketchup in his hair,

  and he’s looking at me.

  I pretend not to sense him,

  concentrate on my fag.

  I pick

  at a thick, hard scab on my hand.

  I just know he’s not

  looking away

  or curling up his nose

  or going to say, ‘Don’t pick, Jess, so ranking,’

  or do anything else to

  make me feel

  disgusting

  – which I am

  sometimes.

  Not to him

  though.

  Not ever.

  And

  I don’t know why

  but

  it doesn’t feel good.

  I keep waiting for him to see through me

  or just see me

  as I am,

  and when he does

  he’ll be pretty

  disappointed.

  HATING THINGS

  I hate

  morning interval,

  lunchtime eating,

  afternoon break,

  people looking and jokes they make.

  I hate

  P.E. lesson because I can’t kick ball

  like lads here.

  Crazy teacher howls, ‘Nicu, Nicu, Nicu!’

  Some do fouls on my legs

  with purpose.

  I hate

  P.E. showers because

  I don’t want

  them

  seeing

  my naked.

  I hate

  Dan and crew doing cock helicopters

  near to my face,

  slapping my arse with towel.

  I can’t to scream

  cry

  freak

  run out of the place.

  That would

  tell crew

  I’m the easy prey.

  I hate

  the day someone put note

  on no-hope table:

  Brexit!!!

  I hate

  being target board for

  their every

  dart.

  As If Nothing Happened

  Standing around waiting

  for Nicu at the youth centre

  my mind is going mental:

  I’m so over

  these team-building activities,

  I’m so bored with

  Dawn’s sessions

  and

  I’ve had it with

  all this reparation bullshit.

  Nicu bounces out of

  Bicep Andy’s office,

  which makes me feel

  even worse.

  ‘Hi, Jess,’ he says,

  as if nothing ever happened

  in the canteen the other day,

  like he’s forgotten all about it.

  ‘Nicu, I’m sorry. I was well out of order,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Sorry? For why?’

  ‘For what happened in the canteen.’

  ‘You do no bad to me, Jess.’

  ‘Shut up. You know I should’ve said something.’

  ‘Jess, if you walk with wolf, it not mean you are wolf.’

  He nods.

  I don’t really get what he means.

  Doesn’t matter though.

  I already feel a bit better.

  ‘Thanks, Nicu.’

  ‘No thanking me. You are not my evil, Jess.’

  ACTIVITY CIRCLE

  Boy team activity circle

  have also Dawn and Bicep Andy

  as our lead.

  We do many talkings about

  home,

  school,

  futures,

  fears.

  Rick say he want to be footballer.

  Lee say he want to be millionaire.

  Bill say he want to marry model.

  ‘What about you, bruv?’ Lee ask.

  ‘Yeah, Nicu, what you want to do,
mate?’ Rick ask.

  All heads eyeing me.

  I say:

  ‘I never want go to man prison.’

  All boy team big time laugh.

  Me too.

  ‘I hear that, Nicu,’ Bill say. ‘I hear that.’

  When Dawn and Bicep Andy

  leave circle,

  Rick come to me.

  Standing over.

  ‘Oi, Nicu.’

  ‘Rick.’

  ‘Question.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘How do you say fuck this shit in your language, mate?’

  When I telling Rick answer

  all boy team big time laugh

  again.

  Me include.

  My Future

  Now we’re studying for proper exams,

  it’s not just Mr Morgan

  banging on about us fulfilling our potentials.

  Every teacher is like,

  ‘It’s about time you lot took school seriously,’

  and

  ‘If you applied yourself, you could

  blah blah blah,’

  and

  ‘What do you want to do after your exams anyway?

  Have you thought about college?’

  I could say,

  ‘Well,

  I wanna be a doctor

  with my own practice down

  Harley Street

  and make four hundred quid an hour.

  But

  if that isn’t possible

  maybe I could

  work in films,

  and make stuff

  that everyone watches.

  Or

  if,

  you know,

  like,

  I don’t get great results,