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 po
ckets
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
The Weight of Water Page 4