by Louisa Reid
to see mum’s face
her pleading eyes.
don’t want to feel like telling her how hard
i’ve had to try.
that she’s cheating
taking the easy way
risking everything.
don’t want to have to bite my tongue and be
kind.
why do i have to be the one who understands?
OB_S__Y
am i stupid?
is this a test
to see if i can spell?
or, maybe you just like to be unkind.
i wanted to be a ballerina
like all the other little girls,
and to twirl
in acres of pink tulle
tutued up to the nines.
mum made my skirt
and i had ribbons,
long pink ribbons,
holding my pigtails high.
mum clapped as i danced around the living room
believing i could fly.
now i put on my gloves, and grit my teeth, and wait.
ROSIE
wants to know what’s wrong.
nothing, I say
battering away
at the punchbag,
breathless,
not wanting to talk
to anyone any more.
leave me alone,
i tell her,
it’s nothing.
“whatever,” she says,
“but if you want to talk,
i’m here.”
later i hate myself
for pushing her away.
sorry, i type
she sends back a smiley face and
hearts.
come and meet me
she writes
i’m bored, aren’t you?
i sneak out –
that’s what normal teenagers do –
and anyway,
i can’t breathe here any more.
it’s dark.
still only february,
the days too short
and the wind disgruntled, bitter –
snatching at my hair and clothes.
we meet in town
near the statue
that commemorates
the fallen.
i remember what i’d wanted to become,
not so long ago,
the soldiers i’d talked about
to a room of people who didn’t give a damn,
people dying for their principles
for their country
(like lambs to the slaughter)
about
the horror
of war.
i tell rosie all about it.
how i hate arguments,
fighting,
conflict,
bloodshed.
how one day i want to be
someone who saves.
“oh, the irony,” she says,
“remember, who showed kezia
a thing or two?
not to mention aidan vaine.”
that’s different, isn’t it?
“yeah, of course,
i’m teasing, you idiot.”
she takes my arm.
it’s different touching her like this
even through the thick down of her jacket.
she’s warm –
her hand,
no gloves,
squeezes mine.
“come on,” she says and
pulls me through the streets
and
somehow
i
keep
up.
we run nowhere,
past the drunks in doorways
and the lads out on the town
the girls laughing in their stilettoes and
not much else.
we run
through the city,
jump litter
and the holes in the scarred streets
and i breathe it all in
the neon blue night,
the hell of it,
the way it feels like
we’re going places
and no one
can stop us now.
don’t feel the rain
biting my skin,
because i’m expanding,
could swallow the city in one gulp,
i’m flying
floating,
airborne,
free.
“let’s go back to yours,”
rosie says,
“it’s nearer,
come on,
let’s go.”
breathless, flushed,
i shake my head.
no.
there’s stuff
i’d rather rosie didn’t know.
THIS ISN’T LIKE YOU
“please talk to me,” mum says,
“we used to be so close
you used to tell me
everything.”
what? ten years ago?
what does she know?
only what she wanted to believe,
that i was good and quiet and
not someone to make a fuss.
well,
actually,
not.
nice girl gets
nowhere fast.
seems like i’m someone else.
punching or running or lifting,
i push myself harder
and plan
to prove something.
press-ups,
squats,
skipping,
sweating,
i like the pain right now.
i work on my stamina,
footwork,
strength.
dad comes out to watch
and smoke,
it’s the first time he’s been home in days,
he narrows his eyes,
i can’t tell if that means
he likes what he sees.
i hold out the gloves,
want to fight me,
dad?
he grinds the fag butt
into the ground,
pulls on his gloves.
“come on then, lil,
let’s see what you’ve got.”
we spar.
i hug him tight.
it feels good to hold someone –
even like this,
in a fight.
“all right,”
dad says to me,
“what’s been going on, then?”
nothing.
“so why’s your mum in bits, lily?”
dad says,
serious voice,
staring me down,
“this is your mum you’re hurting.
sort yourself out.”
RECKLESS
i hear them talking,
how aidan stole a car last night,
drove it round the estate
onto main roads
drunk,
too fast,
he smashed it up,
wrapped it around a lamp post,
and crawled away.
stacey’s not in –
was she with him too?
their faces are scared,
and i don’t ask
what’s happened,
or why they care.
if i had a car
i’d drive
so far
from here
you wouldn’t
even see my shadow.
aidan catches me staring,
and for a second our eyes lock.
i send him mouthfuls of hate
a faceful of disgust,
he swears,
gestures,
then someone pulls him back.
“so,” mollie says,
coming over, eyes on her phone,
“what’ve you been doing?
you look good, you know.”
a couple of other girls
join us at the desk,
like now i’m al
lowed in their club.
i shrug away questions
pull my coat around me tighter,
won’t let them know
that now i’m a fighter
saving my fists
saving my words
saving my secrets
whatever they’ve heard.
“aidan’s a wanker,”
mollie decides,
now she watches my face
as she pulls out the knives,
and shows me her phone,
“didn’t you see?
stacey’s a mess.”
it’s tempting
to chew it over with them,
to laugh on condition
i act like a friend.
i could speculate to
accumulate some
poisoned
ammunition.
save it for someone who cares, i say
and i stand up and walk away.
CONCENTRATE
in class i’m thinking
(as the teacher drones)
about footwork.
my hips
shifting –
left,
right.
legs under my shoulders,
punching up –
feel my muscles
twitch and
tense –
i’m balancing,
jabbing,
sharp
and
fast.
outside, up in the sky, the sun is breaking through
and on the way home,
i see blue.
DRESS UP
at home in my room
i open my cupboards,
shake out the drawers,
pull clothes off hangers
and gather up the things
that were never really
me.
black bag full
i bundle it downstairs.
“what’s this?”
mum asks.
rubbish,
stuff i don’t need.
she’s too slow to stop me
marching down the path,
i hear her calling though,
how i’m being silly,
telling me to stop
and sort through again,
together,
but
i drop it in a skip
outside number 38,
go home,
my arms empty,
head
full of possibility.
i need some money,
for clothes,
okay?
“how about i make you
something nice,”
mum suggests,
wiping her hands,
reaching for patterns –
i can already see pincushions of ideas
floating in her brain –
the lace, the silk, the miles of material
and her wrapping me up in it
rolling me round
trussing me up
swaddled and safe.
i shake my head
no thanks,
i say,
not my style.
i refuse to catch her eye.
“there isn’t any money spare
this month, lil.
i’m sorry,
we’re short right now.”
when weren’t we?
WINDOW SHOPPING
we meet in town.
rosie likes pretty things,
and
she poses
in dresses and skirts,
in short things,
tight things,
clingy things that show her curves,
and
floaty things,
long things –
she’ll dress up in anything.
you’d look good in a paper bag.
rosie laughs – “why not?” she says,
and picks me out trousers,
patterned with stripes
others with checks,
a shirt that’s cute
a jacket,
stylish stuff,
expensive
shoes.
“this would be cool on you,” she says
and this, and this and this,
i blush as she oohs and aahs and i make myself
silly
and strut,
laughing our heads off
we dress up,
and model for the mirror
the camera makes it forever,
blowing kisses and smiling –
we swipe through the pictures,
share one drink, two straws.
next to rosie
i like the way i look.
CHALLENGE
it’s
just me this time
no other friends there,
and i don’t dare ask if that means
rosie’s picked me –
although i definitely feel chosen.
“come over,”
rosie said,
and now we lie together
on her bed,
watching films,
on her phone
heads close,
warm.
i like being in her room,
becoming part of it,
with the pictures of her, and her friends
her posters, jewellery,
flicking through her books,
searching for clues.
and then i blurt it out.
my mum’s getting an operation, you know.
rosie looks stricken,
drops her phone,
grabs my hand,
“oh shit, why?
i didn’t know she was sick,
are you okay?”
immediately i feel a fraud,
regret what i said
want to take it back.
no, yeah, i’m fine.
forget it, sorry, it’s nothing, really.
“no, seriously, babe, you can talk to me.”
i can’t though. i gather my things
get ready to go.
“lil! wait! don’t just walk out.”
come with me then,
i challenge her,
come on.
TEST
it’s not fair to do this –
to set rosie up to fail a test
she doesn’t even know she’s taking.
if rosie really likes me –
her face will give her away.
still,
i should warn her.
the kitchen lights are on,
we go round the back.
mum and dad sit at the table
playing cards,
laughing
at something.
i haven’t seen them like this
in so long.
they don’t stop when i come in,
but continue to smile,
and mum gets to her feet
and rosie steps forward
to say hello,
unwrapping her scarf,
taking off her coat,
like it’s the most natural thing in the world,
for her to be here.
“so,” rosie asks later,
as i walk her to the bus,
“what is it? with your mum? and you?”
nothing,
i say.
“sometimes you’re weird,
lily, you know,
you’ve got to let her do
what she’s got to do.”
WHAT’S MY PROBLEM?
maybe i want a golden ticket too,
but for
me,
there’s no easy fix.
i have to fight it out –
one on one –
play by the rules.
i cannot hit below the belt,
or bite or spit or kick.
can’t hit when they’re down.
or shrink to make myself fit.
anything else is cheating.
NEWS
at the police in the corridor
someone shouts pigs
no one gives a damn about a uniform round here.
the head teacher comes in to our room
and looks around,
narrowed eyes,
face says: we’ll talk later.
then,
he summons aidan vaine,
“step outside please, mr vaine,”
aidan’s up
and swearing
throwing chairs,
tipping desks,
bull,
bully,
bulls-eye –
they’ve got him
and this time he can’t run.
struggling,
but half-contained,
someone
takes aidan vaine
away.
i cheer.
(silently)
and
finally
i can
breathe.
THE INEVITABLE
“did you hear? did you hear?”
kezia runs over,
“we’re doing it, it’s real.”
i know she means
jane’s boxing show.
“it’s all coming together, girls,”
jane talks, and smiles,
a blur of words
that get stuck in my ears:
charity, judges, referee, bouts
she’s got it all sorted,
it’s all worked out.
i start to walk away,
when jane calls after me,
“hey, lil. you’ll fight rosie. you’re up for it,
right?”
“when?” rosie says, already on her toes,
towing me with her
as i try to breathe
not to show
that this is the worse news i’ve ever heard.
THE MOMENT
fight night’s
looming –
it feels
too soon.
and dad’s been playing
Rocky music for weeks.
side-stepping round the house,
he’s boxed and swooped –
making me laugh
and shake with fear
all at once.
i hide my head under my covers at night
at the thought of getting into the ring.
and so we train,
even harder than before,
every morning
before school