Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  BROKEN ENGLISH

  By Marita A. Hansen

  Copyright

  Broken English

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2016 © Marita A. Hansen

  Editor: John Hudspith

  Cover design © Marita A. Hansen

  Cover Photography by Art-Of-Photo and Sisoje

  and sourced from www.istockphoto.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: marita.a.hansen@hotmail.com

  All characters, names, places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  1 Clara

  2 Dante

  3 Clara

  4 Clara

  5 Dante

  6 Clara

  7 Dante

  8 Clara

  9 Dante

  10 Clara

  11 Dante

  12 Clara

  13 Dante

  14 Clara

  15 Dante

  16 Clara

  17 Dante

  18 Clara

  19 Clara

  20 Dante

  21 Clara

  22 Dante

  23 Clara

  24 Dante

  25 Clara

  26 Dante

  27 Clara

  28 Dante

  29 Clara

  Broken English Poem

  A Special Note from the Author

  About the Author

  More Books by the Author

  UK English is used due to the New Zealand setting.

  All other variations are also due to where the book is set, as well as the characters’ cultural and socio-economic backgrounds. This is why some characters use different speech patterns from others.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who has helped me with getting this book published, especially my long suffering family for having to put up with all the time I spend on trying to make my writing career a success.

  In addition, I would like to say a special thanks to:

  John Hudspith – He’s edited many of my books, and is absolutely great to work with. I always feel that I’m putting my best work forward after he’s been through the manuscript.

  Narise Hansen, Noara Rahman, and Menna Mohamed – my beta readers, who led me to throw away the first draft and start again. Thanks, girls. The story is so much better because of your critique. Hope you like the new version.

  This book is set in the year 2002.

  Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.

  Thomas Boston

  1

  CLARA

  I turned into Wera High and parked in the teachers’ car park, so excited I was literally shaking in my seat. It was my first day as a permanent English teacher, something I’d been dreaming of since I was a kid. Prior to today, I’d only worked as a substitute, filling in when other teachers were away, which wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to have my own class, one where I could foster a connection with the kids, and help them fall in love with literature like I had. Then a colleague had mentioned that Wera High was looking for an English teacher. I’d jumped at the opportunity, even more eager since the high school was in South Auckland, a lower socio-economic area in New Zealand, where I felt I could really make a difference.

  I flipped the vanity mirror down and checked my appearance, making sure my lipstick hadn’t bled out like a vampire’s victim. I smiled at the metaphor. I was a huge Buffy fan. I not only watched the programme, but read all the books. My husband thought it was hilarious that a Lit Major loved ‘teenage, trash fantasy’, his description, not mine. He’d told me that I should be reading the likes of The Great Gatsby, Nineteen Eighty-Four, and To Kill a Mockingbird, all books he knew nothing about, since his idea of good literature was Sports Illustrated.

  My reflection in the vanity mirror wiped the smile off my face. My rose-coloured lippie had indeed attempted to escape my lips, making a beeline for my chin. I licked a finger and ran it under my mouth. One would have thought that by the year 2002 they’d have invented a lipstick that would stay put, but no, it was a constant battle keeping it confined to one area. Or maybe I was just useless at putting it on. Regardless, I applied a fresh layer and smacked my lips together, fixing the problem—for the time being. Happy with the result, I slipped my lipstick away in my tan-coloured satchel and smoothed down my long blonde hair, which I’d freshly dyed to get rid of my naturally mousy-brown colour.

  Eager to get the day started, I got out of my yellow Volkswagen, taking in the vibrant surroundings. Wera High was so much livelier than the middle-class and posh schools I’d substituted at in London. The South Auckland kids were louder, bigger, scruffier, and more disorderly. They were streaming onto school grounds, cutting across the road, car park, and grass, one even kicking down a ‘No Walking On Grass’ sign as he headed for a two-storey, cream-coloured building with a green roof.

  I slung my satchel over my head, resting the strap across my soft pink blouse and the leather bag on the hip of my darker pink skirt. I went to head for the same building, which held the principal’s office and the staffroom, but quickly flattened my back against my car as three boys bowled past me, almost taking me out. They sprinted across the grass, with a monster of a boy leading the way, his wide shoulders deserving their own postcode.

  I shook my head and turned to go, spinning around as a yell rented the air. On the far side of the lawn, the three boys were pushing and shoving another boy, as well as throwing punches at him. Their victim looked like he was struggling to fend them off, his arms and feet moving fast in self-defence. Then the big boy hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground.

  I ran for the fight, yelling at them to stop. My right heel clipped a raised patch of grass, almost sending me falling onto my face. I briefly flailed, but righted my footing in time and continued on, closing in on the fight. Two of the attacking party took off as I neared them, while the bigger one remained. He started kicking the fallen boy, one boot connecting with his crotch. The boy cried out and curled up into a foetal position, clutching himself below.

  I shot in front of the thug as he raised his boot again. “Stop!” I shouted, holding out my hands.

  He lowered his foot, his expression an angry mask of brutality. He had a crooked nose, square jaw, and a prominent brow, his number one haircut finishing off his tough-as-nails look. He was also very tall, well over six-foot, dwarfing my five-foot-three frame. I swallowed and took a step back, realising the danger I’d unwittingly put myself in. I’d read about teachers getting hurt in South Auckland schools. Only the other day, one was knocked unconscious at a school that was barely five minutes from Wera High, and here I was on my first day, jumping into a situation where I couldn’t possibly defend myself.

  “Go to the principal’s office,” I said, trying to sound assertive, although I felt anything but, especially with this colossus sneering down at me.

  His angry gaze shifted to the fallen boy. “You’re so pathetic you need chicks to save you now. Just stay away from mine—”

  “I don’t want your sloppy seconds!” the boy yelled on the ground, the kid obviously having a death wish.

  Fury flashed across the other one’s face. The headline FEMALE TEACHER HOSPITALIS
ED DEFENDING STUDENT jumped into my mind. Desperate to diffuse the situation, I whipped out my mobile phone. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave now.”

  The thug tensed. “You should stay outta other people’s business, lady.”

  “It is my business when you fight on school grounds,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “What is your name?”

  “None of your biz, bitch.” A second later he was gone, disappearing inside the school building. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding in, relieved that I hadn’t gotten killed before the bell had even rung. Behind me the injured boy moaned, pulling my attention back to him. He was still curled up and clutching his crotch, using curse words that would make a sailor blush.

  I squatted down and placed a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He mumbled something I couldn’t discern. He had his face turned towards the ground, his black crop of hair speckled with flecks of grass, mud, and a small twig.

  I pulled out the twig. “Do you need help to get up?”

  “I said, fuck off!”

  I whipped my hand back, shocked by his vicious response. “There’s no need to swear at me, I’m just trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.” He turned around and sat up, his angry gaze going to mine.

  I froze, taken aback by his appearance. He was...

  Beautiful.

  Dark eyes stared back at me, framed by even darker lashes, which matched his wavy black hair. He looked Italian or possibly Brazilian, his olive-skin and sculpted face reminding me of a famous male model I couldn’t remember the name of.

  The boy’s glare dropped. For a moment he appeared as struck as I was, then he brought a hand to his brow, breaking the connection. He wiped some blood off it, drawing my attention to a small gash above his left eye. I quickly pulled open my satchel and searched for a tissue amongst the mass of receipts, finding an unopened packet. I removed a tissue and applied it to his wound.

  The boy grabbed my wrist, freezing me in place. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, taking the tissue out of my hand. Letting go of my wrist, he placed the tissue to his brow and pushed to his feet, grimacing as he straightened. His other hand went to his crotch, reminding me he’d been kicked there.

  I rose up too, feeling small in comparison. Even though he wasn’t as big as the monster that had attacked him, he was still close to six foot. His arms were also defined, the material of his grey short-sleeved, button-down shirt straining against his biceps.

  I cleared my throat. “I’ll take you to the sickbay,” I said, feeling ashamed for ogling a schoolboy. Though, he looked like a senior, which meant he was either seventeen or eighteen, which wasn’t that much younger than my twenty-four years.

  He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” He swiped up his bag, which was covered in writing reminiscent of graffiti. There was also a gang patch sewn into the black canvas. My husband had been concerned when I’d told him the position was in South Auckland. After watching the film Once Were Warriors, he seemed to think he was an expert on the area, calling it gangland territory. I’d teased him mercilessly over it, since he’d never even been to Auckland, let alone New Zealand. He was from London. I’d met him while on my OE—an overseas working holiday. We’d been together for a good four years, married for one of those. He was due to follow me in a few weeks, his documentation taking longer than we’d anticipated.

  Brushing himself off, the wavy-haired boy headed for the main building, discarding me like the tissue I’d given him. I ran after him, holding down my knee-length skirt so it didn’t fly up.

  “I think I should take you to the sickbay,” I said, speaking to his back.

  He kept on walking. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not; you should get a bandage for that cut and check your—”

  He came to a sudden stop, almost causing me to crash into him. I took a step back as he turned to face me, his glare making me take another one. “You better not say balls,” he said.

  I snorted out a nervous laugh and waved a hand at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was referring to your other injuries.”

  “The only thing injured is my pride, so just leave me the hell alone. I don’t need chicks fighting my battles for me,” he said, his accent sounding Maori, not Italian or Brazilian—like he looked.

  He turned back around and awkwardly ascended the stairs to the main building, the kick below obviously still hurting, which was no doubt why he was being so grumpy with me. I followed him into the corridor, where other students were milling about, talking, stuffing their belongings into lockers, and generally being noisy, the bustle reminding me of the London Underground, just more suffocating. The smell of teenage sweat, cologne, perfume, and even mud permeated the air, along with the heat their bodies were generating, making the corridor a rather unpleasant place to be on a hot summer’s day.

  I pushed past some students, not willing to let the boy get away from me. My husband described me as a pit bull when I was determined to do something, biting in and not letting go until I got my way. “You could at least tell me your attacker’s name,” I said, doing my best to keep up with him, the crush of students impeding me. “I have to report this.”

  He shook his head. “Not happening.”

  “It is, so I need his name.”

  He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face me, giving me another annoyed look. “Cut me some slack, lady. I don’t wanna start off the year in the principal’s office, defending myself, when this isn’t even my fault.”

  “You won’t need to, you’re the victim.”

  He grimaced. “Don’t call me a victim, I don’t appreciate it.” He turned to go.

  I shot in front of him. “I still need to know the boy’s name.”

  “You don’t give up, do ya?”

  I shook my head, just as determined to get it as before, if not more.

  He exhaled loudly. “It’s Ronald McDonald, but if I get called into the principal’s office I’ll deny it. I’m not a nark.”

  I scowled at him. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”

  His annoyed expression dropped, the first sign of a smile pulling at his lips. “Do ya really want me to answer that?”

  My scowl grew. “Don’t be cheeky. And you can’t seriously expect me to believe that boy’s name is Ronald McDonald.”

  He blinked, then let out a burst of laugher. “That is his name. His father’s a big fat cunt who loves McDonald’s. Though, we usually call the prick Ron, Ronnie, or Happy Meal. We also call him Burger King or Wendy’s when we really wanna piss him off.”

  “Are you playing with me?” I asked, not sure whether to believe him or not. Although he sounded genuine, I couldn’t fathom someone naming their own child after a clown.

  He shook his head, his smile drawing my attention to his mouth. He had the most perfectly shaped lips, with a full bottom lip just made for nibbling on. His smile grew into a cocky smirk, alerting me to the fact I was staring.

  I ripped my eyes away from his mouth. “What about you, then?” I asked, again feeling embarrassed.

  “If you wanna know more ’bout me, I’ll meet up with you after school,” he said, appearing highly amused. “My number is—”

  “I don’t want your number, just your name?”

  “It’s Dante Rata.” He blew me a kiss, then spun around and disappeared into the mass of students.

  2

  DANTE

  I glanced back at the teacher, thinking she was hot as fuck. Just a pity it hurt to look at her, my balls whining like a bitch. It felt like Happy Meal had left his boot-print on my gonads and all because I’d been nice to his girlfriend ... by letting her suck my dick. I’d gate-crashed a party with two of my mates. She’d been there, minus Happy Meal’s ugly mug. Before I knew what was happening, I had a stomach full of vodka and my pants around my ankles, with my dick down her throat. I hadn’t even remembered going into the bedroom with her. If anything, I swear I’d
gone in there alone to sleep. But since she’d already gotten me hard, it was a no brainer to let her finish the job, plus she was hot.

  Just not as much as that M.I.L.F. of a teacher, that was, if she was even a mother, because that tight little bod didn’t look like it had shot out any bambinas. I grinned, finding it amusing she’d gotten all hot and flustered over me. I wondered how old she was. Early twenties at a guess. I’d cream my pants if she ended up being one of my teachers, because it would be so much fun to wind her up. But I didn’t get that kind of luck. I either got old hags, fags, or guys with Hitler complexes, like my drama teacher.

  I pushed through the sickbay door, aware I could’ve let her bring me here. I just didn’t want to. It was humiliating enough that she had to save my sorry arse from Happy Meal and his halfwit friends; I didn’t need anything else from her. I could get to the sickbay all on my lonesome without some M.I.L.F. holding my hand like I was a primary school kid.

  The nurse looked up from her desk as I entered the room, disappointment thinning out her lips. She was a large fifty-something Tongan woman, with a thick head of hair and čokolada skin.

  “Already, Dante?” she said, slipping out from behind her desk. “The bell hasn’t even rung.”

  I shrugged and lay down on the single bed. My torso felt like Mike Tyson had used it as a punching bag—with knuckle dusters on. “Can I have an icepack?”

  “Say please.”

  “Pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top.”

  Smiling, she grabbed one along with the first aid box. She passed it over and sat down next to me as the bell rang. “Why can’t you keep out of fights, Dante?”

  “If I did that I wouldn’t get to see your beautiful face.”

  “Shush, Romeo.” She was used to my sweet-talking, but she still smiled as she cleaned the cut above my eye. I lifted up my shirt and placed the icepack against my ribs, although I wanted to stuff it down my pants to take away the ache from Happy Meal’s kick.

  The nurse’s eyes widened. “Dante! What on earth!”

  I looked down at my ribs. My torso was covered with blotchy red marks from Happy Meal’s and his mates’ boots and fists.