Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  Beverly emerged from her classroom right at that moment, her eyes almost popping out at the sight. “What the hell are you doing?” she gasped at Dante.

  He stopped licking his lip and turned his gaze on her. He slowly ran his eyes down her body, clearly unimpressed with what he saw.

  “I asked what you’re doing,” Beverly repeated, her face reddening at his scrutiny.

  “Not you, Mother Hubbard,” he said, giving her a scornful look. “I’m not that drunk.”

  “Dante!” Beverly bellowed. “Zip your rude mouth and put your shirt back on.”

  He threw it at her. “Fuck you.” He started sniggering. “No, I don’t wanna fuck you, you’re oogly.” He rolled over, erupting into a fit of laughter.

  Beverly’s eyes snapped to her right, muttering, “Thank God Britain’s here.”

  My gaze followed hers, spotting the duo heading our way. The men stopped next to Dante. Grabbing one arm each, they hoisted him up, Paul being overly rough. He had dark rings under his eyes and a strained, almost angry expression, unlike the music teacher, who just looked concerned.

  Dante’s laughter instantly dried up, his happiness morphing into panic. He started yelling and struggling against the men, causing the music teacher to let go. Paul, who was taller and weighed at least twenty kilos more, kept his grip. He grabbed Dante’s other arm and pushed him into a locker, yelling at his friend to get the principal. The music teacher took off, disappearing down the corridor.

  “Lemme go!” Dante hollered, the pain in his voice upsetting me.

  “You’re hurting him!” I yelled at Paul.

  The head of drama glanced back at me. “Just get the damn principal!”

  “Your friend’s already doing that.”

  Dante’s head snapped back, almost hitting Paul in the nose. Paul swore at him and rammed Dante’s face into the locker with a hand, making him yelp.

  I grabbed Paul’s arm, shouting, “Let go of him!” absolutely horrified over what he was doing.

  “He needs to be restrained,” he retorted, my grip useless against his strength.

  “Not like that!” I spat, still trying to get him to let go.

  “Ye don’t understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand that you’ve just assaulted a minor, so if you don’t get your hands off him, I’ll be reporting you to the police.”

  Glaring at me, he let go of Dante and stepped back, muttering, “If he hurts anyone, it’ll be on your head.”

  Dante remained where he was, looking like he didn’t realise he’d been freed.

  Moving forward, I placed a hand on his back. “Are you hurt?”

  When he didn’t answer, I turned his face towards me. Blood was coming from his nose, trickling over his top lip. I quickly removed a tissue from my pocket and wiped the blood away, then placed it against his nose, stemming the flow.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said in a reassuring tone, what he’d done earlier all but forgotten. His confused expression was making my heart clench, Dante for the first time looking his age. “We’ll phone your mother.”

  “She’s dead.” He grabbed the tissue out of my hand and took off, disappearing down the corridor before anyone could stop him. I stared after him almost in a trance, the pain in his voice affecting me even more.

  “Ye idiot!” Paul barked, yanking my attention back to him. He was glaring at me, his fair skin now beet red. “If ye didn’t force me to let him go, he wouldn’t have escaped,” he said, waving a hand in the direction Dante had disappeared.

  I scowled at him. “If you didn’t bash his face into the locker, I wouldn’t have made you.”

  “He almost head-butted me in the fucking face, ye stupid bitch.”

  My eyes widened in disbelief. “What did you just call me?” I asked, not believing my ears.

  “A stupid bitch who’s too fucking soft to be working in a school like this.”

  Beverly went to my side. “Paul! Apologise now.”

  “She doesn’t deserve an apology,” he spat, “not after she let that thug escape.”

  “The only thug here is you,” I bit back.

  He grimaced at me. “It’s better than being a bleeding-heart liberal like ye.” He spun around and stalked off, spewing sexist remarks.

  “What a misogynous prick,” I muttered, the guy unbelievable.

  Beverly nodded. “He’s certainly that. And now you have another man to contend with. Here comes the principal.”

  My attention shifted to the impressive-looking Samoan man, who was walking alongside the music teacher. The men stopped to talk to Paul, who waved a hand in my direction, whatever he was saying no doubt unflattering. The principal resumed walking towards me, the other two heading in the opposite direction.

  Looking dapper in a tan-coloured suit, he came to a stop in front of me. “Paul has given me a short brief on what happened. Of course, I would like to hear your side of the story before I make any judgements,” he said, focusing on me, not Beverly.

  “Dante came to my class drunk. I tried to take him to the sickbay, but he was uncooperative, so Beverly called Paul and his friend to help,” I replied. “After they arrived things turned nasty. Paul forcefully rammed Dante into a locker, causing an injury to his nose.”

  Principal Sao frowned. “Paul stated that the injury was an accident and a direct result of Dante trying to head-butt him.”

  “He didn’t need to ram his face into the locker,” I bit back a bit too harshly.

  He tensed. For a moment, I wondered whether he was going to reprimand me for my tone of voice, but instead he exhaled and started massaging his right temple. “I understand you’re upset,” he replied, dropping his hand, “but Dante still attacked him.”

  “Only because Paul was hurting him. He roughly shoved Dante up against the locker before the attempted head-butt. It was extremely upsetting to see one of my students treated so badly.”

  “I realise it would be, though, Paul was only trying to restrain Dante, not hurt him.”

  “You weren’t here.”

  His gaze moved to Beverly. “Did Paul act inappropriately towards the Rata boy?”

  “He was a bit rough,” Beverly answered, “but I don’t think he meant to injure Dante, plus the boy was rather drunk and uncooperative. Though, I must say, I don’t appreciate the way Paul spoke to Clara. I realise he was upset, but he should still apologise for calling her names.”

  The principal’s attention shifted back to me. “What did he call you?”

  “A bleeding-heart liberal, as well as a stupid bitch who’s too soft to be working in a school like this. He also called me an idiot and muttered some misogynistic remarks about women as he stalked off.”

  The principal grunted, his expression annoyed. “He will be disciplined for that.”

  “You seem more concerned with him calling me names than Dante getting hurt.”

  “That’s not the case at all, but regardless, Dante still needs to understand there are consequences to his actions.”

  “Will he be expelled?”

  Principal Sao shook his head. “I don’t want to resort to that, especially since Dante’s a special case. At the moment, I’ll probably hand out a suspension and suggest he gets some more counselling.”

  “More?”

  “He sees a counsellor every couple of weeks for some issues he has.” The principal turned to Beverly. “You can return to your class now, Bev. Please have an incident report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Grimacing, Beverly nodded and disappeared back into her classroom.

  Principal Sao refocused on me. “Please walk with me.”

  I picked up Dante’s shirt and fell into step. “What are Dante’s issues? Because I really should’ve been told if he’s special needs.”

  Moving his hands behind his back, the principal walked slowly alongside me. “He’s obviously not handicapped, he just requires special attention.”

  “Special needs can be mental hea
lth related.”

  “My apologies, you are quite right.”

  “So, what are Dante’s issues?”

  “He’s had a very rough home life. He’s had two parents in jail—his father and his stepfather, while his mother was murdered.”

  I blinked in surprise, not expecting to hear that.

  “Unfortunately, there’s more. His stepfather was the one who killed her, and right in front of Dante. Then he beat the boy so badly that Dante was hospitalised. The poor kid was only thirteen at the time.” Principal Sao frowned. “He’s been through hell, which is why I’m loath to expel him again, especially since no other school will take him in.”

  “He’s already been expelled?”

  “Yes.” The principal stopped in front of my class, rap music playing from within.

  “But I thought an expulsion meant that a student couldn’t return.”

  “They can be lifted, which in Dante’s case was the best option after he was expelled from Claydon High. And you have to do a lot to be expelled from that school. Anyway, his father and counsellor worked hard to get him back here, and since I’m aware of his situation, I allowed it. I also feel he’s safer here than out on the streets, which is where he’d be if he didn’t attend school.”

  “But he’s not safe if he has teachers bashing him against lockers,” I said, still angry with Paul.

  “Which is why it’s even more imperative that you engage Dante in your class so he doesn’t cause trouble. Your subject is only one of two he’s actually good at.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, he’s a talented poet.”

  “Really?” I said, not believing my ears.

  “Yes. He has a unique vocabulary. His ghetto way of speaking comes across in his writing, but not in an unintelligent manner. It’s filled with raw emotion. If you get him onto a topic that interests him, his hand will fly across the page, filling it up with an intensity that will bring you to tears. And the sad thing is, he doesn’t even realise how talented he is, often underestimating how good his poems are. One of the English teachers from last year showed me this exquisite piece of work he wrote about the Bosnian war. It literally brought me to tears. I tried to get him to enter it in a contest, telling him he could win it, but he refused. I got the distinct feeling he thought I was lying.”

  “Why?”

  “He probably thought I was only doing it to get him more interested in school. He also has trust issues, his bad home life no doubt behind it. Not to mention, he thinks he’s stupid. I must admit he’s not exactly what I would call intelligent, far from it, but he does have a gift when it comes to poetry and music. I just wish he had someone to make him believe that. Often the most confident and arrogant kids are the most broken inside. Your job is to help repair those breaks. I understand you can’t wipe away the abuse he’s suffered, but I want you to at least give the child some hope for a future he probably doesn’t believe is possible.”

  I nodded, feeling even worse for Dante.

  “Well, I better let you get back to your class.” He opened the door and poked his head around the corner, barking, “Turn that music off!”

  The music stopped instantly, the principal’s bark much louder and scarier than mine.

  He let go of the door and turned back to me. “Also, if you need to talk to someone about what happened earlier, please make an appointment with the school counsellor. She’s here for staff as well.”

  “Is she the one who counsels Dante?”

  “No. He goes to the children’s mental health service.”

  I took hold of the door handle. “Well, I don’t need counselling, but thanks for mentioning it.”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome, and I hope the rest of your day goes a lot better.” He grimaced. “Unlike mine, because now I have to contend with Dante’s father.”

  He walked off, making me wonder what Dante’s father was like.

  11

  DANTE

  I woke up with the biggest motherfucking hangover in the history of hangovers. I groaned and rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow, willing myself to fall asleep again, anything to stop the pain. Doors slammed in the house, making me place the pillow over my head. Loud thudding came from down the passageway, growing louder as it drew closer to my room, making me think of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk, the heavy footfalls ominous.

  My bedroom door was kicked open. “Rise and shine, buttercup!” my father hollered.

  I winced, keeping the pillow over my head. “Jesus, do you hafta shout?”

  “I will shout as loud as I like, cos you bloody deserve it! Get up and dressed, I’m taking you to school to see the principal.”

  “Noooo,” I groaned. “I’m dying.”

  “Cos you broke into my liquor cabinet and drank all my bloody booze, you li’l bastard!”

  “I’m beggin’ you, just lower your voice.”

  Thudding boots approached my bed. My father grabbed the pillow and yanked it away from my head. I opened my eyes and winced, not only from the headache, but from my father’s glare. His dark eyes were ablaze, while his mouth was pulled tight in a grimace.

  “Get the fuck outta bed. Now!” he hollered.

  I covered my ears. “No.”

  “Dante!”

  “I’m not goin’.” I turned over, mashing my face into my mattress, willing him to fuck off.

  “’Kay, if you wanna play it that way.”

  He stomped out of my room, making me exhale in relief, but the reprieve was short-lived. Thudding started up again, my father returning. A second later, music blasted in my ear, causing me to leap up. I lost my balance and fell over the side of the bed, landing at my father’s feet. He grabbed my arm and hauled me upright, getting his face in mine. It was covered with a moko, which was a Māori tattoo. Four dark green, almost black lines descended in a curve on both sides of his face. They stopped on his chin, where the lines looped into korus—spiral-shaped designs representing an unfurling silver fern. Additional korus adorned his nose, while more lines rose up over his forehead. They curved down as they drew closer to his hair, which was short and dark brown.

  I winced, not in the mood for his shit. “C’mon, Dad, why you bein’ such a bitch?”

  “Don’t call me a bitch!”

  I winced again.

  “And the only bitch here is you,” he snapped. “You got yourself so drunk you made a scene at school, not to mention you missed your interview with the modelling agency.”

  I rubbed my face, not remembering any of it. Though, what had happened with Sierra and Camie was still clear in my mind. I’d tried to forget about Saturday, but the memory had followed me around like a bad smell, working me up more and more, to the point that I didn’t think I could face going to school. Because now Sierra had given weight to those rumours of me being a whore. So I got some liquid courage—a lot of it.

  “I wuz gonna blow that interview off anyway,” I muttered, having had second thoughts about modelling, especially since it would’ve harmed my street cred. “And I always make a scene, so what’s the difference?” I added, wondering what he expected from me. This was just normal. I fucked up all the time.

  “Cos I’m sick of your drama queen antics,” he snapped. “So suck it up, bitch, and be ready in ten minutes or I’m gonna follow you around all day with that radio at top volume.”

  He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I brought my hands to my head, knowing he did that on purpose. I flopped back onto my bed for a moment, just learning to breathe without wincing.

  “Nine minutes left!” my father hollered from another part of the house, telling me he was going to continue with his sadistic countdown until I was ready.

  I pushed to my feet, swearing as I grabbed my pants off the floor, the legs a crumpled mess. I didn’t give a shit about school. If anything, I fucking hated it right now, especially since it was interfering with my sleep. I looked around for a shirt, not finding it in its usual place—on my floor.
I yanked open my wardrobe, finding a row of perfectly pressed clothes, my school shirt amongst them, most likely washed and ironed by one of my dad’s women. He didn’t have one girlfriend, he had many, if you could call them girlfriends, because all he did was fuck them. He hated commitment, saying he was done with it. I knew why. My father couldn’t let go of my mother, even after she’d passed away, because every woman he went with resembled her in one way or another. But they were just poor substitutes, none of them capable of matching up to the love of his life—his words not mine.

  My father yelled out that I had five minutes left. I pulled the shirt on and did a few buttons up, choosing not to change into the ironed pants. Once done, I stuffed my feet into my boots without socks, then lumbered down the passageway and entered the lounge.

  My father stubbed out a cigarette in a pāua shell and pushed up off the couch. He was dressed in black leather pants and a matching T. Even though it was hot, he grabbed his leather jacket and slipped it on, the gang patch on the back making him look intimidating. But he didn’t intimidate me, because I knew he wouldn’t hurt me—unlike what he’d done to my oldest brother. But he’d been a meth head back then, the complete opposite of now. Well, he still had one hell of a temper, it was just a toned-down version. Being in prison and my mum divorcing him had finally gotten him clean, just a bit too late, my stepfather ruining our family before my father could make things right.

  The harsh look on his face softened. He took hold of my face and placed his forehead against mine. “Why do you do this to yourself, son? You’ve seen what happened to me and you’re heading down the same track. Please stop and think ’bout the consequences.”

  I didn’t reply, not wanting to tell him why I’d gotten drunk.

  He exhaled loudly and pulled back, his dark eyes full of emotion. Although I looked like my mum, his eyes were a mirror reflection of mine, the one thing that we shared: pain.

  “Sorry,” I said, and meaning it.

  “I know you are; you just scare the hell outta me.” He exhaled again, his big chest rising and falling heavily. “I couldn’t handle losing you too, boy. You’re the only good thing left in my life.”