Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2)

by Marita A. Hansen

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not, I am insane,” I said, and meaning it.

  “No, you’re not. And I’m being honest when I say,” she lowered her voice again, making me wonder where she was, “I’m not coming over for sex. Please let me help you. I really do want you back at school. I would feel terrible knowing it was me who drove you away.”

  “It wuzn’t you, it wuz my dad fuckin’ shit up, as well as those cops dragging me outta school, making everyone think I’m a murderer. And did you even consider some of Happy Meal’s gang might want revenge?” I said, hoping like hell they knew I had an alibi.

  “Principal Sao is going to call an assembly to make sure everyone knows you’ve been cleared.”

  “Even if that works, there’s no use in me returning. I’m not good at school. I’m better working than wasting my time there. My dad should understand that, ’specially since he wuz crap at school too.”

  “You’re not wasting your time.”

  “I am. I’m a total fuck up, who’s not only fuckin’ up my own life, I’m fuckin’ up others. I may not like Ms. Farris, but she didn’t deserve what went down yesterday.”

  “The principal doesn’t agree, and don’t blame yourself for what she did. If she was acting in ways that made you feel uncomfortable—”

  “You make me feel even more uncomfortable than she does, yet you don’t get called out on it.”

  She went quiet again, only the sound of her breathing coming through the line.

  I swore, knowing this wasn’t all on her, that, unlike with Ms. Farris, I’d actively chased her. “I’m sorry. It’s not all your fault. I jumped at the chance to fuck you.”

  “No, it is my fault. I should be the one dealing with ridicule, not Helen. I did a thousand times worse than what she did. She may have wanted to cross the line with your brother, but didn’t, while I did.”

  “You fucked my brother?” I joked, knowing she hadn’t, but trying to lighten the mood.

  “You know I’m talking about you.”

  “Yeah, just teasing. But the difference between you and Ms. Farris is that I wanted your attention.” Still do.

  “It still doesn’t make what I did right. I’m here to teach you, not to...” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “have sex with you.”

  Unable to help myself, I smiled at her words. “Forget it, no one but Mr. Grey can teach me anything. If it wuzn’t for music, I wouldn’t put up with school at all.”

  “English isn’t that bad, is it?”

  “You pro’bly don’t wanna hear this, but yeah, it sucks balls.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos it’s more of a history class than an English one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Animal Farm. I don’t give a shit what happened in Russia. That’s in the past, in another century, in another country. You should teach us New Zealand books, New Zealand poetry in particular.”

  “Are you xenophobic?”

  “Zeno-what?”

  “You seem to have an intense dislike with learning about other countries. Do you dislike other nationalities?”

  “No! You know I’m half Croatian and part Romanian. Why the fuck would I dislike other nations?”

  “You only want to learn about New Zealand things.”

  “Only cos school is more concerned with teaching us ’bout every other country but our own. That’s why. And I hate history. I live in the present. Not in a time even my grandmother wuzn’t born in.”

  “History is important.”

  “Not in an English class.”

  “It’s all written word and I teach it via a story, metaphors and allegories, not actual facts.”

  “I don’t give a shit, it’s boring.”

  “So, you’ve read Animal Farm?”

  “No, and I don’t intend to.”

  “You’re not even trying.”

  “You’re not trying either.”

  “I am. I’ve been trying so hard to help you with school, but you don’t care.”

  “I would if you taught me things I find important, not what you think is important.”

  “I have a curriculum to follow.”

  “Don’t care. You want me to pass your boring fuckin’ class, teach me things I’m interested in.”

  “Dante! Stop being rude.”

  “I can be a whole lot ruder than that.” I sneered. “What colour knickers you wearing?”

  “Dante!”

  “I love you sayin’ my name, ’specially when you came,” I said, wondering whether I could make her hang up. “Put your hand down your knickers and rub yourself. I wanna hear you come to my name again.”

  “Why do you always have to turn the conversation to sex?”

  “Cos that’s all I’m good at, even more than selling product.”

  “What product?”

  “That’s my biz, not yours. Then again, sex is a product too. Package it up right and you can get a pretty penny for it.”

  The memory of Sierra paying me for fucking her and Camie returned. I hadn’t done it for money, but obviously the rich bitches thought I had.

  Thought I was a whore.

  Like my Nanna Tui.

  Sierra was still bugging me every so often, wanting more, upping the amount she was willing to pay me to a point I even considered it ... but I hadn’t given in. Although I needed money, I needed the last shred of my sanity more. I also knew where whores ended up.

  In a morgue.

  And on the news, the newsreader had called my grandmother a prostitute, as though she was nothing else. Not a mother, not a grandmother, but a prostitute, her life amounting to that one word.

  “Dante, have you had sex for money?” Mrs. Hatton asked.

  I went silent, not sure if I should answer with a yes or a no, since I technically did get paid for sex, I just never asked for it. So, did that make me a whore by default? Fuck, my head didn’t feel right, the drugs I’d taken to deal with my hangover not doing their job.

  “Dante?”

  “I’m not a ho,” I finally said, not wanting her to think I was, regardless of whether it was true or not. “So stop pretending you’re concerned ’bout me, it makes me sick.”

  “I’m not pretending, and some of the things you say really does concern me.”

  “You have no right to criticise after what you did with me.”

  Yet again, she went silent. I could imagine her closing her eyes, probably remembering the way I’d gone down on her, and the way she’d held my head in place, instead of pushing me away. Then me entering her—

  “I’m not criticising you,” she finally said, cutting my thoughts off. “I’m just concerned about your welfare.”

  “No, you’re concerned ’bout your own neck.”

  “I admit I’m scared, especially after seeing what happened to Ms. Farris, but I’m also genuinely worried about you, especially with the way you talk about sex. I know teenage boys are ruled by their hormones, but not to the extent you are. Ever since I read your My Looks poem, I’ve worried whether you were hurt in other ways by your stepfather. Did he do to you what he did to your brother?”

  My eyes widened, not understanding how she knew about what had happened to Ash.

  “Did he ... rape you too?”

  I hung up.

  11

  Clara

  I rang Dante back a few more times, but he didn’t pick up. After ten minutes of deliberating whether I should go to his house or back out, I decided to risk it, the fact his father was at work tipping the scales. The man had also asked me to go there, wanting me to talk Dante into returning to school, so in essence I wasn’t doing anything wrong. For once, I was doing something right.

  With that in mind, I pulled up to Dante’s address fifteen minutes later. I yanked on the brake and looked out my window, taken aback by what I saw. Dante’s place had a high wire fence, with a couple of pit bulls running loose in the front yard. Behind them, was a derelict house, an eye
sore even amongst a landscape of impoverished housing. Discoloured white paint was flaking off the wooden panels, while one of the windows was boarded up with planks of wood. It looked like a crack house, the type seen in gritty American dramas.

  I slipped my mobile phone out of my bag and rang through to Dante, because there was no way I was setting foot onto his property with those dogs roaming around.

  Luckily, he answered after a few rings, saying hello in Maori: “Kia ora?”

  “It’s Clara.”

  He grunted. “What do you want?”

  “For you to lock up your dogs, so I can come inside.”

  “You’re here?” he asked, sounding surprised.

  “Yes. I did say I was coming over.”

  “But I hung up on you.”

  “I’m still here, so are you going to let me in?”

  “As long as you keep your questions to yourself.”

  “I will,” I lied.

  “’Kay, just gimme a few minutes to move the dogs out back.” He hung up.

  He appeared in his doorway a moment later, dressed in low-hanging jeans and a ripped muscle shirt. He yelled out, “Bob! Marley!” The dogs ran for him, wagging their tails vigorously. Dante gave them a pat each, then directed them out the back of the property, closing a gate behind them. Once it was locked, he made a beeline for me, slipping out through the front gate. He came to a stop by my door, jerking his head for me to follow him, then walked off without waiting for me.

  I jumped out of my car and scurried after him, following him onto his property, relieved that no one else was within sight. Apart from me and Dante, the street was empty of people, only the sound of rap music coming from a neighbouring house suggesting we weren’t entirely alone. I glanced at its windows, hoping no one was looking out at me. Because if they were, they would probably be wondering why an obviously middle-class, smartly-dressed woman was walking into what looked like a gang house. I was well aware that my slim-lined purple skirt and soft lavender blouse made me stick out like a sore thumb. It preyed on my anxieties, warning me to turn around and go home. But I kept moving forward, placing one heel in front of the other, willing myself not to back out.

  Dante kicked a beer bottle out of his way and bounded up the front steps, ushering me inside his house. Music was playing on the stereo, the dogs’ namesake singing No Woman No Cry.

  “Home sweet home,” Dante said, closing the door behind me.

  I took in the interior of the lounge, wondering how someone so beautiful could live in such squalor. Almost everything was worn out, only the electronics appearing in good condition. The room was also cluttered and messy, as well as dark, the closed blinds blocking out the late afternoon sunlight. On the coffee table, there were empty beer bottles and two ashtrays full of cigarette butts. In addition, there was washing dumped on the settee by the front door and a number of PlayStation games spread out in front of the TV, along with some game controllers.

  “You want a drink?” Dante asked.

  I shook my head, the nervous feeling in my gut growing.

  Dante walked over to the couch and flopped down onto it. Giving me a lazy smile, he patted the cushion next to him. “Come sit next to me, Teach.”

  I remained where I was, afraid of getting too close to him. “I’m not staying. I just wanted to talk you into returning to school, and to apologise for everything that happened. I’m also sorry for upsetting you over the phone. I’m just worried about you.”

  He frowned. “My stepdad did shit to my brother, not me. It’s why my dad went berko when he found out what Ms. Farris did.” He patted the cushion again. “So, c’mere.”

  I shook my head. “I need to keep you at arm’s length.”

  He pushed up off the couch and headed for me, causing me to back up into the door.

  I held out my hands, placing them on his chest to stop him from getting closer. “Stop it, Dante.”

  He grimaced. “You’ve got me at arm’s length now, so spit out what you really wanna say, then piss off, cos I’m not willing to play anymore.”

  “I already told you what I want: for you to return to school. You need to finish Year Eleven.”

  “No, you put this sweet, innocent young boy off education for good.” He smiled at me wickedly.

  “Can you please take what I’m saying seriously?”

  His smile dropped. “How can I when you’re so full of bullshit? You’re not concerned ’bout my education, so stop pretending to be.”

  “I’m not pretending,” I said, now frustrated with him. “I’m being completely honest with you.”

  “No, you’re not; otherwise you would’ve said everything you needed to say over the phone. Instead, you came here for a fuck. You’re just pretending you don’t want one so you can put all the blame on me after it happens.”

  I exhaled loudly, wishing he would just listen to reason. “I’m not doing that, Dante. You’re reading way too much into this. I want to teach you, not have sex with you.”

  “Then you’re wasting your time, cos I’m a stupid cunt who can’t learn shit, unless it’s to do with sex. Now... if you taught me some new sex positions, I’ll soak that up so fast I’ll have you coming within seconds.”

  “You’re not stupid,” I said, wilfully ignoring his baiting.

  His upper lip twitched with agitation. “I am, everyone knows it. I’m also an evil bastard, while you’re a horny bitch who can’t get enough of my underage cock.”

  “Why do you act this way? Because I’m starting to think you’re lying about not being abused. That poem you wrote about being raped—”

  “That poem means nuthin’, absolutely-fuckin’-nuthin’!” he yelled, making me jolt. “It wuz fiction, not reality!”

  I exhaled a shaky breath, willing myself to stay calm, his sudden outburst putting me on edge. “I don’t think—”

  “No, you don’t fuckin’ think!” He hit the door next to my head, making me cry out. He continued ranting, not appearing to care he was scaring me, his anger spurring him on. “So don’t bring it up again, and you should already know why I act this way. The first day we met, you asked me not to treat you like a sexual object, yet you constantly treat me like one.”

  “I don’t recall saying that, and I don’t treat—”

  “Yes, you do,” he cut me off, “like every other female does. They’re always hitting on me, even birds older than my mum, so don’t tell me I can’t see right through you. I’ve had enough experience to know when a bird is hungry for my cock.”

  “I’m not...” I stopped, unable to say hungry, his wording disgusting. “And you’re only fifteen.”

  “That didn’t stop you from spreading your legs for me. It doesn’t stop other chicks either. Fuck someone enough times and they’ll start believing that’s all they’re good for.”

  “But you came on to me, you badgered me,” I said, now getting angry he was laying all the blame on me. “I wouldn’t have done anything if you weren’t always in my face. I think you instigate a lot of your problems.”

  He sneered at me. “Don’t make out like it’s all one-sided, cos it ain’t. I told you to leave me alone, yet here you are, pro’bly wet as fuck to ride me.”

  I scowled at him. “Stop being vulgar, there’s no need for it, and if you want to be treated better, you need to be more respectful.”

  “That goes both ways, cos right now you’re lookin’ at me the same way before we kissed in your lounge.”

  “That’s not true; I’m literally holding you back.”

  “So, I’m forcing you now, am I?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You better not, cos I fuckin’ know what it’s like to be forced!” A second later, his eyes widened, what he’d let slip registering on his face. He took a step back and pointed at me. “Just get the hell outta my house, you’re not welcome here.” He stormed off, disappearing through a doorway.

  I remained where I was, not surprised by his admission, just incredibly sadd
ened. I’d wanted to be wrong about his poem, wanted to believe that it was purely about his brother and not him, but deep down I knew, just knew it had been about Dante, that he’d experienced the abuse trapped within those words. It had come across as deeply personal; a glimpse of a past he’d wanted to keep hidden, locked behind his sexual bravado and tough guy act. But why had he hidden being raped? And especially from people who knew his stepfather had done the same to his brother? Was it out of shame or something else?

  A door slammed at the other end of the house, making me jolt. I let out another shaky breath, knowing I couldn’t leave without asking, or at the very least giving him some semblance of comfort, Dante obviously suffering in silence.

  I headed for the doorway he’d disappeared through, finding a narrow passageway. I walked down it, glancing into the first room on my right. Its door was wide open, framing a messy room. The bed was unmade while the blinds were shut, a musty smell of cigarettes permeating the claustrophobic-looking space. I continued down the passage, stopping in front of the only closed door. There was a boot-sized hole near the bottom of it, giving the impression someone had kicked it multiple times.

  I knocked on the door, calling out Dante’s name.

  “I told you to leave,” he answered.

  “I can’t, not with you so upset. Please, can I come in?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not leaving until we discuss what you said.”

  “You misunderstood me. It came out wrong. I haven’t been raped. Only my brother has, so leave, your conscience is clear.”

  “My conscience will never be clear again.”

  I opened the door and poked my head inside his room. A strong smell of marijuana hit my nostrils, so much so that I could almost taste the sweet tang on my tongue. I blinked and took in the cluttered mess before me. Clothes were scattered across the wooden floorboards, while the walls were covered with posters of half-naked women, musicians, cars, a couple of Bruce Lee images, along with one of his son in The Crow. Clad in black, Brandon Lee looked eerie with his pale face and black lips, the crow above him adding to the ominous feeling. Only a few strips of wallpaper peeked through the posters, suggesting that Dante had purposely tried to cover up the floral print.