The Black Flamingo

by Dean Atta

  to be British, Cypriot,

  and Jamaican, too; but

  it’s only for you to decide.”

  Sandcastles

  At school, we play Kiss Chase.

  When we were in the little playground we had

  toys to play with but here in the big playground

  we just have each other.

  I usually chase Amber and Laura,

  who slow down when I chase them,

  and speed up when Callum runs after them,

  but he always catches up, eventually.

  Emily shakes her head at Callum

  and says “Time out” when he runs toward her.

  Emily and I have agreed not to kiss.

  “Because best friends don’t kiss,” says Emily.

  I don’t mind not kissing Emily.

  I don’t tell Emily that

  when no one else can see, behind the big tree,

  I kiss Callum and Jamal and Toby.

  Once a week, Mum lets me have

  one friend over for dinner after school.

  This week I’ve invited Callum.

  While Mum is cooking, we play husband

  and wife, in my bedroom.

  I play the wife. In an imaginary kitchen

  I cook and Callum pretends

  to return from work, hugs me from behind,

  and kisses me on the cheek.

  I say, “Dinner’s ready!”

  Serve his imaginary meal, tell him

  what it is, so he knows how to enjoy it:

  “It’s spaghetti,” I say. “You’ve got to use

  the spoon and fork.”

  Callum asks, “Why can’t we have pizza

  like the Turtles?” Pointing to the poster

  on my wall.

  “Because we’re not playing Turtles now,” I say.

  “How was your day at work, darling?”

  I script and direct this role-play game,

  I play it with Toby and Jamal, too.

  Just not with Emily, Amber, or Laura.

  All the girls in my class like me.

  I’m the only boy invited to their sleepovers.

  “Michael, are you free Friday night?”

  “Michael, do you like Disney and ice cream?”

  I share blankets on the floor with four,

  five, six girls or more.

  Emily is always invited because

  she’s the most popular girl in our class.

  Callum says, “You’re so lucky!”

  These girls are my friends.

  I do feel lucky.

  “When is Trevor coming back?”

  I eventually stop asking Mum.

  She takes me

  to my singing lessons now.

  Trevor returns

  in his stupid silver car,

  demanding

  to see Anna.

  But he never asks to see me.

  The night I realize

  Trevor isn’t coming back,

  I have the dream

  in which Mum is killed

  when a Boeing 747

  crashes into our house.

  The left wing cuts through her

  bedroom window but Anna and I survive.

  Would Trevor take Anna

  but leave me an orphan?

  Anna gets Phoebe, my old Barbie doll,

  and my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

  Anna gets my overalls

  and all my other old clothes, too.

  I notice when Anna plays

  with my Turtles, no one asks her why.

  I notice when Anna wears

  my overalls, no one comments.

  I’m glad she is free to play

  and dress however she feels happy.

  Mum takes me and Anna to Brighton Beach.

  Anna brings my yellow bucket and spade,

  which she insists on holding for the whole

  train journey. I already know—and Mum

  explained—that the beach has pebbles and

  rocks, not sand.

  Walking from the station toward the beach,

  I dread Anna’s disappointment,

  but when we get there she takes my hand

  and lets go of Mum.

  “Stay where I can see you two,” Mum shouts

  after us as Anna leads me to the water’s edge.

  She kneels down and piles pebbles in

  the bucket. “Sandcastle,” she says, beaming.

  “Sandcastle.”

  I sit on the bench under the tree

  playing cat’s cradle with Emily,

  when Laura and Amber come over.

  “Michael!” “Please sing!”

  “Come on, Michael.” “Pretty please, sing us

  a pop song!”

  “I don’t want to be a show-off,” I protest.

  I prefer musicals anyway.

  “Of course you do,” says Emily.

  “Why else do you have singing lessons?”

  There is one pop song I love

  right now: “Lady Marmalade.”

  I sing the verses by Christina Aguilera,

  Mýa, and Pink, and Lil’ Kim’s rap.

  A big group of girls, and some boys,

  gather around; some giggle but most cheer.

  I hear a wolf whistle and I think

  it comes from either Jamal or Toby.

  I direct the song to Callum, who is at the back

  of the crowd. When I point at him, they all

  turn around. He shakes his head. Walks away.

  The bell rings and everyone starts heading

  into school. Emily grabs my navy-blue blazer.

  I turn back to face her. “What’s up?”

  She looks down at her Mary Janes, then back up.

  “Do you know what the French words mean?”

  she asks.

  I shake my head. She whispers

  in my ear, a new truth. I never knew it was

  about more than kissing.

  It’s non-uniform day.

  Mum has picked out a brand-new Levi’s denim

  jacket. It’s stiff and uncomfortable.

  I take it off at the start of the day, hang it

  on my cloakroom hook.

  When I go back

  before home time, it’s gone.

  At the school gate I say, “Mummy,

  I think someone took my jacket by mistake.”

  She shouts, “What do you mean

  someone took it? You stupid boy,

  you have to look after your things!

  Do you know how much it cost?”

  “I didn’t like it anyway,” I say, embarrassed

  that people might be watching.

  She slaps me hard across the face.

  My eyes fill up but I don’t blink.

  I look her straight in the eye.

  “You’re not allowed to do that.”

  “Uncle B, Mum hit me.

  I think she’s worried about money.”

  Uncle B has always been there for me.

  The only person in the Brown family

  that I see regularly.

  He tells me that Mum is doing her best.

  He tells me how hard he worked

  to build himself a better life,

  get the family out of poverty.

  He buys me gifts

  but this is not why I love him.

  He likes planes and astronomy;

  he has his head in the clouds,

  reaches for stars.

  Music and Stars

  I’m singing “Twinkle, Twinkle,

  Little Star” with Anna,

  helping Mum to put her to bed.

  Mum says, “You have such a beautiful voice,

  Michael. your singing teacher told me

  about a special school

  you could go to with an excellent choir.

  It’s an all-boys school in Camden.”

  I like boys. I like Camden.

&nb
sp; I like when we go to Camden Market.

  It’s full of crazy, colorful clothes.

  We walk by the canal after,

  if it’s a sunny day. But we don’t go often

  because it’s far away.

  Emily is going to a private school

  that Mum says we can’t afford.

  Callum says he doesn’t know

  what school he’s going to yet.

  But Callum doesn’t sing,

  so he can’t come with me.

  I have to audition to get in

  because we don’t live close enough.

  We have to take the Tube

  and then the Overground to get there.

  The bald man playing piano

  is Mr. Evans, and the blonde

  woman watching me is Mrs. Evans.

  I sing, “Where Is Love?”

  from the musical Oliver!

  Even though Oliver sings

  this song about his mum,

  I sing about my dad instead.

  I change “she” to “he.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Evans both cry

  while I sing.

  I get in.

  To celebrate,

  Uncle B takes me

  to Farnborough Airshow

  to see the Red Arrows.

  I love their speed and grace,

  red, white, and blue vapor trails

  behind them tagging the sky,

  graffiti defying gravity.

  They are what I look forward to

  all day and all year.

  Other planes are bigger

  but none compare

  to these darting beauties.

  Fast like freedom,

  now you see them,

  now they’re gone

  but not quite; the sky is blue

  but also red and white.

  I’m so excited to start middle school,

  I spend hours and hours practicing

  my singing in my room.

  I soon learn music

  is only a small part of what my new

  school is about: sports is the bigger

  focus.

  I spend my lunchtimes in the library

  or practicing guitar or clarinet

  but never play soccer

  or go near the cage

  of boys and balls.

  Choir meets on Tuesday and Thursday

  after school. Mr. and Mrs. Evans

  seem different from how they were

  at my audition.

  Mrs. Evans is strict now.

  “We’re not here to talk,

  just to sing,” she says.

  Mr. Evans doesn’t use sheet music:

  he knows all the songs. But

  in between playing piano, he just stares

  straight ahead in silence.

  Emotionless.

  No one at my school knows

  that it’s my birthday today.

  In the toilets at lunch, I eat

  the whole batch of Skittles cookies

  mum made for me to share with my friends.

  Mum doesn’t know I don’t have any friends.

  I know if I keep my head down

  then I can look forward to stargazing,

  peacefully, with Uncle B this evening.

  After school, I’m walking behind Alistair

  out of the school gates.

  “Hey, choirboys!” comes a shout

  from one of two bigger boys behind us.

  Their gray blazers fit them better

  than my oversized one that Mum says

  I’ll grow into.

  Alistair is a soprano and sings solos

  when we perform in school assembly.

  But outside choir he is quiet.

  He has long hair that covers

  half of his face.

  They don’t say why

  we’re supposed to fight,

  only that if we don’t hit each other

  they will kick the shit out of us both.

  “What’s it gonna be, choirboys?”

  the bigger of the two says, with a hiss

  at the end of “boys.”

  Unlikely gladiators,

  a crowd gathers, pushing us closer:

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  A familiar chorus around here

  but not one I’ve ever chosen to sing.

  I think of running.

  I think of taking a beating.

  But suddenly I feel this force within me.

  Fight or flight?

  I grab Alistair’s hair with my left hand

  and drag him around the circle two,

  three times, then lift his head up

  to see his long hair part to make way

  for his pretty face and slap him hard

  with my right hand, down to the ground.

  The two bigger boys start shouting,

  “Kick him! Kick him!”

  His hair has fallen back

  over his face now. He curls himself

  into a ball. He looks so small,

  like a chick just hatched from an egg.

  I feel sick and ashamed. I want my mum.

  “No!” I shout as I turn and

  face the two who tower over me. I push

  my way between the two boys and run and run

  and don’t stop until I reach the train station,

  where I throw up, rainbow violently,

  on the platform.

  When I get home Uncle B has bought me

  my own telescope.

  After dinner, I wash the dishes

  while Mum puts Anna to bed,

  and Uncle B sets it up and takes it out

  into the garden.

  It is almost as tall as me,

  with the tripod fully extended.

  The three legs are silver,

  the tube of the telescope is white,

  and the lenses are black.

  Uncle B adjusts it to the right height so I can

  look down the lens. First, I look at the moon

  and its craters. Then I look for constellations.

  “The Big Dipper. Orion. Pegasus,” I tell Uncle B,

  proudly.

  Uncle B says, “Pegasus, the horse with wings

  in Greek mythology, was born after the

  beheading of Medusa, when a drop of

  her blood fell to Earth.”

  When Uncle B leaves

  and the stars are put away,

  I think of Alistair.

  His pretty face and long hair.

  “Mummy,” I say, and go into the kitchen,

  where she is drying the dishes.

  “Some older boys made me have a fight

  with another boy from choir. He didn’t do

  anything to me but they told me I had to.

  I only hit him once and then ran away.

  I don’t like the way boys get bigged up

  for being violent. There’s so much fighting

  at my school. At elementary school it was just

  play fighting but now they’re not playing.”

  She puts the tea towel over her shoulder,

  a hand on her hip and the other on the edge

  of the sink. “Some older boys told you to hit

  someone? And you just did it?” She looks

  shocked. I feel shame all over again.

  “They surrounded us shouting, ‘Fight! Fight!’

  I don’t want to go back to choir,” I cry.

  “I don’t want to stay at that stupid school.”

  “You’re lucky it’s your birthday,” Mum says.

  “Just go to bed. Get out of my sight.”

  I go to fold up my telescope to take

  to my room and escape to the stars.

  “Leave your telescope.”

  I’m stuck here

  with my shame.

  Flamingos fighting

  can look just like kissing,

  pecking beak-to-beak.
Freeze

  frame and you may see a love

  heart in the shape of their

  two necks arching out

  and together

  again.

  The next day, after school,

  Uncle B’s BMW is waiting

  outside the gate.

  When I get in, he says,

  “Your mum tells me

  you’ve been fighting at school

  and you want to move.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  I sink in my seat. “People are looking.

  Can we get out of here, please?”

  Uncle B starts his engine.

  “Are you being bullied?”

  He takes a hand off the wheel

  and places it on my shoulder.

  “No.” I shrug him off. But I want it to stay.

  “But I don’t want to stay here.

  It’s all just fighting and soccer.

  I want to go to a school with girls.”

  In Uncle B’s rearview mirror,

  I watch that school disappear.

  The second year of middle school,

  I move

  to a Catholic school

  closer to home.

  A change from the all-boys

  school last year.

  God grants me girls again.

  On my first day, I’m told by Mr. Casey

  to sit next to Daisy Andrews.

  Her name is before mine in the roll call.

  When I hear her name, I know mine will follow.

  Daisy doesn’t say, “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, miss,”

  when her name is called; she just says, “Yeah.”

  None of the teachers tell her off for this;

  no one seems to notice. I notice you, Daisy.

  Daisy Andrews reminds me of the Barbie

  Goddess of Beauty that I never had. She is

  slim, has dark eyes and long, dark, curly hair.

  She looks like Selena Gomez but she is not

  popular, for some reason I can’t figure out.

  In English class, I pluck up the courage

  to ask Daisy: “Who are you friends with?”

  She replies: “No one, they’re all idiots.”

  Talking to Daisy is like walking on eggshells.

  I am curious what might have broken her.

  She doesn’t seem mean. She seems hurt.

  In math, I notice red-haired Rowan

  at the desk in front of us. Rowan looks like

  if Ed Sheeran was handsome. He’s wearing