The Weight of Water (7 page)

We simply ignored her.

If I Were on the Swim Team They Might See Me

Sometimes I want to tear off my clothes

And show them I’m the same

         
       Underneath –

         
       Maybe better.

It doesn’t matter what I wear.

I always look different:

My clothes are too heavy –

That much I can tell.

And I have no real vision,

I just don’t see what’s wrong.

If I were on the swim team

I’d wear a costume

Like everyone else,

There’d be more skin than fabric.

If I were in the swim team,

They might see me.

Name Day

As I rub away cold sleep,

Mama pulls out a box

Wrapped in starry blue paper,

         
 A card taped to the top –

Kasienka
on it

In neat script.

I sit up in the bed

And rip open the paper.

Mama cheers: ‘Your own iron!’

I want to stop unwrapping.

I want to cry.

What do I need an iron for?

         
 We already have one, which leaks,

         
 like the tap

         
 in the kitchen.

When I take the box out of its wrapping

I see Mama’s mistake – or mine –

It’s a hair iron,

‘A straightener,’ I say,

Genuinely joyful

And read the box aloud:

         
       
Ceramic plates
.

Mama shrugs. I shrug.

We don’t know if
ceramic plates
is good –

         
 It sounds good,

         
 Printed in bold, square letters.

Later on, after we’ve lunched on fresh golabki,

And I’ve straightened my hair,

Mama, Kanoro and I march to the cinema.

We gorge on sweet buttered popcorn and

         
 Orange sodas.

We sit in the front row, me in the middle,

Smiling all the way

Through a sad film.

The Hunt

They don’t have to say

         
 a thing.

They just have to stare

At my hair,

For me to know

It isn’t enough

To impress them,

Though it’s so straight now

You could paint with it.

Clair confirms that

It is still too short,

I still look gay –

‘Are you gay?’

A paper appears in my locker.

FYI: You smell like old meat.

I hurry to the toilets to sniff myself,

And when I’m there,

Clair and Marie arrive

With a gaggle of girls.

‘Can you smell something?’

Clair wonders,

And Marie holds her nose,

And then the other girls too.

They are hunting,

Circling me to prevent my escape.

They yap and snuffle,

Jostle to be close to Clair,

Covering their mouths

To stifle laughter.

I am a fox surrounded by beagles.

They will eat me alive and spit out the fat.

I am their prey and there is nothing

I can do to stop them pouncing.

Maybe

Leaning on the lockers,

Chewing on a straw,

Clair pretends she can’t

See me because she’s

         
 Alone –

Without the pack.

I close my locker loudly,

With a

         
 BANG

And for a second she shudders

Then turns

And shows off her braces.

‘Hi, Cassie!’ she says,

Blinking.

That’s all.

And I wonder if

This means

We’re friends.

Art Class

A shadow frowns over my sugar paper,

And then a warm voice: ‘That’s good, Cassie.’

Arlene puts her picture down next to mine.

She’s slight, with round glasses that hide

         
                 half her face.

We sit together using our thumbs

To blend chalk dust into

Fat green marrows,

And I think, maybe she’s the one,

Maybe she’s the friend

I’ve been waiting to find.

But Clair tracks me down at the sink

Where we go to wash the colours from

Our hands.

‘Is it true what you said about Arlene?’

I gaze at Clair,

Too amazed to protest.

Arlene looks sideways at me.

She wipes her hands on her trousers

And backs away from the

Danger of friendship.

‘Arlene’s a bit sensitive,’

Clair hisses and slinks away too.

Nothing more.

In the sink the colours have washed away,

And the water runs clear.

Not Alone

William finds me in the dining hall.

He moves to my table, drops his tray,

And sits.

He slurps and burps,

Wipes his mouth on his sleeve

And stares.

Year Nine boys watch us

From across the hall.

They are gesturing,

         
                 Guffawing.

‘My friends,’ William says,

‘Are idiots.’

And then, ‘You haven’t been to practice.’

I shake my head and sip my Coke.

I know it’s better when I don’t talk.

‘So maybe I’ll see you at the pool this week.

Maybe you’ll be there on Thursday,’ he says.

He waits for me to speak.

I nod and

Dip my chips

In ketchup.

‘So you’ll be there on Thursday,’

He says.

Walking to science he takes my hand

         
and squeezes it

As though testing a piece of fruit in a market

         
Before buying.

Then he puts his hands into his trouser pockets

And says, ‘I’ll see you at the pool then.

Thursday.’

Thursday

In the changing room

I check myself in the mirror.

I want to be sure

I look normal.

I do not:

I am sharp-cornered,

Like a piece of Swedish

         
                 Self-assembly furniture

         
                       Gone wrong.

I am all lines,

No curves.

My fingers and toes are too long.

My nose is pointy, my bottom flat.

When did this happen?

I tiptoe to the pool,

My towel hiding my shape.

Apart from a lone lifeguard

Sitting in what looks like

A baby’s high chair

The place is deserted.

I cannot see William anywhere.

I drop the towel and let the water

         
 Take me.

And I do lengths:

Up and

         
 Down,        

         
       Up and

         
               Down,

Waiting for William

Who never shows up and

Trying not to think about

Rejection.

Grating

I am hairy.

I have thick

         
 black

         
 shoots

Under my arms

And on my legs

And between them too.

I am hairy.

I did not know this until

I noticed the women

In the pool

With their velvety skin.

I am hairy.

So when I get home

I swipe Mama’s razor,

Sneak down to the bathroom

And work on the problem.

I rest one hairy leg on the toilet seat

And drag the blade up it.

I scream. Loudly,

Like someone is trying to murder me

And Mama runs up the hall

And knocks on the door:

‘What is happening, Kasienka?’

She wants to know.

She wants to know

I’m not being murdered.

Little red rivers

Run down to my ankles

And pool on the toilet seat.

‘I’m OK, Mama,’ I say.

I have not shaved the hair

But grated the skin.

There is pink flesh

In the blade,

No hair at all.

When I emerge from the bathroom

I am still hairy.

And covered in cuts.

What William Says

I wanted to call you

But I didn’t have your number.

If I had your number

I would have called

For sure

You know.

I was really sick.

I was so queasy

I couldn’t eat.

I couldn’t get out of bed.