The Weight of Water (8 page)

I had a stomach bug, the doctor said.

Anyway,

If I’d had your number

I would have called

For sure

You know.

Sorry I didn’t show up

At the pool.

Man, I was so sick.

But I couldn’t get in touch with you.

Let’s do it another time.

I won’t be sick.

I’m done with sick.

You know.

For sure.

Back in Gdańsk

I dream about Tata.

We are in a train station.

Maybe we are in

         
 Gdańsk Główny.

People are

         
 Milling yet purposeful,

Like ants

         
 Around a sugar bowl.

Mama and I are trailing

         
                 Tata

Through the crowd.

He glances back,

Encouraging us.

Then disappears

         
                 Suddenly.

And I wake up

Soundlessly sobbing.

Finding Tata

Mama will not give up.

         
 It is cold and drizzles most nights,

         
 So Mama buys a scarf and umbrella,

But she will not give up.

         
 Even as a door closes

         
 She looks to the next one,

         
 Each time with a sleepier smile,

But she will not give up.

         
 Her boots need to be reheeled.

         
 They are worn out, as I am,

         
 From the hard pavements.

         
 So Mama borrows my boots

         
 Though they’re a little tight,

But she will not give up.

I wish Mama would give up.

         
 And stop dragging me around after her

         
 Like a human dictionary.

I Wish Tata Were Dead

Dead fathers don’t deliberately leave home.

They can be sainted.

We can hold candles to their memories

And keep their headstones clean.

You can’t do this with a missing father.

Questions

Kanoro is in our room

Holding hands with Mama.

They look like they are praying.

Kanoro’s face is moist

And his eyes are cloudy,

The stars bitten out.

Later I want to know the story,

The reason for the quiet closeness.

‘Did he explain the scar on his cheek?’

Mama won’t tell.

Mama says, ‘Always too many questions

With you.’

So I decide, right then,

Never to ask her anything else ever again.

And to tell her even less.

Dare Devil

Marie Mullen is the messenger:

         
 If I agree to do

         
 Three dares

         
 In three days,

Dares Clair will devise,

I’ll be allowed to sit with

Everyone

         
 During lunch

         
       For a week        

         
                 As a trial.

I think it’s a joke so I laugh.

Marie Mullen glances about –

She thinks I’ve seen something

Funny.

What kinds of things?
I ask.

Marie Mullen says: ‘I don’t know.

Take a piss on the tennis courts.

Ask a sixth-former on a date.

Drink a litre of olive oil.’

Did you do all that?

Marie Mullen looks away.

I’m sorry for her,

But my answer is no –

I’d rather eat alone all year

Than piss on a tennis court.

I’d rather eat alone for ever

Than jump at Clair’s bidding.

This is what I tell myself.

I Try to Tell Mama

And all she says is,

‘Girls are like this.’

As though I’m like

This too.

The Pity Club

Not all girls are savage.

Some stand away

When Clair starts.

Some turn their backs.

They won’t take part.

They are The Pity Club –

The girls who look at me

With sorry eyes when

I’m the only person

Without a partner in PE.

But they have their own group,

And it’s established.

         
 And exclusive.

         
 And a newbie would

         
 Mess it all up.

So –

         
 They aren’t cruel.

They are The Pity Club,

And I don’t know what’s worse:

Pity or persecution.

Smokers’ Corner

William leads me to a corner of the playground.

I pat down my hair and flatten out my skirt

Expecting to be kissed.

But when we get there it’s crowded

And smoky and William doesn’t kiss me.

He doesn’t move any closer at all.

Marie and Clair are there.

They run their hands through their hair,

Reminding me I’m missing something.

William pulls a pack of cigarettes from

His blazer pocket and holds it out to me.

I’ve no choice with the girls gazing and grinning.

When I inhale it’s like breathing in dirt,

The kind Mama shakes out of the rug.

William smiles, takes the cigarette from me,

Inhales, swallows, licks his lips.

Then he blows the smoke out through his nose

Like a shaman, and I am bewitched.

When I looked at William

I saw a swimmer.

Now I see a smoker.

         
 And it doesn’t matter.

He talks easily to the girls

Because he is older and that

Means something.

Before we leave, Clair,

Watching me over his shoulder,

Kisses him on the side of his mouth.

I am speechless:

I am so jealous I want to hurt William.

Even though he didn’t do the kissing

I want to pinch him. Or worse.

I hug myself so I will not harm him

And so I do not have to hold his hand

As we walk back

Across the playground.

Then he says, ‘So, are we meeting tomorrow?’

And I forgive him for the kiss.

Because even if Clair wants him,

I think

He wants

Me.

Oh, to be Musical

I wish I knew how to play a complicated musical instrument,

Like a clarinet maybe,

Or a flute,

So I’d have practice using my mouth

         
                 And fingers,

         
                 And taking long breaths,

         
                 All at once

To create something

         
Sweet.

I have never kissed a boy,

And even though

I’ve seen it done

Day after day

On television

And in films,

So it shouldn’t be too difficult,

Because the movements are natural

         
                 And smooth,

I am not a naturally smooth person,

So how will I know what to do

When –

If
he leans in with his head slightly tilted?

Should I tilt too?

And my mouth.

Should I open my mouth?

And my tongue.

Oh.

It is too much to think about.

It will be like playing a clarinet with no lessons;

It will take me years to learn this –

How to kiss.

Floating

William is at the swimming pool.

He is standing far away from me

In the shallow end,

Ripples sloshing his sides.

And he is watching me

As I cast aside my green towel

And pour myself into the

Safety of the water.

We swim to the middle

To meet each other,

Then lie on our backs

The water supporting our weight.

Sometimes our wrinkled toes touch

Accidentally.

Sometimes on purpose.

And for a moment I think it might be

The happiest I’ve ever been

Until Clair surfaces from the deep end,

Like a serpent from a swamp,

And wipes away my smile

By smirking herself.

Rumours

Clair sent a text message to Marie,

And now Marie is

forwarding it

to everyone else in Year Eight.

Except me,

Because I don’t

Have a phone.