and goes to the counter to pay,
but she leaves her bag right there
on the seat,
wide open
like a bloody invitation.
‘The bag,’ I whisper to Nicu.
‘Tea bag?’ he whispers back.
He looks into his mug,
stirs it with the spoon.
I don’t hang about.
I sit next to him,
pretend to put my arm around his shoulder,
then slip my hand into
the woman’s
fake Gucci
and find her phone.
Job Done.
Nicu doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing,
thinks I’m trying it on,
and leans into me.
‘Relax, mate,’ I tell him,
and drop the phone into the pocket of his blazer.
The woman comes back,
grabs her bag
and is gone.
And then we’re off too,
up the High Road to the Italian,
where we order meatballs
and salad,
a pizza with extra olives.
And for dessert two slices of tiramisu.
Thank
you
very
much.
‘I like these eats,’ Nicu says.
The waiter gives us the bill.
I rummage and rummage around my
bag,
pretending to look for my wallet.
‘I left it at school. It’s at school.
Oh, crap.
Have you got any money?’
‘No.’
Nicu looks like he might
cry.
I told him it was my treat.
‘I tell to you this.
I tell to you I have no monies!’
He’s almost shouting,
frantic,
while the waiter looks on.
‘Give him your phone,’ I say.
I manage a wink.
Nicu blinks.
‘Give him your phone.
It’s in your pocket, Nicu.’
I point.
Nicu reaches into his blazer
and finds the iPhone.
I snatch it
and wave it at the waiter.
‘Can we leave this here and come back?
I’ll bring you the money for the bill in an hour.
No.
Half an hour.
I promise.’
I do a drama on him.
Make my voice EastEnders shaky.
He nods
and
lets us leave,
lets us swagger out of that place
without paying a penny.
‘You make me bad boy,’ Nicu says
when we get to the park.
We’re on the slide again,
at the top of it,
chewing on liquorice laces.
‘I made you a bad boy?
Oh, come on, Nicu,
I think you were a bad boy well before you met me,’ I say.
And he gives me that smile.
NEW TEACHER
On top of slide
I think I should say to her my secret,
my special confidential.
But I am afraid
in case Jess not understanding,
in case Jess slide away
and
never come back.
I can’t tell to her
how one day
I dream to escape Tata and Mămică
because of person they want me to become.
And
how I have too much shock thought every day
in and out my head
of seeing future wife in white bling dress.
Jess is the danger girl.
She is the danger to big plan that
Mămică and Tata have for me.
But she is also the helper girl.
She say she is going to teach me to speak proper
if it bloody well kills her.
‘This will be the most help,’ I say.
She say,
‘You can’t speak like a twat, if we are going to be mates, Nicu.’
‘I agreeing, Jess. I not wanting to be twat.’
She puts her hand in face and giggling.
All this tell me one thing:
Jess is kindness.
When I ask:
‘Jess, what is mate?’
she tell me
a mate is someone you can chat with.
‘You know, about anything, secrets and that.
Stuff you don’t tell your parents.’
‘Like dreams?’
‘Yeah, I suppose.’
‘Confidentials?’
She rub my hair
and butterfly float in my belly.
‘You do this to mate?’ I say.
‘Only if I like them,’ she say.
Maybe if I kiss her I can say:
And this too?
But I’m OK that Jess is my mate
(my first English mate),
so I stop thinking about kiss.
Bad Friday
He sits in the library
at lunch,
flicking through books with loads of pictures
in them.
I see him on Wednesday
when I go in there with Shawna to
copy her homework.
He looks up,
but before he can wave or call out my name,
I turn my back on him.
And then on Thursday
Liz wants to photocopy some form for her mum
and he’s in there again,
different book,
same lonely look.
I just peer through the window on Friday,
and of course he’s there again,
turning the pages
of some big book,
his eyes really wide.
‘What you staring at?’ Meg asks,
spooking me from behind.
‘You know him or something?’ she asks,
spotting Nicu.
‘No,’ I say quickly.
‘Why would I?’
She snorts.
‘Yeah, it’s not as if you speak Polish or anything?’
‘Exactly,’ I say,
and we laugh,
like friends,
so loudly that Nicu turns.
He sees us.
And so I stop.
I stop laughing.
THE BUTT
Before I coming to school
in new country,
I not understand how hard
it will be.
Education is very important thing
here.
Very important thing
for to get jobs,
cash,
houses,
holidays,
cars,
shoes.
Back in village,
going to school not so important for us children.
Political persons don’t
care if I go or not.
Parents
same.
But,
back in village,
no person does the laughing at me
behind my face.
Even in front of my face
it happening.
In class,
out class,
in corridor,
out corridor,
in yard,
out yard,
in canteen,
all place.
Snigger, snort, chuckle,
chuck paper,
pens,
pretend knives, guns, bombs,
weapons of massive destruct into my feelings.
But
they don’t seeing
what I seeing.
They don’t hearing
what I hearing.
They don’t emotion
what I emotion.
I think
maybe Jess is different.
I want to know an answer.
The Three Bitches
Liz is all like,
‘That pikey’s staring again, Jess.
I reckon you’re in there!’
She smirks and
and Shawna goes,
‘Eww, man, I think he really fancies you.’
She sticks out her tongue,
blue from the gobstopper she’s been sucking,
and waggles it.
Meg lets out a laugh and says,
‘Maybe he wants to show you a good time in his caravan.’
Everyone in the corridor can hear,
and she thinks
it’s well funny,
like we haven’t heard the gypsy joke
a hundred times today
already.
She reaches into her locker and
pulls out
a book,
holds it up:
Big Fat Gypsy Weddings.
Where the hell did she get that?
‘Really?’ I ask.
‘What?’ Meg high-fives Shawna,
and they squeal
like ugly sick pigs,
like nasty little witches about to brew up
something poisonous.
‘Gonna cut out some pictures and post them around
the place,’ Meg says.
‘Might give a few to Dan, so he can
put ’em up in the changing rooms.’
Liz is like, ‘That’s hil-ar-ious.’
And I could say,
But is it?
Is it hilarious?
Cos I think it’s boring.
I think you’re boring.
All of you.
And anyway he doesn’t live in a caravan.
He lives in a flat.
But I don’t say anything
cos I don’t wanna be on the receiving end
of Meg’s bile.
‘I’ve got French,’ I say instead,
and turn away.
Behind me I hear whispering.
Nothing else.
I keep walking.
TOSSING AND TURNING
I sleep bad these nights.
The tip-tap-tip
in my head
still happen in new country
because too many times
I thinking of Jess.
I thinking what Mămică and Tata would say
if they knew Jess was so much
in
my
mind.
Inside and out,
she is beauty full.
Shag/Marry/Dump
‘Right,’ Meg says.
‘Mr Pitcher, Mr Morgan and Mr Betts.’
Shawna screams.
‘That’s just nasty.
Can you even imagine?’
Liz laughs.
‘No. Cos I’m not imagining,
but you must be.
Rank!’
The bell for the end of break
rings
but
Meg drags on her fag
like she hasn’t heard it.
Everyone else smoking behind the drama block
leaves for their lessons.
‘You’ve got to decide.
Shag, marry or dump?
Go!’
Shawna shrugs.
‘Shag Mr Pitcher, marry Mr Morgan, and dump,
definitely dump, Mr Betts.’
Meg turns to me.
‘You’re quiet,’ she says,
like it’s a crime.
‘This one’s just for Jess.
Right,
Dan, Kenny and…’
She pauses.
Shawna and Liz wait with their mouths open.
I see the horrible machine of Meg’s mind
as she searches for the name.
His name.
I cross my fingers that it won’t be him,
that she’ll say Ryan,
cos he’s the most obvious choice.
Then she finally says it:
‘Nicu.
Go on then, Jess.
Shag, marry, dump?’
It’s a trap.
I mean,
I know it’s a trap,
so I say,
‘I’m not getting married, Meg.’
‘Why? You a lezzer?’ she asks.
Shawna moves away from me,
just a bit.
Liz chucks her fag.
‘It’s a crap game,’ I say.
‘We played it in Year Eight
and it was crap then,
too.’
Meg throws her fag butt on to the ground,
grinds it to dust with the heel
of her shoe.
‘Do you fancy Dan or something?’ she asks.
I almost
crack up laughing.
That’s what she thinks?
That I fancy Dan?
‘Know what, Meg,
you can shag them all.
But it’s a good job it is a game
cos I don’t think anyone’ll
be queueing up to shag you.’
THE LAST LAUGH
Big Fat Gypsy Weddings pictures
are in everywhere:
school changing place,
canteen,
locker,
and
teacher board.
Many photos of
wives with
epic dress and comic hair
or
husbands with
golden smiles and diamond eyes.
I don’t rip pictures away.
I don’t rip away
because
these gypsy weddings are
not my peoples,
not my weddings,
not my me.
So
I have last laughing.
After very short timing
Big Fat Gypsy Weddings pictures
look sad,
like death sunflower.
Finally,
they flop down
dead.
And
I have one more
last laughing.
A Quick Word
I’m washing gunk off my hands
after pointlessly playing with
papier mâché for two hours,
when Dawn moseys over.
‘Can I have a quick word, Jess?’
I show her my sticky palms and say,
‘One sec,’
knowing her quick word
will totally turn into some
clock-watching psycho session.
‘Just wondering how you’re finding the scheme.
Any positives from this whole thing yet?’ she asks.
‘Uhh, like what?’
‘I don’t know. Have you learned anything?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Or maybe you made a friend?’
I sneer.
‘Friends?
With that lot? Yeah, right.
You must be joking.’
Nicu is on the other side of the room.
He waves a papier mâché pig
and gives me a thumbs up.
I guess Nicu is my friend.
In a way.
We hang out,
I can rely on him and he’s never tried
to hurt me.
So why haven’t I given him
my number?
I mean,
what would be the harm?
NUMBERS
On eat and fag
break at
reparation scheme,
the others message
on phones with
fast fingers.
Everyone do swapping of numbers.
Not me.
I go to pond and
swap sweets with swans.
I hear foot crunching on stone.
‘Hey, you didn’t give me your number,’ Jess say.
My breath become heavy weight
.
‘You want my number?’ I say.
‘Yeah, what is it?’
I tell it to her,
and
she tell hers to me.
And I photograph hers in my head.
Quite Nice
I’ve no shortage of boys
wanting me,
after me,
telling me
I’m the golden sun
and bloody silver moon.
In Year Seven
Keith Woods
passed me a note
in science
that said
‘Your reelly cute!’
and I let him
kiss me with
his mouth open
more than once,
his tongue
far too flappy
for my liking.
In Year Eight,
Michael Mensah
asked me out,
and I said yes,
and spent the next three weeks
battling with him
while he fought to
get my bra off.
In Year Nine
Noah Stein
told everyone
I was hot,
and I liked that,
and when he put his
hand up my skirt
I didn’t say no.
Not the first time anyway.
And this year,
even though I’m still in Year Ten,
a load of sixth formers have been
chatting me up after school,
messaging me,
saying stuff that would make Mum’s eyes water.
But it’s all the same.
It’s all about them.
What they want.
What I can give.
Down the youth offenders’ place