by Manjeet Mann
Teachers telling me off,
especially Miss (Bitchy) Bates
in French class.
I’m sorry I’m boring you, Amber.
Maybe less TV and earlier nights in future.
The class sniggers.
Miss Bates looks pleased
with herself.
I want to stand up to her.
I want to say,
No, Miss, I’m not tired
because of watching TV till late.
I wish, Miss.
My dad hit my mum.
Bit difficult to sleep after that.
It’s hard to sleep when you see your
mum get kicked or punched.
It’s hard to dream after that, Miss.
I wish I was tired from watching
TV till late, Miss.
I really wish that was the case.
Instead all I can muster is,
Sorry, Miss.
Last PE class before
half-term.
Before I start training
for the ESAC.
If I start training.
If I can find the courage.
High knees
side lunges
chest openers
shoulder rolls
wide squats
hamstring kicks
HIGH FIVES.
The sole
of my trainer
comes unstuck.
Superglue
failing
its one
and only
job.
On your marks,
get set,
GO!
No time to think.
No time for error.
Long strides.
No distractions.
Nought to sixty metres,
accelerate.
Sixty to ninety metres,
maximum velocity.
Ninety to one hundred,
power through to the finish.
Just before
I cross the line
something catches
under my foot
and I come crashing down,
burying chin in mud.
I look down at my feet
and see the sole of my trainer
almost completely detached.
I rip it off
as Sarah and Leanne
sprint finish to the end.
I get myself up
and limp to the finish line.
Miss Sutton
checks if I’m OK.
Time for a new pair of trainers,
she says.
Maybe it was the
meeting at the Jobcentre.
Maybe it was the fight last night.
Maybe I’m just too tired
because today
my secrets
are written all over my skin.
I’ll sort something out, she says quietly.
Why don’t you sit out for now?
I slump down on the bench,
frustration and embarrassment
playing ping-pong
in my head.
More selfies
and singing from
the cool girls
at the back of the bus.
And Gemma.
I mimic her voice.
Tara tells me to shush.
You really need to work on all of this frustration, you know.
It’s bubbling up inside you and that can only lead to one thing.
She thinks for a moment.
It could be something to do with a past life.
My mum can do ancestral healing.
She did it on me and it turns out I was banished from a tribe
in Argentina like way back when. That’s why I have issues with belonging.
Since when?
I say in a more
mocking tone
than I should.
Since always. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.
Sorry.
It’s fine.
She collapses back in her seat.
I feel guilty for all the
ugly thoughts
I’ve been having
about Tara.
There’s not a bad bone
in her body.
I just can’t help the jealousy
that eats away at my insides.
Once it takes over,
it’s like I’m on a
fast train
to sabotage central,
determined to push
everyone away.
I stare at myself
in the mirrors.
Life is not a rehearsal.
What kind of woman do I want to be?
Beena’s words still
running round my head.
And then she walks in.
Gemma Griffin.
I see her turn to leave
but it’s too late.
She closes the cubicle door.
I wait.
Something rises inside me.
I walk to the door.
Bang on it with my fist.
Silence.
Fucking cow!
It doesn’t make me feel good.
It churns me up inside,
but when that anger rises
it becomes a matter of pride.
I charge out of the loo
and straight into Miss Sutton.
I have the letter I promised you.
Don’t let me down –
the school needs you!
Yes, Miss, because it’s THAT easy.
Miss Sutton looks at me.
Stunned.
My office, now.
Her voice sharp,
her eyes kind.
She sits me down.
What’s going on?
We sit
in silence.
If you don’t tell me, I can’t help.
Her eyes are gentle.
She looks at me with kindness
and concern,
waiting for me
to tell her my truth.
Tell her I never sleep.
Tell her my life feels like a prison.
Tell her I wish I could run away.
Tell her I can’t go against my dad.
Tell her the repercussions are worse than she could imagine.
Tell her I’m not really sure how long I can live like this.
Tell her I never feel safe.
Tell her.
Tell her.
Tell her.
Tell her.
Tell her.
I can’t.
No matter
how much
I want to.
Secrets
are hands
round my throat.
The closer
I am to talking,
the tighter their grip.
says
Dear Mr and Mrs Rai,
Amber is an extremely talented athlete and we feel she would be a real asset to the athletics team. Last year Amber stood out from the rest of the runners at the English Schools’ Athletics Championships and caught the attention of sports officials. We all believe she has what it takes to go all the way. Many British Olympic athletes have come up through events like the ESAC and we can see Amber having a bright future in athletics.
Training will take place twice a week, starting after the autumn half-term, to be followed by several inter-school events as well as regional ones, and the UK under-seventeens county championships at the end of the school year, should she qualify.
It is a prestigious honour to be chosen for the schools athletics team. We are selective in our choice and only the very best students are picked.
Please do not hesitate to get in touch if you would like to discuss this further. Otherwise we are pleased to welcome Amber to the team and look forward to your presence at future athletics events.
Kindest regards,
Miss E. Sutton
Head of PE
A great letter.
It’s just a pity
my parents will
never read it.
Before you go, Amber, these are for you.
I found them in lost property. I think they should fit.
Just until you get new ones. Or you could keep them – they look hardly worn.
What if someone comes looking for them?
They won’t. They’ve been in the box for years.
Thanks, Miss. Just until my mum can buy new ones. I’ll bring them back.
Of course. But like I said they’ve been in the box years, so you might as well keep them.
I inspect them when I’m out of the office.
They look like new.
I marvel at the bright orange ticks.
I’ve never had a known brand of anything before.
One person’s trash is another person’s treasure
and I will certainly treasure these.
Nice Nikes! Wow, latest ones.
They cost a fortune!
Cool girl Bryony looks impressed.
Erm … I don’t think they’re the latest.
Trust me, I know my Nikes.
Good to see you’re getting some style.
I look back at Miss Sutton’s office.
Did she …
No, she wouldn’t …
would she? …
CONTROL
The rebels gain power.
The ruling regime
tries to suppress them
by any means
possible.
I tremble,
my hand
unable to fit the key
in the lock.
Sitting at the kitchen table,
Dad looks at the clock,
pleased I’ve obeyed.
I try slipping upstairs
before he can engage.
His face softens.
Aren’t you going to sit here and talk to me?
I’ve got homework to do.
Just five minutes. I’ll make tea.
I’m confused –
this is new.
I have a test tomorrow,
I lie.
He looks down
with sad eyes
and nods his head.
OK.
The cord between his heart
and mine
tugs.
I see him as he was.
The dad that lifted me up
way above his head
and gently bopped my head
on the ceiling.
Half an hour, then.
Great, I’ll make the tea.
His eyes light up.
He laughs.
I empty my bag of books,
spread them out on the kitchen table.
Start linking the stages
of a revolution to
modern-day revolts while
waiting for the comforting
aroma of cardamom
and fennel.
We talk
about making
chicken and rice
at the weekend.
Or do you want lamb?
Whatever you like, I say.
Whatever you like, he says.
This week chicken,
next week lamb?
How does that sound?
Great.
We’ll make it together.
Perfect, I say.
Because this exchange is
PERFECT.
Mum counts her meagre wages.
Don’t tell your dad how much I got paid,
she says as she stuffs
a bundle of notes
down her
bra.
The day before
half-term
we hang out at our
secret place.
Tara: Me and David were just talking about going to Birmingham
to check out the new arcade in StarCity,
maybe go to the cinema in the evening …
Do you think you can make it too?
I might be able to. Let me see.
Really? Oh cool!
I know I can’t.
I have no money,
I can’t risk being seen,
and out till the evening, yeah right!
So what day works for you both?
David shrugs.
It’s up to you.
Yeah, whatever.
I try to sound casual
to hide the jealousy
twisting, worming its way inside.
Tuesday?
She’s going to be alone with him!
Tuesday’s good.
I feel sick.
Great, let’s do that.
It’s going to be so much fun!
Yeah, can’t wait.
Tara. David. ALONE.
There’s a pain in my chest
as neither of them realize
they’re taking it in turns
to punch me right in the
HEART.
I start listing
the reasons
in my head
as to why
Tara and I shouldn’t
be friends.
Maybe
this has always
been fake.
Maybe she stayed
to get close
to David.
Maybe she’s never
wanted to be friends.
Maybe she’s a
big fat fake.
Maybe she wants it
to be
the two of them?
Maybe she’s just
wanting me out of the picture.
Maybe I’m gonna have
to start playing the game.
Politics thrives on manipulation
and empty gestures!
Mr History Jones
jumps round the class excitedly.
It’s all in the politician’s character.
Look at what they do!
Not what they say!
On that note …
Lenin: hero or tyrant?
Everyone is silent
and for once
mine is the first and
only hand up.
Making chicken and rice
Dad’s way.
Radio on, playing all
the latest Bollywood tunes
as we cook.
I can’t remember the last time
we hung out like this.
He shows me how much
spice to add.
I do the famous taste test.
So good!
I say.
Just like this day.
I sit in my room,
looking at the walls
and the uneven spaces
that have felt wrong
for so long.
I don’t think.
I just do.
Pulling
pushing
tugging
throwing
cleaning
hoovering
Blu-tacking
fixing.
Until the whole room
is different.
Everything in a new place.
Filling in the gaps
left by Ruby.
Owning what is now mine,
because today
feels hopeful,
today feels new.
See no evil.
Dad danced while cooking.
I am not allowed to dance.
He has his own rules.
Hear no evil.
Here we are laughing.
He said he would break my bones.
I choose to forget.
Speak no evil.
I want to believe.
Today was real, not a dream.
He is a new man.
Mum is surprised
Dad made the chicken.
She asks if he was
in a good mood –
and did he mind?
Of c
ourse he didn’t mind.
He was happy.
Happy?
she says
in disbelief.
Like it won’t last.
Like it wasn’t real.
It annoys me.
I want her
to let him change.
I want to know
that it was real,
that it’s here to stay.
Mum wants me to help her,
but I’m not really helping.
I just sit and watch …
as she searches.
Under wardrobes,
under beds.
An old suitcase
reveals a hidden stash.
A half-bottle of Bacardi.
She holds it up.
This is your father.
She gives it to me
as she continues her searching.
The gap between a
chest of drawers and a wardrobe
reveals a bottle of whisky.
She holds it up.
This is your father.
She gives it to me.
The searching continues.
By the time we’ve turned the house over,
Mum has found seven bottles.
Whisky, Bacardi, rum, beer,
gin, vodka and more whisky.
This is your father.
She takes each one and
tips it down the sink.
Don’t tell him.
Don’t tell him what I’ve done.
Let’s see, let’s see what he does.
Her face awash
with confidence,
I admire her bravery,
but the last thing I want
is to witness
what he will do.
First day of half-term
and I’m on babysitting duty.
Mum’s home early from the factory.
Something about an order not turning up.
She watches as I play with Tiya,
teaching her the alphabet.
Out of the corner of my eye
I notice Mum
pick up the books
once I’m done.
I notice her
flick through the pages,
trying to make sense of the letters.
I notice how
desperate she is
to know more, to WANT more.
Pull through
get through
hold on
hold out
go on
keep on
carry on
stay around
remain alive.
Thirteen.
A beating
