The Weight of Water

by Sarah Crossan

  And then she goes to sleep

  Without saying

  goodnight,

  Without turning off the light,

  Without checking I’m all right.

  Sleepover

  We devour too many liquorice laces,

  Too many cans of Coke

  And buckets of popcorn,

  So when we try to sleep

  It’s impossible;

  We keep thinking of funny things

  To tell each other

  And secrets to share,

  Stories we forgot were important

  Until we turned out the lights.

  When I admit the reason Dalilah cannot

  Sleep over at my house,

  When I tell her there would be

  Three people

  In one bed

  If she stayed,

  She says, ‘I used to sleep with Grandma

  When I was little. It wasn’t so bad.’

  She does not feel sorry

  Or come closer to comfort me:

  Instead

  She tells her own secrets

  And they are just as strange

  As mine.

  And I do not feel sorry either.

  When the birds start fidgeting,

  When the darkness has lifted,

  We are still awake

  And cannot imagine sleeping

  With so much on our minds.

  So we go downstairs for breakfast.

  Cooking Stones

  Ms Morrow says I’m the

  Best swimmer in Year Eight,

  Maybe in Coventry.

  She wants me to come with

  The team to a swim-meet

  In London

  In two weeks,

  To race

  Against girls who

  Could beat me.

  Schools from across the country

  Are competing.

  Ms Morrow gives me a blank permission slip

  To take home.

  Mama shakes her head:

  No. Absolutely. No.

  She doesn’t give a reason.

  She doesn’t have to.

  The reason is clear:

  I don’t deserve it.

  Kanoro says:

  ‘Patience can cook a stone.’

  I know he means I need to give Mama time.

  I know he means she’ll stop blaming me

  When she’s feeling well again.

  I know he means other things too.

  But I am thirteen and

  Mama’s forty-two,

  So she should know better.

  Isn’t that what they say?

  She should know better.

  Good News

  Kanoro received special papers,

  So he’s going to work in London

  At a place called St Bart’s,

  As an actual doctor

  For children.

  When he tells Mama and me

  He is so excited

  He knocks over a lamp and

  Rubs out the light.

  Mama doesn’t care about the lamp:

  For the first time in a month

  She laughs

  and runs to hug Kanoro.

  My feelings are untidy:

  I am happy

  to see Mama this way,

  I am sad

  Kanoro must leave,

  And I am confused:

  I don’t know why they are both

  So thrilled

  When Kanoro’s news

  Means he will leave us.

  Vacant

  I tell him

  not to warn me.

  I do not want

  to say goodbye.

  I am used to lost

  Goodbyes.

  And so,

  One day,

  When I get home,

  His door is open,

  His bed is stripped,

  His books are gone,

  His room is empty.

  And I change my mind:

  I want to say goodbye

  After all.

  Rebellion

  William says I should go to London

  Anyway.

  He doesn’t always do what

  He’s told.

  ‘No one does,’ he tells me,

  Kissing me,

  Showing me.

  We walk past my bus stop

  And I don’t go straight home

  To Mama.

  ‘I’ve lied too much already,’

  I say.

  And he says,

  ‘Then what’s one more?’

  And this is true.

  What harm can it do,

  To lie

  Just once more?

  Betrayal

  When I go to Tata’s house,

  To ask him to sign the slip –

  He’s my parent too

  After all –

  He isn’t there;

  It’s just Melanie and the child.

  So I plead with her to sign.

  And she does,

  With a blunt pencil

  From Briony’s toy box.

  Then she takes a

  Colouring book,

  And on the back

  Copies down the date.

  ‘I’ll tell your father,’

  she says.

  Every day after school

  I train for the competition;

  Every day I am cleansed

  By this daily baptism.

  Every day I am swallowed and saved.

  Mama doesn’t care

  Where I am any more.

  She’s happy to have lost me

  To the water.

  Lies in the Dark

  Mama is asleep when I

  Tiptoe out

  Of our room

  With my kit in one hand

  My permission slip in the other.

  I packed my bag last night,

  And hid it under the kitchen sink.

  I leave a note, so she won’t worry,

  A lie scratched out in the dark

  About an open house at the school.

  From the bus stop

  I can see our window,

  And I wish Mama would appear

  And wave goodbye.

  Goodbye and good luck.

  She doesn’t, of course.

  Mama’s groaning in her sleep,

  Groaning and dreaming of

  Tata and Kasienka

  Plotting against her.

  To London

  Some rules are universal:

  The back of the bus is reserved for the popular.

  So I’m at the front behind Ms Morrow.

  And William is somewhere in the middle

  With the other older boys,

  Huddled around a phone watching YouTube.

  The back is where Clair sits,

  Surrounded by a horde of wild approval.

  They actually applaud when she boards the bus,

  A smattering of claps and hoots

  Like echoes in a jungle.

  She smiles shyly, fakes embarrassment,

  And looks past me for once.

  Ms Morrow turns around and says, ‘Excited?’

  I pretend not to have heard

  And take a book from my bag

  Because I have already told

  My last lie.

  Fear

  The echoes – the shouts and splashes,

  Carry through to the changing room

  Where I am pulling on my

  Nearly-not-there costume.

  The girls in my race are taller

  And leaner, with polished toenails and shaved legs

  And I am not sure I will be able to get myself

  out of the changing room

  And into the pool at all

  If everyone’s looking.

  Clair appears from a cubicle

  in her own costume,

  More womanly

  Than all the rest –

  Her breas
ts round,

  Her nipples quiet –

  And she wishes me luck

  By tousling my short hair.

  Now I know there’s only one way

  To get Revenge.

  Starting Blocks

  The cheering and chants

  From the throbbing crowd

  Fade to nothing

  When I’m on the

  Block.

  I only hear an underwater din,

  A ringing-babbling-vacuum,

  And a kind of coaxing

  Coming from the water.

  In the bright light the people look

  Like ghosts, and then I see one – Tata –

  Standing up in the crowd,

  Quiet and stern, as focused as I am.

  And then I spot William too,

  Holding up a sign with my name on it.

  There isn’t time to check whether they’re real

  Or phantoms in my mind.

  There isn’t time to check for Mama.

  We’re on our marks.

  Ready.

  Set.

  Go.

  Home

  Water is another world:

  A land with its own language

  Which I speak fluently.

  It’s alien and dangerous.

  I can’t even breathe down here.

  Treading water

  Works only if I relax;

  If I fight,

  I sink.

  I have to trust myself,

  Trust the territory and

  My own body,

  The power of each limb.

  It’s the silence I want.

  And the weight of the water

  Over me –

  Around me –

  The safe silence of submergence.

  At the pool’s edge I might be ugly,

  But when I speak strokes

  I am beautiful.

  Gold

  Tata hugs me when I finish

  Even though I am wet

  And he’s wearing a suit.

  ‘My Olympian,’ he says,

  And looks so proud

  I couldn’t care less

  Who sees me crying.

  Metamorphosis

  Clair tears open my cubicle door

  Without knocking,

  But I am already fully dressed.

  ‘You think you’re something,’

  She barks.

  There are two girls behind her

  But they are far enough away

  For me to know they won’t interfere.

  I step close to Clair and whisper,

  In a language I think she’ll understand,

  ‘Why don’t you just piss off.’

  The girls behind her giggle and

  Clair gapes, about to retaliate,

  When suddenly she sees my joy,

  My win,

  And her power dissolves.

  The two girls cough and step away

  And Clair is left

  To face me unsupported

  Which she cannot do.

  ‘Whatever,’ she says and

  Turns, runs, shouts –

  ‘Wait for me!’

  Forgiveness

  Mama does not know how to say sorry,

  But now Kanoro has gone

  She is lonelier than me,

  And much quieter,

  So quiet I sometimes check she

  Hasn’t died of heartache.

  With Kanoro gone

  And Tata gone

  Maybe Mama is unhappier

  Than I can understand.

  When she sees the trophy,

  A golden swimmer

  Diving from a marble platform

  Into space, she says,

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Kasienka,’

  And that’s as much as she can admit,

  Or as happy as she can be for me.

  And for now, that’s OK.

  Reunion

  I am sitting on the

  Front steps of our

  Building, chewing on a

  Peperami, waiting for William,

  When Kanoro arrives

  Without warning.

  I jump to greet him

  And he takes me

  Into his arms without embarrassment.

  ‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.

  Mama was standing at our window

  Watching me and is down the stairs

  Before I have a chance to answer.

  Mama runs to Kanoro.

  They look stupid together:

  Mama is bright-white.

  Kanoro is too-black against her.

  And yet, the picture is pretty good.

  Treat

  Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.

  She wears a yellow dress

  And shoes so high

  She wobbles when she walks.

  Mama wore that dress once before,

  In Gdańsk,

  When Tata took her to the theatre

  And they came home

  Holding hands.

  But Mama and Kanoro

  Are not hand holding

  When they get back from dinner

  At all.

  They are holding their tummies

  Because they ate too many

  Tacos

  And then they are holding their sides

  Laughing.

  Kanoro sleeps on the couch

  And in the morning,

  After tea and toast,

  He honks his horn,

  Waves from the window of his

  New car and disappears

  On to the ring road.

  I watch Mama closely,

  Afraid she will rearrange herself

  Into grief.

  ‘People usually come back, Mama,’

  I say, and she nods

  As she folds the sheer yellow dress and

  Lays it neatly in a drawer.

  ‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.

  Resurrection

  Mama is alive again,

  A little bit alive.

  She isn’t singing.

  But now and then she

  Hums

  Without meaning to.

  Side by Side

  Clair still stands in the centre

  Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.

  I can feel their desperation,

  The thirst for admission.

  It is a dance for popularity,

  Swapping places every day,

  Knowing that tomorrow

  Any one of them could be

  out.

  Maybe it’s lonely for Clair

  There

  In the centre

  Directing the dance.

  She ignores me again,

  Which is better than being bullied.

  Dalilah and I stand together

  Side by side.

  There is no one in the centre,

  We’re just looking out

  In the same direction

  Not desperately at one another

  Fearing betrayal.

  Epilogue

  Butterfly

  Now that I can front crawl,

  Back crawl,

  Breaststroke,

  I am breaking out.

  Ms Morrow is teaching me

  The butterfly.

  When I am in the water

  My body moves like a wave:

  There is a violence to it

  And a beauty.

  I lie on my breast,

  My arms outstretched

  My legs extended back –

  Waiting to kick.

  And I pull,

  Push,

  Recover.

  This is how the Butterfly works.

  I have to hollow out spaces

  For breathing,

  And if I miss them

  I can’t swim.

  But I do.

  I know when to come up for air

  When to keep my head down.


  At practice,

  On the starting block

  I am not frightened at all:

  I am standing on my own,

  And it

  Never felt so good.

  Acknowledgements

  This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.

  Many books influenced my writing, and it would be impractical to mention them all, but I would like to highlight Odd Girl Out by Rachel Simmons, which informed so much of my understanding about girls and bullying.

  I am especially grateful to Mum, Dad, Jimmy and Andreas for their love and support.