Gloves Off

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Gloves Off Page 5

by Louisa Reid

That night in your local,

  I was there with the old gang,

  Who’ve vanished now,

  Into lives where I’m not welcome,

  But who I called my friends back then.

  They were drunk

  And dancing on the tables.

  And I was the quiet one.

  You bought me a drink,

  And we talked.

  I think you made me laugh.

  Later,

  You told me

  You liked my eyes,

  That you liked the way I cared

  About everyone,

  Even you,

  Who no one had ever really loved before.

  And I fell for you,

  Because you were strong

  And you made me feel

  Chosen.

  Your arms have always held me

  When all the world is cruel.

  You watch me from the door.

  “It’s three a.m, Bernie,” you say,

  “What the hell?”

  The blue light from the fridge

  Illuminates us.

  Joe takes the plate out of my hands,

  And empties it into the bin.

  Inside I scream.

  STILL FRIENDS

  sometimes mollie acts like we’re still friends

  and i don’t know how to tell her that we’re not.

  it’s easy to see how i fit in –

  stacey away on a trip,

  sasha off sick,

  or maybe they’ve fallen out

  and

  pushed mollie to the side.

  then that’s when

  she comes to me –

  but only if no one else can see.

  i don’t listen as she talks.

  my thoughts are full of twilight darkness

  the damp fresh air and leaves and rot

  all the shadows of the world out there,

  the lean-to with its hanging bomb.

  “what’s up?” she says,

  “you’re quiet – you’re not still

  going on about that thing with stacey?

  can’t you just get over it, i mean

  yeah she can be a cow,

  but seriously, lil,

  grow up.”

  i open my text book, pretend to read

  and curl my hands into aching fists.

  NO EXCUSES

  if someone sees me.

  first the jogging, up and down the street,

  slug slow

  round and round the estate in the dark.

  then,

  every night, after dad gets home from work.

  he buys a skipping rope and i laugh,

  remember being small and rushing

  out to play, getting in line to

  jump and turn the rope, sing the rhymes.

  it had taken me ages to get the hang of it,

  but mum had stood outside with me

  through those sunny hours,

  turning the handle,

  aunty clare

  on the other end,

  as i stumbled and tripped

  until suddenly, i flew.

  “too slow,” dad says,

  “you need to get your feet

  moving, girl. give it here.”

  he demonstrates.

  the rope tangles in his ankles.

  “just like that,”

  he says, looking up, giving me a wink.

  but i know what he means. it’s all about

  speed.

  moving so it almost doesn’t look

  like moving at all.

  like dreaming of dancing and

  spinning swift

  as if you are truly free

  (not here and heavy

  weighted to the floor

  with iron chains that bind you to someone else’s truth

  of what you are allowed to be).

  if i can do that, and do it well, that would be something.

  my cousin mikey has come to watch.

  “go on,” mikey says.

  want a go? i ask.

  he takes the rope, looks at it, tries.

  you have to jump, i laugh. come on.

  i’ll show you.

  and i start and i don’t stop,

  even though everything is

  wobbling

  jiggling,

  moving,

  my t-shirt riding up,

  in a way i’d hate someone to see.

  but today, who cares?

  i manage twenty, then muck up.

  “you’re really good,” mikey says,

  i hand him the rope, and dad nods.

  “it takes practice. but our lil’s great, isn’t she?

  just you wait, she’ll be a star. go on try, mike.

  now, lily.” he turns to me,

  “press-ups, right?”

  a training plan is nailed to the wall.

  i nearly say

  No.

  there are things i don’t want to do.

  “it’s for your own good.”

  those words

  make me want to scream –

  can’t he see that i’m trying?

  the best time is hitting the bag.

  not the squats or the kicks, or the lunges or the jogging,

  out of breath, beetroot faced,

  messy, jelly-legged –

  but the confrontation

  in that

  imagined fight –

  when i’m winning,

  me against

  the world.

  “keep your focus,” dad says,

  “you’ll be all right

  toughen up, girl.

  don’t make excuses.”

  and i know there’s no quitting.

  EVERYBODY CAN CHANGE

  dad used to bring home

  bags of chips

  and takeaway pizza

  bars of chocolate

  sweets,

  our favourites, he said.

  we’d sit

  he’d drink his beer

  and mum and i would eat our treats.

  now, when he gets back

  from all those miles

  he’s driven, all those dreams of home,

  he holds out DVDs

  Rocky, I, II, III, IV

  Raging Bull, Million Dollar Baby.

  and i sit through hours

  with him

  cheering on

  heroes

  who can rise

  above the odds.

  we punch at shadows together

  and i start to imagine

  those heroes could be me.

  JAWS

  mum sends me to the shops

  for bits i forgot to buy last time.

  i walk with mikey to the Spar,

  pockets rattling, heavy with coppers and change.

  we wander, wonder

  what’s to rush home for?

  although out here,

  in the evening gloom,

  i’m not so sure

  we’re safe.

  stick to the main road, mum said,

  and i take my cousin’s hand.

  we talk nonsense,

  laugh

  at jokes he’s heard,

  and then

  mikey says,

  “do you think you’ll be a star?

  uncle joe says there’s girls,

  girls like you

  who win big prizes,

  you could get a medal,” he says,

  looking up at me as if i’m already gold.

  “i’ll come and cheer!” he jumps and laughs,

  wafer thin, like aunty clare, a leaf blown on the wind.

  not fair.

  thanks mike, i say, although i cannot smile –

  that wouldn’t happen,

  not to me.

  “but you can try, at least, can’t you?”

  i s’pose, i say, it’s worth a go.

  (relax your hands, soft hands,

  strong w
rists – get the right technique,

  keep moving, lil –

  alone that night, later on

  i’ll hit the bag, one two, one two.

  my arms like sponge, my head in bits.)

  at school today

  no one talked to me again.

  and then,

  at lunch, someone

  caught me –

  i felt the flash –

  looked up,

  into the camera’s eye,

  aidan and his mates nearby

  and stacey with her girls.

  i pushed my plate away,

  too late –

  the damage done.

  so now there i am

  all over their screens,

  mouth open

  fork raised.

  minger,

  fat cow.

  pig,

  whale,

  so frigging gross –

  why don’t you just kill yourself?

  “lily,” says my cousin

  as we approach the shops,

  “who’s that boy? over there?”

  i don’t need to look

  to know.

  gripping mikey’s hand tighter,

  i pull him with me.

  he’s no one,

  come on

  hurry up –

  but i never have been fast enough.

  aidan’s coming over the road,

  dodging cars

  side-stepping through traffic,

  upon us

  smiling,

  shark.

  shit, i think,

  and then,

  hespits –

  it hits

  bullseye.

  the traffic drowns what he says next

  and i rake my sleeve over my face,

  try to wipe him

  off my skin,

  but it’s sinking in,

  and his mouth

  is open wide

  ready to swallow me

  whole

  as it curves around

  all the things he’s going to do

  as soon as he

  gets me

  alone.

  in here, i say

  pulling mike inside a shop,

  wishing i could call for help,

  but dad’s away,

  aunty clare’s at work

  and mum’s no use.

  we hide amongst the bottles,

  amber, red and gold,

  the guy behind the till

  stares our way,

  he won’t want to get involved.

  aidan is hanging at the door.

  biding his time –

  no hurry –

  “what’s happening? lily, let’s go home,” mikey whines,

  shhh, i say,

  just let me think.

  there’s only uncle ray.

  AIDAN

  both our dads went to Iraq.

  aidan’s dad never came back.

  RESCUE

  i call mum,

  tell her to call ray

  and ask him to come pick us up.

  “what?”

  and i have to make her understand

  get uncle ray. i’m scared.

  we wait.

  i pretend to shop,

  look for something to buy.

  a can of coke is over a quid –

  too much.

  i close the chiller

  and look again,

  feign nonchalance

  while sweat runs down my neck and spine

  and my heart pants in wheezing time.

  aidan’s spit

  is in my hair,

  it’s in my pores

  and under my skin.

  the bell on the shop door chimes,

  aidan’s inside,

  walking up to the counter,

  buying cigarettes.

  he watches me,

  lights up,

  and blows cancer in our direction,

  his fist curls around the smoke,

  his knuckles glitter

  brassy

  with rings

  and he

  ignores the voice telling him to

  get out

  no smoking.

  he’s a lout.

  (“move. footwork,” dad says,

  “you can’t stand still.

  lily, come on, keep moving all the time.

  if you keep moving, then it’s harder to

  hit you.

  you need to move it, girl.”)

  aidan swears,

  his mouth full of hate –

  “you,” he says, “dog,”

  and our eyes lock,

  “outside, come on,”

  he cocks his head at the door,

  “what are you waiting for?

  let’s go for a walk.”

  what would happen

  out there?

  the night is crawling

  across the sky,

  and in that monstrous dark

  where people disappear

  i’m sweating fear,

  and aidan is destroying me.

  mikey starts to cry

  and there is no way

  to get away.

  the door pings again.

  ray.

  all shoulders and swagger,

  in his uniform,

  “everything all right,

  lil, what’s the problem, eh?

  what’s going on,

  what you done?”

  aidan backs down, slopes off,

  trailing smoke behind him,

  shoots me one last look

  that says,

  this will keep.

  FEET UNDER THE TABLE

  i have to be grateful now.

  “show your uncle ray

  what you’ve been up to, love,”

  says mum, who

  is serving beer and stuff she keeps

  for dad, his favourite snacks,

  and ray is filling his face.

  now it’s up to me to show how thankful i am, too.

  mum looks as if she might disintegrate

  crumble like pastry

  like a slice of stale cake,

  if i can’t be strong right now

  and take him away.

  he grins at the punchbag,

  grabs it, holds it fast.

  “show us what you’ve got then, lil.”

  he watches, with folded arms

  as i pull on the gloves

  demonstrate my

  weakness,

  swiping

  at my enemies

  arms melting

  legs shaking

  belly a puddle of curdled milk.

  ray laughs and

  pulls on dad’s gloves.

  “you’re going to have to do better

  than that.

  come on, hit me, make it hard.”

  he dances in front of me –

  ducking

  weaving

  mocking,

  beckoning me on,

  and i try to catch him –

  but i’m just so tired

  of trying,

  and even though i hate him

  it’s not enough.

  “come on, fatty

  come on, loser

  come on, big girl,

  catch me if you can.”

  ray’s a big man.

  and when he belts me

  on the side of my head

  i’m down

  and i don’t get up.

  BERNADETTE (8)

  The bastard.

  Get out, I tell him

  And I mean it.

  He laughs in my face.

  “Come on, Bern,

  It was just a tap.

  The girl’s got to learn.”

  No, she doesn’t,

  I say.

  And I tell my brother

  To stay away.

  SECRETS

  “don’t tell your dad, love,”

&nbs
p; is what mum said,

  “it was an accident, wasn’t it?

  he’s never known his strength.”

  and my black eye is just

  another bruise.

  dad doesn’t look convinced,

  he’s no fool.

  “was it someone at school?”

  i shake my head and follow him outside

  to work my way out of this.

  but i’m still no good.

  not a natural,

  no born fighter.

  i hear the desperation in his voice,

  see the tiredness in his eyes

  and know i’m not living up

  to what he thought he could make of me.

  i pause, drop my arms.

  i need a break.

  “five minutes,” he says,

  cautious,

  warning.

  i step away, take off the gloves,

  hand them back.

  no, i’m done. i’ve got work to do. exams. no lie.

  “all right. tomorrow, then,”

  he pauses, frowns –

  “unless you’re backing out?”

  i shrug.

  am i?

  maybe.

  what is the point,

  in trying to be something

  you are not?

  DINNER

  my mother doesn’t eat with us.

  so much normal

  so much strange.

  but she cooks for us,

  out of the freezer stuff.

  or beans,

  pasta,

  whatever’s in the cupboard

  nothing special –

  what we can afford.

  but now it’s protein, veggies,

  recipes she’s looked up online,

  healthy eating

  because, she says, i’m working hard, and

  need my strength.

  “you’re an athlete now,”

  she says, serving me

  as if i don’t have legs of my own.

  i have to smile back at her.

  i chew on the word.

  athlete.

  it doesn’t fit.

  er, not really, mum, i tell her

  and push the meat around my plate

  leaking blood making me sick.

  mum shakes her head,

  piles my plate higher.

  “you will be –

  your dad says you have good aim.”

  she mimes a punch.

  dad laughs.

  “she’ll do well. i have a feeling,

 

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