We Come Apart

by Sarah Crossan

and bad shoes is better.

  Safer and sounder.

  Pretty Good

  It’s weird

  cos

  I thought that

  getting nicked

  would be one hundred per cent

  horrendous.

  And I guess it is at home,

  with Terry going on about it all the time

  and Mum tearful.

  But at school it’s not like that.

  At school

  everyone looks at me

  like I’m some big celebrity.

  And since I started the scheme,

  I haven’t had to queue for lunch

  once.

  It’s like they’re all afraid of me.

  Like getting in trouble with the police

  is a shield –

  or a weapon.

  And it actually feels

  pretty good.

  OLD HOME

  Back in Pata, in my bed,

  I listen to the

  Tip … tap … tip…

  On the old house tin roof.

  Every night I listen to these sounds.

  Sometimes when raining is too much,

  the

  tip … tap … tip…

  fall on my head, nose, cheek,

  tongue.

  Fresh clean water in my mouth,

  falling from our sky,

  which is better than the muck water that

  fall from our filth tap.

  The toughest of times.

  Winter hurt our bones.

  Summer hurt our skins.

  No money hurt our bellies.

  Tata say political man

  not give a shit about us.

  They give:

  no road,

  no light,

  no house.

  Mămică say they treat us

  like the world’s disease.

  They take:

  our land,

  our dignity,

  our choice.

  Here is decent good.

  But sometimes,

  when I look from window

  or

  go for long street walk,

  I see something same between

  old village then

  and

  new place now.

  Many peoples with much miserable in their heart,

  many peoples with little monies,

  all walking

  up down

  down up

  stopping

  starting

  again

  again,

  smoking in huddle group

  and

  chatting in small circle.

  Everyone watching everyone do same things.

  Peoples with no place to go for laughing and be happy.

  Same as my old village.

  The atmospheres, buildings and peoples

  in London North

  is like giant rainbow.

  But

  not beautiful colours

  with golden treasure at end.

  Is the rainbow with

  white to grey to brown to black.

  Sometime when I walking past

  high sky houses,

  I thinking that maybe some

  politician take also:

  land,

  dignity,

  choice

  of these London North souls.

  Arse

  We’re not long back at school

  before

  I’m thrown into inclusion

  for telling my form teacher

  to kiss my arse.

  It was a joke.

  And

  like I’d let her near my arse.

  What the hell is her problem?

  WELCOME

  The lady teacher

  give no smiles.

  She keep everything serious.

  I think maybe her man go with too much women

  or

  someone die in her family.

  Then I understanding:

  Lady teacher is angry annoyed with me.

  Her boobs expanding.

  She is full with irritating.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Nicu Gabor,’ I soft say.

  She huff like wolf.

  ‘Right. OK.’

  She writing and move paper on table.

  ‘I doubt you’ll be able to catch up.’

  Her voice turn to whisper,

  ‘Just keep your

  head down and behave.’

  Her eye go to my eye.

  She say, ‘OK … erm …?’ fighting for find my

  name.

  I don’t tell her again.

  She point her finger to chair.

  ‘Right, sit there for now. But when the others get here

  you’ll need to find somewhere else to put yourself.’

  I walk to chair

  without giving lady teacher

  my smile,

  my thank you.

  That Bird

  We sit in the Sainsbury’s car park passing a bottle

  of cider around.

  Meg acts like she’s pissed before she’s even had a sip,

  and once she’s had a few mouthfuls

  she flaps about and asks Dan who he fancies,

  hoping he’ll say her,

  which he doesn’t.

  ‘Know that bird in lower sixth

  with the massive tits?’ he asks.

  Kenny laughs.

  Ryan snorts.

  Meg tries to look interested.

  ‘There are like a hundred girls in the sixth form,’

  I say.

  Dan looks at me,

  down at my chest,

  and I wish I hadn’t opened my mouth.

  He smirks.

  ‘Nah,

  but there’s this one bird

  and she’s pure porn material.’

  His mates laugh again.

  Shawna swigs at the cider.

  Liz looks at her phone.

  ‘What a whore,’ Meg says.

  ‘Here’s hoping,’ Dan says,

  hooting,

  high-fiving his mates

  then

  grabbing his crotch and squeezing it.

  Like anyone wants to see that.

  FIRST WEEKS

  Things no one do on first weeks:

  say hellos,

  give smiles at me,

  say sorry when chucking pens … and other stuffs,

  understand my confusing,

  show me the way for doing lessons,

  ask me to joining in with their fun times

  and

  be friendliness.

  Things I do on first weeks:

  say my morning, afternoon hellos and goodbyes,

  give smiles at all teacher,

  try harder for to become part of England,

  say sorry when they shoulder bump,

  hide when I hearing big laughs close by,

  look out of window because no one explaining school education to me

  and

  close eyes for wishing new life get better.

  These Sessions

  Dawn drags her chair so close to mine

  our knees touch.

  ‘So, Jess,

  how are things going?’

  I open the App Store on my phone

  to look for updates.

  Dawn’s proper pissed off.

  She breathes loudly through her nose.

  ‘You have to take this seriously.’

  ‘Do I?’

  Dawn puts down her clipboard

  and sits up straighter.

  ‘This is about your future, Jess.’

  Yeah, great.

  Whatever.

  I mean,

  what sort of future can I have with Terry around?

  Cos he’s furniture now.

  And as immovable as wallpaper.

  ‘Everyone takes part in these sessions,’ Dawn says.

  ‘What, even the one
who doesn’t speak English?’

  ‘Even him.’

  I roll my eyes to

  show Dawn how boring this is.

  I’m not like that guy, Nicu.

  I can’t get excited about

  raking leaves

  and doing all that self-esteem rubbish.

  I can’t put on a brave face and pretend that

  at the end of this

  things will be different.

  Maybe for him they will be.

  But for me

  they won’t.

  Nothing’s ever going to change.

  WORSE THAN DEATH

  At school I am

  the boy worse than death.

  Me,

  the boy people won’t waste breath on.

  Teacher puts me in no-hope group.

  No-hope group is for kids who don’t know

  numbers,

  words,

  history,

  science,

  facts,

  neat writing,

  behaving,

  more.

  I do know things.

  But teachers never question,

  they never ask.

  But

  I know many things:

  books,

  music,

  ideas,

  horses,

  more.

  Even much English in my head

  but

  not so well out of my mouth

  yet.

  Teachers not care because

  they only see disorder not student.

  Also

  I almost went to young people’s jail,

  so I always criminal.

  The Half of It

  Mr Morgan passes out the test

  and tells us to sit as

  far apart

  from one another as possible.

  Suits me.

  Then he says,

  ‘You may look up for inspiration,

  down in desperation,

  but never side to side for information.’

  He laughs at his own hilarious joke

  like we haven’t heard it

  a hundred times already.

  Meg smiles at me and rolls her eyes

  like she couldn’t care less what Morgan says,

  but as soon as the test is slapped down on to her desk

  she goes white

  and gets scribbling.

  I look at the numbers and letters,

  maths that might as well be Chinese,

  and spend the rest of the lesson

  doodling in the margins –

  messy circles mostly.

  Morgan collects the tests,

  looks at mine:

  first name at the top

  followed by empty boxes

  meant for answers.

  He winces

  and

  when the bell rings, asks to see me,

  and comes so close

  I can see his nose hair.

  ‘You’re a smart girl,’ he says,

  which is a lie.

  It’s what all the do-good teachers say:

  you could be anything,

  you could go anywhere.

  Try really hard

  and all your dreams will come true.

  But we aren’t in Disneyland, are we?

  And anyway,

  what could any of them know about our dreams?

  I bet they don’t live on grey estates and

  eat Mars Bars for breakfast.

  His eyes glint with delight,

  like he’s about to bag a big secret.

  ‘I hear you’ve been in trouble with the police,’

  he says.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but what has this got to do

  with algebra?’

  ‘Just wondering if everything’s OK.

  You used to be good at maths.

  If I knew what was happening, maybe I could help

  get you back on track,’ he says.

  Just then I spot Meg standing by the door, listening.

  I stand up and

  push the desk away,

  give Morgan the look I usually save for Terry

  when he isn’t looking

  and say,

  ‘You think I care about maths?

  You don’t know the half of it, sir.’

  COOL NAME

  The girl from reparation scheme,

  I see her in school.

  My heart rat-rat-rattles.

  Does she see me?

  We never speaking to each other.

  Today is day we do?

  I put loose books in bag,

  hide behind locker row.

  I watch.

  Imagine.

  Dream.

  She’s never said

  hello.

  Good morning.

  How are you?

  But I swearing my heart is in her mouth

  when I seeing her.

  I dreaming of chat introduction:

  ‘Hi, my name’s Nicu.’

  ‘Nicu, that’s a cool name.’

  ‘You thinking?’

  ‘Totally.’

  I’d like to have the cool name.

  Me,

  Nicu,

  the boy with the cool name.

  The Girl with the Camera

  Terry makes me hold the phone

  and record every moment of him

  beating the crap out of her.

  That’s my job,

  though I never applied for it.

  I could throw it at him.

  I mean,

  I could use the phone to crack his skull open,

  smash his brains to bits,

  instead of recording what he’s doing –

  beating Mum

  with such steam

  you’d think it was an Olympic sport he was training for.

  I gag

  a little bit

  whenever he glances into the lens.

  Or maybe he’s looking at me,

  making sure I am

  holding the phone steady,

  doing my job.

  I don’t want to let him down,

  or I can guess what’ll happen:

  it’ll be my belly under his foot,

  my face against his fist.

  Or worse,

  Mum’ll get it again.

  Afterwards he goes out,

  down the pub

  to his mates,

  who all think he’s a right laugh,

  a right geezer

  for having a bird who cooks and cleans,

  wipes his arse

  if he asks her to.

  And Mum?

  She heads for the bathroom,

  locks the door and cleans herself up,

  then into the bedroom where she

  covers the bruises with a turtleneck and too much foundation.

  That’ll make him mad too.

  Can’t she learn a lesson?

  When she comes into the kitchen

  I’m sitting there

  at the table,

  pretending to finish off my French homework,

  verbs drills,

  lists of words

  that start the same

  but end

  differently

  depending on who’s doing the talking.

  And I wonder whether my life could be like verb

  endings,

  whether things here would be better if Mum

  weren’t such a

  wimp all the time.

  Like,

  if she was someone braver,

  would Terry give up and go away

  and hurt someone else instead?

  Would we get to have happy endings

  sometimes

  instead of a constant stream of shit?

  ‘You want some toast? Cereal?’ she asks,

  really gently,

  and I hug her,

  scared it’ll hurt her,

  but so sorry for not s
topping Terry.

  WHO I AM

  When I watching television movies

  all actors

  speak too speedy

  for my comprehendings,

  and I thinking

  it be mission impossible

  to learn this language

  with fluent.

  It so much frustrating

  when words can’t escape my head,

  when peoples not

  understand my meanings.

  All I want

  is for them to see how

  I am fun,

  clever

  and

  nice guy.

  I afraid no one

  ever know who I am.

  On the Rob

  Mum sighs and lights a fag.

  ‘This is the end of the trouble, Jess,

  innit?

  I don’t think I could take another

  incident.’

  ‘I’m late,’ I say,

  which isn’t an answer,

  but I can’t promise I’ll be good for ever,

  and she knows that.

  When her back is turned

  to the toaster,

  I rob a few fags from the freshly opened packet

  and have one lit before I’m out the door.

  And then I’m inhaling

  great gulps,

  like it’s oxygen,

  like I’ve never had a smoke before,

  and by the time I reach the youth offending centre

  I’ve finished off all three,

  and I’ve got nothing to do except

  pick actual litter.

  Dawn

  sort of smiles at me when I arrive,

  like we might be friends.

  But she hasn’t got a clue who

  she’s dealing with.

  And