Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  More interested with what she’d given me, I opened the envelope, my eyes bugging out at the money inside. I counted it, finding a grand. She reappeared, wearing sunglasses and holding a handbag.

  I looked up at her. “But you already paid me for the coke.”

  “That’s not for the coke, honey.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s for your other services.”

  “What services?”

  “Stop playing coy with me, cutie, it’s time for you to go.”

  She yanked me out of the chair by my arm and shoved my backpack at my chest, then pushed me towards the door. I let her do it, the realisation she’d paid me for sex finally dawning on me. I wanted to yell at her that I wasn’t a ho, but was too stunned. I hadn’t fucked her and Camie for money; I’d done it for fun.

  When we got to the door, I stuffed my feet into my boots on autopilot. Upset started to creep in, a slow hum that steadily grew. Sierra pulled me over to her white Beemer, where Camie was sitting behind the wheel.

  “Will it be all right if I drop you off at a bus stop in Manukau or Papatoe?” Camie asked. “We’re running late.”

  I nodded without thinking, still too stunned to say a word.

  Sierra pushed me towards the back seat. “Get in, Dante.”

  I climbed in, Sierra taking the front passenger seat next to Camie. As Camie drove up the steep driveway, I looked back at the huge estate, with its massive walls and manicured lawns, a touch of France in the midst of Auckland. Tall trees framed both sides of the driveway like centurions protecting the entranceway. I could almost imagine diamonds dripping off their leaves instead of dew, the place unreal to me.

  The women started talking about something, the money in my hand still silencing me. I tightened my grip on the envelope, wondering why they thought I was a whore. Had I agreed to something last night? I didn’t think so. Although I’d been drinking and snorting coke, I’d been lucid the whole time, more into fucking the women than getting off my face. Which meant it wasn’t something I’d said, suggesting I either looked like a whore or they’d heard the false rumours that Happy Meal had spread. And since they were too old for school that only left one thing...

  I looked like a whore.

  Sierra glanced back at me, saying something I couldn’t take in, only the slight rise of her voice at the end suggesting it was a question. I nodded to whatever she’d asked, feeling like throwing up. She clapped and bounced in her seat like a little girl who’d gotten her way. Camie laughed nervously, the woman’s gaze flicking to me in the rearview mirror. Her nervous smile fell, her lips moving without meaning. A worried frown followed, pulling at the corners of her lips and eyes. She glanced at Sierra, indicating to me with her head.

  Sierra turned to look at me again. “What’s wrong, Dante?” she asked, also appearing concerned.

  “I feel sick.” I grabbed for the door handle as the car emerged from the driveway, but couldn’t open it, the child lock on. I started to panic, screaming, “Lemme out!”

  Camie swerved over to the side of the road, coming to a sudden stop. I jumped out and bent over the grass, throwing up my breakfast.

  Sierra emerged from the car. “God, Dante, are you all right?” she asked, placing a hand on my back.

  I threw up again, Sierra rubbing my back in circles.

  “Is he okay?” Camie asked from behind us.

  I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and turned to grab my backpack out of the car, unable to look at them. I stuffed the envelope of money into it and slung the bag over a shoulder, heading off without saying a word. I had no idea where I was, other than it was a posh neighbourhood out east. It was probably Whitford, since the countryside was populated with large houses too spectacular to belong to farmers. Plus, I could see the sea on my left, which meant I was a long way from home. But I couldn’t stay in the car with them, not even for another second.

  Sierra ran after me. “Dante, what’s wrong?”

  I didn’t answer her, still too upset that she thought I was a whore, but even more upset that I wanted to keep the money.

  “Dante!”

  I kept on walking. Doors shut behind me, then an engine started up. The white Beemer appeared alongside me, Camie again behind the wheel.

  Sierra poked her head out of the front passenger window. “Dante, why are you acting this way?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Dante!”

  I spun around to face her. “Do I look like a whore?” I yelled.

  She jerked back, her expression surprised. She opened her mouth, but closed it, looking like she didn’t know how to reply.

  “Do I?” I spat, gripping onto my bag strap.

  “I...” Sierra said. “I just thought...”

  “That I look like a whore?”

  “You took the money.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. Do I look like one?”

  Her eyes flicked to my left. There was a couple several feet away, walking their dog.

  “Sierra, we should go,” Camie said, “the Maddisons are looking at us.”

  “I...” Sierra said. “I’m sorry, Dante, I just thought—”

  “That I wuz a dirty whore. I fucked you both cos I wanted to, not for money.”

  “You didn’t have to take it.”

  “You still gave it to me, which means you thought I wuz one.”

  “I didn’t mean it as an insult, I just assumed—”

  “Everyone assumes shit ’bout me and now you proved them right.” I took off, knowing that no matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape what people thought of me.

  10

  CLARA

  “What’s a satire?” Julio asked, stopping me mid-sentence. He was a tall, lanky boy who was the star player of the basketball team. Beverly had mentioned that he was getting offers to play in America, but his parents wouldn’t let him go until he’d passed Year Eleven, which made sense, because all of a sudden he was interested in my class.

  “It’s one of those half human, half goat thingies,” Jasper said, answering his friend’s question before I could. The large boy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, looking proud of himself. It was Monday afternoon, and I had the juvie class straight after lunch. It was a lovely sunny day outside, perfect weather for a trip to the beach, but I was more than happy to be locked away in here, Jasper’s comments amusing me greatly.

  I refrained from smiling, almost tempted not to burst his bubble. “No, that’s a satyr, Jasper.”

  He stared at me as though I was deaf. “Yeah, that’s what I just said.”

  “No, you’re referring to a satyr,” I spelled it out, “while I’m talking about satire.”

  “That’s how the Americans spell it, like when they use i instead of y for tyre.” He focused on Julio, who was sitting in front of Dante’s empty desk. “You Americans can’t spell shit. You lot don’t even know that colour has a u in it.”

  “I’m not American, you dipshit,” Julio snapped. “I told you I’m Canadian and Spanish.”

  “Americans and Canadians sound the same and Spanish people are from America.”

  Julio screwed his face up. “We don’t sound the same, and Spanish people are from Spain not America, you dumb-fuck.”

  “They speak Spanish in America, which means there are some Spanish people living there, so you’re the dumb-fuck.”

  Julio threw his hands up in the air, looking like Jasper was a lost cause.

  I covered my mouth, willing myself not to laugh. “You’re quite right that Spanish is spoken in America, Jasper, but it doesn’t mean the people who speak it are Spanish. They’re more likely to be Mexicans or Puerto Ricans, even Cubans. The Spanish colonised many countries.”

  “Yeah, like Brazil.”

  “No, that was the Portuguese. And regarding satire and satyr, they’re different words, not different forms of English.”

  “Forms of English?”

  “US and UK English.”


  “What about Kiwi and Aussie English?”

  “New Zealand and Australia use the UK form.”

  “No, we don’t. The Brits call Jandals sandals, which aren’t, cos sandals are those girly shoes, while the Aussies call Jandals thongs, which are definitely not, cos thongs are G-strings.”

  “You’re talking about dialect.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not talkin’ ’bout accents; I’m talkin’ ’bout different words.”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Julio snapped at his friend. “I wanna know what satire means, not how dumb you are.”

  Before Jasper could snap back, I answered what satire meant, “It usually pertains to an ironic story, something that often ridicules governments, corporations, or society in general, which is precisely what Animal Farm does. It’s a blatant stab at the old communist society of Russia, with the animals representing different types of people.”

  Julio stared at me blankly as though I’d spoken in an alien language, making me wonder whether I’d described it badly.

  “Yes, like Boxer the horse,” Lindy piped up from the front of the class. She tucked strands of dyed-black hair behind her ear, which was full of piercings, one of them a safety pin. “He represents the working class, who were loyal to the government. He worked hard for them, but was betrayed, the pigs discarding him when he was no longer of use.”

  I smiled and nodded, the girl a joy to teach. She soaked in everything I said, making me feel like I wasn’t talking to thin air. Except for her unconventional appearance, she didn’t belong in the juvie class. Her knowledge of literature far exceeded her years, unlike her classmates, who didn’t understand half of what I said, their glazed-over eyes or confused expressions suggesting they needed to be in a remedial class instead.

  “Yes, that’s correct. Well done,” I replied. “Have you read the book or just the notes on it?”

  Lindy sat up straighter at my praise, her usual posture hunched over. She was by far the tallest girl in class, a skyscraper amongst one and two-storey buildings. She answered my question, “I asked my old English teacher what books we would be reading this year, so I could get a head start over the holidays.”

  “You’re keen.”

  She smiled, displaying a full set of braces. “English is my favourite subject.”

  “So is kissing arse!” someone hollered.

  My gaze shot to the window at the back of the class. Dante was climbing through it, Jasper holding it open for him.

  “Dante!” I barked. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Ignoring me, he settled behind his desk, dumping his bag on top. His hair was an unruly mass of black waves, while his cheeks were flushed red, making it look like he’d run here. His clothes were also messy, his grey shirt in dire need of being ironed. Not only that, most of his buttons were undone, revealing a tanned, muscular chest.

  “Dante, answer me.”

  “I’m here for claaass, miss,” he slurred.

  My eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you drunk?”

  He smiled lazily at me. “No, just happy.”

  I walked down the aisle and leaned over Jasper’s desk, definitely smelling alcohol on him. “You are drunk.”

  His smile widened. “S-only a li’l.” His eyes dropped to my chest. He reached out to touch it, laughing as I shot backwards.

  “Who gave you alcohol?”

  “Me.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re underage.”

  “I don’t loook it.”

  “You still shouldn’t be drinking.” I indicated for him to get up. “Come on, you’re leaving.”

  He pouted at me. “Why? Don’t cha want me here?”

  “Not intoxicated.”

  “Intoxi-what?”

  “Drunk.”

  He waved a hand at me. “No worries, I’m goood with alcohol; it loves me like girls dooo.”

  “I love you, Dante!” Phelia called out.

  My gaze shot to Phelia. The afro-haired girl was sitting a few seats away from Dante, looking as though she could eat him up, then return for seconds, thirds, and fourths. “Keep quiet, Phelia, or I’ll give you detention.”

  She grimaced at me, but clamped her mouth shut.

  I refocused on Dante, who was winking at Phelia, giving the impression he wanted to make her every desire come true. Not amused, I waved a hand at him. “Up!”

  His gaze shifted to me. “What?”

  “I said up. You’re going to the principal’s office.”

  “Why? I did nuthin’ wrong.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “No, I’m not, I’ll prooove it.”

  Pushing to his feet, he squeezed past Jasper, stopping in front of me. Giving me a big smile, he placed a finger on his nose and walked past me, his gait wobbly. He spun around, almost toppling over, and walked back to me. “Seee, I’m not drunk,” he said, dropping his hand.

  “You most certainly are, and I think you’ll need someone to help you to the principal’s office.”

  “I will!” Phelia piped up.

  I glanced back at her, giving her a scowl, the girl obviously not doing it out of the goodness of her heart. Her eyes were latched onto Dante, visibly undressing the boy, suggesting she would take advantage of him in a second.

  “No, someone else will.” I turned to Jasper, about to ask him, but before I could, Dante wrapped his arms around me. Lifting me off my feet, he twirled me around, causing me to yell out in surprise. He let go, almost making me fall over.

  I steadied myself and straightened my floral dress, which had flared up. “What was that for?” I snapped, feeling flustered over what he’d done.

  “I wanted to dance with you.”

  “Well, don’t touch me without permission.”

  “Does that mean I can touch you if I ask nicely?” he replied, grinning wide, his glassy eyes sparkling mischievously.

  “You can’t touch me at all. Now, go to the principal’s office.” My gaze flicked to Jasper. “Help him. Make sure he gets there.”

  “No, I want you to help me,” Dante said, drawing my attention back to him. His eyelids were drooping, making me think of bedroom eyes.

  I shook the thought out of my head. “I can’t, I have a class to teach.”

  He wobbled again, looking like he was going to topple over. I grabbed him before he did. He placed an arm around my shoulders and a hand on his stomach, his happy expression instantly evaporating. “I think I’m gonna upchuck.”

  “Don’t you dare vomit!”

  In a panic, I quickly steered him down the aisle and towards the door. Lindy jumped up and pushed it open for us. Dante pulled away from me and stumbled into the corridor. I grabbed his arm and yanked him towards the restroom, hoping I got him there in time.

  He stopped suddenly, jolting me back. “You touched me without permission,” he said, looking down at me.

  I let go of his arm. “I was helping you, and you need to go to the restroom; I don’t want you vomiting all over the place.”

  “I’m fine.” He started walking in the opposite direction.

  “No, you’re not.” I grabbed his arm again and pulled him back the other way, now wanting to get him to the sickbay.

  He yanked his arm free again. “You loove touching me, don’t cha?”

  “Please, just go to the sickbay,” I said, beyond frustrated.

  “I loove it when women say please.”

  He pushed me into a locker, making me yell out, the suddenness of it startling me. He grabbed my face and smashed his lips against mine, cutting off my protest. I went stiff, shocked at what he was doing. He pushed his tongue inside my mouth, the smell and taste of alcohol snapping me out of my stupor. I slipped my hands between us and shoved at his chest as hard as I could, making him stumble back. He lost his footing and fell, laughing as he landed on his arse, too drunk to feel a thing. Still in shock, I reached down to help him up, yelling out as he yanked me on top of him. He wrapped his arms around me and tried to
kiss me again. I pulled free and rolled over, quickly scrambling to my feet, putting space between us.

  Now even more flustered, I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t touch me again!” I snapped, my heart thundering loudly.

  “But you liked it,” he said, grinning up at me.

  “I did not!”

  “Yes, you did, you kissed me back.” He held out him arms. “C’mere, I want more.”

  A door on my left opened. Beverly poked her head out, her thick-rimmed glasses and skirt sky-blue today. Her gaze landed on Dante, who was still holding his arms out for me.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Dante’s drunk,” I answered, hoping like hell she hadn’t heard what he’d said. “I’m trying to get him to the sickbay, but he won’t go.”

  Shaking her head, Beverly muttered, “I’ll call Paul.” She disappeared back inside her classroom, leaving me alone with Dante.

  I looked back down at him, dumbstruck by what he was doing. He was pulling off his shirt, revealing an amazing physique, making my mouth run dry. His body was toned to perfection, with well-defined abs and biceps that belonged to a man, not a boy. He dumped the shirt and went to unzip himself.

  “What are you doing?” I yelled.

  He jolted and looked up at me. “Gettin’ nay-ked,” he slurred.

  “Well, don’t.”

  “But I hafta if I wanna fuck you.” He waved a finger at me. “You should get nay-ked too.”

  “We’re not having sex,” I hissed, glancing at Beverly’s door, afraid she would walk out at the wrong time, “so shut the eff up and put your shirt back on.”

  He started laughing, “It’s not eff it’s fuck, as in fucking, humping, gettin’ it on.” He started moving his crotch up and down.

  “Stop that! And do as you’re told.”

  “I never do as I’m told,” he sniggered.

  “Just stop giving me lip and get off the floor.”

  “That’s not lip, this is lip.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip, looking sinfully erotic, even more than the other day, especially with his mussed up hair and half-undressed state. I stared, unable to look away, what he was doing arousing me.