Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)

by Marita A. Hansen

  Without the boys noticing, I sidled up behind them and peered between their shoulders, looking down at Dante’s book. He was darkening the words in the first line of a poem, like he’d done to a few letters further down the page. I started reading what he’d written...

  MY LOOKS

  Are all they saw

  My

  Eyes

  Lips

  Jaw

  Muscles

  My

  Sex

  Appeal

  I’m something they want

  To

  Touch

  Fuck

  Feel

  A mindless ho

  Without a future

  Only a past

  Of

  Rape

  Incest

  Pain

  Buried Deep

  Inside of me

  Fuckin’

  With my

  Brain

  “Dante,” I gasped, horrified over what he’d written, the references to rape and incest hitting me the hardest. Although I knew people wrote about things that didn’t relate to them, his words came across as distinctly personal.

  He slammed the book shut and snapped his head around to me. “What the fuck are you doin’?” he yelled, looking furious.

  I pointed at his book. “What you wrote in there—”

  “Is none of your fuckin’ business!”

  I held out a hand. “Hey, calm down, there’s no need to overreact.”

  “Like hell there isn’t!” He shoved the book into his bag.

  “We still need to talk about what you wrote.”

  “No! You shouldn’t have read it.”

  “You’re right, but I can’t ignore what I saw. After class, we need to discuss it.”

  “That’s not happening.” He rose to his feet and pulled his bag over his shoulder.

  I held out my hand again. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry I upset you. If you stay, I’ll drop it,” for now. I quickly headed back to my desk, hoping that would appease him.

  He remained where he was, looking unsure of what to do. His eyes were dark pools of emotion, giving me the impression he was holding back tears. It made my heart ache for him.

  I moved behind my desk. “Again, I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling guilty for upsetting him. “Please, just sit back down.”

  Still appearing uncertain, he lowered himself into his chair, shifting his bag in front of him, clutching it as though it was a shield.

  Wanting to give him space, I returned to the lesson at hand. “You can all stop writing now,” I said to the rest of the class, realising a second later they’d already stopped. They were looking between me and Dante, obviously more interested in our argument than their work.

  Needing to draw their attention away from Dante, I pointed at Lindy. “Tell me what you wrote about Othello.”

  Lindy sat up straighter, looking pleased I’d called upon her. She started talking about the play, the girl knowing a lot about Othello. I let her continue for a while, glancing at Dante to make sure he was all right. He was still clutching his bag in front of him, but was looking out the window, ignoring Jasper, who was trying to talk to him, his friend appearing concerned.

  I returned my gaze to Lindy. “You have a wonderful knowledge of the play, Lindy,” I said. “Hopefully you’ll get a part.”

  She grimaced. “But I can’t sing.”

  “Not all the parts require singing. Dancing and acting are also involved.”

  “Dancing?” she yelled, looking horrified.

  “What’s so wrong about dancing?”

  “Everything,” she spat. “I don’t do ballet, I’m an actor.”

  “There won’t be any ballet in it; it’ll be hip hop and breakdancing.”

  “That’s even worse! Hip hop’s a bunch of jerky, spazzo movements, while breakdancing’s spinning on the floor, looking like a drongo.”

  “What would you know?” Dante spat out, pulling my attention back to him. He was glaring across the room at Lindy, his eyes filled with venom. “Hip hop and breakdancing take a lot of skill to do. They’re also real.”

  “Real?” Lindy asked.

  “They’re not pretentious like ballet. They’re filled with passion and meaning.”

  Lindy scoffed. “What a load of shit.”

  Dante sneered at her. “The only load of shit here is in your granny knickers, you emo twat.”

  “Dante!” I snapped. “Don’t make this personal.”

  His dark eyes shot to me. “That’s the thing, it is personal. If you knew anything ’bout those dance forms, you’d know that.”

  “Then, tell me about them,” I said, the topic obviously close to his heart.

  “Hip hop and breakdancing are connected to the streets, to life, not to a fantasy or some culture we have no connection to.”

  “I’m part English and so are a lot of other Kiwis, so we do have a connection to ballet.”

  His top lip curled up in contempt. “Ballet’s not English; it originated in Italy, then developed in Russia and France.”

  I raised my eyebrows, Dante totally schooling me. But then again, I knew nothing about the history of dance and had just assumed, which I shouldn’t have, since Russia did have some great ballet dancers.

  He continued, “We should celebrate our culture, not someone else’s, which is what ballet does.”

  “But hip hop and breakdancing originated from America,” I countered, at least sure of that.

  “I know. They started up in the South Bronx. Breakdancing wuz used as a means to battle out territory instead of using violence, while hip hop broke down racial barriers, spreading like crazy cos it wuz so cool and fresh. Over the years they both changed, hip hop the most, especially in South Auckland. Here we have a strong Māori and Poly influence. Cos of that, the way we do hip hop is different from our American bros. We’ve adapted it to our culture, chopping and changing, adding and subtracting, making it as foreign to the Yanks as ballet is to us. Now, if ballet transformed in the same way, then maybe it wouldn’t be so boring. Dance forms shouldn’t repeat history, they should reflect the present, or they’ll become repetitive, an antiquated piece of crap that should be buried with the bones of its creator.”

  I blinked at him, both astounded and impressed by his words. “There are modern forms of ballet.”

  “Only cos they stole from modern dance.”

  “Or maybe modern dance stole from them.”

  “It’s all a matter of opinion.”

  “True, and by the way, the words you’re using are impressive.”

  He sneered. “Only cos you thought I wuz a dumb cunt.”

  “Don’t get all defensive. It was a compliment, not an insult.”

  He didn’t reply, his annoyed expression not diminishing.

  I cleared my throat. “So, you dance?” I asked, remembering what the principal had said about getting Dante onto a topic he loved.

  He flicked his gaze around the class, mumbling, “Yeah,” his expression turning embarrassed.

  “He doesn’t just dance,” Jasper piped up. “He wipes the floor with everyone’s arses. No one can beat him in a dance off.” A number of the other students murmured in agreement.

  Dante sat up straighter, shedding his embarrassment.

  “Where did you learn to dance, Dante?” I asked, knowing I shouldn’t be concentrating on him. I just couldn’t make myself stop.

  “On the streets, in the clubs—”

  “You’re too young to go to nightclubs.”

  “I don’t look it,” he replied, making me feel vindicated for thinking he could get past bouncers. “I also danced at the Dali Club when I wuz younger.”

  “Why would you go to the Delhi Club?”

  “To do cultural shit.”

  “You don’t look Indian.”

  “That’s cos I’m not,” he replied, looking at me as though I was stupid.

  “Then, why would you go to one of their clubs?”

  “I di
dn’t say Delhi, I said Dali, as in Dalmatians from the Croatian coast.”

  “Oh, I thought you were Italian or Brazilian.”

  “I already said I wuzn’t Italian when I mentioned ballet. I’m half Croatian, over a third Māori, and the rest Romanian. Though, I do get mistaken for Italian loads of times. I punched Happy Meal for calling me a wog once. Fuckin’ arsehole told me to go back home, so I sent him home with a busted up nose. That’s why it’s squished.” Looking pleased with himself, he pumped fists with Jasper, his bad mood clearing a little.

  I shook my head. “Racism is wrong, but I don’t advocate violence either.”

  “Nah, Miss, you hafta stand up for yourself or cunts like Happy Meal will break your spirit. It’s what’ll get you through the hard knocks. Without it, your mind will crumble and you’ll end up in some psyche ward, gettin’ your shoelaces and belt confiscated, cos the nurses are scared you might hang yourself with ’em.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, wondering whether he’d been institutionalised before.

  He turned his head towards the window, mumbling, “Just do.”

  Afraid I’d overstepped the mark again, I returned the topic to the musical. “So ... since you supposedly can sing and dance, I expect to see you at the auditions.”

  His gaze returned to me. “There’s no supposedly ’bout it, I can.”

  “Then, prove it.”

  He pushed to his feet, looking like he was going to perform for me on the spot.

  “No, I meant at the audition,” I corrected him.

  “I have business then, so I can’t come.”

  “What sort of business?”

  He sneered at me. “Nuthin’ that concerns you.”

  “Then, don’t come and I’ll think you can’t sing.”

  “But everyone knows I can.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Which is why I’ll sing now.”

  I placed my hands over my ears. “You either sing at the auditions or not at all.”

  “Okay!” he snapped, loud enough for me to hear. “I’ll do it!”

  I uncovered my ears, happy that I’d finally made a breakthrough.

  ***

  I entered the principal’s office, getting a bright smile from the big man. His teeth were almost blinding against his iced-chocolate complexion, perfect and straight, nothing on the man out of place. As usual, he looked dapper. This time he was dressed in black suit pants and a dark purple dress-shirt. His tie was also black with a couple shades of purple running through it, while his suit jacket rested on the back of his chair instead of across his wide shoulders. He adjusted his silver, anchor-shaped cufflinks and sat down behind his desk, indicating for me to take a seat too. I was here to tell him about Dante’s poem after the boy took off without giving me a chance to bring it up again.

  I lowered myself into the chair as Principal Sao’s phone rang. He looked like he was going to ignore it, but instead muttered an apology and picked it up. As he talked on the phone, I glanced around his office, finding it at odds with his larger than life personality and appearance. It was mundane-looking, more functional than attractive. If anything, it reminded me of the prison warden’s office in a television drama I watched, which was an apt analogy, considering how the students acted like they were in jail.

  Largely, the room was filled with dull, muted colours, only an artwork saving it from being completely gloomy. The framed print depicted two people wading into water, with just enough colour to enliven the mostly black and white image. White horizontal lines ran through the waterscape, reminding me of when the printer ran out of ink, just more aesthetically pleasing. In comparison, the people were considerably darker than their surroundings, not that dissimilar to a Rorschach test. It was a fascinating and unusual depiction, making me wonder who the artist was.

  Principal Sao hung up the phone, pulling my attention back to him. “You wanted to talk to me about Dante?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Today I read one of his poems that I found rather disturbing.”

  “Did you bring it with you?”

  I shook my head, not needing to, the poem imprinted upon my brain. “I wasn’t meant to read it. Dante was writing in class, not paying attention to the lesson, so I looked over his shoulder to see what he was doing. I must say, I was rather shocked.”

  Principal Sao clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “What was it about?” he asked, his expression curious.

  “How people are only concerned with his looks and that they just want him for sex.” I cleared my throat, feeling uncomfortable saying it out loud. It felt obscene to think that anyone would treat a fifteen-year-old in that way. But what was even more obscene, was that I had looked at him in a sexual manner. I’d even thought of him while having sex, the ‘they’ in his poem referring to me just as much as anyone else. Though, in my defence, I hadn’t acted upon my attraction. Plus, he was the one who’d taunted me in the boys’ restroom, not the other way round.

  I continued, “He called himself a whore and that he doesn’t have a future, only a past, one with rape and incest in it.”

  Principal Sao’s face turned sad. “He was referring to his brother.”

  I shook my head. “No, the poem was clearly about him. He was using first person throughout it. He also got really defensive after he caught me reading it. He looked close to tears.”

  Principal Sao leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at me. There was no malice in them. It looked more like he was contemplating what I’d said. “I hope that’s not true, but I wouldn’t discount it, especially considering his family history.” His frown lines deepened. “Before I divulge more about Dante’s home life, I need your word that you won’t repeat what I say to anyone.”

  I nodded. “Of course you have my word.”

  He glanced at the picture I liked. “I know the Rata family quite well, in particular Dante’s brother Ash.” He pointed at the picture. “He painted that image.”

  I focused on it, rather surprised. “I thought it was a print.”

  “Only because Ash’s work is incredibly precise. He’s a talented boy—like his brother.” He exhaled softly, an almost silent lament. “It depicts how Ash tried to commit suicide with—”

  My head snapped around to him. “Dante?”

  He shook his head. “No, a friend of Ash’s.”

  I frowned, thinking it was a strange gift to give someone. “If it’s not Dante, why tell me about it?”

  His expression turned pained. “Dante’s brother tried to kill himself because he was raped by his stepfather.”

  “Oh...” I said, not having expected to hear that.

  “And Dante walked in on it.”

  I stiffened.

  “Dante tried to defend his brother, which ended in his stepfather savagely attacking him and killing his mother.” A veil of sadness fell over his features. “I tend to tell his teachers about his background, minus why he was beaten, but I thought you needed to know due to his poem.”

  I shifted in my seat. “So, you think if his stepfather raped his brother then he could’ve raped Dante too?”

  “Although there was nothing in the trial that suggested it, I wouldn’t discount the possibility.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a notebook. “I’ll let his counsellor know what you said.” He picked up a pen and jotted something down. “I just hope he was referring to his brother and not himself. That poor boy has gone through enough without something like that happening to him.”

  I nodded, hoping so too.

  His phone rang again. He excused himself and answered it, not appearing happy with what he was hearing. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he said into the receiver. He put it down and pushed out of his chair. “Looks like I have to cut things short. Some juniors are fighting out front.”

  I followed him out of his office, watching him take off at a run. I turned in the opposite direction and headed for the staffroom, finding Beverly sitting
in her usual spot. But instead of eating, she was staring down at her lunchbox, looking lost in thought. She glanced up at me as I took the seat across from her.

  “Everything all right?” I asked, pulling my lunch out of my satchel.

  She shook her head. “Was Dante Rata acting strange in your class today?”

  I nodded. “I just spoke to the principal about a disturbing poem he wrote.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I can’t say, sorry.”

  “Did it have anything to do with sex?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  She pushed out of her chair and walked around to sit next to me. “After class he came up to me, asking my age. I told him it was none of his business.” She lowered her voice. “Then he asked if I’d ever thought about having sex with him.”

  “What?”

  She held out a hand, indicating for me to lower my voice. “I don’t think he was asking for sex, just wanted an answer. I told him no. He asked why and I said because he’s a kid.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He muttered that I was in the minority and left. Do you think I should report this to the principal?”

  I nodded, feeling even more worried about Dante.

  A woman started laughing loudly, snapping Beverly’s attention away from me. A sneer jerked up her top lip, her expression filling out with hatred. I turned to look at who she was venomously glaring at. My eyebrows rose, surprised to see Helen standing in front of Paul, touching his arm affectionately, especially after what she’d said about him in the pub’s restroom.

  “I wish that bitch would leave him the hell alone,” Beverly muttered angrily. “One second she hates him, the next second she wants him back.”

  I refocused on Beverly. “They were together?”

  “Unfortunately. She’s his ex-wife, and it looks like she’s sticking her talons into him again, and the idiot’s letting her.” Beverly pushed out of her seat and stormed out of the staffroom, leaving her lunch behind.

  I looked over at Paul, his gaze following Beverly. Helen grabbed his face and yanked it towards her. Paul pulled free and ran after Beverly. I turned my attention to Helen, who was glaring at the doorway. Her focus shifted to me, giving me the impression she was thinking about coming over. I grabbed my satchel and pushed to my feet, not wanting to get mixed up with anyone else’s drama, having enough of my own to contend with.