The Weight of Water

Longer hair than me.

  So, I decide to grow it.

  And wear a flower in it,

  So I won’t look

  Like a Polish lesbian

  Any more.

  All Wrong

  Today I was told

  I have the wrong bag.

  Today I was told that

  My bag is ridiculous.

  I have looked carefully

  At the offending bag.

  It’s an ordinary satchel

  For school books,

  With sections

  For smaller items.

  Today I was told

  It is all wrong.

  I’m looking at the bag.

  I’m desperate to know

  What doesn’t work.

  But I just can’t figure it out.

  Karma

  If I were back in Gdańsk, I wouldn’t be friends

  With a new girl either.

  If I still had Magdalena

  To copy homework from

  And sit with at lunch,

  I’d ignore a new girl too,

  Like we snubbed Alexsandra who stood

  Far enough away

  To be discreet.

  Close enough to be invited.

  We just ignored her.

  We played doubles, pretended not to notice

  She was holding a racket and

  Wearing shorts with pockets.

  Why did we do that?

  But we weren’t mean to her.

  We didn’t whisper and laugh,

  Avoid touching her in case we caught something.

  We simply ignored her.

  If I Were on the Swim Team They Might See Me

  Sometimes I want to tear off my clothes

  And show them I’m the same

  Underneath –

  Maybe better.

  It doesn’t matter what I wear.

  I always look different:

  My clothes are too heavy –

  That much I can tell.

  And I have no real vision,

  I just don’t see what’s wrong.

  If I were on the swim team

  I’d wear a costume

  Like everyone else,

  There’d be more skin than fabric.

  If I were in the swim team,

  They might see me.

  Name Day

  As I rub away cold sleep,

  Mama pulls out a box

  Wrapped in starry blue paper,

  A card taped to the top –

  Kasienka on it

  In neat script.

  I sit up in the bed

  And rip open the paper.

  Mama cheers: ‘Your own iron!’

  I want to stop unwrapping.

  I want to cry.

  What do I need an iron for?

  We already have one, which leaks,

  like the tap

  in the kitchen.

  When I take the box out of its wrapping

  I see Mama’s mistake – or mine –

  It’s a hair iron,

  ‘A straightener,’ I say,

  Genuinely joyful

  And read the box aloud:

  Ceramic plates.

  Mama shrugs. I shrug.

  We don’t know if ceramic plates is good –

  It sounds good,

  Printed in bold, square letters.

  Later on, after we’ve lunched on fresh golabki,

  And I’ve straightened my hair,

  Mama, Kanoro and I march to the cinema.

  We gorge on sweet buttered popcorn and

  Orange sodas.

  We sit in the front row, me in the middle,

  Smiling all the way

  Through a sad film.

  The Hunt

  They don’t have to say

  a thing.

  They just have to stare

  At my hair,

  For me to know

  It isn’t enough

  To impress them,

  Though it’s so straight now

  You could paint with it.

  Clair confirms that

  It is still too short,

  I still look gay –

  ‘Are you gay?’

  A paper appears in my locker.

  FYI: You smell like old meat.

  I hurry to the toilets to sniff myself,

  And when I’m there,

  Clair and Marie arrive

  With a gaggle of girls.

  ‘Can you smell something?’

  Clair wonders,

  And Marie holds her nose,

  And then the other girls too.

  They are hunting,

  Circling me to prevent my escape.

  They yap and snuffle,

  Jostle to be close to Clair,

  Covering their mouths

  To stifle laughter.

  I am a fox surrounded by beagles.

  They will eat me alive and spit out the fat.

  I am their prey and there is nothing

  I can do to stop them pouncing.

  Maybe

  Leaning on the lockers,

  Chewing on a straw,

  Clair pretends she can’t

  See me because she’s

  Alone –

  Without the pack.

  I close my locker loudly,

  With a

  BANG

  And for a second she shudders

  Then turns

  And shows off her braces.

  ‘Hi, Cassie!’ she says,

  Blinking.

  That’s all.

  And I wonder if

  This means

  We’re friends.

  Art Class

  A shadow frowns over my sugar paper,

  And then a warm voice: ‘That’s good, Cassie.’

  Arlene puts her picture down next to mine.

  She’s slight, with round glasses that hide

  half her face.

  We sit together using our thumbs

  To blend chalk dust into

  Fat green marrows,

  And I think, maybe she’s the one,

  Maybe she’s the friend

  I’ve been waiting to find.

  But Clair tracks me down at the sink

  Where we go to wash the colours from

  Our hands.

  ‘Is it true what you said about Arlene?’

  I gaze at Clair,

  Too amazed to protest.

  Arlene looks sideways at me.

  She wipes her hands on her trousers

  And backs away from the

  Danger of friendship.

  ‘Arlene’s a bit sensitive,’

  Clair hisses and slinks away too.

  Nothing more.

  In the sink the colours have washed away,

  And the water runs clear.

  Not Alone

  William finds me in the dining hall.

  He moves to my table, drops his tray,

  And sits.

  He slurps and burps,

  Wipes his mouth on his sleeve

  And stares.

  Year Nine boys watch us

  From across the hall.

  They are gesturing,

  Guffawing.

  ‘My friends,’ William says,

  ‘Are idiots.’

  And then, ‘You haven’t been to practice.’

  I shake my head and sip my Coke.

  I know it’s better when I don’t talk.

  ‘So maybe I’ll see you at the pool this week.

  Maybe you’ll be there on Thursday,’ he says.

  He waits for me to speak.

  I nod and

  Dip my chips

  In ketchup.

  ‘So you’ll be there on Thursday,’

  He says.

  Walking to science he takes my hand

  and squeezes it

  As though testing a piece of fruit in a market

  Before buying.

  Then he puts his hands into his trouser po
ckets

  And says, ‘I’ll see you at the pool then.

  Thursday.’

  Thursday

  In the changing room

  I check myself in the mirror.

  I want to be sure

  I look normal.

  I do not:

  I am sharp-cornered,

  Like a piece of Swedish

  Self-assembly furniture

  Gone wrong.

  I am all lines,

  No curves.

  My fingers and toes are too long.

  My nose is pointy, my bottom flat.

  When did this happen?

  I tiptoe to the pool,

  My towel hiding my shape.

  Apart from a lone lifeguard

  Sitting in what looks like

  A baby’s high chair

  The place is deserted.

  I cannot see William anywhere.

  I drop the towel and let the water

  Take me.

  And I do lengths:

  Up and

  Down,

  Up and

  Down,

  Waiting for William

  Who never shows up and

  Trying not to think about

  Rejection.

  Grating

  I am hairy.

  I have thick

  black

  shoots

  Under my arms

  And on my legs

  And between them too.

  I am hairy.

  I did not know this until

  I noticed the women

  In the pool

  With their velvety skin.

  I am hairy.

  So when I get home

  I swipe Mama’s razor,

  Sneak down to the bathroom

  And work on the problem.

  I rest one hairy leg on the toilet seat

  And drag the blade up it.

  I scream. Loudly,

  Like someone is trying to murder me

  And Mama runs up the hall

  And knocks on the door:

  ‘What is happening, Kasienka?’

  She wants to know.

  She wants to know

  I’m not being murdered.

  Little red rivers

  Run down to my ankles

  And pool on the toilet seat.

  ‘I’m OK, Mama,’ I say.

  I have not shaved the hair

  But grated the skin.

  There is pink flesh

  In the blade,

  No hair at all.

  When I emerge from the bathroom

  I am still hairy.

  And covered in cuts.

  What William Says

  I wanted to call you

  But I didn’t have your number.

  If I had your number

  I would have called

  For sure

  You know.

  I was really sick.

  I was so queasy

  I couldn’t eat.

  I couldn’t get out of bed.

  I had a stomach bug, the doctor said.

  Anyway,

  If I’d had your number

  I would have called

  For sure

  You know.

  Sorry I didn’t show up

  At the pool.

  Man, I was so sick.

  But I couldn’t get in touch with you.

  Let’s do it another time.

  I won’t be sick.

  I’m done with sick.

  You know.

  For sure.

  Back in Gdańsk

  I dream about Tata.

  We are in a train station.

  Maybe we are in

  Gdańsk Główny.

  People are

  Milling yet purposeful,

  Like ants

  Around a sugar bowl.

  Mama and I are trailing

  Tata

  Through the crowd.

  He glances back,

  Encouraging us.

  Then disappears

  Suddenly.

  And I wake up

  Soundlessly sobbing.

  Finding Tata

  Mama will not give up.

  It is cold and drizzles most nights,

  So Mama buys a scarf and umbrella,

  But she will not give up.

  Even as a door closes

  She looks to the next one,

  Each time with a sleepier smile,

  But she will not give up.

  Her boots need to be reheeled.

  They are worn out, as I am,

  From the hard pavements.

  So Mama borrows my boots

  Though they’re a little tight,

  But she will not give up.

  I wish Mama would give up.

  And stop dragging me around after her

  Like a human dictionary.

  I Wish Tata Were Dead

  Dead fathers don’t deliberately leave home.

  They can be sainted.

  We can hold candles to their memories

  And keep their headstones clean.

  You can’t do this with a missing father.

  Questions

  Kanoro is in our room

  Holding hands with Mama.

  They look like they are praying.

  Kanoro’s face is moist

  And his eyes are cloudy,

  The stars bitten out.

  Later I want to know the story,

  The reason for the quiet closeness.

  ‘Did he explain the scar on his cheek?’

  Mama won’t tell.

  Mama says, ‘Always too many questions

  With you.’

  So I decide, right then,

  Never to ask her anything else ever again.

  And to tell her even less.

  Dare Devil

  Marie Mullen is the messenger:

  If I agree to do

  Three dares

  In three days,

  Dares Clair will devise,

  I’ll be allowed to sit with

  Everyone

  During lunch

  For a week

  As a trial.

  I think it’s a joke so I laugh.

  Marie Mullen glances about –

  She thinks I’ve seen something

  Funny.

  What kinds of things? I ask.

  Marie Mullen says: ‘I don’t know.

  Take a piss on the tennis courts.

  Ask a sixth-former on a date.

  Drink a litre of olive oil.’

  Did you do all that?

  Marie Mullen looks away.

  I’m sorry for her,

  But my answer is no –

  I’d rather eat alone all year

  Than piss on a tennis court.

  I’d rather eat alone for ever

  Than jump at Clair’s bidding.

  This is what I tell myself.

  I Try to Tell Mama

  And all she says is,

  ‘Girls are like this.’

  As though I’m like

  This too.

  The Pity Club

  Not all girls are savage.

  Some stand away

  When Clair starts.

  Some turn their backs.

  They won’t take part.

  They are The Pity Club –

  The girls who look at me

  With sorry eyes when

  I’m the only person

  Without a partner in PE.

  But they have their own group,

  And it’s established.

  And exclusive.

  And a newbie would

  Mess it all up.

  So –

  They aren’t cruel.

  They are The Pity Club,

  And I don’t know what’s worse:

  Pity or persecution.

  Smokers’ Corner

  William leads me to a corner of the playground.

  I pat down my hair and flatten out my skirt

/>   Expecting to be kissed.

  But when we get there it’s crowded

  And smoky and William doesn’t kiss me.

  He doesn’t move any closer at all.

  Marie and Clair are there.

  They run their hands through their hair,

  Reminding me I’m missing something.

  William pulls a pack of cigarettes from

  His blazer pocket and holds it out to me.

  I’ve no choice with the girls gazing and grinning.

  When I inhale it’s like breathing in dirt,

  The kind Mama shakes out of the rug.

  William smiles, takes the cigarette from me,

  Inhales, swallows, licks his lips.

  Then he blows the smoke out through his nose

  Like a shaman, and I am bewitched.

  When I looked at William

  I saw a swimmer.

  Now I see a smoker.

  And it doesn’t matter.

  He talks easily to the girls

  Because he is older and that