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,
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
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