Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1)
Read Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) Online
Authors: Marita A. Hansen
BROKEN ENGLISH
By Marita A.
Hansen
Copyright
Broken
English
Kindle
Edition
Copyright
2016 © Marita A. Hansen
Editor:
John Hudspith
Cover
design © Marita A. Hansen
Cover
Photography by Art-Of-Photo and Sisoje
and sourced from
www.istockphoto.com
All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means whatsoever without the written
permission of the author, nor circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author. For subsidiary rights inquiries email: [email protected]
All characters, names,
places, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
UK English is used due to the New
Zealand setting.
All other variations are also due to
where the book is set, as well as the characters’ cultural and socio-economic
backgrounds. This is why some characters use different speech patterns from
others.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to everyone who has helped me with getting this book
published, especially my long suffering family for having to put up with all
the time I spend on trying to make my writing career a success.
In addition, I would like to say a special thanks to:
John
Hudspith
– He’s edited many of my books, and is absolutely
great to work with. I always feel that
I’m putting my best work forward after
he’s been through the manuscript.
Narise Hansen,
Noara
Rahman,
and
Menna Mohamed
– my beta readers, who led me
to throw away the first draft and start again. Thanks, girls. The story is so
much better because of your critique. Hope you like the new version.
This book is set
in the year 2002.
Temptation
is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.
Thomas Boston
1
CLARA
I turned into Wera High and parked in the
teachers’ car park, so excited I was literally shaking in my seat. It was my
first day as a permanent English teacher, something I’d been dreaming of since
I was a kid. Prior to today, I’d only worked as a substitute, filling in when
other teachers were away, which wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to have
my own class, one where I could foster a connection with the kids, and help
them fall in love with literature like I had. Then a colleague had mentioned
that Wera High was looking for an English teacher. I’d jumped at the
opportunity, even more eager since the high school was in South Auckland, a lower
socio-economic area in New Zealand, where I felt I could really make a
difference.
I flipped the vanity mirror down and checked
my appearance, making sure my lipstick hadn’t bled out like a vampire’s victim.
I smiled at the metaphor. I was a huge
Buffy
fan. I not only watched the
programme, but read all the books. My husband thought it was hilarious that a
Lit Major loved ‘teenage, trash fantasy’, his description, not mine. He’d told
me that I should be reading the likes of
The Great Gatsby
,
Nineteen Eighty-Four
,
and
To Kill a Mockingbird
, all books he knew nothing about, since his
idea of good literature was
Sports Illustrated
.
My reflection in the vanity mirror wiped
the smile off my face. My rose-coloured lippie had indeed attempted to escape my
lips, making a beeline for my chin. I licked a finger and ran it under my mouth.
One would have thought that by the year 2002 they’d have invented a lipstick
that would stay put, but
no
, it was a constant battle keeping it
confined to one area. Or maybe I was just useless at putting it on. Regardless,
I applied a fresh layer and smacked my lips together, fixing the problem—for
the time being. Happy with the result, I slipped my lipstick away in my tan-coloured
satchel and smoothed down my long blonde hair, which I’d freshly dyed to get
rid of my naturally mousy-brown colour.
Eager to get the day started, I got out of
my yellow Volkswagen, taking in the vibrant surroundings. Wera High was so much
livelier than the middle-class and posh schools I’d substituted at in London. The
South Auckland kids were louder, bigger, scruffier, and more disorderly. They
were streaming onto school grounds, cutting across the road, car park, and grass,
one even kicking down a ‘No Walking On Grass’ sign as he headed for a
two-storey, cream-coloured building with a green roof.
I slung my satchel over my head, resting
the strap across my soft pink blouse and the leather bag on the hip of my
darker pink skirt. I went to head for the same building, which held the
principal’s office and the staffroom, but quickly flattened my back against my car
as three boys bowled past me, almost taking me out. They sprinted across the
grass, with a monster of a boy leading the way, his wide shoulders deserving
their own postcode.
I shook my head and turned to go, spinning
around as a yell rented the air. On the far side of the lawn, the three boys
were pushing and shoving another boy, as well as throwing punches at him. Their
victim looked like he was struggling to fend them off, his arms and feet moving
fast in self-defence. Then the big boy hit him from behind, knocking him to the
ground.
I ran for the fight, yelling at them to
stop. My right heel clipped a raised patch of grass, almost sending me falling
onto my face. I briefly flailed, but righted my footing in time and continued
on, closing in on the fight. Two of the attacking party took off as I neared
them, while the bigger one remained. He started kicking the fallen boy, one
boot connecting with his crotch. The boy cried out and curled up into a foetal
position, clutching himself below.
I shot in front of the thug as he raised
his boot again. “Stop!” I shouted, holding out my hands.
He lowered his foot, his expression an
angry mask of brutality. He had a crooked nose, square jaw, and a prominent brow,
his number one haircut finishing off his tough-as-nails look. He was also very
tall, well over six-foot, dwarfing my five-foot-three frame. I swallowed and took
a step back, realising the danger I’d unwittingly put myself in. I’d read about
teachers getting hurt in South Auckland schools. Only the other day, one was knocked
unconscious at a school that was barely five minutes from Wera High, and here I
was on my first day, jumping into a situation where I couldn’t possibly defend
myself.
“Go to the principal’s office,” I said,
trying to sound assertive, although I felt anything but, especially with this
colossus sneering down at me.
His angry gaze shifted to the fallen boy.
“You’re so
pathetic
you need chicks to save you now. Just stay away from
mine—”
“I don’t want your sloppy seconds!” the
boy yelled on the ground, the kid obviously having a death wish.
Fury flashed across the other one’s face.
The headline
FEMALE
TEACHER HOSPITALISED DEFENDING STUDENT
jumped into my mind. Desperate
to diffuse the situation, I whipped out my mobile phone. “I’ll call the cops if
you don’t leave now.”
The thug tensed. “You should stay outta other
people’s business, lady.”
“It
is
my business when you fight
on school grounds,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “What is your name?”
“None of your biz, bitch.” A second later
he was gone, disappearing inside the school building. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t
realised I was holding in, relieved that I hadn’t gotten killed before the bell
had even rung. Behind me the injured boy moaned, pulling my attention back to
him. He was still curled up and clutching his crotch, using curse words that
would make a sailor blush.
I squatted down and placed a hand on his
arm. “Are you all right?”
He mumbled something I couldn’t discern. He
had his face turned towards the ground, his black crop of hair speckled with
flecks of grass, mud, and a small twig.
I pulled out the twig. “Do you need help
to get up?”
“I said, fuck off!”
I whipped my hand back, shocked by his vicious
response. “There’s no need to swear at me, I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” He turned around
and sat up, his angry gaze going to mine.
I froze, taken aback by his appearance. He
was...
Beautiful.
Dark eyes stared back at me, framed by even
darker lashes, which matched his wavy black hair. He looked Italian or possibly
Brazilian, his olive-skin and sculpted face reminding me of a famous male model
I couldn’t remember the name of.
The boy’s glare dropped. For a moment he appeared
as struck as I was, then he brought a hand to his brow, breaking the
connection. He wiped some blood off it, drawing my attention to a small gash
above his left eye. I quickly pulled open my satchel and searched for a tissue
amongst the mass of receipts, finding an unopened packet. I removed a tissue
and applied it to his wound.
The boy grabbed my wrist, freezing me in
place. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, taking the tissue out of my hand. Letting go
of my wrist, he placed the tissue to his brow and pushed to his feet, grimacing
as he straightened. His other hand went to his crotch, reminding me he’d been
kicked there.
I rose up too, feeling small in comparison.
Even though he wasn’t as big as the monster that had attacked him, he was still
close to six foot. His arms were also defined, the material of his grey short-sleeved,
button-down shirt straining against his biceps.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll take you to the
sickbay,” I said, feeling ashamed for ogling a schoolboy. Though, he looked
like a senior, which meant he was either seventeen or eighteen, which wasn’t
that much younger than my twenty-four years.
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” He
swiped up his bag, which was covered in writing reminiscent of graffiti. There
was also a gang patch sewn into the black canvas. My husband had been concerned
when I’d told him the position was in South Auckland. After watching the film
Once
Were Warriors
, he seemed to think he was an expert on the area, calling it
gangland territory. I’d teased him mercilessly over it, since he’d never even
been to Auckland, let alone New Zealand. He was from London. I’d met him while
on my OE—an overseas working holiday. We’d been together for a good four years,
married for one of those. He was due to follow me in a few weeks, his
documentation taking longer than we’d anticipated.
Brushing himself off, the wavy-haired boy headed
for the main building, discarding me like the tissue I’d given him. I ran after
him, holding down my knee-length skirt so it didn’t fly up.
“I think I should take you to the
sickbay,” I said, speaking to his back.
He kept on walking. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not; you should get a bandage
for that cut and check your—”
He came to a sudden stop, almost causing
me to crash into him. I took a step back as he turned to face me, his glare
making me take another one. “You better not say balls,” he said.
I snorted out a nervous laugh and waved a
hand at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was referring to your other injuries.”
“The only thing injured is my pride, so
just leave me the hell alone. I don’t need chicks fighting my battles for me,”
he said, his accent sounding Maori, not Italian or Brazilian—like he looked.
He turned back around and awkwardly ascended
the stairs to the main building, the kick below obviously still hurting, which
was no doubt why he was being so grumpy with me. I followed him into the
corridor, where other students were milling about, talking, stuffing their
belongings into lockers, and generally being noisy, the bustle reminding me of
the London Underground, just more suffocating. The smell of teenage sweat,
cologne, perfume, and even mud permeated the air, along with the heat their
bodies were generating, making the corridor a rather unpleasant place to be on
a hot summer’s day.
I pushed past some students, not willing
to let the boy get away from me. My husband described me as a pit bull when I
was determined to do something, biting in and not letting go until I got my
way. “You could at least tell me your attacker’s name,” I said, doing my best
to keep up with him, the crush of students impeding me. “I have to report this.”
He shook his head. “Not happening.”
“It
is
, so I
need
his name.”
He stopped in the middle of the corridor
and turned to face me, giving me another annoyed look. “Cut me some slack,
lady. I don’t wanna start off the year in the principal’s office, defending
myself, when this isn’t even my fault.”
“You won’t need to, you’re the victim.”
He grimaced. “
Don’t
call me a
victim, I don’t appreciate it.” He turned to go.
I shot in front of him. “I still need to
know the boy’s name.”
“You don’t give up, do ya?”
I shook my head, just as determined to get
it as before, if not more.
He exhaled loudly. “It’s Ronald McDonald,
but if I get called into the principal’s office I’ll deny it. I’m not a nark.”
I scowled at him. “Do I look like an idiot
to you?”
His annoyed expression dropped, the first
sign of a smile pulling at his lips. “Do ya really want me to answer that?”
My scowl grew. “Don’t be cheeky. And you
can’t seriously expect me to believe that boy’s name is
Ronald McDonald
.”
He blinked, then let out a burst of
laugher. “That
is
his name. His father’s a big fat cunt who loves
McDonald’s. Though, we usually call the prick Ron, Ronnie, or Happy Meal. We
also call him Burger King or Wendy’s when we really wanna piss him off.”
“Are you playing with me?” I asked, not
sure whether to believe him or not. Although he sounded genuine, I couldn’t fathom
someone naming their own child after a clown.
He shook his head, his smile drawing my
attention to his mouth. He had the most perfectly shaped lips, with a full
bottom lip just made for nibbling on. His smile grew into a cocky smirk, alerting
me to the fact I was staring.
I ripped my eyes away from his mouth. “What
about you, then?” I asked, again feeling embarrassed.
“If you wanna know more ’bout me, I’ll meet
up with you after school,” he said, appearing highly amused. “My number is—”
“I don’t want your number, just your name?”
“It’s Dante Rata.” He blew me a kiss, then
spun around and disappeared into the mass of students.