Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (17 page)

16

CLARA

I went to school the following day, all fired
up and positive that I could turn my bad situation into a good one. As I walked
into my classroom, my mood was further lifted at seeing Dante. He was sitting behind
his desk, not causing any trouble. Instead, he was hunched forward and writing something
in a book, his full attention on what he was doing ... unlike his friends, who
were busy being loud as usual.

I walked over to my desk, getting “Hello,
Miss!” from half the class. I replied back with a “Hi,” my gaze flicking to
Dante once more. He was still wrapped up in his book, his face a mask of
concentration. I wondered whether he was writing another urban poem, my
curiosity piqued after the last one he’d written, the boy truly talented.

I rounded my desk and grabbed the roll to
mark off attendance. When I came to Dante’s name, he didn’t respond. I called
out his name one more time, getting a “Yeah, you see me, so don’t ask again.”

I willed myself not to snap at his
rudeness. I had to remind myself that he was a troubled young man, someone who
needed my help, not more detention. Also, knowing him, he’d probably accumulated
enough blue slips to colour the sky a different shade of blue—and I wasn’t
going to add to it.

I resumed calling the roll, feeling proud that
I didn’t react. When I’d finished, I sat down on the corner of my desk,
sweeping my gaze over the class. I had some exciting news I wanted to tell them
about, the music teacher’s email coming at the perfect time. Mr. Grey was definitely
not a vindictive person, the man extremely nice.

“This morning I was asked to help with the
auditions for the school performance,” I said.

“What play will it be?” Lindy piped up,
the girl appearing eager, along with a few other students. It was the first
time I’d seen them react so enthusiastically, which was a pleasant surprise.

“Othello.”

Lindy let out a shrill squeal of delight.
“I want to be in it!”

I smiled at her. “Then try out for a part.
The auditions will be held tomorrow at lunchtime in the main hall. I, along
with Mr. Aston and Mr. Grey, will be deciding who’ll get the roles,” I said,
wishing it was Beverly and not Paul working with me. I still couldn’t stand the
man, even more so since he continued to stare at me. The only difference now,
was he gave me a grimace instead of a smile when I caught him looking.

Lindy’s forehead furrowed. “Why would you
need the music teacher? It’s a play not a musical.”

“Not in this instance. It’s been adapted
into a contemporary musical—”

“Othello can’t be a musical!” she cut me
off, her expression horrified. “That’s sacrilegious.”

“I disagree,” I replied, keen on getting
Shakespeare out to a new audience. “In fact, I think it’s a wonderful idea. Can
you sing?”

She shook her head. “No one can in here,
except for Phelia and the walking cock in the back row.”

The class burst out laughing, everyone
knowing who she was talking about. Dante’s friends let out hoots of agreement
that he was indeed a walking cock. But unlike everyone else, Dante didn’t make
a peep, just kept on scribbling in his book. Though, his posture looked more
rigid, giving me the impression Lindy’s comment had angered him.

Sniggering at what Lindy had said, Jasper
nudged him. Dante growled something too low for me to decipher, wiping away
Jasper’s smile. I frowned, now wondering what was wrong, since he would
normally gloat about something like that, not get upset.

“Dante!” I called out. “Are you all
right?”

“No, I’m a walking fuckin’ cock,” he spat,
still not looking up, his tone dripping with contempt.

I shifted my gaze back to Lindy.
“Apologise to Dante, Lindy.”

She rolled her eyes. “God, the guys in this
class get so butt-hurt.”

“You still have to apologise.”

“I’m so sorry, Dante,” she said, sounding
insincere.

I looked back at Dante, who still had his
nose stuck in the book. Wanting to get him involved in the conversation in a
positive way, I asked, “So, since you can sing, Dante, I expect to see you at
the auditions.”

His head snapped up, his eyes looking pitch
black from where I was sitting. “Like hell! I ain’t singing no gay shit,” he
spat.

I didn’t reply straight away, wondering why
he was acting so aggressively. “Othello’s not gay,” I finally said, “and don’t
use that word as an insult.”

“Whatever.” He looked back down.

“Are you writing a new poem?” I asked.
“Maybe you could read it out for the class. I was impressed with the one you
wrote for Mr. Grey.”

“No.”

I sighed, knowing I couldn’t make him. Not
only that, I had other students who needed my attention, which I couldn’t give
if I was focusing on him.

Forcing myself to look away from Dante, I
instructed the class to write down everything they knew about
Othello
. After
a few minutes, I made my way between the desks, stopping next to Phelia. Rather
than doing her work, the girl was telling her friend about dumping Happy Meal’s
‘stalker arse’, her words peppered with expletives.

I tapped her desk to get her attention. “More
writing and less talking.”

She pulled a face and picked up her pen. I
continued down the aisle, glancing at the students’ books to make sure they
were doing what I’d asked. As I neared the back of the room, I spotted Jasper
playing a game under his desk instead of writing. I went to tell him off, but
instead clamped my mouth shut, seeing an opportunity to peek at what Dante was
writing.

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

R
ape

I
ncest

P
ain

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 M
ā
ori
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.