Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (20 page)

But there wasn’t. All the girls going for
Desdemona’s role were nowhere near as good as Phelia. We whispered amongst
ourselves, both Harry and I eventually forcing Paul to accept her.

Then the boys started taking to the stage,
with Dante’s friend Jasper up first. His voice was good, but not good enough to
take the lead role of Othello, although Paul kept saying it was, probably
because he was dark like Othello. But again, both Harry and I outvoted him.

As we neared the end of the boys’
auditions, I started to wonder whether Dante was going to perform. I glanced
behind me as I called out the last number, relieved when he pushed to his feet.
He sauntered past me and the other teachers, his swagger almost comical. It
looked as though he was accentuating the walk to grab further attention ... and
it was working. His friends were laughing, while the girls were wolf-whistling
and catcalling.

Instead of climbing the stairs, he grabbed
onto the edge of the stage and hoisted himself up, finally stopping his silly
swagger. Grinning wide, he rose to his feet and held up his number, which he’d
changed from 19 to 69. The students started laughing, his mates being twice as
loud as everyone else.

Paul boomed, “Silence!”

Except for a few sniggers, the students
quietened down.

“Dante!” Paul barked. “Start singing
before I lose my patience with ye.”

Dante gave him a contemptuous look, then dropped
his number. The paper drifted down, gently floating past the stage, eventually
settling on the wooden floorboards below. The plastic bag scene from
American
Beauty
instantly popped into my head. I frowned, wondering why I’d thought
of it. It was just a piece of paper, not a plastic bag dancing in the wind. Or
maybe the correlation had something to do with the film’s theme. But, I wasn’t
anything like Kevin Spacey’s character. I was young and without children, while
he was a father in the throes of a midlife crisis. Though, Dante was
provocative like Mena’s character, a beautiful temptation. I shook the thoughts
out of my head, almost laughing at myself for even thinking about it, because I
wasn’t infatuated with Dante.

Not at all.

My gaze rose to him. He cut a striking
figure up on the stage as he declared what song he was singing. I didn’t hear
what it was; more caught up with the way his lips moved as he spoke, and how he
ran his palms down his pant legs, possibly wiping sweat off them. Despite his arrogant
facade, I could tell he was nervous. It was endearing, the boy not as self-assured
as he portrayed himself to be.

He started singing
Bent
by Matchbox
Twenty, taking me completely by surprise. I’d expected him to choose a rap or
R&B song, not a love ballad about a broken person. But what surprised me
even more was his voice. It was stunning, full and rich, his notes perfectly on
pitch, sending chills up my arms. I couldn’t even make out his accent, every
word sung to perfection. Not only that, his interpretation of the song was nothing
like the original. It came across as more personal, sounding as though he
believed every word he was singing: that he was broken, or
bent
like the
title, unable to be fixed. I continued to listen to his amazing performance,
totally enthralled, captivated by both the emotion in his words and on his
beautiful face.

After he’d sung the last note, applause
broke out. Even Paul rose to his feet, clapping along with everyone else. Dante
frowned, that hurt and pleading look in his eyes still there, giving me the feeling
he didn’t like the applause, which I didn’t expect, considering the way he was
acting before he’d sung. Then the hurt expression disappeared, defaulting to
his usual arrogant facade. Smiling at the audience, he bowed low, exaggerating
the sweep of his arm.

A loud voice from the back of the hall cut
through the applause: “Appropriate song for you, Rata, since you
are
bent!”

I turned around, spotting a group of older
boys leaning against the rear wall, the infamous Ronald McDonald amongst them. The
monstrous boy was in the middle of his pack, his clownish smile reminiscent of
his namesake. His friends sniggered on either side of him, adding their own juvenile
remarks about Dante being gay.

A holler ripped through the hall, snapping
my attention back to the stage. Leaping off it, Dante hit the ground running, sprinting
for Ronald. Dante’s friends scrambled out of their seats, probably to defend
Dante, who was already launching himself at his antagonist. Ronald threw a punch
back, both him and Dante full-out fighting, the sudden change in events taking
me completely by surprise. The rest of the boys started fighting too. Jasper
roughly tackled one of Ronald’s friends to the floor, causing the other boy to yell
out in pain.

Britain leapt to their feet, rushing
forward to break up the fight, the two men hollering at the boys to stop. Paul shoved
a few aside and grabbed Dante, yanking him away from Ronald, whose face was
covered in blood, Dante having gotten the upper hand.

Dante started spewing vile swearwords at Paul,
the boy going absolutely berserk, his actions and expression almost crazy... No,
they weren’t
almost
, they
were
crazy. Paul yelled at Dante to
stop. Like a switch had been flicked off, Dante went still, his eyes confused,
his breathing laboured. Then he looked up at Paul, who was still holding him.
Fear passed over his features. He started struggling again, yelling, “Don’t
touch me!”

Harry went to them. “Let him go, Paul.”

“No, he could attack again,” Paul replied.

“Let him go!” Harry barked.

Surprise coloured Paul’s pale complexion,
Harry’s outburst obviously not the norm. He let go of Dante and stepped back,
holding his hands up. Harry directed Dante to a seat, ordering him to sit down.
I watched as the man knelt down in front of Dante, talking to him in soft
tones, while Paul went off to deal with the others. The fight was now broken
up. Most of the boys, Ronald included, had taken off out of the hall, not wanting
to wait around for punishment. Only a few hung back, Jasper one of them.

Paul grabbed Jasper’s arm, “Ye’re going to
the principal’s office.”

Jerking free, Jasper sidestepped him and
went to Dante. “Is he okay?” he asked Harry.

“I’m not sure.” Harry glanced up at Paul,
who was snapping at Jasper to get moving. “Calm down, Paul, I need his help to
take Dante to the sickbay.”

Jasper hooked an arm around Dante’s waist,
lifting him to his feet, Dante’s expression not all there. Harry went to
Dante’s other side, the three of them disappearing out the door, with Phelia tagging
along.

Paul headed for me, his narrowed green
eyes betraying his anger. “Ye cannae blame me for restraining that nutjob this
time. Ye saw what he was doing to that other kid. He needs to be institutionalised.
He’s completely bonkers. Och, I’ve had to break up more than one fight caused
by that lunatic. But this time I’m going to make sure the principal does
something aboot it. He’s far too soft on that wee hooligan.”

“For good reason,” I said.

“And what is that?”

“He’s had a very bad upbringing. His
stepfather murdered his mother and beat him so badly he had to be hospitalised.”

Paul frowned. “Aye, I did hear aboot that.
Though, other kids have had it hard too, yet they don’t go berserk like he just
did.”

“I think you’re grossly downplaying what
he’s been through.”

“Maybe, but I still don’t like that kid. He’s
going to seriously injure someone one of these days, or worse, kill them. He’s
a ticking time-bomb.”

“Then, we should talk to his father, because
obviously his counselling isn’t working.”

“
You
can talk to him. I want
nothing
to do with that animal.” He headed out
of the hall, his use of the word
animal
making me wonder whether it was
Dante’s father who’d given him the black-eye.

***

About an hour after the fight, I was
called out of class to go to the principal’s office. As I entered it, I took a
quick step back, the man standing in front of Principal Sao’s desk giving me
one hell of a fright. He had a dark green, almost black tattoo covering his
face, the curvilinear design a
moko
—a Maori tribal tattoo. He was dressed
in black leathers, from his pants to his jacket, the latter having a gang
insignia on the back. His dark eyes locked onto me, the animosity within them
causing me to shiver. I forced myself to move forward, almost ashamed for
stepping back.

His gaze drifted down my body, his slow
perusal intrusive. “If I had a teacher like you, I wouldn’t be causing trouble.”
He glanced down at Dante, who was sitting in front of the principal’s desk, picking
at a string on his shirt. “Eh, son, you shouldn’t cause the pretty lady
trouble. I had ugly bitches teaching me. You should be bloody grateful, you soddin’
brat.”

Dante mumbled something.

“Speak up, boy, can’t hear ya.”

“I’m sorry, I lost it.”

“And why’s that?”

Dante glanced at the boy he’d attacked.
Ronald was sitting next to a middle-aged woman, who could only be his mother, her
features as harsh as her son’s. Mrs. McDonald’s terrified gaze was locked onto
Dante’s father, as though he was going to rip her clothes off, raping her right
in front of everyone, her expression almost laughable. Yes, the man was
undeniably dangerous, but he was here for his son, not some old tart with too
much makeup on. Furthermore, he was a striking man, and although Dante didn’t
resemble him, apart from the colour of his eyes, he’d obviously gotten his raw
sex appeal from his father.

Dante jerked his thumb at the boy he’d
attacked. “He called me bent.”

“Bent?”

“Gay.”

“So what?” his father replied.

Dante grimaced. “He deserved to be punched
for it—
multiple
times.”

“No, he deserved to be ignored, cos, son,
you’re anything but gay. Christ, the amount of girls’ knickers I’ve had to
clean outta your room would dress a squadron of women, and he pro’bly only
insulted you cos he’s jealous of all the pussy you get.”

Dante’s face lit up, his chest puffing out
with pride. “Yeah! Cos he’s a fuckin’ loser.”

“Dante!” Principal Sao said. “I don’t tolerate
that kind of language.”

Mr. Rata’s head snapped around to him.
“You didn’t criticise me, so don’t criticise my boy.” He pointed at the
principal. “And the next time you call me away from work, I expect it to be for
sumpthin’ worse than a schoolboy fight.” He indicated for Dante to stand. “Up,
we’re leaving.”

Principal Sao cleared his throat, the big
man’s expression now uneasy. “Please keep him home for the remainder of the
week.”

“I’m sure he won’t complain over gettin’
extra holidays.”

“It’s not a holiday, it’s a suspension.”

Mr. Rata shook his head. “You school
people are dumb cunts. If you wanna punish a kid, you don’t give ’em time off,
that’s what they want. Give ’em a strapping across their legs. It didn’t do me
any harm, but it sure as hell made me think twice ’bout acting up.”

“Corporal punishment is banned now, and
even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t do it.”

Mr. Rata sneered at him. “That’s cos
you’re a pussy.”

Principal Sao kept his mouth clamped shut,
not saying a word back, which by the look on Mr. Rata’s hard face was
definitely a wise decision. The man probably wouldn’t think twice about hurting
the principal if he said something wrong. His demeanour was filled with so much
menace that I could practically see the anger rippling beneath his tattooed
skin, ready to burst free and attack. Not only that, he had the power to back
it up, his muscular body filling out his leathers. I also got the feeling he
didn’t like the principal, his tone disrespectful, which surprised me,
considering Principal Sao was the only reason Dante was still going to Wera
High. It was any wonder why Dante was so rude to people, his father leading a
bad example.

Mr. Rata tapped his son’s head. “Stop
picking at your bloody shirt and get to the Harley.”

Grabbing one of the motorbike helmets off
the principal’s desk, Dante pushed up from his seat and headed for the door,
stopping in front of me for a moment. Appearing ashamed, he dropped his gaze
and shot out the door, not waiting for his father. Looking unconcerned, his
father grabbed the other helmet and approached me. Again, I willed myself not
to retreat, although I wanted to, more than anything. He not only dwarfed me,
but was intimidating as hell, his intensity off the chart. Though, he looked
younger up close, early thirties at a guess, the face behind the tattoo smooth.
He’d obviously had Dante in his teens... A second later, I remembered Dante had
an older brother, making me wonder just how young Mr. Rata had been when he’d
started having kids. Fourteen? Fifteen? Or possibly sixteen if I’d gotten his
age wrong.

His dark gaze lowered down me again,
settling on my breasts. He bit his bottom lip and made a little sound, looking
like he wanted to devour them. “You up for some extra tuition?” he asked, his dark
eyes rising to mine.