Read The Weight of Water Online
Authors: Sarah Crossan
Kanoro pulls on my elbow.
‘Let’s go. It’s snow!’ he says.
There isn’t enough settling to
Make a snowman’s big toe,
Even if we collected all the snow
In the street.
Kanoro rushes to his room
And returns wearing
A thick woollen coat,
Though there’s no need for it;
No chance of real snow landing.
Outside Kanoro opens his mouth
To taste the snowflakes.
And I do the same.
A cool dusting fills
My mouth with memories
Of winter.
We look up at the night sky
And eat our snow meals.
The exams have been marked
After the break
And Mrs Warren admits her mistake:
So I start in Year Eight
Where I should have been
All along.
Again,
No one talks to me
At all.
So I sit
On my own
At the front of the classroom
Furiously trying to keep up
With the bored teachers
Who don’t seem
To notice I’m new.
In assembly I spot William.
He nods, a secret salute,
Then sits on the opposite side of the hall
Next to a boy with big teeth
And a thin moustache.
And I spend assembly
Pretending not to look at him.
In science, Clair shows me
Her mobile phone and on it
A video
Of a cracking attack
On a boy
At a bus stop.
Not for money.
Not for revenge.
Not really for fame either –
It’s just for fun:
To see someone
Suffer.
Slapped.
I look up and laugh
Sheepishly,
And Clair approves –
‘I’ll send it to you,’
she promises,
Then shepherds the phone to
The row behind
So they too can
Feast on
The fun.
I do not mention
I have no phone.
They pick teams and I am not last
To be picked because Clair chooses me.
Clair chooses me third out of six girls
And I am in her team for rounders.
I can catch, and I can hit, and I can run
And when I do she squeals, ‘Go, Cassie! Go!’
And afterwards, when we are getting changed
She says, ‘The other team were crap!’
And I wasn’t on the other team.
A Croatian builder was attacked
last night in Birmingham
on his way home from work
with his own hammer . . .
Three fourteen-year-old youths
are now in custody awaiting bail . . .
Witnesses say the attackers shouted
‘Give us back our jobs, Polack!’
before bludgeoning his skull
with the forged steel head . . .
The thirty-year-old father from Moseley,
now in the Birmingham Specialist Unit,
is said to be in a critical but stable condition . . .
Mama puts a piece of
Potato into her mouth
But doesn’t chew.
Kanoro looks at her
Meaningfully.
What do meaningful looks mean anyway?
It takes two hours to honour those smarter than us
And watch them parade across the polished stage
To receive award
after award.
Mama sits with the other parents.
She looks puzzled because I’m not called
Forward for a medal or a trophy.
I don’t even get a certificate she can
Stick to the fridge.
Clair is sitting next to me
Defacing the programme.
She sneers when other people win
And groans instead of clapping.
There are sports awards.
William wins a swimming medal – gold –
And when he sits
Back down he passes the medal
Along our row so I can touch it.
Stabbing jealousy makes my head spin,
And then there’s guilt in my gut
Because William looks so proud,
And he has been so nice;
He deserves this medal.
I pass it back along the row
And Clair turns to me and says,
‘You’re friends with Will?’
And I shrug;
I don’t think we are friends
Exactly.
For the finale we stand in our rows
Like dishevelled soldiers
And sing ‘God Save the Queen’.
I don’t know the words.
I just open and close my
Mouth and look straight ahead
Hoping no one will notice
The treason.
I am the best runner in the class.
It’s not arrogance, it’s a fact:
When I’m in a team
We win.
But Clair doesn’t pick me any more.
She looks past me,
Through me
To anyone else.
Instead of me
She chooses Bella
who won’t bat because she has her period,
And Rachel
who can’t run because she forgot her trainers.
She chooses girls who won’t catch
or race
or jump
Because they just
Can’t be bothered.
Then I am the last standing
So Clair has no choice;
She has to take me.
And I am in her team,
But I know this makes her
Mad
Because she rolls her eyes
And whispers something
To Marie that I can’t hear.
But she wants me to see her whispering
Of course.
When we play I am told
To field,
Way back
By the bushes
Where the ball
Never falls.
And when I bat
No one cheers any more.
No one cares that I get a rounder.
Only when I’m caught
OUT
Are they satisfied.
The worst thing:
I don’t even know
What I did wrong.
Another thing:
I’m meant to know
What I did wrong
And fix it.
Clair says, ‘Don’t worry about it,’
But I do.
How can I forget it
When she won’t let me?
Girls in England
Have long hair.
Hair that’s flat
And sits neatly
On their shoulders.
My hair is short
And black,
And sticks up in
The morning
Like moody fur.
The girls in my class
Speak to me, finally.
And Clair asks about my hair –
Why it’s short.
‘Is it because you’re a lesbian?’
She wants to know.
It’s true that
Some boys have
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.
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.
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.