Gloves Off Read online

  to see mum’s face

  her pleading eyes.

  don’t want to feel like telling her how hard

  i’ve had to try.

  that she’s cheating

  taking the easy way

  risking everything.

  don’t want to have to bite my tongue and be

  kind.

  why do i have to be the one who understands?

  OB_S__Y

  am i stupid?

  is this a test

  to see if i can spell?

  or, maybe you just like to be unkind.

  i wanted to be a ballerina

  like all the other little girls,

  and to twirl

  in acres of pink tulle

  tutued up to the nines.

  mum made my skirt

  and i had ribbons,

  long pink ribbons,

  holding my pigtails high.

  mum clapped as i danced around the living room

  believing i could fly.

  now i put on my gloves, and grit my teeth, and wait.

  ROSIE

  wants to know what’s wrong.

  nothing, I say

  battering away

  at the punchbag,

  breathless,

  not wanting to talk

  to anyone any more.

  leave me alone,

  i tell her,

  it’s nothing.

  “whatever,” she says,

  “but if you want to talk,

  i’m here.”

  later i hate myself

  for pushing her away.

  sorry, i type

  she sends back a smiley face and

  hearts.

  come and meet me

  she writes

  i’m bored, aren’t you?

  i sneak out –

  that’s what normal teenagers do –

  and anyway,

  i can’t breathe here any more.

  it’s dark.

  still only february,

  the days too short

  and the wind disgruntled, bitter –

  snatching at my hair and clothes.

  we meet in town

  near the statue

  that commemorates

  the fallen.

  i remember what i’d wanted to become,

  not so long ago,

  the soldiers i’d talked about

  to a room of people who didn’t give a damn,

  people dying for their principles

  for their country

  (like lambs to the slaughter)

  about

  the horror

  of war.

  i tell rosie all about it.

  how i hate arguments,

  fighting,

  conflict,

  bloodshed.

  how one day i want to be

  someone who saves.

  “oh, the irony,” she says,

  “remember, who showed kezia

  a thing or two?

  not to mention aidan vaine.”

  that’s different, isn’t it?

  “yeah, of course,

  i’m teasing, you idiot.”

  she takes my arm.

  it’s different touching her like this

  even through the thick down of her jacket.

  she’s warm –

  her hand,

  no gloves,

  squeezes mine.

  “come on,” she says and

  pulls me through the streets

  and

  somehow

  i

  keep

  up.

  we run nowhere,

  past the drunks in doorways

  and the lads out on the town

  the girls laughing in their stilettoes and

  not much else.

  we run

  through the city,

  jump litter

  and the holes in the scarred streets

  and i breathe it all in

  the neon blue night,

  the hell of it,

  the way it feels like

  we’re going places

  and no one

  can stop us now.

  don’t feel the rain

  biting my skin,

  because i’m expanding,

  could swallow the city in one gulp,

  i’m flying

  floating,

  airborne,

  free.

  “let’s go back to yours,”

  rosie says,

  “it’s nearer,

  come on,

  let’s go.”

  breathless, flushed,

  i shake my head.

  no.

  there’s stuff

  i’d rather rosie didn’t know.

  THIS ISN’T LIKE YOU

  “please talk to me,” mum says,

  “we used to be so close

  you used to tell me

  everything.”

  what? ten years ago?

  what does she know?

  only what she wanted to believe,

  that i was good and quiet and

  not someone to make a fuss.

  well,

  actually,

  not.

  nice girl gets

  nowhere fast.

  seems like i’m someone else.

  punching or running or lifting,

  i push myself harder

  and plan

  to prove something.

  press-ups,

  squats,

  skipping,

  sweating,

  i like the pain right now.

  i work on my stamina,

  footwork,

  strength.

  dad comes out to watch

  and smoke,

  it’s the first time he’s been home in days,

  he narrows his eyes,

  i can’t tell if that means

  he likes what he sees.

  i hold out the gloves,

  want to fight me,

  dad?

  he grinds the fag butt

  into the ground,

  pulls on his gloves.

  “come on then, lil,

  let’s see what you’ve got.”

  we spar.

  i hug him tight.

  it feels good to hold someone –

  even like this,

  in a fight.

  “all right,”

  dad says to me,

  “what’s been going on, then?”

  nothing.

  “so why’s your mum in bits, lily?”

  dad says,

  serious voice,

  staring me down,

  “this is your mum you’re hurting.

  sort yourself out.”

  RECKLESS

  i hear them talking,

  how aidan stole a car last night,

  drove it round the estate

  onto main roads

  drunk,

  too fast,

  he smashed it up,

  wrapped it around a lamp post,

  and crawled away.

  stacey’s not in –

  was she with him too?

  their faces are scared,

  and i don’t ask

  what’s happened,

  or why they care.

  if i had a car

  i’d drive

  so far

  from here

  you wouldn’t

  even see my shadow.

  aidan catches me staring,

  and for a second our eyes lock.

  i send him mouthfuls of hate

  a faceful of disgust,

  he swears,

  gestures,

  then someone pulls him back.

  “so,” mollie says,

  coming over, eyes on her phone,

  “what’ve you been doing?

  you look good, you know.”

  a couple of other girls

  join us at the desk,

  like now i’m al
lowed in their club.

  i shrug away questions

  pull my coat around me tighter,

  won’t let them know

  that now i’m a fighter

  saving my fists

  saving my words

  saving my secrets

  whatever they’ve heard.

  “aidan’s a wanker,”

  mollie decides,

  now she watches my face

  as she pulls out the knives,

  and shows me her phone,

  “didn’t you see?

  stacey’s a mess.”

  it’s tempting

  to chew it over with them,

  to laugh on condition

  i act like a friend.

  i could speculate to

  accumulate some

  poisoned

  ammunition.

  save it for someone who cares, i say

  and i stand up and walk away.

  CONCENTRATE

  in class i’m thinking

  (as the teacher drones)

  about footwork.

  my hips

  shifting –

  left,

  right.

  legs under my shoulders,

  punching up –

  feel my muscles

  twitch and

  tense –

  i’m balancing,

  jabbing,

  sharp

  and

  fast.

  outside, up in the sky, the sun is breaking through

  and on the way home,

  i see blue.

  DRESS UP

  at home in my room

  i open my cupboards,

  shake out the drawers,

  pull clothes off hangers

  and gather up the things

  that were never really

  me.

  black bag full

  i bundle it downstairs.

  “what’s this?”

  mum asks.

  rubbish,

  stuff i don’t need.

  she’s too slow to stop me

  marching down the path,

  i hear her calling though,

  how i’m being silly,

  telling me to stop

  and sort through again,

  together,

  but

  i drop it in a skip

  outside number 38,

  go home,

  my arms empty,

  head

  full of possibility.

  i need some money,

  for clothes,

  okay?

  “how about i make you

  something nice,”

  mum suggests,

  wiping her hands,

  reaching for patterns –

  i can already see pincushions of ideas

  floating in her brain –

  the lace, the silk, the miles of material

  and her wrapping me up in it

  rolling me round

  trussing me up

  swaddled and safe.

  i shake my head

  no thanks,

  i say,

  not my style.

  i refuse to catch her eye.

  “there isn’t any money spare

  this month, lil.

  i’m sorry,

  we’re short right now.”

  when weren’t we?

  WINDOW SHOPPING

  we meet in town.

  rosie likes pretty things,

  and

  she poses

  in dresses and skirts,

  in short things,

  tight things,

  clingy things that show her curves,

  and

  floaty things,

  long things –

  she’ll dress up in anything.

  you’d look good in a paper bag.

  rosie laughs – “why not?” she says,

  and picks me out trousers,

  patterned with stripes

  others with checks,

  a shirt that’s cute

  a jacket,

  stylish stuff,

  expensive

  shoes.

  “this would be cool on you,” she says

  and this, and this and this,

  i blush as she oohs and aahs and i make myself

  silly

  and strut,

  laughing our heads off

  we dress up,

  and model for the mirror

  the camera makes it forever,

  blowing kisses and smiling –

  we swipe through the pictures,

  share one drink, two straws.

  next to rosie

  i like the way i look.

  CHALLENGE

  it’s

  just me this time

  no other friends there,

  and i don’t dare ask if that means

  rosie’s picked me –

  although i definitely feel chosen.

  “come over,”

  rosie said,

  and now we lie together

  on her bed,

  watching films,

  on her phone

  heads close,

  warm.

  i like being in her room,

  becoming part of it,

  with the pictures of her, and her friends

  her posters, jewellery,

  flicking through her books,

  searching for clues.

  and then i blurt it out.

  my mum’s getting an operation, you know.

  rosie looks stricken,

  drops her phone,

  grabs my hand,

  “oh shit, why?

  i didn’t know she was sick,

  are you okay?”

  immediately i feel a fraud,

  regret what i said

  want to take it back.

  no, yeah, i’m fine.

  forget it, sorry, it’s nothing, really.

  “no, seriously, babe, you can talk to me.”

  i can’t though. i gather my things

  get ready to go.

  “lil! wait! don’t just walk out.”

  come with me then,

  i challenge her,

  come on.

  TEST

  it’s not fair to do this –

  to set rosie up to fail a test

  she doesn’t even know she’s taking.

  if rosie really likes me –

  her face will give her away.

  still,

  i should warn her.

  the kitchen lights are on,

  we go round the back.

  mum and dad sit at the table

  playing cards,

  laughing

  at something.

  i haven’t seen them like this

  in so long.

  they don’t stop when i come in,

  but continue to smile,

  and mum gets to her feet

  and rosie steps forward

  to say hello,

  unwrapping her scarf,

  taking off her coat,

  like it’s the most natural thing in the world,

  for her to be here.

  “so,” rosie asks later,

  as i walk her to the bus,

  “what is it? with your mum? and you?”

  nothing,

  i say.

  “sometimes you’re weird,

  lily, you know,

  you’ve got to let her do

  what she’s got to do.”

  WHAT’S MY PROBLEM?

  maybe i want a golden ticket too,

  but for

  me,

  there’s no easy fix.

  i have to fight it out –

  one on one –

  play by the rules.

  i cannot hit below the belt,

  or bite or spit or kick.

  can’t hit when they’re down.

  or shrink to make myself fit.

  anything else is cheating.

  NEWS
r />   we sit and stare

  at the police in the corridor

  someone shouts pigs

  no one gives a damn about a uniform round here.

  the head teacher comes in to our room

  and looks around,

  narrowed eyes,

  face says: we’ll talk later.

  then,

  he summons aidan vaine,

  “step outside please, mr vaine,”

  aidan’s up

  and swearing

  throwing chairs,

  tipping desks,

  bull,

  bully,

  bulls-eye –

  they’ve got him

  and this time he can’t run.

  struggling,

  but half-contained,

  someone

  takes aidan vaine

  away.

  i cheer.

  (silently)

  and

  finally

  i can

  breathe.

  THE INEVITABLE

  “did you hear? did you hear?”

  kezia runs over,

  “we’re doing it, it’s real.”

  i know she means

  jane’s boxing show.

  “it’s all coming together, girls,”

  jane talks, and smiles,

  a blur of words

  that get stuck in my ears:

  charity, judges, referee, bouts

  she’s got it all sorted,

  it’s all worked out.

  i start to walk away,

  when jane calls after me,

  “hey, lil. you’ll fight rosie. you’re up for it,

  right?”

  “when?” rosie says, already on her toes,

  towing me with her

  as i try to breathe

  not to show

  that this is the worse news i’ve ever heard.

  THE MOMENT

  fight night’s

  looming –

  it feels

  too soon.

  and dad’s been playing

  Rocky music for weeks.

  side-stepping round the house,

  he’s boxed and swooped –

  making me laugh

  and shake with fear

  all at once.

  i hide my head under my covers at night

  at the thought of getting into the ring.

  and so we train,

  even harder than before,

  every morning

  before school