Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (12 page)

Beverly emerged from her classroom right
at that moment, her eyes almost popping out at the sight. “What the hell are
you doing?” she gasped at Dante.

He stopped licking his lip and turned his
gaze on her. He slowly ran his eyes down her body, clearly unimpressed with
what he saw.

“I asked what you’re doing,” Beverly
repeated, her face reddening at his scrutiny.

“Not you, Mother Hubbard,” he said, giving
her a scornful look. “I’m not
that
drunk.”

“Dante!” Beverly bellowed. “Zip your rude
mouth and put your shirt back on.”

He threw it at her. “Fuck you.” He started
sniggering. “No, I don’t wanna fuck you, you’re oogly.” He rolled over,
erupting into a fit of laughter.

Beverly’s eyes snapped to her right,
muttering, “Thank God Britain’s here.”

My gaze followed hers, spotting the duo
heading our way. The men stopped next to Dante. Grabbing one arm each, they
hoisted him up, Paul being overly rough. He had dark rings under his eyes and a
strained, almost angry expression, unlike the music teacher, who just looked
concerned.

Dante’s laughter instantly dried up, his happiness
morphing into panic. He started yelling and struggling against the men, causing
the music teacher to let go. Paul, who was taller and weighed at least twenty
kilos more, kept his grip. He grabbed Dante’s other arm and pushed him into a locker,
yelling at his friend to get the principal. The music teacher took off,
disappearing down the corridor.

“Lemme go!” Dante hollered, the pain in
his voice upsetting me.

“You’re hurting him!” I yelled at Paul.

The head of drama glanced back at me. “Just
get the damn principal!”

“Your friend’s already doing that.”

Dante’s head snapped back, almost hitting Paul
in the nose. Paul swore at him and rammed Dante’s face into the locker with a
hand, making him yelp.

I grabbed Paul’s arm, shouting, “Let go of
him!” absolutely horrified over what he was doing.

“He needs to be restrained,” he retorted,
my grip useless against his strength.

“Not like that!” I spat, still trying to
get him to let go.

“Ye don’t understand—”

“No,
you
don’t understand that you’ve
just assaulted a minor, so if you don’t get your hands off him, I’ll be
reporting you to the police.”

Glaring at me, he let go of Dante and
stepped back, muttering, “If he hurts anyone, it’ll be on
your
head.”

Dante remained where he was, looking like
he didn’t realise he’d been freed.

Moving forward, I placed a hand on his
back. “Are you hurt?”

When he didn’t answer, I turned his face towards
me. Blood was coming from his nose, trickling over his top lip. I quickly removed
a tissue from my pocket and wiped the blood away, then placed it against his
nose, stemming the flow.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said in a reassuring
tone, what he’d done earlier all but forgotten. His confused expression was making
my heart clench, Dante for the first time looking his age. “We’ll phone your mother.”

“She’s dead.” He grabbed the tissue out of
my hand and took off, disappearing down the corridor before anyone could stop
him. I stared after him almost in a trance, the pain in his voice affecting me
even more.

“Ye idiot!” Paul barked, yanking my
attention back to him. He was glaring at me, his fair skin now beet red. “If ye
didn’t force me to let him go, he wouldn’t have escaped,” he said, waving a
hand in the direction Dante had disappeared.

I scowled at him. “If you didn’t bash his
face into the locker, I wouldn’t have made you.”

“He almost head-butted me in the fucking face,
ye stupid bitch.”

My eyes widened in disbelief. “What did
you just call me?” I asked, not believing my ears.

“A stupid bitch who’s too fucking soft to be
working in a school like this.”

Beverly went to my side. “Paul! Apologise
now.”

“She doesn’t deserve an apology,” he spat,
“not after she let that thug escape.”

“The only thug here is you,” I bit back.

He grimaced at me. “It’s better than being
a bleeding-heart liberal like ye.” He spun around and stalked off, spewing sexist
remarks.

“What a misogynous prick,” I muttered, the
guy unbelievable.

Beverly nodded. “He’s certainly that. And
now you have another man to contend with. Here comes the principal.”

My attention shifted to the
impressive-looking Samoan man, who was walking alongside the music teacher. The
men stopped to talk to Paul, who waved a hand in my direction, whatever he was
saying no doubt unflattering. The principal resumed walking towards me, the
other two heading in the opposite direction.

Looking dapper in a tan-coloured suit, he
came to a stop in front of me. “Paul has given me a short brief on what happened.
Of course, I would like to hear your side of the story before I make any
judgements,” he said, focusing on me, not Beverly.

“Dante came to my class drunk. I tried to
take him to the sickbay, but he was uncooperative, so Beverly called Paul and
his friend to help,” I replied. “After they arrived things turned nasty. Paul
forcefully rammed Dante into a locker, causing an injury to his nose.”

Principal Sao frowned. “Paul stated that
the injury was an accident and a direct result of Dante trying to head-butt
him.”

“He didn’t need to ram his face into the
locker,” I bit back a bit too harshly.

He tensed. For a moment, I wondered
whether he was going to reprimand me for my tone of voice, but instead he
exhaled and started massaging his right temple. “I understand you’re upset,” he
replied, dropping his hand, “but Dante still attacked him.”

“Only because Paul was hurting him. He roughly
shoved Dante up against the locker
before
the attempted head-butt. It
was extremely upsetting to see one of my students treated so badly.”

“I realise it would be, though, Paul was
only trying to restrain Dante, not hurt him.”

“You weren’t here.”

His gaze moved to Beverly. “Did Paul act
inappropriately towards the Rata boy?”

“He was a bit rough,” Beverly answered, “but
I don’t think he meant to injure Dante, plus the boy was rather drunk and
uncooperative. Though, I must say, I don’t appreciate the way Paul spoke to
Clara. I realise he was upset, but he should still apologise for calling her
names.”

The principal’s attention shifted back to
me. “What did he call you?”

“A bleeding-heart liberal, as well as a
stupid bitch who’s too soft to be working in a school like this. He also called
me an idiot and muttered some misogynistic remarks about women as he stalked
off.”

The principal grunted, his expression
annoyed. “He will be disciplined for that.”

“You seem more concerned with him calling
me names than Dante getting hurt.”

“That’s not the case at all, but regardless,
Dante still needs to understand there are consequences to his actions.”

“Will he be expelled?”

Principal Sao shook his head. “I don’t
want to resort to that, especially since Dante’s a special case. At the moment,
I’ll probably hand out a suspension and suggest he gets some more counselling.”

“More?”

“He sees a counsellor every couple of
weeks for some issues he has.” The principal turned to Beverly. “You can return
to your class now, Bev. Please have an incident report on my desk by tomorrow
afternoon.”

Grimacing, Beverly nodded and disappeared
back into her classroom.

Principal Sao refocused on me. “Please
walk with me.”

I picked up Dante’s shirt and fell into
step. “What are Dante’s issues? Because I really should’ve been told if he’s
special needs.”

Moving his hands behind his back, the
principal walked slowly alongside me. “He’s obviously not handicapped, he just
requires special attention.”

“Special needs can be mental health
related.”

“My apologies, you are quite right.”

“So, what are Dante’s issues?”

“He’s had a very rough home life. He’s had
two parents in jail—his father and his stepfather, while his mother was
murdered.”

I blinked in surprise, not expecting to hear
that.

“Unfortunately, there’s more. His
stepfather was the one who killed her, and right in front of Dante. Then he
beat the boy so badly that Dante was hospitalised. The poor kid was only
thirteen at the time.” Principal Sao frowned. “He’s been through hell, which is
why I’m loath to expel him again, especially since no other school will take
him in.”

“He’s already been expelled?”

“Yes.” The principal stopped in front of
my class, rap music playing from within.

“But I thought an expulsion meant that a
student couldn’t return.”

“They can be lifted, which in Dante’s case
was the best option after he was expelled from Claydon High. And you have to do
a lot
to be expelled from that school. Anyway, his father and counsellor
worked hard to get him back here, and since I’m aware of his situation, I allowed
it. I also feel he’s safer here than out on the streets, which is where he’d be
if he didn’t attend school.”

“But he’s not safe if he has teachers
bashing him against lockers,” I said, still angry with Paul.

“Which is why it’s even more imperative that
you engage Dante in your class so he doesn’t cause trouble. Your subject is only
one of two he’s actually good at.”

“It is?”

“Yes, he’s a talented poet.”

“Really?” I said, not believing my ears.

“Yes. He has a unique vocabulary. His ghetto
way of speaking comes across in his writing, but not in an unintelligent manner.
It’s filled with raw emotion. If you get him onto a topic that interests him,
his hand will fly across the page, filling it up with an intensity that will
bring you to tears. And the sad thing is, he doesn’t even realise how talented
he is, often underestimating how good his poems are. One of the English
teachers from last year showed me this exquisite piece of work he wrote about
the Bosnian war. It literally brought me to tears. I tried to get him to enter
it in a contest, telling him he could win it, but he refused. I got the
distinct feeling he thought I was lying.”

“Why?”

“He probably thought I was only doing it
to get him more interested in school. He also has trust issues, his bad home
life no doubt behind it. Not to mention, he thinks he’s stupid. I must admit
he’s not exactly what I would call intelligent, far from it, but he does have a
gift when it comes to poetry and music. I just wish he had someone to make him
believe that. Often the most confident and arrogant kids are the most broken
inside. Your job is to help repair those breaks. I understand you can’t wipe
away the abuse he’s suffered, but I want you to at least give the child some
hope for a future he probably doesn’t believe is possible.”

I nodded, feeling even worse for Dante.

“Well, I better let you get back to your
class.” He opened the door and poked his head around the corner, barking, “Turn
that music off!”

The music stopped instantly, the
principal’s bark much louder and scarier than mine.

He let go of the door and turned back to
me. “Also, if you need to talk to someone about what happened earlier, please
make an appointment with the school counsellor. She’s here for staff as well.”

“Is she the one who counsels Dante?”

“No. He goes to the children’s mental
health service.”

I took hold of the door handle. “Well, I
don’t need counselling, but thanks for mentioning it.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome, and I hope the
rest of your day goes a lot better.” He grimaced. “Unlike mine, because now I
have to contend with Dante’s father.”

He walked off, making me wonder what
Dante’s father was like.

11

DANTE

I woke up with the biggest motherfucking
hangover in the history of hangovers. I groaned and rolled over, pressing my
face into the pillow, willing myself to fall asleep again, anything to stop the
pain. Doors slammed in the house, making me place the pillow over my head. Loud
thudding came from down the passageway, growing louder as it drew closer to my
room, making me think of the giant from
Jack and the Beanstalk
, the
heavy footfalls ominous.

My bedroom door was kicked open. “Rise and
shine, buttercup!” my father hollered.

I winced, keeping the pillow over my head.
“
Jesus
, do you hafta shout?”

“I will shout as loud as I like, cos you
bloody deserve it! Get up and dressed, I’m taking you to school to see the
principal.”

“Noooo,” I groaned. “I’m dying.”

“Cos you broke into my liquor cabinet and
drank all my bloody booze, you li’l bastard!”

“I’m beggin’ you, just lower your voice.”

Thudding boots approached my bed. My
father grabbed the pillow and yanked it away from my head. I opened my eyes and
winced, not only from the headache, but from my father’s glare. His dark eyes were
ablaze, while his mouth was pulled tight in a grimace.

“Get the fuck outta bed. Now!” he hollered.

I covered my ears. “No.”

“Dante!”

“I’m not goin’.” I turned over, mashing my
face into my mattress, willing him to fuck off.

“’Kay, if you wanna play it that way.”

He stomped out of my room, making me
exhale in relief, but the reprieve was short-lived. Thudding started up again, my
father returning. A second later, music blasted in my ear, causing me to leap
up. I lost my balance and fell over the side of the bed, landing at my father’s
feet. He grabbed my arm and hauled me upright, getting his face in mine. It was
covered with a
moko
, which was a M
ā
ori tattoo. Four dark
green, almost black lines descended in a curve on both sides of his face. They
stopped on his chin, where the lines looped into
korus
—spiral-shaped
designs representing an unfurling silver fern. Additional
korus
adorned
his nose, while more lines rose up over his forehead. They curved down as they
drew closer to his hair, which was short and dark brown.

I winced, not in the mood for his shit.
“C’mon, Dad, why you bein’ such a bitch?”

“Don’t call me a bitch!”

I winced again.

“And the only bitch here is you,” he
snapped. “You got yourself so drunk you made a scene at school, not to mention
you missed your interview with the modelling agency.”

I rubbed my face, not remembering any of
it. Though, what had happened with Sierra and Camie was still clear in my mind.
I’d tried to forget about Saturday, but the memory had followed me around like
a bad smell, working me up more and more, to the point that I didn’t think I
could face going to school. Because now Sierra had given weight to those
rumours of me being a whore. So I got some liquid courage—
a
lot
of it.

“I wuz gonna blow that interview off
anyway,” I muttered, having had second thoughts about modelling, especially
since it would’ve harmed my street cred. “And I always make a scene, so what’s
the difference?” I added, wondering what he expected from me. This was just
normal. I fucked up all the time.

“Cos I’m sick of your drama queen antics,”
he snapped. “So suck it up, bitch, and be ready in ten minutes or I’m gonna
follow you around all day with that radio at top volume.”

He stormed out, slamming the door behind
him. I brought my hands to my head, knowing he did that on purpose. I flopped
back onto my bed for a moment, just learning to breathe without wincing.

“Nine minutes left!” my father hollered
from another part of the house, telling me he was going to continue with his
sadistic countdown until I was ready.

I pushed to my feet, swearing as I grabbed
my pants off the floor, the legs a crumpled mess. I didn’t give a shit about school.
If anything, I fucking
hated
it right now, especially since it was
interfering with my sleep. I looked around for a shirt, not finding it in its
usual place—on my floor. I yanked open my wardrobe, finding a row of perfectly
pressed clothes, my school shirt amongst them, most likely washed and ironed by
one of my dad’s women. He didn’t have one girlfriend, he had many, if you could
call them girlfriends, because all he did was fuck them. He hated commitment, saying
he was done with it. I knew why. My father couldn’t let go of my mother, even
after she’d passed away, because every woman he went with resembled her in one
way or another. But they were just poor substitutes, none of them capable of
matching up to the love of his life—his words not mine.

My father yelled out that I had five
minutes left. I pulled the shirt on and did a few buttons up, choosing not to
change into the ironed pants. Once done, I stuffed my feet into my boots
without socks, then lumbered down the passageway and entered the lounge.

My father stubbed out a cigarette in a
pāua
shell and pushed up off
the couch. He was dressed in black leather pants and a matching T. Even though
it was hot, he grabbed his leather jacket and slipped it on, the gang patch on
the back making him look intimidating.  But he didn’t intimidate me, because I
knew he wouldn’t hurt me—unlike what he’d done to my oldest brother. But he’d
been a meth head back then, the complete opposite of now. Well, he still had
one hell of a temper, it was just a toned-down version. Being in prison and my
mum divorcing him had finally gotten him clean, just a bit too late, my
stepfather ruining our family before my father could make things right.

The harsh look on his face softened. He
took hold of my face and placed his forehead against mine. “Why do you do this
to yourself, son? You’ve seen what happened to me and you’re heading down the
same track.
Please
stop and think ’bout the consequences.”

I didn’t reply, not wanting to tell him why
I’d gotten drunk.

He exhaled loudly and pulled back, his
dark eyes full of emotion. Although I looked like my mum, his eyes were a
mirror reflection of mine, the one thing that we shared:
pain
.

“Sorry,” I said, and meaning it.

“I know you are; you just scare the hell
outta me.” He exhaled again, his big chest rising and falling heavily. “I
couldn’t handle losing you too, boy. You’re the only good thing left in my
life.”

I frowned. “What about Ash and Angelo?” I
said, referring to my oldest brother and his kid. I didn’t bother to mention my
younger brother and sister, since he hadn’t wanted to adopt the twins, my
mother having pushed him into it.

“Ash hates me,” he said.

“No, he doesn’t, and if you tried harder
to see him—”

“I
have
tried hard, but he won’t
forgive me.” He dropped his gaze, the shame of what he’d done written all over
his face. He’d knocked my brother around while under the influence of meth,
something he constantly tortured himself over. “And I don’t blame him after
what I put him through.”

“But, you’re not the same person now. You
got clean for us.”

“That doesn’t erase what I did.”

“But—”

“Enough with the buts, the damage is done,
and cos of it, Ash is refusing to lemme see Angelo.”

“He can’t do that, Angelo’s your
grandchild.”

“He can and I don’t wanna push him,” he
said, his face laden with emotion. It shifted between sadness and remorse as
well as a deep-seated longing. It was no secret that he wanted to win back
Ash’s love, but he also knew he would never get it. My brother held grudges in
a major way, the type that he would take to his grave.

My dad grabbed the motorbike helmets by
the front door, handing me one. “Let’s go sort this shit out with the
principal, then you can sleep the rest of the day without me givin’ you anymore
grief.”

I nodded and headed out of the house with
him, grateful he was by my side.