The Weight of Water Read Online Free Page A

can’t
    See me because she’s
               Alone –
    Without the pack.
     
    I close my locker loudly,
    With a
               BANG
    And for a second she shudders
    Then turns
    And shows off her braces.
     
    ‘Hi, Cassie!’ she says,
    Blinking.
     
    That’s all.
    And I wonder if
    This means
    We’re friends.

Art Class
     
    A shadow frowns over my sugar paper,
    And then a warm voice: ‘That’s good, Cassie.’
    Arlene puts her picture down next to mine.
    She’s slight, with round glasses that hide
                               half her face.
     
    We sit together using our thumbs
    To blend chalk dust into
    Fat green marrows,
    And I think, maybe she’s the one,
    Maybe she’s the friend
    I’ve been waiting to find.
     
    But Clair tracks me down at the sink
    Where we go to wash the colours from
    Our hands.
     
    ‘Is it true what you said about Arlene?’
     
    I gaze at Clair,
    Too amazed to protest.
    Arlene looks sideways at me.
    She wipes her hands on her trousers
     
    And backs away from the
    Danger of friendship.
     
    ‘Arlene’s a bit sensitive,’
    Clair hisses and slinks away too.
     
    Nothing more.
     
    In the sink the colours have washed away,
    And the water runs clear.

Not Alone
     
    William finds me in the dining hall.
    He moves to my table, drops his tray,
    And sits.
     
    He slurps and burps,
    Wipes his mouth on his sleeve
    And stares.
     
    Year Nine boys watch us
    From across the hall.
    They are gesturing,
                               Guffawing.
    ‘My friends,’ William says,
    ‘Are idiots.’
     
    And then, ‘You haven’t been to practice.’
    I shake my head and sip my Coke.
    I know it’s better when I don’t talk.
    ‘So maybe I’ll see you at the pool this week.
    Maybe you’ll be there on Thursday,’ he says.
     
    He waits for me to speak.
    I nod and
     
    Dip my chips
    In ketchup.
     
    ‘So you’ll be there on Thursday,’
    He says.
     
    Walking to science he takes my hand
              and squeezes it
    As though testing a piece of fruit in a market
              Before buying.
     
    Then he puts his hands into his trouser pockets
    And says, ‘I’ll see you at the pool then.
    Thursday.’

Thursday
     
    In the changing room
    I check myself in the mirror.
    I want to be sure
    I look normal.
     
    I do not:
    I am sharp-cornered,
    Like a piece of Swedish
                               Self-assembly furniture
                                     Gone wrong.
    I am all lines,
    No curves.
     
    My fingers and toes are too long.
    My nose is pointy, my bottom flat.
     
    When did this happen?
     
    I tiptoe to the pool,
    My towel hiding my shape.
     
    Apart from a lone lifeguard
    Sitting in what looks like
    A baby’s high chair
    The place is deserted.
     
    I cannot see William anywhere.
     
    I drop the towel and let the water
               Take me.
     
    And I do lengths:
    Up and
               Down,        
                     Up and
                             Down,
    Waiting for William
    Who never shows up and
    Trying not to think about
     
    Rejection.

Grating
     
    I am hairy.
     
    I have thick
               black
               shoots
    Under my arms
    And on my legs
    And between them too.
     
    I am hairy.
     
    I did not know this until
    I noticed the women
    In the pool
    With their velvety skin.
     
    I am hairy.
     
    So when I get home
    I swipe Mama’s razor,
    Sneak down to the bathroom
    And work on the problem.
     
    I rest one hairy leg on the toilet seat
    And drag the blade up it.
    I scream. Loudly,
    Like someone is trying to murder me
    And Mama runs up the hall
    And knocks on the door:
    ‘What is happening, Kasienka?’
    She wants to know.
    She wants to know
    I’m not being murdered.
     
    Little red rivers
    Run down to my ankles
    And pool on the toilet seat.
     
    ‘I’m OK, Mama,’ I say.
     
    I have not shaved the hair
    But grated the skin.
     
    There is pink flesh
    In the blade,
    No hair at