Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) (3 page)

I smiled and shoved my feet into my boots,
not needing to fix the shoelaces since I never undid them. Instead of heading
for the principal’s office, I aimed for the exit, intending on sitting out the
back of the gym until the bell went. Mr. Aston never checked to see if I’d gone
to the office, something I’d discovered last year. He probably didn’t care if I
went or not, just that I was out of his class.

As I passed another classroom, a loud wolf
whistle pierced my ear. I backed up and looked through the small square window
in the door, instantly recognising the hot blonde teacher. She was standing in
front of a class of Year Tens. One of the boys was whistling at her while his
mates sniggered next to him. She fired back a retort I couldn’t hear, but
whatever it was, it shut the boy up faster than my cock in Phelia’s mouth. A
second later, I realised she’d be taking my English class.

A
big smile spread across my face, the day suddenly getting a whole lot more
interesting. I resumed walking down the corridor, looking forward to English
for the first time ever.

***

After the bell had rung, I headed to my
maths class, one of my least favourite subjects. As soon as I entered the room,
the teacher told me that the principal wanted to see me. I trudged to Principal
Sao’s office, annoyed that Mr. Aston had finally checked up on me. I wondered
whether it was one of his New Year resolutions to make my life miserable.

At the end of the corridor, I turned right
and entered the reception area, taking a seat on the navy-blue vinyl couch. The
secretary looked over her desk at me with a slight shake of her head. She was
an old bird in her sixties, with dyed blonde hair and a lady-boner for pearls.
She gave me one of her disappointed looks, like she’d expected better of me,
which always floored me, since I spent half my time here.

She indicated for me to go into the
office. “He’s expecting you.”

I pushed up from the couch. “I bet he is,”
I mumbled under my breath, again cursing Mr. Aston for finally doing his job.

I opened the door and entered the bland
room, ignoring the painting on the wall, knowing it off by heart. It depicted two
boys walking into the sea, one of them my brother—who’d painted it. It always reminded
me of that fucked up year Ash had tried to kill himself, a year I wished I
could wipe from my memory.

“Please take a seat, Dante,” Principal Sao
said, indicating to the chair in front of his desk.

He was sitting in a swivel chair, looking
at me with a serious expression, probably wondering how he could save me from myself.
I slumped down into the cushioned seat and looked out his window, wishing I’d
stayed in bed.

Principal Sao pushed out of his chair and
walked around to me, seating himself on the edge of his desk, blocking my view
of the window. He was a big Samoan man who had a penchant for smart suits.
Right now he was wearing a navy-blue one, with a purple and white striped tie
over a white button-down shirt.

He started talking, making me think of the
actor who did Darth Vader’s voice, just without the breathing problem. “I was
very disappointed to find out you were fighting with Ronald again,” he said.

Surprised by his words, I didn’t reply, all
thoughts about Mr. Aston ratting me out gone. How’d he know? It hit me a second
later. The blonde teacher had dobbed me in. I grimaced, now annoyed with myself
for giving her my name, not to mention Happy Meal’s.

The principal continued, “It’s the first
day of school and you two are already at it. I told you last year I won’t stand
for this nonsense anymore. If I have to, I
will
suspend you, Dante, regardless
of the connection I have with your family.”

Pissed off he was blaming me, I sneered at
him, wanting to tell him he had no connection to my
wh
ā
nau
. He wasn’t family,
he wasn’t even M
ā
ori.
He probably thought that since he was Polynesian he could identify with me. He
couldn’t identify shit, because he hadn’t pissed blood from being beaten so
hard, hadn’t had to deal drugs just to pay the bills, or gone hungry because
his father took too many sick days due to being mentally ill. Instead, he was
what my Tongan mate called a
Pālangi
Poly—a white Polynesian, who’d probably grown up in East Auckland instead of
Wera’s streets.

He shook his head at me. “I wish you would
stop fighting everyone, Dante. You need to learn to walk away.”

I remained silent, wondering how the hell
he expected me to walk away from being jumped from behind. Then again, he was
probably trying to get me to blurt out it wasn’t my fault, twisting things to
get me to talk.

He narrowed his eyes at me, giving me one
of his
this-is-serious
faces. But it wasn’t a serious matter to me. The
beating Happy Meal and his mates had handed out was nothing in comparison to
what my stepfather had done to me. This was no more than a paper cut, something
I’d forget about once the bruises disappeared. But what my stepfather had done
... I could never forget that. I just wished I could.

Principal Sao sighed. “I can’t help you,
Dante, if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t need your help,” I finally said.
“I need to be in class,”
because it’s better than being here.

He indicated to the door. “Okay. Go.”

I pushed up and headed for the door.

“Dante,” he said.

I placed a hand on the door handle and
looked back at him, waiting for him to get whatever he wanted to say off his
chest.

He pushed up from the desk, giving me one
of his soulful stares, something that I felt he’d copyrighted just for me. He
knew too much about my family, things I didn’t want anyone to know. It just
made me feel even more uncomfortable around him.

“I know you believe that everyone thinks
you’re a bad kid, someone who’ll end up in jail,” he said, “but you’re not.
Deep down inside you’re a good kid, who would do really well if you just
applied yourself instead of creating your own personal warzone.”

I snorted out a laugh.

“This isn’t a joking matter, Dante. This
year is important and I want you to treat it as such. Stop looking for fights
and concentrate on your school work, because if you applied yourself you’d pass.”

I snorted out another laugh. “I’m gonna
flunk. All my teachers know it.”

“It’s only
you
who thinks that.”

“Tell Mr. Aston that.”

“Okay, he’s the exception. But if you just
concentrated you’d do well, especially in English and Music. You have a stunning
voice and are great on the guitar and drums. You’re also a wonderful poet. You could
get into university if—”

“I’m not goin’ to university,” I cut him
off, not interested in his fantasies.

His shoulders slumped, the man appearing
to deflate at my words. I didn’t know what he expected from me, especially
since he knew no one in my family had ever amounted to anything, other than
ending up in the newspapers for committing some sort of crime. Or worse, being
a statistic like my mother, my stepfather having murdered her.

Wishing I wasn’t his pet project, I
disappeared out his door and headed back to my maths class. As I walked down
the corridor, my mind shifted to the English teacher, angry with her for
ratting me out. I’d planned on going light on her, just a bit of teasing and
flirting, nothing serious, since I liked the idea of having something pretty to
look at during class. But now there was no way I was going to play nice. And
like with any other rat, she was going to get what was coming to her.

3

CLARA

The staffroom at lunchtime was
considerably quieter than the outside mayhem of the school grounds, a caffeinated
oasis devoid of teenagers. Although I’d managed to get through my first classes
without too much trouble, it had been hard work. Some of the students had taken
it upon themselves to see how far they could push me. I had to tell off quite a
few, mostly boys, whose wolf whistles and comments about my looks weren’t
appreciated.

I glanced to my right as I poured a cup of
coffee, noticing two male teachers eyeing me up, their gazes not that
dissimilar to the male students. I knew what they saw: a good-looking woman in
her early twenties, with defined cheekbones and full lips. The only thing I lacked
was height, which they didn’t appear to care about. The shorter of the two dropped
his gaze as soon as he noticed me looking, while the other one continued to
stare, seemingly unconcerned he’d been caught out.

Feeling uncomfortable, I finished filling
my cup and headed for a table the furthest away from him, smiling at the
thirty-something woman sitting behind it. She was slightly overweight, frumpy
closer to the mark, and colourfully dressed, her thick-rimmed glasses matching
her red cardigan. She also had a head full of soft black ringlets, which looked
like her pride and joy.

I placed a hand on the chair across from
her. “Can I sit here?”

Nodding, she swallowed what she’d been chewing
on and put the rest of the sandwich down on her plate. Rising to her feet, she
held out a hand for me to shake. “You must be the new English teacher,” she
said, smiling at me.

“Yes,” I replied, noticing mayonnaise smeared
across her thumb.

She glanced down at it. “Oops, sorry, I’m
such a messy eater.” She quickly wiped her hand on a tissue and extended it
again.

“No worries,” I said, shaking it. “I’m Clara
Hatton.”

“Nice to meet you, Clara. I’m Beverly
Torino.” She let go of my hand and spread her arms out wide. “Welcome to my
humble abode.”

I smiled, finding her quirky. “What do you
teach?” I asked, guessing her to be an art or drama teacher.

She tucked a ringlet behind her ear. “Drama.”

I mentally patted myself on the back at my
correct guess.

She indicated to the far corner of the
staffroom. “Tall, red, and handsome over there is another drama teacher. He’s
the head of my department.”

I glanced over my shoulder, spotting the
man she was talking about. He was the one who’d been staring at me. He looked a
lot like Liam Neeson, just thirty-something and with a reddish-brown buzz cut.
He smiled at me, prompting me to look away instantly.

Beverly sat back down. “Looks like you’ve
attracted Britain’s attention.”

“Britain?” I asked, taking her lead and
sitting down too.

“Paul is Scottish while the teacher
standing next to him is English. We call them Britain, because they usually
hang out together. Though, I really don’t understand why, since they’re always
arguing. Anyway, forget about them, I’m more interested in you. How has your
first day been so far?”

“Good.” I took a sip of my coffee,
grimacing at the awful taste. It felt like an atom bomb had gone off inside my
mouth, the nuclear sludge contaminating my taste buds.

Beverly laughed. “Yeah, the coffee here is
godawful.” She patted the top of a striped flask sitting on the table. “That’s
why I bring my own. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks.” I pushed my cup away and grabbed
a bottle of water out of my satchel, more interested in decontaminating my
mouth.

She grinned, looking like I was
entertaining her greatly. “No worries. So, what do you think of Wera High?”

I took a gulp of water, swishing it around
my mouth and swallowing it down before answering her. “It’s nice.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “
Nice
is not
a word I’d use for this place. Rowdy, rude, loud, I could go on forever.”

I smiled. “It
is
loud, and I must
admit the kids are slightly ruder than what I’m used to.”

“
Slightly?
Well, you mustn’t have
had the juvie class yet.”

“What’s the juvie class?”

“It’s a nickname we call the class that
has all the bad kids. Your opinion will
not
be the same after teaching
that one.”

“Maybe I won’t get them.”

“What years do you teach?”

“Ten and Eleven.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry to say, but
they’re Year Elevens. If you’re unlucky and do get them, don’t react to their
baiting. If they ask you any inappropriate questions, ignore them, like they
haven’t even spoken. They’re also very liberal with their use of swearwords.
Unless you want to constantly tell them off, translate the
f
word to
fabulous
,
the
c
one to
cute
,
s
to
super
, and the
m
word
to
magnificent
.”

“What’s the
m
word?”

Beverly lowered her voice. “
Motherfucker
.
They
love
that word.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You seriously expect
me to let them get away with saying that?”

“If you don’t want to send half the class
to the principal’s office every lesson, yes. My suggestion is to only kick a
juvie kid out if they take things too far. As it is, you usually have to send
at least a couple of them to the principal’s office every lesson.”

My mind went to the tall bully who’d
beaten up Dante, praying he wasn’t in the class. I shook the thought out of my
head. He was too big not to be a senior. Still...

“Do you know of a boy called Ronald
McDonald?” I asked, expecting her to laugh at me.

“Unfortunately, everyone who works here does.”

I blinked in surprise, taken aback that
Dante hadn’t lied about the thug’s name. “That’s really his name?”

She nodded. “How do you know him? He’s in
Year Thirteen, so he shouldn’t be in any of your classes.”

“I caught him and two of his friends
beating up another boy. I had to step in to stop him.”

Beverly’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Wow! You’re
brave, because Ronnie’s one scary kid. I always get the male teachers to deal
with him. Is the other boy all right?”

“He said he was.”

“Did you report the fight to the principal?”

“I told his secretary since he was busy at
the time, but she said he already knew about it.”

“Well, don’t approach Ronnie again. He’s one
of the gang kids. You have to think about your own safety first. It’s best to inform
the principal or Paul Aston,” she said, referring to the other drama teacher.
“They know how to deal with those kids.”

I nodded, again realising how lucky I was
not to have gotten hurt. “By the way, what kind of parent names their own child
after a clown?”

Beverly rubbed her thumb and fingers
together, flicking some crumbs off her fingertips. “I’ve heard worse. A couple
of years back I had twins in my class called DB and Lion Red.”

My eyes widened. “Their parents named them
after beer?”

She nodded. “I even taught one kid called
Painkiller.”

“Are you serious?” I gasped.

She nodded again, her brown eyes sparkling
with amusement. “Welcome to South Auckland, where you might run into Arnold
Schwarzenegger
or Rocky Balboa, though, those will
be their first and middle names, and they won’t look anything like their
namesakes.”

“You must be having me on,” I said.

She shook her head. “I’ll bet you a fifty that
you’ll get at least one kid in your class with a whacky name.”

“Looks like I should turn that bet down after
meeting Ronald McDonald.”

She chuckled. “A wise decision. Just one
word of advice. When you get a whacky named kid, don’t stumble over their name.
They’re usually oversensitive.”

“I don’t blame them, but I’m not sure I
could say a name like
Painkiller
without feeling as though someone was
playing a joke on me.”

“I know. At first, I had a hard time saying
his name, but I eventually got used to it. Though, I ended up calling him
Killer, which he liked.”

“So, you’ve been working here for a while,
then?” I asked, wondering whether she knew the boy who’d been attacked.

“Yes siree, ten years.”

“Have you heard of Dante Rata?”

Her smile instantly dropped. “
W-h-y
?”
she said, drawing out the word, suspicion prickling her expression. “What has
he done now?”

“Nothing. He was the one being attacked by
the McDonald boy.”

“Probably for a good reason. Dante’s pure
mischief. The best way to deal with that ratbag is to ignore him. If you don’t,
he’ll commandeer your whole lesson. Also, don’t take what he says personally;
he’s just an arrogant so-and-so, who needs a swift kick up the backside.”

I smirked at the last comment. “He didn’t
seem that bad and it really wasn’t his fault.”

Beverly pulled a cookie out of her
lunchbox. “Mark my words, he
is.
I pity you if you get him. Fingers
crossed the other English teacher is lumped with that troublemaker.”

I nodded, wondering why I would even get
him since I didn’t teach the seniors. I opened my mouth to say just that, but Beverly
cut me off before I could get a word out. She moved onto another topic:
Me
.
A barrage of questions came my way, asking how old I was.
Twenty-four.
Whether I was married.
Yes.
And where I’d previously taught.
England.
And so on. Before I knew it, the bell had rung and I was on my way to my
next class.