to be British, Cypriot,
and Jamaican, too; but
it’s only for you to decide.”
Sandcastles
At school, we play Kiss Chase.
When we were in the little playground we had
toys to play with but here in the big playground
we just have each other.
I usually chase Amber and Laura,
who slow down when I chase them,
and speed up when Callum runs after them,
but he always catches up, eventually.
Emily shakes her head at Callum
and says “Time out” when he runs toward her.
Emily and I have agreed not to kiss.
“Because best friends don’t kiss,” says Emily.
I don’t mind not kissing Emily.
I don’t tell Emily that
when no one else can see, behind the big tree,
I kiss Callum and Jamal and Toby.
Once a week, Mum lets me have
one friend over for dinner after school.
This week I’ve invited Callum.
While Mum is cooking, we play husband
and wife, in my bedroom.
I play the wife. In an imaginary kitchen
I cook and Callum pretends
to return from work, hugs me from behind,
and kisses me on the cheek.
I say, “Dinner’s ready!”
Serve his imaginary meal, tell him
what it is, so he knows how to enjoy it:
“It’s spaghetti,” I say. “You’ve got to use
the spoon and fork.”
Callum asks, “Why can’t we have pizza
like the Turtles?” Pointing to the poster
on my wall.
“Because we’re not playing Turtles now,” I say.
“How was your day at work, darling?”
I script and direct this role-play game,
I play it with Toby and Jamal, too.
Just not with Emily, Amber, or Laura.
All the girls in my class like me.
I’m the only boy invited to their sleepovers.
“Michael, are you free Friday night?”
“Michael, do you like Disney and ice cream?”
I share blankets on the floor with four,
five, six girls or more.
Emily is always invited because
she’s the most popular girl in our class.
Callum says, “You’re so lucky!”
These girls are my friends.
I do feel lucky.
“When is Trevor coming back?”
I eventually stop asking Mum.
She takes me
to my singing lessons now.
Trevor returns
in his stupid silver car,
demanding
to see Anna.
But he never asks to see me.
The night I realize
Trevor isn’t coming back,
I have the dream
in which Mum is killed
when a Boeing 747
crashes into our house.
The left wing cuts through her
bedroom window but Anna and I survive.
Would Trevor take Anna
but leave me an orphan?
Anna gets Phoebe, my old Barbie doll,
and my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Anna gets my overalls
and all my other old clothes, too.
I notice when Anna plays
with my Turtles, no one asks her why.
I notice when Anna wears
my overalls, no one comments.
I’m glad she is free to play
and dress however she feels happy.
Mum takes me and Anna to Brighton Beach.
Anna brings my yellow bucket and spade,
which she insists on holding for the whole
train journey. I already know—and Mum
explained—that the beach has pebbles and
rocks, not sand.
Walking from the station toward the beach,
I dread Anna’s disappointment,
but when we get there she takes my hand
and lets go of Mum.
“Stay where I can see you two,” Mum shouts
after us as Anna leads me to the water’s edge.
She kneels down and piles pebbles in
the bucket. “Sandcastle,” she says, beaming.
“Sandcastle.”
I sit on the bench under the tree
playing cat’s cradle with Emily,
when Laura and Amber come over.
“Michael!” “Please sing!”
a pop song!”
“I don’t want to be a show-off,” I protest.
I prefer musicals anyway.
“Of course you do,” says Emily.
“Why else do you have singing lessons?”
There is one pop song I love
right now: “Lady Marmalade.”
I sing the verses by Christina Aguilera,
Mýa, and Pink, and Lil’ Kim’s rap.
A big group of girls, and some boys,
gather around; some giggle but most cheer.
I hear a wolf whistle and I think
it comes from either Jamal or Toby.
I direct the song to Callum, who is at the back
of the crowd. When I point at him, they all
turn around. He shakes his head. Walks away.
The bell rings and everyone starts heading
into school. Emily grabs my navy-blue blazer.
I turn back to face her. “What’s up?”
She looks down at her Mary Janes, then back up.
“Do you know what the French words mean?”
she asks.
I shake my head. She whispers
in my ear, a new truth. I never knew it was
about more than kissing.
It’s non-uniform day.
Mum has picked out a brand-new Levi’s denim
jacket. It’s stiff and uncomfortable.
I take it off at the start of the day, hang it
on my cloakroom hook.
When I go back
before home time, it’s gone.
At the school gate I say, “Mummy,
I think someone took my jacket by mistake.”
She shouts, “What do you mean
someone took it? You stupid boy,
you have to look after your things!
Do you know how much it cost?”
“I didn’t like it anyway,” I say, embarrassed
that people might be watching.
She slaps me hard across the face.
My eyes fill up but I don’t blink.
I look her straight in the eye.
“You’re not allowed to do that.”
“Uncle B, Mum hit me.
I think she’s worried about money.”
Uncle B has always been there for me.
The only person in the Brown family
that I see regularly.
He tells me that Mum is doing her best.
He tells me how hard he worked
to build himself a better life,
get the family out of poverty.
He buys me gifts
but this is not why I love him.
He likes planes and astronomy;
he has his head in the clouds,
reaches for stars.
Music and Stars
I’m singing “Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star” with Anna,
helping Mum to put her to bed.
Mum says, “You have such a beautiful voice,
Michael. your singing teacher told me
about a special school
you could go to with an excellent choir.
It’s an all-boys school in Camden.”
I like boys. I like Camden.
&nb
sp; I like when we go to Camden Market.
It’s full of crazy, colorful clothes.
We walk by the canal after,
if it’s a sunny day. But we don’t go often
because it’s far away.
Emily is going to a private school
that Mum says we can’t afford.
Callum says he doesn’t know
what school he’s going to yet.
But Callum doesn’t sing,
so he can’t come with me.
I have to audition to get in
because we don’t live close enough.
We have to take the Tube
and then the Overground to get there.
The bald man playing piano
is Mr. Evans, and the blonde
woman watching me is Mrs. Evans.
I sing, “Where Is Love?”
from the musical Oliver!
Even though Oliver sings
this song about his mum,
I sing about my dad instead.
I change “she” to “he.”
Mr. and Mrs. Evans both cry
while I sing.
I get in.
To celebrate,
Uncle B takes me
to Farnborough Airshow
to see the Red Arrows.
I love their speed and grace,
red, white, and blue vapor trails
behind them tagging the sky,
graffiti defying gravity.
They are what I look forward to
all day and all year.
Other planes are bigger
but none compare
to these darting beauties.
Fast like freedom,
now you see them,
now they’re gone
but not quite; the sky is blue
but also red and white.
I’m so excited to start middle school,
I spend hours and hours practicing
my singing in my room.
I soon learn music
is only a small part of what my new
school is about: sports is the bigger
focus.
I spend my lunchtimes in the library
or practicing guitar or clarinet
but never play soccer
or go near the cage
of boys and balls.
Choir meets on Tuesday and Thursday
after school. Mr. and Mrs. Evans
seem different from how they were
at my audition.
Mrs. Evans is strict now.
“We’re not here to talk,
just to sing,” she says.
Mr. Evans doesn’t use sheet music:
he knows all the songs. But
in between playing piano, he just stares
straight ahead in silence.
Emotionless.
No one at my school knows
that it’s my birthday today.
In the toilets at lunch, I eat
the whole batch of Skittles cookies
mum made for me to share with my friends.
Mum doesn’t know I don’t have any friends.
I know if I keep my head down
then I can look forward to stargazing,
peacefully, with Uncle B this evening.
After school, I’m walking behind Alistair
out of the school gates.
“Hey, choirboys!” comes a shout
from one of two bigger boys behind us.
Their gray blazers fit them better
than my oversized one that Mum says
I’ll grow into.
Alistair is a soprano and sings solos
when we perform in school assembly.
But outside choir he is quiet.
He has long hair that covers
half of his face.
They don’t say why
we’re supposed to fight,
only that if we don’t hit each other
they will kick the shit out of us both.
“What’s it gonna be, choirboys?”
the bigger of the two says, with a hiss
at the end of “boys.”
Unlikely gladiators,
a crowd gathers, pushing us closer:
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
A familiar chorus around here
but not one I’ve ever chosen to sing.
I think of running.
I think of taking a beating.
But suddenly I feel this force within me.
Fight or flight?
I grab Alistair’s hair with my left hand
and drag him around the circle two,
three times, then lift his head up
to see his long hair part to make way
for his pretty face and slap him hard
with my right hand, down to the ground.
The two bigger boys start shouting,
“Kick him! Kick him!”
His hair has fallen back
over his face now. He curls himself
into a ball. He looks so small,
like a chick just hatched from an egg.
I feel sick and ashamed. I want my mum.
“No!” I shout as I turn and
face the two who tower over me. I push
my way between the two boys and run and run
and don’t stop until I reach the train station,
where I throw up, rainbow violently,
on the platform.
When I get home Uncle B has bought me
my own telescope.
After dinner, I wash the dishes
while Mum puts Anna to bed,
and Uncle B sets it up and takes it out
into the garden.
It is almost as tall as me,
with the tripod fully extended.
The three legs are silver,
the tube of the telescope is white,
and the lenses are black.
Uncle B adjusts it to the right height so I can
look down the lens. First, I look at the moon
and its craters. Then I look for constellations.
“The Big Dipper. Orion. Pegasus,” I tell Uncle B,
proudly.
Uncle B says, “Pegasus, the horse with wings
in Greek mythology, was born after the
beheading of Medusa, when a drop of
her blood fell to Earth.”
When Uncle B leaves
and the stars are put away,
I think of Alistair.
His pretty face and long hair.
“Mummy,” I say, and go into the kitchen,
where she is drying the dishes.
“Some older boys made me have a fight
with another boy from choir. He didn’t do
anything to me but they told me I had to.
I only hit him once and then ran away.
I don’t like the way boys get bigged up
for being violent. There’s so much fighting
at my school. At elementary school it was just
play fighting but now they’re not playing.”
She puts the tea towel over her shoulder,
a hand on her hip and the other on the edge
of the sink. “Some older boys told you to hit
someone? And you just did it?” She looks
shocked. I feel shame all over again.
“They surrounded us shouting, ‘Fight! Fight!’
I don’t want to go back to choir,” I cry.
“I don’t want to stay at that stupid school.”
“You’re lucky it’s your birthday,” Mum says.
“Just go to bed. Get out of my sight.”
I go to fold up my telescope to take
to my room and escape to the stars.
“Leave your telescope.”
I’m stuck here
with my shame.
Flamingos fighting
can look just like kissing,
pecking beak-to-beak.
Freeze
frame and you may see a love
heart in the shape of their
two necks arching out
and together
again.
The next day, after school,
Uncle B’s BMW is waiting
outside the gate.
When I get in, he says,
“Your mum tells me
you’ve been fighting at school
and you want to move.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
I sink in my seat. “People are looking.
Can we get out of here, please?”
Uncle B starts his engine.
“Are you being bullied?”
He takes a hand off the wheel
and places it on my shoulder.
“No.” I shrug him off. But I want it to stay.
“But I don’t want to stay here.
It’s all just fighting and soccer.
I want to go to a school with girls.”
In Uncle B’s rearview mirror,
I watch that school disappear.
The second year of middle school,
I move
to a Catholic school
closer to home.
A change from the all-boys
school last year.
God grants me girls again.
On my first day, I’m told by Mr. Casey
to sit next to Daisy Andrews.
Her name is before mine in the roll call.
When I hear her name, I know mine will follow.
Daisy doesn’t say, “Yes, sir,” or “Yes, miss,”
when her name is called; she just says, “Yeah.”
None of the teachers tell her off for this;
no one seems to notice. I notice you, Daisy.
Daisy Andrews reminds me of the Barbie
Goddess of Beauty that I never had. She is
slim, has dark eyes and long, dark, curly hair.
She looks like Selena Gomez but she is not
popular, for some reason I can’t figure out.
In English class, I pluck up the courage
to ask Daisy: “Who are you friends with?”
She replies: “No one, they’re all idiots.”
Talking to Daisy is like walking on eggshells.
I am curious what might have broken her.
She doesn’t seem mean. She seems hurt.
In math, I notice red-haired Rowan
at the desk in front of us. Rowan looks like
if Ed Sheeran was handsome. He’s wearing