Gypsy Boy by Mikey Walsh

tried – and I failed – to hold back my tears as I made my way through the ropes and past the crowd and my father, who wouldn’t even look at me.
    I made my way back to the changing room, which was empty. I couldn’t stop crying and I started yelling at myself. ‘Shut up! Please shut up!’ I felt as if I were about to faint. I sat down and took a deep breath, then took my clothes out of the bag and slowly started to get dressed. Footsteps grew closer and I could hear my father outside saying his goodbyes, his voice quiet, no doubt shamed by my performance.
    I didn’t want to leave the changing room, but, after fifteen minutes of dawdling, my hope that my father would come in and reassure me faded.
    It was Joseph who came in to find me sitting on the bench. He walked over and sat by my side. He put his giant arm around me and squeezed. ‘Are you all right?’
    As soon as he said those words I burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears.
    ‘Don’t worry, Mikey,’ he said, rubbing my back. ‘Don’t cry my boy. It’s going to be all right.’

    But I knew it wasn’t.
    My father opened the door and threw the car keys at me. I slipped out through the crowds, crept across the car park and got into the car to wait for him. I watched as he said his goodbyes and lit a cigarette, before climbing into the driver’s seat.
    I spent the first part of the journey home staring out of the window. I was so petrified my chest was pounding and my breathing was getting louder. Despite the voice in my head screaming at me to stay quiet, a huge whimper escaped.
    ‘What’s the matter with you?’ my father snarled. I shook my head to say that it was nothing.
    He drew back his enormous fist and punched me in the ear, as we swerved across the road.
    ‘I can’t (PUNCH!) believe (PUNCH) you showed (PUNCH) me up like that.’
    ‘Please don’t, Dad, I really tried, please don’t.’
    ‘Don’t what?’ (PUNCH)
    He paused and watched as blood began to slide from my nose and into my mouth. My lip started to quiver uncontrollably.
    ‘Are you going to cry? Are you, my boy?’ He slapped me hard across the face. ‘Go on then.’ He slapped me again. The blood from my nose smeared into my eye and splattered across the window.
    I couldn’t stop the tears, but I made no sound. My father turned to face the road ahead. ‘Little poofy boy, that’s all you are, my son,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought I’d end up with one like you.’
    As we pulled into our plot, I opened the car door and
ran for the trailer. I wanted to reach my mother before my father got there.
    She was lying on the floor, watching Dynasty , with Frankie brushing her hair.
    They both gasped when they saw me.
    ‘What the fuck happened to you?’ my mother screeched.
    My father came in and pushed me out of the way. ‘Your son has just been beaten by a boy half his size in front of everybody.’
    Had he just forgotten that he was the one who had done this to me? He was lying to her!
    And she was taking it all in.
    She turned to me. ‘Go to bed, Mikey. Get out of my sight.’
    Frankie and I climbed into bed and pulled the curtain across the doorway. Not that it disguised any of what was being said. I could hear words like shameful, disgrace, poof and useless being repeated again and again.
    ‘What happened?’ whispered Frankie.
    I told Frankie about the fight with Paddy. In an instant, her eyes narrowed and in a voice like a foghorn she bellowed, ‘Paddy Donoghue is too big to be fighting Mikey, Mum!’
    Our father marched to the doorway and ripped back the curtain.
    We screamed and pulled the blankets over our heads.
    He grabbed me by the leg and ripped me out of the bed. I crashed to the floor and Frankie fell from the top bunk, trying to reach out and grab me by the arm. The carpet burned my back as he pulled me by the feet into the lounge. I kicked and screamed as Frankie held on to my arms,
digging her heels into the ground to try to wrench me away from his