The Weight of Water by Sarah Crossan Page A

coins into my palm
    As though she’s passing me a secret.
     
    Tata taught me to swim.
    Taught me to be strong.
    It was no good grumbling
    Or wrinkling my nose
    Or crying – like a girl –
    Tata didn’t care about that.
     
    ‘Kick your legs
    From the hip,
    Not the feet.
    Now climb towards me
    With your arms.’
     
    After swimming Tata
    Bought me ice cream:
    Blueberry in a cup,
    ‘For my Olympian.’
     
    I never want to
    Paddle and play in the pool.
    I’m here to work hard.
    Do lengths.
    Up and
               Down,        
                     Up and
                             Down,
    The power of my own body
    Fluent, fluid,
    Propelling me forward
    Like a pebble from
    A catapult.
     
    A boy from my school is here.
    A boy from Year Nine,
    I think.
     
    He is perched on the edge of the diving board watching me.
    Up and
               Down,        
                     Up and
                             Down.
    And when I am below him
    At the deep end,
    He gets up, raises his arms,
    And like a hunting hawk
    Plunges into the water
    Effortlessly.
     
    Surfacing, he bobs about
    Gazing again.
    So I swim fast,
    To outswim his stare
    And make Tata proud,
    Even though there’ll be no
    Blueberry ice cream
    Today.
     
    I don’t know the diving boy,
    The gawking hawk boy.
    But he is in Year Nine.
     
    And he is older than me.

Disco
     
    A poster in the classroom
    Announces a dance.
    A disco.
    For Year Seven.
     
    Everyone’s excited.
    And Everyone’s going.
    Everyone but me.
     
    For three reasons:
    I’m twelve.
    Almost thirteen.
    Not eleven.

Deceiver
     
    In the City Arcade
    There is a shop where
    Each item is one pound.
     
    They sell everything
    In that shop
    For one pound.
    Just one pound.
     
    There are bags of chocolate for one pound.
    And orange Halloween decorations.
    They sell fairy wings
    And cricket sets.
    It’s astounding:
    Everything one pound!
     
    Mama picks up a box,
    Turns it over in her hands.
    It is just one pound.
    But after inspection Mama
    Puts it down, slowly,
    And moves to the cashier
    To pay for my socks and knickers.
    It is a box of make-up –
    Creams and powder shades:
    For eyes and lips and cheeks.
     
    In my pocket I have a five-pound note
    Babcia gave me
    Before I left.
    And I want to buy Mama
    The big box of make-up
    She can’t afford
    Or pay for my own socks.
     
    But I want the five pounds too.
     
    I want the five pounds more.
     
    I make a fist around the note in my coat pocket.
     
    ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’ Mama says.
     
    Mama says, ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’
    Every day.
     
    Even when I’m not so good.

Road Atlas
     
    Mama found a map
    In a shop called
    The British Heart Foundation.
    She says:
               ‘Tata is somewhere in this city,
               And we are going to find him.’
    She speaks like an officer
    Commanding a line of troops –
    Forgetting we are only two
    And presuming I wish to enlist.
     
    She unfolds the map
    Across the floor
    To prepare a plan of attack,
    Flattens it carefully
    And says:
               ‘This is where we live,’
    And points, with a pencil,
    To an empty space.
               ‘How lucky we are,
               Kasienka, love.
               So close to Tata.
               He is here. Somewhere.’
     
    Mama looks up and I clap gently,
    Fraudulently applaud her project,
    While my insides tighten at one question:
    What happens if we find him?
     
    Mama waves the pencil over the map
    And it flutters from the movement in the air,
    As her heart must flutter
    Whenever she thinks of Tata.
     
    I wish my heart did that
               When I thought of him.
     
    Or anyone.
     
    But there is no space
    In my belly for butterflies.

The Odyssey
     
    I
     
    Mama makes me knock and
               I inch forward
    To tap lightly –
               Once.
     
    But when Mama tuts
    I knock again.
    Once.
               Twice.
                             Harder