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as she can admit,
    Or as happy as she can be for me.
     
    And for now, that’s OK.

Reunion
     
                                               I am sitting on the
                                     Front steps of our
                               Building, chewing on a
                     Peperami, waiting for William,
               When Kanoro arrives
    Without warning.
     
    I jump to greet him
    And he takes me
    Into his arms without embarrassment.
     
    ‘Where’s the birthday girl?’ he asks.
     
    Mama was standing at our window
    Watching me and is down the stairs
    Before I have a chance to answer.
     
    Mama runs to Kanoro.
     
    They look stupid together:
    Mama is bright-white.
    Kanoro is too-black against her.
    And yet, the picture is pretty good.

Treat
     
    Kanoro takes Mama to dinner.
    She wears a yellow dress
    And shoes so high
    She wobbles when she walks.
     
    Mama wore that dress once before,
    In Gdańsk,
    When Tata took her to the theatre
    And they came home
    Holding hands.
     
    But Mama and Kanoro
    Are not hand holding
    When they get back from dinner
    At all.
     
    They are holding their tummies
    Because they ate too many
    Tacos
     
    And then they are holding their sides
    Laughing.
     
     
    Kanoro sleeps on the couch
    And in the morning,
    After tea and toast,
    He honks his horn,
    Waves from the window of his
    New car and disappears
    On to the ring road.
     
    I watch Mama closely,
    Afraid she will rearrange herself
    Into grief.
     
    ‘People usually come back, Mama,’
    I say, and she nods
     
    As she folds the sheer yellow dress and
    Lays it neatly in a drawer.
     
    ‘I think I need a haircut,’ she says.

Resurrection
     
    Mama is alive again,
    A little bit alive.
     
    She isn’t singing.
    But now and then she
    Hums
    Without meaning to.

Side by Side
     
    Clair still stands in the centre
    Surrounded by a thick circle of girls.
     
    I can feel their desperation,
    The thirst for admission.
     
    It is a dance for popularity,
    Swapping places every day,
    Knowing that tomorrow
    Any one of them could be
                                out.  
     
    Maybe it’s lonely for Clair
                     There
               In the centre
    Directing the dance.
     
    She ignores me again,
    Which is better than being bullied.
     
    Dalilah and I stand together
                               Side by side.
    There is no one in the centre,
    We’re just looking out
    In the same direction
    Not desperately at one another
    Fearing betrayal.

Butterfly
     
    Now that I can front crawl,
    Back crawl,
    Breaststroke,
     
    I am breaking out.
    Ms Morrow is teaching me
               The butterfly.
     
    When I am in the water
    My body moves like a wave:
    There is a violence to it
    And a beauty.
     
    I lie on my breast,
    My arms outstretched
    My legs extended back –
    Waiting to kick.
     
    And I pull,
               Push,
                     Recover.
    This is how the Butterfly works.
     
     
    I have to hollow out spaces
    For breathing,
    And if I miss them
    I can’t swim.
     
    But I do.
    I know when to come up for air
    When to keep my head down.
     
    At practice,
    On the starting block
    I am not frightened at all:
     
    I am standing on my own,
    And it
    Never felt so good.

Acknowledgements
     
    This book might never have found the light were it not for several special people: my agent, the wonderful Julia Churchill, who worked tirelessly to read, edit and champion the project; everyone at Bloomsbury, especially my editor, Ele Fountain, for her hard work, insight and sensitivity; the Edward Albee Foundation (its founder and fellows), which gave me the space and time to complete this novel; my friends and early readers, Erin Whitcraft and Jill Wehler; the Hudson School, notably its principal and founder, Suellen Newman, who has always been a remarkable source of support and inspiration; Marta Gut for her invaluable cultural advice on Poland.