The video comes to an end, and a tsunami of applause follows. A few kids sing the chorus on loop, not ready to let go of the good vibes just yet.
‘RESPECT!’ I shout, raising my fist into the air.
Daevon does the same. ‘Mad ting!’ he adds, grinning from ear to ear.
Some of the Year 10s start ululating and whooping, but they’re trying too hard. Their head of year starts taking names, which shuts them up fast.
Mrs Waldorf smiles superiorly as if the love in the room is all for her. ‘Well!’ she says, trying to get everyone’s attention. Good luck with that. ‘Didn’t they do well? Let’s have another round of applause for the Morocco-trip students and Mrs Wallington.’
Afrobeats give me life. The La Senza Scandal is forgotten, banished to the darkest reaches of the multiverse. Roll on, period one.
I’m in the lower set for maths. My whole mandem is, but I bring the algebra. To be honest, it’s kind of distracting always having to pass my book over to Imran, Daevon and Noah so they can take pics, then copy my answers. Plus, every time I get one wrong, I’m guaranteed a smack. Maths is starting to give me concussion.
Our teacher is Mr Gordon, a lanky, grey-haired dude with a nose like a parrot’s beak, and a moustache the size of a USB port. Gordon resents having to teach a lower-ability set. That’s what I think, anyway, but Imran has other ideas. Reckons the man’s a racist cos apparently he spotted him on this anti-immigrant march one time on the news. I think Imran’s just pissed off cos Gordon keeps giving him detentions for not doing homework. Besides, guys like Imran don’t even watch the news.
‘Here he is!’ says Imran, announcing me as I enter the classroom. He’s wearing a claret-and-gold Cleveland Cavaliers hoody, a pen wedged behind his ear. Gordon is going to be vexed. Imran knows hoodies are banned, but I suppose arguing about it means less time doing maths.
‘Oh shit!’ Daevon says. ‘You done the homework, bro? Cos I totally forgot.’
‘Forgot, or couldn’t be arsed?’ says Noah, chuckling.
‘Look, guys,’ I say, trying to muster up some courage. Having practised my speech in the bathroom mirror every morning of half-term, the words should roll off my tongue. Only mine are a jumble of letters, melting on my tongue like Alphabetti Spaghetti. ‘If you copy from me all the time, yeah, what you gonna do when it’s the actual exams?’
‘Don’t hold out on us, fam.’ Imran glares at me, hand extended for my book like it’s a foregone conclusion.
‘I’m not,’ I say quickly. ‘But you guys know what Gordon’s like! Copy one of my mistakes, and we all get detention. Or a phone call home.’
‘Let us worry about that,’ Imran says, fingers flexing for my book.
I feel blood rise to my face, dew forming on every strand of my fuzzy moustache.
‘No,’ I say, raising a finger.
The room falls silent, and I am suddenly aware of dozens of pairs of eyes watching us.
I lick my lips. ‘Amma is sick of getting calls from Gordon saying I copied you when it’s always the other way around. I ain’t doing that to her no more. She’s had enough stress with my big bro pissing off to America.’
Daevon has the decency to look ashamed. ‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right. I’ll take the L.’
Imran’s eyes flash at me, and it’s as if he’s casting a spell over my hand. It slips into my bag, ready to hand my homework over – the homework I spent ages doing by watching a ton of YouTube videos presented by teachers who could actually teach, instead of confuse-the-hell-out-of-you Gordon. No, no, no! I scream silently at my hand. You have to stand up for yourself.
‘Oi! Hand it over,’ Imran barks, boiling over with impatience.
‘Well, what a nice surprise!’ Mr Gordon says in his nasal voice, misinterpreting the tense silence in the room. ‘We’re certainly getting off on the right foot this term, aren’t we? Guess you lot have finally realized you only have seven months left to scrape through with those Fives. Stranger things have happened …’
Imran’s basketball-honed hands shoot out and grip my bag. I cry out in surprise as he rips it from my fingers, giving me burns.
Gordon traps me in his crosshairs. ‘Nice to see you on your feet, Mr Mian. No, no. Don’t sit down. Your genius has finally revealed you’re a cut above these dunderheads. You’re being moved up two sets. Cheerio!’
I blink in surprise as Gordon sits down behind his desk and unlocks the computer.
‘You still here?’ Gordon asks, looking like he’s just swallowed a kangaroo anus left over from last year’s I’m A Celebrity. ‘Skedaddle, Mr Mian. Skedaddle!’
‘Sir, are you saying I’m in set two?’ I stammer, unable to believe it, because good stuff never happens to me.
‘Cor blimey!’ he sneers. ‘If you can’t even subtract two from four, then perhaps you shouldn’t be moving up at all.’
‘My boy’s moving up to Ms Mughal’s class. Represent!’ says Daevon, fist pumping in celebration.
I throw him a grateful glance. Imran shoots my bag at my chest, and I catch it, absorbing the impact with my puny arms.
‘Go on then. Piss off,’ he hisses.
‘Language, Mr Akhtar!’ Gordon trills.
‘Oh sorry,’ Imran says, canines glinting like daggers. ‘Dafa ho, panchod.’
My mouth drops open at the insult.
‘Speak words we can all understand!’ snaps Gordon.
I leave them to it. The first day of term just got a whole lot better. Without my mates dragging me down or Mr Gordon confusing me, maybe I can get a decent grade in maths after all? Everyone knows maths and English are the subjects you need to pass if you don’t want to end up cleaning toilets for the rest of your life.
I gangsta walk it to my new classroom, feeling little explosions of happiness going off in my chest. In my mind, I’m PakCore, patrolling Stanley Park, keeping these ends safe. At the first sign of danger, my hands will swing out, making the Sign of Wahid. This, I imagine, is how I’d summon mystical energies from the universe to aid in my fight against evil. Fingers raking through the air, snipping apart atoms, setting off a chain reaction of incredible power. A dazzling glow will envelop me, replacing my civilian clothes with a totally dope superhero costume. Jade and black leather, studded with silver Urdu letters, and a glowing green trim that accentuates every muscle and supercharges them. Approaching the door, the knock I give is anything but ordinary. It’s a super-knock.
‘Come in!’ a friendly voice calls.
I don’t know Ms Mughal all that much, never been lucky enough to be in any of her classes, but I’ve seen her around, rocking her black hijab/jilbab combo. She’s up at the interactive board, waving long, slim arms at a colourful display. On it is an algebra question; one I have zero clue how to answer. Uh-oh …
‘Stormzy!’ I cry, pointing at the bottom-right corner of the screen in surprise.
Her large green eyes glance at the image, and she smiles. Wow – I never noticed before, but Ms Mughal looks like a supermodel. ‘Oh, Mr Omari’s a regular here.’ Turning to face the class, she says, ‘Everyone, this is Ilyas Mian, who’s joining us today. Be nice and say hey.’
‘Hey, Ilyas Mian!’ the class says in unison, waving.
‘A’ight.’ I nod, keeping it icy.
‘Ilyas, can we have you next to Kara, please,’ Ms Mughal says, pointing the way.
‘Oh hell naw!’ Kara says, making me blush. She’s a mixed-race girl with tight cinnamon curls, prominent freckles, and eyes the colour of honey.
‘Don’t worry, Kara. I’m sure he won’t mind,’ Ms Mughal replies with a mischievous wink.
Everyone bursts out laughing as Kara blushes. Soon she’s giggling too, moving her bag off my designated seat. And suddenly I realize there’s a vibe in this class I haven’t seen since primary school. People are actually cool with each other. Man, did I luck out.
The hour goes by in a crazy blur, and it’s nothing like a regular maths lesson. Turns out Stormzy isn’t the only celeb Ms
Mughal’s mates with. Taylor Swift, Kwamz, Zayn Malik, Ed Sheeran, and Maya Angelou all put in appearances on her slide show. The thing is, it’s still all about the maths, just a thousand times more relevant to our lives. By the end of the lesson, I’m solving simultaneous equations like a pro. This has me low-key believing I might actually be on my way to hitting a grade six.
‘Your homework is online. Do it, or else.’ Ms Mughal’s warning finger swings out like a shotgun, and people chuckle.
Ray, a tall blond kid who sits at the front, clutches his chest and hits the ground. ‘Miss just shot me! Tell my family I love them.’
Ms Mughal throws open the door, and everyone waits patiently as a Somali girl in a motorized wheelchair rolls down the aisle. ‘See you tomorrow, Nawal!’ she says brightly.
‘Beep-beep, people!’ Nawal says zooming into the corridor. ‘Out the way, unless you want me to run you down.’
‘OK, off you go, beautiful people!’ Ms Mughal says as the pips go, sweeping us out of her room with a wave.
I watch the rest of the class say bye to Ms Mughal on the way out, but feel too weird doing it myself. So my watch becomes the perfect distraction.
‘Hey,’ she says, stopping me. Not the perfect distraction. ‘How was it?’
‘Yeah, yeah. All right,’ I mumble, scratching behind an ear. ‘Like, good.’
‘You ever feel you don’t understand anything, you’re always welcome to come see me for extra help. OK?’
‘Thanks,’ I say, ducking out.
Suddenly the corridor has shrunk to the size of a crawl tunnel. I stumble along, feeling too big and clumsy for the world. I hope Ms Mughal doesn’t think I’m a rude boy, but talking to teachers is just another thing I’m crap at.
Jade’s galdem are gathered by the lockers. A girl wearing her hair in space buns is holding her nails out for her mates to admire.
‘Totes amazing, Melanie!’ squeals one of her friends.
‘Right?’ agrees Melanie, demonstrating a variety of sexy Catwoman poses.
‘Where’d you get them done?’ asks Jade.
‘There’s this place on the high street called Flawless. Oh my God, like all the workers are Asian girls who can’t speak a word of English!’
‘Yeah, what’s up with that?’ Jade says, nodding.
‘The Viet girl who does mine is really pretty!’ Kelly says. ‘Like Jennie from BlackPink.’
Her friends wear blank expressions.
‘From K-pop?’ she offers.
‘Not to discourage you, hon, but your nails look a little rough,’ Jade says sympathetically. ‘You should try Flawless.’
‘It’s not the nails; it’s her man-hands,’ says Melanie. ‘They’re too chunky.’
‘Mel!’ Jade shakes her head at her disapprovingly. ‘Don’t be mean.’
‘So anyways, I read somewhere that they all get human-trafficked from North Korea.’
My jaw drops. Kelly spots me and blushes. One by one, the other girls clock me too.
‘Yes, can we help you?’ Jade asks pointedly, placing delicate hands on a size-zero waist, burning me with her laser vision.
Jade just spoke to me for the first time since Year 7. This is supposed to be the greatest day of my life.
I drop my eyes and hurry off, hearing her say, ‘Honestly, I see that boy everywhere.’
‘Oooh! Jade has a stalker.’
They burst out laughing.
At break-time, I see my mates playing football on the field with a bunch of scary-ass sixth-formers. Noah and Daevon hold back a little, but Imran is fearless. He dribbles the ball towards a meathead, feints left, then thunders right, the ball tracking his foot like magic. Two players try to tackle him, but he’s already sprinting towards the goal, topknot flapping in the wind, muscles vibrating. Imran is drama incarnate.
Before I even know what I’m doing, my phone is out, and I’m snapping pics of him. Noah glances up at me, which quickly brings me to my senses. I turn my phone round and start talking into it, walking off as fast as I can.
With nothing better to do, I head for my safe space: the gap under the stairs in the science block. Unfortunately a supply teacher is on guard, banishing anyone seeking shelter. The woman must be descended from those stingy innkeepers who wouldn’t give Mary and Joseph a place to crash. But if DedManz has taught me anything, it’s Finessing 101. Rule number one: act like you’re doing something perfectly legit, and people won’t bother you.
‘And where do you think you’re going, young man?’ booms the woman, intercepting me immediately.
Rule number two …
I give her Shocked Face, which is guaranteed to cause extreme levels of self-doubt. Use with caution.
‘Ms Wallington told me to come for detention?’ I make it sound like a question, as if she should already know this.
‘Oh I see,’ she says momentarily softening before thinking better of it. ‘And where is this detention?’
Rule number three …
I point up the staircase, ‘Room thirty-three G, third floor. Come up with me if you want?’
‘No, that’s all right,’ she says, as if I just asked her up to my bedroom or something. ‘Just hurry up then.’
Giving a salute, I meander towards the stairs. Once her back is turned, I skid into the dark place under the stairs. Thirty seconds to make sure I haven’t been seen, then I silently unzip my bag and pull out my sketch pad.
Flipping to a blank page, I arrange my special art pencils in a semi-circle close to my right thigh and pull out my phone. I swipe through the pictures I just took of Imran, searching for the perfect look – that unique mix of bravery, determination and cockiness that is SO PakCore. Not easy when you don’t have the guts to ask someone to pose for you. Really I should man up and ask him instead of going all stalkerazzi. Maybe he’d be flattered by the idea of having a comic book hero modelled after him?
Yeah, and pork chops are halal …
My finger hits the perfect shot.
Placing my phone on the floor, I sketch a skull shape on my pad, then go in with a softer pencil, marking in the hollows of the eyes, the strong bridge of the nose, and the squareness of the jaw. As I’m doing all this, I begin to imagine what it must be like to be Imran. A natural-born leader, a gyalis like no other, and the undisputed MVP of Stanley Park Academy. What does the world look like when you’re so tall, your head is practically saying ‘Yo!’ to the clouds? What does it feel like to fear nobody – bullies, teachers or parents?
Working my way down the torso, chiselling away at his abs with a medium graphite pencil, I find myself thinking about Imran’s family situation. It’s hard to feel sorry for the guy everyone wants to be, but actually his life is kind of sad. His dad walked out on them when Imran was only seven. Rumours have it he ran off with some desi babe half his age, but Imran’s mum claims he’s a huge landowner in Pakistan, regularly sending cash over to support them. While it’s true Imran’s never short of a few quid, I once overheard Auntie Simrat telling Amma that something seriously dodgy is going on with vans regularly bringing stuff in and out of their house under cover of darkness.
As I add shading to PakCore’s eyes, I realize this is the one and only bit of myself I’m transferring over to the character. Hazel eyes gleaming through his black eye mask, the ties at the back of his head rippling in the wind like cobras attacking in tandem. Ten minutes in, the image has become my best yet. If I had one shot to present PakCore to the world, this picture would be it. My heart races, imaging PakCore becoming the Next Big Thing, licensed for comics and movies and action figures.
Reality check: if Amir won’t take over the family business, I have to. Haji Mian & Sons has been in the family for three generations. It’s survived riots, recessions, and competition from supermarkets. Who am I to turn my nose up at all that history?
The pips go, and I gather up my stuff.
Sunday afternoon, I’m hanging with the guys in somebody’s muddy alleyway, wishing Dad hadn’t answered the
door to them after I’d told him not to.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, as Imran tosses a drawstring gym bag at my feet. It lands with a metallic clang. Inside are shiny cans of spray paint and a small packet of caps. I look up at Imran, but already know the answer to my next question.
‘That gang tag you come up with for DedManz? You’re gonna do a nice big one right there.’ He points at a pristine double garage door, the roller kind made of thick strips of metal.
‘Who lives there?’ I ask. Vandalizing somebody’s property is next level, but I can’t think of a way out of it. Delay tactics are the best I’ve got.
‘Shah Rukh Khan,’ Imran says sarcastically. ‘Just do your thing, and we can bounce.’ He pulls out his designer vape pen and starts puffing mini rings that smell like watermelon.
‘How do you even do that?’ Daevon asks.
‘Double Os? That ain’t nothing. Watch this,’ Imran says, loading his lungs with vape.
We stand back and give the man some room. With luck, Imran’s ego will get so bloated, he’ll forget this tagging madness, and we can go chicken shop.
Imran opens his mouth and blows a big-ass cloud of steam. His hands fly out, sculpting it into a white sphere. Without missing a beat, he surrounds it with a stream of mini rings, then sweeping his hands like Mandrake the Magician, creates a vape solar system before the whole thing dissipates.
I gasp. ‘Man, that is fire!’
Kick the Moon Page 3