Kick the Moon
Page 4
‘One hunna,’ Noah agrees, filming it on his phone.
Imran laps up the praise, then tucks his vape pen inside his leather jacket, and my heart sinks. ‘All right, Ilyas. Back to work, my younger.’
‘I know the perfect place,’ I say, turning on my salesman pitch with what I hope is a winning smile. ‘Big massive wall, peng black finish—’
Imran’s fists make bunches out of my hoody, yanking me so close, I’m afraid he’s going to headbutt me. ‘Stop pissing about and get spraying or I’mma paint this garage door with your brains. You feel me?’
‘Hey,’ Daevon says, placing a restraining hand on Imran’s shoulder.
Imran glares for a second longer, then releases me. ‘You got five minutes.’ He sets the timer on his Apple Watch.
I look back and forth, searching for a way out of this mess. Wish I was PakCore in real life. Right now I’d use my amazing parkour skills: flip myself up on to the roof of the garage, take a running leap on to the next one, scuttle along the corrugated metal and—
‘Do it!’ Imran booms, jets of vapour blasting out of the double barrel of his nose and the corners of his mouth. The man looks like Satan.
I obediently flip the cap off a can and give it a good shake. The glass bead rattles around inside, setting my teeth on edge. Experimentally, I press the top. A fine mist of brown squirts out and splatters the silver surface of the garage door. I swirl the can in circles to get the basic head shape down, getting a feel for the pressure. Noah whoops, pulling a bottle of vodka out of his backpack. Next, I grab the red can for the baseball cap, testing it with the gentlest tap. Thick red paint, dark as congealed blood, oozes out. Harder to control than the brown, but changing to a super-skinny cap fixes that. By the time I grab the gold, I’m actually enjoying myself. My artistic soul handsprings and backflips across this huge canvas.
‘Call me Pak-Asso, cos I’m bringing desi back,’ I quip, totally in the zone.
‘Listen to this one!’ Imran says, reaching out for Noah’s bottle of vodka.
‘Pick up the pace, cuz …’ Daevon says, his voice as tense as a bowstring.
‘You all need to hush yourselves,’ I tell him, living in the canvas. ‘Art cannot be rushed.’
Then I hear it. A door creaking open in the distance, somewhere beyond the wooden fence. It takes a moment for me to realize the owner of this garage door – the one I’m tagging – is approaching.
‘Oh shit!’ I whisper, tossing the cans back in the bag.
Imran’s eyes drill into me. ‘Finish it.’ He shoves me so hard, I nearly kiss the wet paint.
With no choice but to continue, I spray on the D and the M, my heart hammering in my chest. The sound of slippered footfall grows louder.
‘Who’s there?’ asks a man on the other side of the fence.
Imran’s fingers curl over my shoulder like lever arches, fixing me in place. I can barely see through the sweat waterfalling over my eyes, but I keep going, adding accents and highlights.
‘I’m warning you! I’ve got a gun!’ the owner shouts, and suddenly I recognize the voice and nearly piss myself. It’s Mr Gordon, my old maths teacher.
Imran’s fingers burrow under my collarbone sending fresh jolts of pain skirting across my chest. Completing the tag, I hurriedly toss the cans back in the bag.
The side gate begins to rattle as multiple bolts are pulled back, each one like a gunshot. ‘Who’s there?’
Daevon’s hand finds mine, and he tugs. Suddenly I’m stumbling after him, being dragged away from the scene of my crime. Imran swings the bag of cans over his shoulder and runs like the Flash, practically hurdling over fences as he makes a smooth getaway. Noah charges up behind, blindsiding me with a massive shove. I catapult into some squelching mud, practically bodysurfing over it as the metallic scent of rain and rotting leaves fills my nose. Noah cackles, running in the opposite direction, shouting the filthiest cusses about Gordon’s wife. Clammy mud clings to me like a whale’s tongue, swallowing my hands and sucking at my jeans.
‘Get up, you idiot!’ Daevon hisses, yanking me to my feet. ‘Run!’
‘YAAARGH!’ roars Gordon, finally charging into the driveway.
My heart crashes in my chest when I see his rifle. Then the illusion fades. Mr Gordon is wearing a dark red dressing gown over stripy pyjamas and brandishing nothing more dangerous than a brolly. At any other time, I’d have died laughing. Daevon throws my hood over my face, spurring me on.
‘I’ve got you n-OOOOOOOW!’ Mr Gordon yells in surprise as he slips and goes down. His back hits the wet earth with a slap, and his grandad slippers go flying. The umbrella pops open. Gordon wriggles about in the mire, an overturned woodlouse trying to right itself.
‘Daev, we should help …’ I say, slowing down.
‘Help!’ Gordon wails. ‘Somebody help me, please! I’ve broken my back!’
‘Keep moving!’ Daevon shouts, shoving me. ‘Man’s bluffing.’
As I pump my legs, keeping pace with Daevon, I realize I’ve been played. Imran must have got into another argument with Gordon at school – something worse than the usual – and this was his idea of payback. Only now I’m an accessory. And if Gordon’s not faking, if his back is legit broken, I can add GBH to my growing list of crimes.
When I get home, I call out, but no one answers. I look up the stairs longingly, imagining clean water rushing over my sweaty body, washing away the custardy mud. First things first. I quickly rinse my hands and head out into the garden to let Sparkle stretch her legs.
‘Hey, girl!’ I say, lifting up the thick tarpaulin that covers her hutch. ‘Wassup?’
Sparkle glances over a polar-white shoulder, two beautiful blue marble eyes checking me out. She bounces over, rising on to her hind legs excitedly, nose twitching. I unbolt her door, but I’m too slow for her liking. Sparkle attacks the wire mesh window like a ninja bunny.
‘Easy! I gotcha,’ I say, opening her door.
My rabbit glances up at me expectantly, sniffing my hand, flipping it upside down with a nudge of her pink nose, searching for the hidden treat that I don’t have. I gently lift her up and carry her over to the rabbit run Dad bought Shaista. Nine years down the line, it’s starting to look shabby, but it does the job of keeping the foxes, cats and ravens out.
‘Man,’ I whisper. ‘All them bad tings trying to eat you. The Bunny Life ain’t good.’
Sparkle begins to work her strong hind legs free and kicks as we approach the pen. In her excitement, she scratches the insides of my wrists.
‘Easy there, Sparks …’ I say, cradling her in the crook of an arm and popping open the lock on the run. ‘There ya go!’ She vaults through the door in a perfect arc. Her paws have barely touched the ground before she does a double lap of the pen, and binkies with pleasure. I chuckle. ‘See you in a bit.’
I grab the wire brush Amma keeps in a ceramic pot on the patio and perch on the stone steps to scrape the mud off my trainers.
Back inside, I pull open the fridge door and make a grab for the orange juice. My hand hits a jug, and it comes tumbling out, spilling its contents down the front of my clothes.
‘Shit!’ I’m covered in a thick green mess and start to cough, realizing one of the main ingredients is finely chopped chillies. Need to get out of these clothes FAST.
‘Amma? Shais? Anybody home?’
Silence.
Ripping off my gloopy hoody and jeans, and peeling my muddy socks off, I bung the lot in the washing machine, creep along the hallway in my boxers, and bound up the stairs.
Suddenly there’s a fire in my pants. Panic grips me as I see the chilli sauce has soaked right through. Yanking my boxers down, I’m about to step out of them when I hear a laugh. Nearly giving myself a wedgie, I whip round.
There at the foot of the stairs is Shaista, holding up her phone, a Halloween-pumpkin grin carved into her over-powdered face.
‘Omigosh!’ I squeak, hugging myself. ‘Tell me you did not just see my bum.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ I break out in goose pimples.
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘Come on, Shais, man. Posting nudes is haram,’ I plead.
‘So are the websites you go on. Yeah, I checked your browser history, Mr Haram Police.’ The gloating switches to confusion. ‘Got to admit, I am a little disappointed. Always figured you were gay.’
‘Come on, man!’ I‘m literally begging now. ‘Taking pics of your naked little brother is rank!’
She yawns languidly. ‘Oh I’ll happily delete it, but on one condition. Amma asked me to hoover the house before she gets back. You do it.’
‘But Dad told me to mow the lawn!’
‘Well then, you’ll just have to do both. That is unless you want your pathetic mates laughing at your even more pathetic unmentionables.’
‘I-I-I called out, and no one answered,’ I say foolishly, as if I can logic away the last five minutes.
‘And that, right there, was your downfall. Don’t be so trusting, ickle Ilyas. The villains shall inherit the earth!’
‘Assalaamu alaykum, kids!’ Amma calls from the corridor.
Shais skips along to help with the shopping. ‘Are you all right, Amma?’ she asks, shoving the heavy bags at me and smirking. ‘Notice anything?’
Amma studies us both – looking for war wounds (mine are all psychological) – then glances down. ‘Oh the carpets are clean!’
‘Of course,’ says Shais. ‘I’m the perfect daughter.’
‘Yes you are!’ Amma says, planting a kiss on my evil sister’s cheek.
Oh well, I think. At least I get to keep my privates private.
‘I mowed the lawn, Amma,’ I point out, angling for some love.
‘Did you, though?’ Shais asks, glancing back at me sternly.
I look at her in shock before understanding how this is going to play out.
‘No,’ I mumble. ‘Shais did that too.’
‘Goodness me, we have been busy!’ Amma says, grinning at Shais. ‘Well you’ve earned your favourite meal tonight. Ilyas can you put the shopping away, please, since you got your sister to do your chores.’
I open my mouth, then close it. Amma is watching me closely. ‘Sorry, Amma.’ I lumber to the kitchen with the bags.
Shais pokes me and grins. ‘How does it feel, ickle Ily?’
‘Least we’re even.’
‘Not even close.’ She winks and sashays away.
The weekend rolls around, and I’m up in my room working on my latest PakCore story arc. The pictures come easy. The words? Not so much. Right now, all I know is I want PakCore to burst into a massive wedding hall, hot on the heels of a double agent, with tables, chairs and canapés flying like a hurricane hit them. I picture PakCore leaping over an enormous wedding cake, the ruffles of his mask flapping in the wind, right leg scything forwards.
I lay a few guidelines down on a blank page, trying to pin down my chaotic imagination. Gradually it starts to come together. It always does, but even after all these years of drawing, there’s still that paralysing self-doubt. It’s always crap till it’s finished.
Good. Great. Now for the face …
I pull out my phone and flick through my photos. Imran playing basketball. Imran playing football. Imran climbing a tree. Imran smoking shisha. Imran vaping O’s.
Guilt bubbles in my belly. I don’t want to be creepy, and I would totally base PakCore on my own looks if I could, but who’d want to read a comic about a skinny kid with a big nose? Even nerdy Peter Parker is shredded. Let’s face it: Imran lucked out on both the genetics lottery and the confidence thing. It’s like he believes in himself so much, he’s got the entire universe believing in him too. That’s the superhero life, not my life.
The last time I showed any of my friends my comic was back in Year 9.
‘Cool pics, bro,’ Daevon had said in a way that meant the exact opposite.
‘But?’ I said, sensing unsaid words teetering on the edge of his sentence.
He looked at me and smirked. ‘Come on, man. We’re not kids any more. Comics are for losers.’
‘No they’re not!’
He gave me a look. ‘OK – if they’re not, then how comes Comic Book guy from The Simpsons is a fat old loser who everyone laughs at?’
‘That’s just stereotyping …’
‘You know it ain’t. You’re lying to yourself, mate.’
‘I’m not! All the biggest movies are based off of comics.’
‘Yeah that’s movies. Normal people with normal lives watch movies. It’s freaks and geeks who camp outside the cinema for the premiere, then go online and bitch about how much they switched things up from the original source material. Those are the kinds of people who live, breathe and die comics, fam.’
‘Comics are cool,’ I said, refusing to let it go. ‘I’m telling you: it’s a fricking goldmine.’
Daevon sighed, cracking his knuckles. ‘OK – if you’re telling me drawing comics isn’t major cringe, how comes you’re not showing this stuff to Imran or Noah then?’
I shrugged. ‘Noah’s a prick.’
‘And Imran?’ He placed a hand on my sagging shoulders. ‘Sorry, man, but the sooner you get your nose out of comics, the sooner you’ll land an actual girlfriend. You do not want to end up fapping over Power Girl for the rest of your life. Facts.’
It hurt more than it would if it had come from Noah or Imran. Daevon was my first friend, but while he kept changing, I was stuck with being me.
‘So,’ Imran says, his voice like a strummed double bass. ‘Ms Mughal, eh?’
We’re hanging in the playground before maths, sharing a bag of chips Imran blagged off some Year 8 fangirls.
My boys are upset because Gordon’s giving them a test next period. Apparently he was lying about breaking his back on Sunday. He’s in school and saltier than ever.
‘Yeah, lucky me,’ I say, shrugging. ‘She’s the realest teacher in this school.’
‘Looks like a supermodel,’ Imran says, caressing his lower lip in a way that makes me uncomfortable. ‘I like her big juicy … lips.’
‘Stoppit, man!’ I snap. ‘She’s a hijabi.’
‘More like hijabae.’ Imran grins hungrily, stroking his abs.
‘Come on, bruv,’ Daevon says. ‘You wouldn’t be saying stuff about a pretty nun, would you?’
‘Ms Mughal knows how to get the D,’ says Noah, making grabby hands.
Imran slams him against a wall. ‘Taking it too far, man.’
Daevon and I exchange a surprised look.
Noah nods, flushing. Boy got owned. This is how Imran rolls: from time to time, he’ll get rough with us, just to remind us that it’s him who makes the rules, and he can change them without notice.
He and Gordon aren’t so different. Gordon’s setting his class a test he knows they’ll fail. Classic shake-up strategy. Remind people who’s top dog through fear and humiliation.
‘Laters,’ I say, using the awkward moment to make a quick exit.
‘Oi, listen!’ Imran says, making me wince.
I turn around, and he sticks some money in my pocket. Two fifties.
‘Nah, you keep it.’ I pull the notes back out, feeling guilty enough about wrecking Gordon’s garage door without taking money for it.
He snatches the notes out of my hand and slips them back inside my pocket with a firm pat. ‘This weekend, we’re hitting up more places. DedManz for life, yeah?’ He makes the bro hand signal: little and ring fingers extended, hand held to his heart.
My shoulders slouch as I return the signal. How did I ever get involved with these sexist clowns? Oh well, I think. Maybe I can pay Shais off to stop her from leaking my nudes?
That evening, I’m chilling with a bag of Wotsits and a chocolate doughnut watching CB
BC. The programme is cheesier than the corn puffs, but watching kids’ TV is therapy. Adults don’t get how stressful being a teenager is. Sometimes you just need to kick back and remember the days before life got complicated.
On the show, there’s a gang of misfits getting bullied by this nasty senior who everyone loves because she’s captain of the cheerleading squad. The kids put itching powder in her uniform. She goes on to perform a cheer, which predictably goes wrong, and the entire pyramid of girls comes crashing down. It’s always fun to watch the bully get wrecked.
Laughing along with the misfits gets me thinking, and before I know it, I’m hatching my own fiendish plan to get even with Shaista.
I leave the TV playing as I sneak into the dining room. Inside the cupboard is a plastic tub we store medicines in – plasters, painkillers and ancient vitamins nobody uses any more …
‘Gotcha!’
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure I’m not being watched, I skim the instructions. The plan is to get Shaista out of my face, not to kill her. I pop out a few tablets from a blister pack, grinning. Operation Nude Photo Deletion is well under way.
At dinner-time, I hover around the kitchen, being extra helpful, looking for an opening to execute my plan. Finally the perfect chance presents itself, and I pull out the balled tissue in my pocket containing the crushed tablets, liberally seasoning Shaista’s dinner plate and giving it a good mix.
‘My – you’re being helpful today!’ Amma says.
‘No!’ I say, before realizing this is every guilty person’s first response ever. ‘What you saying, Amma? I’m always helpful.’
‘And I thank Allah for it every day,’ she says, making the chai.
I carry Shais and Dad’s plates through to the dining room, reminding myself that it’s all for the greater good.
‘Lovely jubbly!’ Dad says, rubbing his hands together, inhaling the warm aroma of basmati rice and chicken ginger karahi.
‘Amma!’ Shais cries, making my stomach drop.
‘Yes, beyta?’ Amma says, peering through the serving hatch between the kitchen and dining room.
My sister waves her hands with excitement. ‘This tastes even better than Auntie Ambreen’s version.’