Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  I’m a regular Gordon Ramsay. It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, and Shaista still hasn’t answered the call of nature. What’s her stomach made of – cast iron? She’s locked in her room filming a video for one of her hair-and-make-up vlogs. With over twenty-one thousand subscribers to her channel, that’s an awful lot of impressionable girls being led astray by my evil sis.

  I lurk outside her door, hearing her laugh at her own jokes as she serves up beauty ‘hacks’. The more I listen, the more confused I get. A zombie alien speaking an intergalactic language, she’s on about ‘dupes’ and ‘glass skin’, ‘jade rollers’ and ‘Kabuki’. Don’t even try telling me that’s normal.

  Suddenly she goes quiet. The sound of an almighty fart permeates the silence. I hear the frantic hiss of perfume being squirted like a full-on fumigation mission. Her door flies open before I can duck and run. Shaista spots me but is too preoccupied with holding her stomach to realize how high-key suspicious this all is.

  ‘Don’t go in my room,’ she snaps, brandishing a nail like a scalpel.

  ‘Like I’d want to!’ I call after her as she crab-walks to the bathroom.

  ‘I’m serious. I’ve hooked up my vlogging camera and—’ Her stomach gives an unholy gurgle, and the look on her face is priceless. ‘Just don’t!’ She slams the bathroom door.

  The door has barely shut before I hear her cry out in surprise. A sound like a trombone blares out.

  ‘You left me no choice, sis …’ I whisper under my breath, trying not to laugh. If she’d taken the tag money I’d offered this morning, the laxatives wouldn’t be necessary.

  I sneak into her room, scanning for her webcam. It’s in its usual filming spot, but the green button is flashing, which means it’s on pause. I hurry over to her purple-and-gold chaise longue, from where she presents her weekly vlogs like a true diva. A massive glowing halo of light dazzles me. Apparently Kim Kardashian started a trend with the promise that good lighting gives the same effect as all her plastic surgery. My eyes settle on a clutch of egg-shaped sponges in clear plastic cups.

  ‘Embryos,’ I mutter. ‘Girl’s growing an army of mutant zombies.’

  Sometimes companies send Shais free stuff to try out for a video review. Apparently this boosts sales. Guess they must specialize in Halloween merch.

  I hunt for her phone, looking high and low and everywhere in between. It suddenly occurs to me that she might have taken it into the bathroom with her. Frustration grips me before I spot her familiar diamante phone charm, glittering brightly on a table. Pressing the home button, I’m immediately prompted for her passcode. No problem. From all the years’ experience of stealing her diary to draw pictures in, I know that she always writes her passwords and pin numbers in the back. Within seconds, I’ve found her diary, and the passcode is mine.

  The squeak of a tap makes me gasp. Time is running out.

  Sweat beads my brow as I flick through her photos, trying to locate the nude of me she had no business taking. There are literally a million filtered selfies of her pulling weird faces in a thousand different poses. Then – worse than all of that – an image of my sister in a bright orange bikini.

  Going through her private stuff is so wrong. But desperate times …

  The phone rings, and I nearly hurl it out of the window in surprise. Getting it under control, I catch the caller ID: Zaman. The only Zaman I know is Imran’s cousin who works at Dad’s store. But that guy is a legit gangsta.

  Last summer, I caught sight of a dog tattoo on Zaman’s abs while he was changing a light bulb. He started acting seriously sketchy when I asked him about it, claiming it was something he did for a dare when he was younger. Of course, being a lifelong sufferer of Nosy-Kid-itis, I immediately searched for it online and found out the tattoo belongs to DX Dingoes – one of the roughest gangs in south London. I told Dad, but he said it wasn’t right to judge a person by their past.

  Still, the caller has to be a different guy. Shais is too high maintenance to date somebody with a gangsta past.

  The sound of rushing water startles me. Guess the laxatives worked a little too well.

  ‘Stay focused!’ I tell myself, swiping like a lunatic, keeping my eyes peeled for the photo that has given me sleepless nights. Finally I hit the jackpot. Only it’s worse than I thought. Shaista hadn’t just taken a picture – she’d filmed me bounding up the stairs like some discount stripper. What kind of twisted person would do that to their own flesh and blood? It confirms everything I have always suspected: my sister is a member of the Illuminati.

  The flush goes, jerking me back to reality. With a couple more taps, the shameful video is banished to the Twelfth Dimension. Mission accomplished, I sprint out of the room.

  ‘What you got there?’ Daevon asks at break-time in the cafeteria.

  ‘Lamb samosa,’ I say, holding the tub out to him. Four golden envelopes of crispy deliciousness sit inside a nest of kitchen towels.

  ‘Nice one!’ Noah says, snatching the tub and grabbing three samosas.

  ‘Give ’em back!’ I roar.

  He locks eyes with me and licks, saliva linking the samosas together like savoury bunting. I yank my tub back a second faster than he can defile the last one. His drool splatters the table instead.

  ‘You’re an arsehole!’ I say, fuming. Then turning to Daevon, I offer the solitary untarnished samosa.

  ‘Nah, blud. I’m on a diet,’ he says gloomily.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, tucking into it myself, savouring the rich and spicy taste. Daevon has always been a bigger guy, and honestly it suits him. Trying to imagine a skinny version of my mate does my head in.

  Imran crashes at our table, chuckling. Everyone stiffens. ‘If man’s changing his habits, gotta be a girl involved.’ He chucks a stick of gum in his mouth, the mouldy stink of skunk radiating off him. ‘How you getting on with the DedManz challenge, lads?’

  ‘Yeah, so me and Denusha went Westfield cos she needed some new kicks,’ Daevon says reluctantly.

  ‘Big mistake,’ Imran says sagely. ‘Don’t let some girl boss you around, fam.’

  Daevon droops. ‘Long story short: we end up in the toilets, and she’s grinding on me. Man gets hot. So I start filming. “You filming me?” she says. “How’d you like it if I filmed your fat belly!” Then she starts beating me up. Telling you, man, I could not get out of there fast enough!’

  ‘Daevon got Solanged!’ Imran says as everyone cracks up.

  Daevon bristles, jabbing Noah. ‘What you laughing for? Like you got any.’

  ‘From yo momma!’ Noah says, nodding.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Ignore this fool. No woman’s ever letting him within a mile of her.’

  ‘Except one did,’ Imran says, stretching. ‘Noah sent me the video, and I uploaded it to a porn site.’

  Noah and Imran fist bump.

  ‘What about you then?’ Daevon asks, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

  ‘Me?’ Imran says, wide-eyed and innocent. He leans back and shouts. ‘Yo! Jasmine! Over here, gyal.’

  Jasmine blushes as her group of friends giggle and poke her. Hastily running fingers through her hair, as if getting ready for a selfie, Jasmine trips over to our table. ‘You all right, bae?’ she asks.

  The look in her eye, the tinkle in her voice: Uh-oh, I think. This poor girl is in love.

  ‘Where was I last night?’ Imran asks, his hand spanning the width of her waist as he draws her closer. Her skirt has been rolled so short that the sudden movement gives us a flash of mint green knickers.

  Jasmine’s eyes widen, glancing at me and the boys nervously as if to remind Imran they have company.

  ‘Forget them,’ Imran says, vanquishing us with a flick of his wrist. ‘They ain’t nobody. Now, where was man last night?’

  She flushes, shoulders rolling like pistons. ‘We was together.’

  ‘And what did you do for me?’ Imran asks, like the skunk has given him amn
esia.

  ‘Allow it,’ I say, feeling for Jasmine.

  ‘You know,’ she says, giggling nervously. Her eyes are glossy, and sweat is making her foundation gather at the corners of her nose.

  ‘Wanna be my girl, Jas?’ Imran asks, squinching like a supermodel, thick eyelashes framing his narrowed eyes.

  ‘I am your girl …’ she whimpers.

  Imran has reduced her to a baby afraid of having its rattle snatched. This is so wrong.

  He spreads his long legs like the jaws of a shark and pats his left thigh. Jasmine obediently climbs on. Imran casually plants a hand horribly close to her crotch, and I’m silently begging for a teacher to spot them and bring an end to this madness. But this is the DedManz corner of the dinner hall, specifically chosen for being a major blind spot.

  ‘The sort of girl I want isn’t ashamed of her man. So, let’s try this one more time. What did you do for me last night?’ Imran stares into her eyes, his face predatory and handsome.

  ‘I … showed you my moves …’ she says, hanging her head so her hair forms a modesty curtain between us.

  Imran shoves her hair back and lifts her chin. ‘Moves? What, we in primary school now?’

  ‘But you know.’ Jasmine pokes his chest in a horrible combination of desperation and playfulness. ‘Why do I have to—’

  He grips her jaw with a viciousness that makes my heart jump into my throat. ‘Cos I said, innit? If you want to be my woman, spell it out for my friends here.’ He twists her head round to face us, but I’m the one blushing.

  ‘I gave Imran a lap dance,’ she says reluctantly.

  ‘What kind of lap dance?’ he asks, practically chewing her ear off.

  ‘A naked one,’ she admits.

  His hand slides up her chest till I’m afraid he’s going to make her do it again right here in the dinner hall. ‘Now get off me. I don’t date sluts.’

  Jasmine looks at him in horror seconds before he gives her a shove. She hits the floor with a thwack, mint pants on show for the world to see. The humiliation in her eyes is unbearable.

  Noah starts hooting with laughter, snapping pics. Daevon covers his mouth, but within seconds, spittle and laughter burst through. Having witnessed the whole thing, Jasmine’s mates rush over to help her up, blasting Imran with death stares.

  ‘What?’ he retorts, but no one challenges him.

  Nobody ever challenges him.

  ‘Mission complete!’ Noah says, saluting Imran.

  ‘Nah, rules is rules,’ Imran says. ‘Didn’t think that bitch was worth filming. I’m picking someone better for the Challenge.’

  I grab my stuff and run from the scene like a coward, wishing I had the guts to call Imran out.

  Maths is after lunch, and it’s such a relief. Ms Mughal’s classroom has become my sanctum sanctorum. So it comes as a nasty surprise when I see each desk bearing a little sheet of fluorescent yellow paper. Nothing screams Fail! louder than a surprise test on radioactive paper.

  ‘Turn that frown upside down, mister!’ Ms Mughal says wagging a finger at me. ‘It’s a game, not a test.’

  ‘Oh, bingo!’ says Kara happily, unhooking her backpack from her shoulders. ‘Yay!’

  ‘What’s bingo got to do with maths?’ I ask quietly as Ms Mughal calls the register.

  ‘Are you serious? We play it, like, all the time. Who was your teacher before?’

  ‘Mr Gordon.’

  ‘Whoa! My cousin’s in his class, and every lesson, she feels like she’s actually getting dumber.’

  ‘Your cousin ain’t wrong.’

  ‘Hey, wait. If you came from Gordon’s class, you must be some kind of genius to jump two sets.’

  ‘I’m no genius,’ I say miserably.

  ‘OK!’ Ms Mughal says, minimizing the register on the screen and springing up from her chair. ‘Who’s going to remind us of the rules?’

  As she says this, she sidles towards the door and executes a solid back kick, slamming the door shut without breaking a sweat. I glance around, but nobody else seems impressed by this. Tough crowd.

  Ray puts his hand up and explains the basics of maths bingo.

  ‘Thank you, Ray. OK – who wants to start us off?’ Ms Mughal says, holding up the largest die I have ever laid eyes on. ‘Ilyas, how about you?’

  The red inflatable cube flips through the air, and I catch it. ‘Can I keep it?’

  Ms Mughal laughs, shaking her head. ‘One throw is all you get.’

  I stand up, and put a spin on the die as I throw it, narrowly missing the lighting.

  ‘Come on, lucky five!’ I say rubbing my hands together.

  It lands on a two. On the interactive board is a set of multicoloured buttons with numbers on. Miss taps a two, and a question pops up on the screen inside a balloon.

  ‘Solve the question, then cross off the answer if it’s on your bingo card.’ Ms Mughal is bouncing on the balls of her feet enthusiastically.

  I know it’s only a revision game with no actual prize, but I really want to win. Channelling Black Panther’s sister Shuri, with her genius-level intellect, I work through the question as quickly as I can. Ms Mughal is crouching beside Ray, discreetly helping him with the answer. I compare this to Gordon’s method of drawing the lesson to a grinding halt, followed by some naming and shaming.

  After a heated final between me and Kara, the pips go, marking the end of the lesson. As we’re packing up, Mr Gordon strolls in like he owns the room.

  ‘Well, Ms Mughal,’ he says, eyeing me critically. ‘How’s Mr Mian faring in your set? You know you can always send him back down if he requires a sterner approach.’ He makes a fist, like he’s volunteering to punch my lights out.

  ‘Actually, Ilyas is doing really well, Mr Gordon,’ she says, smiling proudly. ‘He’s a credit to you. Enthusiastic and smart.’

  Cheeks burning, I pack my stuff away, only suddenly I’m ten times clumsier, and my bag seems to hate me.

  Mr Gordon looks disappointed. ‘Hmm, well I suppose it’s early days yet. Don’t dawdle, boy! I believe you have PE now.’ Mr Gordon turns back to Ms Mughal. ‘Hooligans, the lot of them,’ I hear him say as I scurry out of the door. ‘Honestly, you’d be better off working in a girls’ school. Easier to handle.’

  I’m in no rush to get to the changing rooms. PE is the last lesson of the day – like a final-level boss waiting to torture me for my freedom. I imagine having Quicksilver’s powers, and time warping straight to 3.10 p.m. That would be so dope.

  ‘Honestly, Kelly – what were you thinking?’

  My ears perk up at the sound of Jade’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ Kelly says, her cheeks flushing red, her back up against a noticeboard.

  ‘Are you? Because sometimes it seems like your sole purpose in life is to make us look stupid.’

  ‘Yah! And what is up with those boots?’ Melanie snipes in her almost-American accent. ‘Swear to God you nicked them off a tramp.’

  ‘I happen to like these boots,’ Kelly says, her lower lip protruding. ‘We have history.’

  ‘The boots can stay,’ Jade says promptly.

  Melanie’s eyes bulge mutinously.

  ‘What? They’re supposed to be ironic.’

  ‘Fine.’ Melanie gives a thwarted sigh before turning back to Kelly. ‘But cut back on the frappés, Carbi B. I’m getting stretch marks just looking at you.’

  I move along before they report me for stalking.

  The changing room is filled with boys talking shit as they get into their PE kit. Topics include all the standard stuff: girls, PS5 vs Xbox One X, how lit the latest Call of Duty game is, some diss track that has gone viral, and a sex act they’re doing stateside that has got ten people hospitalized and one person killed. I glance at everyone’s bodies, feeling like a donkey that stumbled into a stable full of stallions.

  Drawing as little attention to my wimpy self as possible, I quietly get changed into my football kit.

  The pitch is a cold, damp night
mare. I zone out for no more than five seconds, imagining an epic battle between PakCore and the Quintet: an elite group of five highly skilled supernatural assassins. Unfortunately five seconds turn out to be a lifetime when you’re in the middle of a football match with half of the school’s elite squad involved. My nemesis takes the form of a spinning black-and-white orb. The ball smacks me in the middle of my face with the sound of a punched pig’s belly.

  ‘You all right, bro?’ Daevon asks, jogging over.

  ‘I’b fyb,’ I say, eyes watering. Making sure my nose is still there, my fingertips come away stained red with blood. I take it back; I’m the exact opposite of fine.

  ‘What are you two doing here?’ snaps Mr Kumar, our PE teacher. ‘Back in the game, you slackers. Now!’

  ‘He’s proper mashed up his nose, sir,’ explains Daevon.

  I smile apologetically, and blood gushes from my nostrils, drenching my shirt.

  Mr Kumar shakes his head. ‘It’s always something with you, isn’t it, Mian? Go on. Get yourself down to the medical room.’

  ‘Shall I take him, sir?’ Daevon asks.

  Clearly the answer is an eye-gouging no.

  I march myself off to the school nurse, debating whether a busted nose is a fair trade for getting out of PE on this blustery afternoon.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m back in the locker room, holding an ice pack to my throbbing schnoz. Dad, Shaista and me all have the famous Mian family nose. Large and humped. It’s the reason my sister spends forever with her make-up kit, contouring her nose to make it look ‘smaller, thinner, sexier’. It’s actually the subject of one of her most-liked YouTube vids. I once heard her tell Amma she’s going to get a nose job when she’s eighteen. So Amma gave her this long lecture about loving yourself the way God made you.

  ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned!’ my sister had replied. ‘If people can get boob jobs and gastric bands on the NHS, then why shouldn’t I fix my nose with a little nip and tuck?’

  ‘Your dad has the same nose.’ Amma looked offended.

  ‘Yes, and he should have kept it instead of passing it on to his glamorous daughter. What was he thinking?’