Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she says, propping her chin on a fist.

  I give her a sceptical look. How does this bougie white girl’s life compare?

  ‘Your gang is about being manly,’ she explains, drawing her hair back. ‘Mine’s about being the “right kind of girl”. I have to get my nails done, buy crap on Oxford Street that I don’t even want, and go to stupid parties where Jade and Melanie and Nicole pop pills and get off with preppy boys.’ Frowning, she traces a swear word etched into the table. ‘I’m the least cute one who needs to stop being kooky and watch her BMI.’

  So here’s the thing: I’m a don’t-wannabe-gangsta, and Kelly’s a poor-little-rich-girl, yet here we are having the realest talk of my life. And man, does it feel good.

  ‘I like your kooky,’ I say hesitantly. ‘And your weight ain’t nobody’s business but your own. I’m so skinny, the bio teacher keeps using me as a prop.’

  She gives me a playful shove, speaking in a southern drawl. ‘Fooler!’

  ‘Why do you hang with those mean girls anyway?’

  ‘I’m a stuck-up white girl,’ she says bitterly. ‘Do you think anybody else wants to have me around?’

  Her bluntness has me blushing. ‘Well, you’re definitely white, but I don’t think you’re stuck-up.’

  She laughs.

  ‘By the way, I lied.’ My eyes wander off. ‘Bunny’s name is Sparkle. And I love her to bits.’

  Kelly raises her chin. ‘Way cuter. Spartacus sounded like a skin condition.’

  The pips ring out, killing the moment.

  ‘You going before Gilchrist gets back?’ I ask.

  ‘Yep,’ she says, wrapping a big scarf round her neck and pulling on a pink woolly hat.

  I hand her pen back. ‘See you tomorrow,’ I say.

  I’m walking through the corridor after break on Wednesday, minding my own business, when I trip and dive into a locker.

  ‘What the hell?’ My anger goes up in a puff of smoke when I see Noah standing over me, his freckles like an army of red ants preparing to attack.

  ‘Paigon!’ he says, spitting in my face.

  I silently wipe the spit off with my blazer sleeve, scrabble to my feet, and start to head towards my maths class.

  ‘Oi! You don’t get off that easy,’ he says, driving his shoulder into mine, forcing me to clang against the lockers again.

  ‘Allow it,’ I say, holding back tears that have no business existing. ‘Man’s already paying for what Imran started. Got it on my permanent record.’

  He scrunches up his face. ‘Who gives a shit about school records?’

  ‘Er, colleges?’

  ‘Don’t be coming at me with yo sarcasm, you little fag.’

  I see a flash of metal in his waistband, then it’s gone, hidden beneath the curtain of his shirt. Suddenly it all comes flooding back: the day Zaman pulled a knife on Dad back at the shop. Is DedManz graduating into Dingoes?

  ‘Ah, excuse me!’ says Ms Mughal, planting fists on her hips. ‘Your homophobic language has no place in school. Neither does your bullying. Apologize to Ilyas right now.’ A beam of sunlight makes her eyes glow like Green Lantern’s. Ms Mughal is powering up.

  Noah looks her up and down, lip curling. ‘Mind yo own bidness, woman.’

  ‘Oh dear …’ she says, smiling confidently. ‘Let’s try that again, shall we, Noah Andrews?’

  He baulks like he just got tasered. ‘How you know my name?!’

  Her neck gyrates with the assuredness of a cobra. ‘Must’ve picked it up in the staffroom.’

  Noah’s lips twitch nervously, too proud to say sorry, but too cowardly to cross Ms Mughal. ‘This ain’t over, fam!’ he tells me, miming a hand pistol held sideways before vanishing.

  Ms Mughal shakes her head and ushers me into her classroom while directing onlookers off to theirs.

  ‘What was that about?’ Kara asks as I slide into my chair.

  I shake my head. ‘Nuttin.’

  ‘Didn’t look like nuttin.’ She grins. ‘Hey, do DedManz make gangsta raps? If you need a girl with rhythm in your videos, I’m available!’

  ‘OK, people!’ Ms Mughal calls, clapping her hands for attention. ‘Today we’re going to assess whether you’ve actually understood all the algebra-cadabra I’ve been drip-feeding you, or whether you were faking it.’ She raises a tray of scissors in one hand and a stack of white card in the other. ‘Who wants to help me give these out?’

  ‘Me, me, me!’ Like someone hit the emergency ejection button on her seat, Kara jumps up and grabs the tray, beaming with pride.

  ‘Dude, it’s only scissors!’ Ray says.

  ‘Bruv, you do not want to be disrespecting a woman with that many pairs of scissors,’ I tell him.

  ‘Innit!’ Kara says, bumping fists with me.

  Once the activity has made its way into our hands, Ms Mughal tells us we need to cut out the equilateral triangles printed on the card and rearrange them to make a giant hexagon, so the questions and answers match up.

  ‘And then,’ she says, rubbing her hands together, ‘you are going to show me your artistic side. Using colouring pencils or felt tips, I want you to transform your Tarsia hexagon into a beautiful picture or a lovely pattern. I don’t mind which, so long as it means something special to you.’

  Kara returns to her seat. ‘Can we help each other with the maths part?’

  ‘Try to do it yourself. I have faith in you!’ Ms Mughal cries melodramatically, placing a fist over her heart.

  Turning to the back of my exercise book, I start working out the answers.

  ‘Oi, if you work out half, and I work out half, we’ll have more time for the fun part. You in?’ says Kara.

  ‘Yaass!’ I reply.

  Me and Kara breeze through the questions, and in under twelve minutes we have the puzzle pieces arranged correctly. Ray asks Ms Mughal if we can have some music, and she reluctantly agrees to some ‘quiet, clean’ tracks.

  Gluing my hexagon on to a larger piece of sugar paper, I whip out my art pencils and start sketching PakCore. In my head, I imagine the hexagon as his torso, and I sketch the rest of him on the sugar paper around it.

  ‘Miss,’ says Kara, settling into the chill atmosphere of the lesson. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, Kara,’ Ms Mughal says, without looking up from her marking. She takes out an ink stamper and presses it to a page leaving a bright blue impression of a happy bee.

  ‘My newly divorced uncle Leroy is gonna be so happy to hear that. He saw you at parents’ evening one time.’

  ‘Let the lady mark her books in peace,’ Ray says.

  ‘I’m calling it: that girl’s gonna be a wedding planner when she’s older,’ Nawal says darkly.

  Ray laughs, and Nawal smiles at him.

  ‘Get on with your work, please,’ Ms Mughal reminds us.

  ‘My mum told me she doesn’t mind who I marry so long as he’s a light-skinned man,’ Kara confides in me.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Cos she’s got dark skin, innit? And her family used to take the piss. She doesn’t want her grandkids going through the same thing.’

  ‘That is messed up!’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Go Pakistan, yeah – bleach creams everywhere. My sister always comes back with a shopful of Fair & Lovely stuffed in her suitcase.’

  ‘Dude, that ain’t nothing!’ Kara says, like it’s become a competition. ‘In Kenya, they do these illegal injections to kill your melanin.’

  ‘Whoa!’ I shake my head and sigh. ‘My sis hates me cos of my lighter skin and eyes. But I’d trade for her brains any day. She started up a YouTube channel when she was in Year Ten. Three years later, she’s got twenty-three thousand subs. The girl is making serious Ps! Plus, companies are always sending her free stuff to review.’

  ‘What’s her channel about?’

  ‘Hair, make-up. Sometimes Bollywood.’

  ‘Does she have a skin-whitening tutorial?’

  ‘It’s like her mos
t viewed! Just after “The Ninety-Nine Pee Glow Up”.’

  We both burst out laughing.

  ‘Less skin-whitening, more mathsing, you two,’ Ms Mughal says sternly, drawing some snickers.

  ‘But, miss, don’t you think dark skin is butters?’ Kara says.

  Ms Mughal blinks indignantly, putting her stamper down. ‘No I don’t, Kara – and neither should you. You and I can have a proper chat about it after the lesson.’

  ‘Uh-oh …’ says Kara.

  I pat Kara on the back in solidarity and get back to my drawing. Twenty minutes later, I’m adding shadow effects to PakCore’s eye mask, really making the vivid hazel of his eyes pop.

  ‘Oh. My. Goodness,’ Ms Mughal says, sneaking up behind me. ‘That is incredible!’

  Chairs are scraped back and people come rushing over to see my work.

  ‘That is lit!’

  ‘Fire! Look at the quads on him.’

  ‘You should draw comics for Marvel.’

  ‘Marvel sucks. He should draw for DC.’

  My cheeks start to smoulder as the compliments come thick and fast. It’s a small window into Imran’s life whenever he shoots and scores or makes that perfect slam dunk. Getting rated by my whole class makes me feel alive. Suddenly I am visible.

  Ms Mughal takes my Tarsia PakCore and hides it behind her jilbab. ‘OK, everyone, back to your seats.’ She shoos everyone away with a swish of her sleeve. ‘I’ve seen plenty of amazing and innovative designs today. We’ll have a mathsibition at the end, where we can walk around the room and check out each other’s brilliant designs. OK?’

  She waits till everyone gets back on task before returning my project to me.

  ‘Well done!’ she whispers. ‘I grew up surrounded by comics because of my big brother. But I don’t recognize this character. Is he new?’

  ‘I, uh, sorta made him up …’ My palms glisten with sweat, my pulse twanging in my throat.

  Her eyes widen, and I notice little flecks of gold rimming her pupils. ‘Is he Asian?’

  I nod. ‘British-Pakistani, like me. I call him PakCore.’ In my head, his badass theme tune starts playing.

  ‘Wow. May I take a picture?’

  I nod, a bit thrown. Teachers are paid to encourage, right?

  ‘You got skills, boy,’ Kara says, nudging me. ‘To be honest this peng ting looks a lot like …’

  ‘Imran!’ finishes Ray, leaning over. ‘That is so Imran, down to the goatee.’

  I flush, a hot mess of stuttered denials. ‘T-t-total coincidence. This could be any Asian guy with a square jaw and good cheekbones.’

  ‘Is this a peace offering so he doesn’t kill you when he comes back to school?’ Kara asks.

  Stifling a gasp, I shake my head firmly. ‘It was an accident. He’s not going to kill me. Plus, this isn’t him. Imran doesn’t have hazel eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the only thing.’ Kara nods, wisely.

  I stuff my drawing into my rucksack before it invites any more speculation just as the pips go for break-time.

  The next morning, my alarm goes off at the usual time, and I pull back the duvet, shuffling to the bathroom as a yawn threatens to dislocate my jaw. I need to get myself ready for the dawn prayer. Amma and me are the only two who pray in my family, but Amma has trouble getting up in the mornings, so she prays Fajr late.

  I move softly down the stairs, shrouded in darkness. My creative mind starts to wake up, turning the inky shadows into assassins, gathered at the bottom of the stairs, waiting in ambush. These are the Living Shadows – beings with mouths crammed full of purple fangs that crackle with electrical charge as they gnash their teeth. I imagine myself as PakCore, leaping over the side of the banisters in my pyjamas, my hands whipping out as I make the Sign of Wahid.

  My body is a glow stick, searing through the darkness as my costume and powers answer the sacred call. The Living Shadows goggle as I make the Superhero Landing (cos why mess with a classic?). Fist pressed to the ground, shoulders rolled forward, I look up and give an almost maniacal grin. ‘So you finally found out where I live?’ I say. ‘Thanks. Saves me the hassle of having to track down your creepy asses.’ Enraged, the Living Shadows charge. We race towards each other in a head-on collision that will surely blow out every window in the house …

  If making comics brings excitement to my boring little life, praying brings the peace. It’s just about the only time I feel completely safe from all the crap going on around me. When I’m done, I fold up my prayer mat and head to the shed to feed Sparkle.

  ‘Hey, Sparks!’ I say, lifting up her thermal cover. She zooms out of her bedroom and bounces around with excitement. I open the door and stroke her fluffy head, my fingers sinking into her silky cap. She drops her ears and vibrates with contentment, making rhythmic chewing sounds.

  ‘I met a girl,’ I tell Sparkle thinking about how lonely Wednesday’s detention was without Kelly. Guess she must’ve been off sick. Sparkle’s blue eyes widen, then she winks. I chuckle softly. ‘Nah, ain’t like that, though. Her name’s Kelly and she’s really nice. Like funny and talented and stuff. Only she hangs out with this bougie group.’ I add a scoopful of nuggets to her feeding bowl. She nudges my hand out of the way, plunging her entire head into the bowl, and starts chomping. ‘I think she likes comics as much as I do.’

  Rolling on my rubber gloves, I start mucking out Sparkle’s tiny droppings.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I say cheerily, strolling into F10 for our next detention session that afternoon.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ilyas,’ Mr Gilchrist says in his bassoon voice, gesturing for me to sit down.

  I glance over at Kelly, who gives me a little wave.

  ‘It’s Thursday, and neither one of you has managed to convince me you regret your violent actions.’

  ‘Oh come off it!’ I say. ‘I wrote a letter using that example you gave yesterday!’

  ‘He brought in an example?’ Kelly asks with a laugh.

  ‘Yeah, and I followed it to a tee.’

  ‘Yes, mindless copying was never the point,’ Gilchrist snaps. ‘I told you right from the start that these sessions are about reflection. The letter is not the important element; the changed mindset is.’

  ‘Then why are you making us do it over and over? You said you weren’t that Umbridge woman from Harry Potter, but you low-key are,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Reprogramming,’ Kelly says, narrowing her eyes. ‘That’s what this is really about. You’re trying to deconstruct our identities until we think exactly like you. Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘Oh my days!’ I say. ‘He’s Illuminati!’

  ‘Enough!’ Gilchrist snaps, slamming a hand on his desk. ‘Stop trying to find the joke in everything. Two members of this school sustained physical injuries because of your mindless actions. It is entirely possible that their parents will still seek legal action against the school.’

  Yeah, right. Imran’s mum doesn’t speak English, and she’s probably having the best time knowing Imran’s stuck in hospital where he can’t terrorize the world.

  ‘If I can’t even get you two to show remorse, how can I make a case before the governors to keep you on? You’re both well into your final year. Exclusion at this point would have a hugely damaging effect on your results. When we took you on at Stanley Park, we promised to help you achieve your academic goals, and you promised to abide by school rules. I’m asking you to be mature about this, not just compliant. Help me get you back into the classroom without having this hanging over your heads.’ He raps the table like he’s trying to knock some sense into us. ‘Write that letter of apology, please.’

  I glance over at Kelly, and she raises her eyebrows, giving an almost imperceptible shrug. We both start writing.

  Ten minutes later, Mr Gilchrist’s phone goes off. ‘Excuse me,’ he says, going out into the corridor.

  In silent agreement, Kelly and me rush over to the door to eavesdrop.

  ‘What? You can’t be serious!�
�� Gilchrist says.

  We poke our heads round the door frame and just catch the back of his head sinking down into the stairwell.

  ‘What do you reckon that was about?’ I ask, wide-eyed.

  ‘Well,’ Kelly says, licking her lips. ‘Clearly Mr Gilchrist is having an extra-marital affair with Lydia Pryce – the attending police liaison officer.’

  I cover my mouth and choke with laughter. ‘Omigosh, that is jokes! Wonder how that happened.’

  ‘It started innocently enough,’ Kelly says slipping easily into the role of Trashy Gossip Columnist, ‘with the two of them discussing their miserable lives. Gilchrist’s wife nags him for failing to make principal. Lydia says she’s not been promoted to detective inspector because her colleagues can’t handle the thought of a black woman in charge. “Oh I’d love you to take charge,” Gilchrist says.’

  I nod, butting in with my own salacious two-cents. ‘“Careful what you wish for!” she says, whipping out regulation handcuffs and her truncheon. Gilchrist gulps. Looking over their shoulders, they silently slip into an old broom cupboard and let their passions run wild.’ I wave my fingers like a magician.

  Kelly picks up the plot. ‘They make out like the very teens they always complain about. Gilchrist has a moment of doubt because he’s all middle-aged and hairy shoulders.’

  I chuckle. ‘And his mind’s all like, We shouldn’t do this! And his body’s like, We’re totally doing this!’

  ‘Lydia puts his mind at ease,’ Kelly says, her eyes sparkling with mischief, ‘telling him that he needn’t worry about the excess fur because Beauty and the Beast was always her favourite romance.’

  ‘Aw man, that is grim!’

  We both shriek with laughter.

  ‘But seriously that was dope!’ I say excitedly. ‘Maybe we should collaborate on a story some day?’ Too late, I sense the awkwardness and wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Do you want to hear one of my stories?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘Sure!’ I climb on to my table, folding my legs under me.

  She pulls out a spiral-bound pad from her bag and flips through the pages. ‘OK, here’s a good one!’