Approaching the front door, I catch sight of myself in the large bay windows: black-and-gold-foil adidas hoody paired with ripped skinny jeans from Primark. I suddenly feel too ghetto for this place, and the instinct to bail bubbles to the surface. Pulling back my hood, I give my scalp a good rub. Fluff from the fabric lining has caught on my head stubble, and I’m suddenly worried her mum might think I have nits.
I ring the doorbell, telling myself my shakes are down to the cold weather. Somewhere inside the house, someone is listening to Radio 4.
Just as I’m about to ring the doorbell again, it swings open, and standing before me is a thin blonde lady in a beige silk blouse and black leather trousers.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ she asks, eyes travelling all over me like she’s trying to work out what I’m selling.
‘Hey, er, hello. You must be Kelly’s mum. I’m Ilyas Mian.’ I stick my hand out, trying to be a gentleman.
Mrs Matthews visibly flinches, so I stuff my hand back inside my kangaroo pocket.
‘Is Kelly in?’
‘Oh, you’re one of Kelly’s friends. Yes, she mentioned you were coming, I just hadn’t realized … Do come in after you’ve wiped your feet on the mat.’
I scrub my already-clean trainers on the mat. ‘Shall I take them off?’ I ask, making sure I sound friendly, not sarcastic.
She blinks in surprise. ‘Good heavens, no. There’s no Axminster here, and we’re not that house-proud.’
I laugh along with her, though I have no clue what an Axminster is. In my head, I’m imagining the prime minister swinging an axe at the leader of the opposition.
She brings me into the entrance hall, and I kid you not, there is an honest-to-God chandelier dripping with more bling than the pimpest of pimp daddies. Double doors with golden handles and frosted glass panes stand to the right, and it’s virtually impossible not to imagine a gigantic ballroom lurking behind it. A mirror the size of a dinner table is up on the wall, encased in an ornate cream frame. Etched into it are words from some poem I don’t recognize. To my left, stairs sweep skyward, laid with plush grey carpet, guarded by two polished newel posts.
‘What did you say your name was?’ she asks.
‘Ilyaaaaaaas,’ I say, nearly dislocating my jaw.
‘Well, hello, Elias.’
Somehow she still manages to pronounce it wrong. I suppress the urge to facepalm.
Kelly comes tumbling down the stairs in a furry pink onesie. Her mother’s face is priceless.
‘What on earth are you wearing?!’
‘It’s a kigurumi onesie, and it’s super comfortable, thanks,’ Kelly replies. ‘Me and Ilz are going to be chilling out to a Studio Ghibli marathon, so I think you’ll agree, it’s the perfect wear. Come on!’ She grips my hand and whisks me up the stairs.
‘Sorry about her,’ Kelly whispers. ‘Borg Queen. Remember?’
She throws open her bedroom door, and I stumble in. I think I actually turn in a full circle, mouth hanging open like a dead fish. It’s beautiful. ‘Kelly, man, your house is a palace.’
She wrinkles her face as if the compliment embarrasses her. ‘You should see Jade’s place. They have nine bedrooms and a boat house.’
But I’m not interested in Jade or anybody else.
‘I totally forgot to send the memo telling you to bring a onesie,’ she says, poking around in her wardrobe. She whips out a plush yellow Pikachu number and shakes it at me.
‘Nah, I’m good,’ I say, physically backing away.
‘You wouldn’t stretch it or anything. You’re definitely smaller than I am, anyway.’
She drapes the onesie around my neck like a scarf, then practically wheels me through a door. I gawp cos the girl’s got her own bathroom. Shais would kill for an en suite.
‘Don’t be long!’ she calls rapping on the bathroom door. ‘My Neighbour Totoro starts in T minus three.’
Kelly’s counting down the last twenty seconds when I reluctantly emerge.
‘Check you out!’ she says, wolf-whistling. ‘Gotta catch ’em all.’
‘Man looks like a banana,’ I say miserably.
She pulls my hood up. ‘There, now you’re definitely twenty-five per cent more Pokémon.’
We sit together on her bean bag – shaped like a giant world globe – and she grabs the remote. The door flies open. Kelly’s mum brings in a tray with snacks and drinks. She gives me a plastic smile, her eyes taking in my onesie, lingering over my crotch.
‘Er, Kelly insisted I wear it for the cartoons …’ I say, hoping she doesn’t think anything dirty is going on here.
‘That’s fine. Just keep the door open, please,’ she says, stiffly giving her daughter a meaningful look.
‘Mum!’ Kelly snaps. ‘It’s the middle of winter. Doors were invented to conserve heat.’
Her mother turns her disapproval up to a solid ten. The door situation is not up for debate.
‘I hope you realize you’re contributing to global warming,’ Kelly says reproachfully.
‘It’s a risk I’ll have to take. You know the rules. Door open or Elias will have to go home.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Matthews,’ I call, cringing as she leaves.
Mopping her eyes with a bundle of tissues, I see that Kelly’s wet face is flushed pink.
‘You were right,’ I say, clearing my throat as the credits roll. ‘That was intense.’
She sniffles into her tissue before blinking at me in disappointment. ‘Why aren’t you crying?’
‘I am,’ I say, hitting my chest. ‘Man’s tears are internal.’
There’s a quick rap of knuckles on wood, and Kelly’s mum reappears in the doorway. Even the woman’s knocks sound sarcastic.
‘What is it, Mum?’ Kelly calls from the other side of the bean bag. At some point during the movie, we must have slid off it and ended up on the floor without realizing.
Mrs Matthews’s plastic smile returns. ‘Elias, would you mind if I have a quick word with my daughter?’ she says, motioning for Kelly to get up.
‘Course not … I really love your house, by the way.’
She ignores the compliment, muttering to Kelly, who has joined her at the threshold.
‘He’s staying for lunch,’ I hear Kelly state.
An uncomfortable silence follows, during which her mother’s lips twitch.
‘Er, maybe I should be getting back?’ I say, getting up. ‘Ms Mughal set us a ton of homework …’
‘Don’t bail on me now, bestie,’ Kelly says, wagging a finger. ‘We still have Lunch and Story Time to cross off my bucket list, and then you can go home.’
Bestie? The only thing I can do is nod.
The Matthews’ kitchen and dining room is open plan. The kitchen section is like a showroom with about a billion different cupboards, a double oven and two massive fridges. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray some day I can buy a kitchen like this for Amma. Shaking away my daydream, I try to impress Kelly’s mum by pulling a chair out for her at the dining table, but she shoos me away, telling me not to be so old-fashioned.
‘We’re all feminists in this house,’ she says reprovingly. ‘Hand me your plate, dear.’
A slice of pink mystery meat is placed on it, followed by baby roast potatoes and perspiring asparagus. She’s reaching for the gravy boat before I find my voice.
‘Er, Mrs Matthews, I can’t eat meat. Sorry.’
She freezes, staring at the piece of meat as if it just insulted her. The woman is not happy.
‘Mum, I told you Ilyas is Muslim,’ Kelly says crossly.
‘Well Muslims eat meat too, so long as it doesn’t come from a pig,’ her mother replies. ‘Isn’t that right, Elias?’
I meet her steely gaze and feel my knees tremble. ‘Only if it’s halal …’
‘I have a Muslim student who happily snacks on sausage rolls at social gatherings. He even indulges in the odd glass of wine. Are you not like that?’
‘I … uh …’ I shake my head.
‘Mu
m, stop making him feel uncomfortable,’ Kelly snaps, striking the table with the handle of her fork.
‘Kelly, it’s OK. Really,’ I say, not wanting to cause tension. ‘I’ll just have some of the veggies, please.’
‘That’s very reasonable of you, Elias. Sorry, but you do need to tell me if you have special dietary requirements.’ She places an assortment of steamed vegetables on my plate. ‘I’m many things, but sadly “mind reader” isn’t one of them.’
A toxic silence fills the room. For a while, the only sounds are the scraping of knives on plates and my chewing, which is way too loud. I’m so embarrassed by it, I hardly eat a thing.
‘So,’ Kelly’s mum pipes up finally, pushing a slice of folded flesh inside her mouth. ‘What do your parents do?’
‘My mum’s a librarian, and my dad runs his own business.’
‘How lovely. Do you have any ambitions?’ She fills a fluted glass with red wine.
‘Not really,’ I say quietly.
‘He does, actually,’ Kelly interjects. ‘He’s going to be an amazing comic book artist. He has a brilliant idea for a superhero. Something that’s never been done before.’
‘Superhero?’ Mrs Matthews says, like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or despair. ‘I would’ve thought you were too old for that sort of thing.’
‘Do you think babies write their own books?’ Kelly is slaying with the comebacks, burning like the brightest beacon. Man, in that moment, not only can I see her as prime minister, but the best one that ever lived.
‘So what does this superhero do that’s so very different from the rest?’ Mrs Matthews asks.
‘He’s British Pakistani and Muslim. And he has a whole unique origin story,’ I babble.
‘I would’ve thought bringing religion and nationalism into comics was anathema. How does it differ from propaganda? As you can see, Elias, we like to have stimulating discussions over our meals.’
I struggle to put my thoughts into words cos this woman is terrifying. Plus she’s speaking a language I barely understand.
‘It’s about representation,’ Kelly says, rolling her eyes at me. ‘All this time, we’ve had a bunch of white dudes saving the world. Same old, same old is boring.’
Mrs M titters against the back of a delicate hand, weighed down by a rock nearly as big as the chandelier. ‘Good heavens, how seriously you young people take your entertainment!’
‘Mrs Matthews, don’t you think there should be more female superheroes so young girls can look up to them?’ I say.
Kelly’s mum dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. ‘No, I don’t. Women have always been more sensible and practical than men. All this superhero worship just demonstrates delusion. As I’ve told Kelly, I believe that fantasy – or “speculative fiction”, if you want to be grandiose about it – is the opium of the people. It distracts people from the real issues. No wonder there’s so much political upheaval in the world.’
‘The world’s in trouble because of an orange troll named Trump,’ Kelly snaps.
‘Come, come, you can’t blame all the world’s ills on one individual,’ her mum says easily. ‘Most of the world’s leaders are – surprise, surprise – men. Until this is addressed, the decline will continue.’
‘But that’s just it,’ I say, finally finding my rhythm. ‘Equality comes from people power. So how do you motivate them? Since comics are so hot right now, why not use them to inspire the youth? All the best ideas start out as dreams.’
Mrs Matthews gives me a superior smile as she swirls her glass. ‘If you say so. Personally I think they arise from a sound education. It’s why I spend my life helping less fortunate people gain access to it.’
Kelly puts her knife and fork down. ‘And how does that make you feel, Mum? Hmm? Like a great white saviour?’
‘Kelly, please don’t …’ I mutter.
‘Not everybody does things for fame and fortune,’ Mrs Matthews says, bristling. ‘Isn’t that right, Elias? You’re happy to pursue a career in comic books even though you know it will never pay the bills. But what it will give you is personal satisfaction.’
‘Oh it’ll pay, all right,’ Kelly says, her chin jutting proudly. ‘Ilyas and I are going to collaborate on his brilliant comic. Better strap in, Mum, because it’s going to rock this world.’
On Monday morning, I have seriously mixed feelings about going to school. On the one hand, I am dreading facing Imran. On the other, I am hype for Kelly. I carefully pack new pages of my PakCore comic into my bag for her to take a look at.
Amma is waiting for me outside in the car. I feel like a little kid again, being driven to school, but Gilchrist expects her to be part of this ‘reconciliation’ thing just to emphasize how important it is.
‘Don’t forget this,’ she says, wrapping a scarf round my neck. ‘We don’t want you ending up with a cold this close to the end of term.’
‘Thanks, Amma.’
‘You made a mistake, Ilyas. I’m proud of you for owning up to it. I’ll be even prouder when you apologize to Imran.’
I sigh, a protest rising up my throat. Amma watches me closely. I press my lips together and nod.
Driving to school this early in the morning is surreal. The place is a ghost town with a funny little milk float buzzing along like an apparition from the past. As we drive further into town, I see dog-walkers and joggers with smartwatches strapped to their wrists. One of these joggers is fricking hot. It’s, like, minus two degrees out there, but she’s rocking her shorts.
Amma clears her throat. ‘Hijab isn’t just about this, young man,’ she says, indicating her scarf. ‘It’s also about these.’ She gestures at her eyes, making me blush, and I lower my gaze.
Once Amma has parked her car, we head over to reception. Most of the desks are still empty, collages of bright Post-its covering computer screens like shutters. The lady at the main desk looks up and smiles at Amma.
‘Ilyas or Imran?’ she asks me.
‘Ilyas.’
She starts to make small talk with Amma, having a go at me for dragging my mum down to school on such a cold morning. Then she starts talking about her own son being a ‘little terror’ who bit his nursery teacher’s arm. She has no idea where that sort of behaviour comes from, but she’s taking him to see a child psychologist next week. Amma sighs sympathetically, quoting research about the positive effects of green spaces. I yawn, lamenting the extra half-hour I could’ve had in bed.
The receptionist takes us over to Gilchrist’s office.
‘Good morning, good morning!’ Mr Gilchrist says, standing up to shake Amma’s hand.
‘Good morning, Mr Gilchrist,’ Amma replies. ‘Sorry, I don’t shake hands.’
‘Oh, of course not! Won’t you sit down?’ he says, a little flustered. ‘I must say, you’re very prompt.’
‘Ilyas was eager to get this off his chest as soon as possible,’ Amma says simply.
I glance nervously across at the other seat, imagining Imran sitting there, glaring at me. Discreetly I shove it a few centimetres away with my toe while Gilchrist is rooting around in his top drawer for my letter.
‘Nervous?’ he asks, cocking a shaggy eyebrow at me.
‘No. Yes. I dunno, sir. I just want this beef to be over with …’ My voice breaks, and I blush.
‘I’m here to make sure that’s exactly what happens.’
‘Sir, I’m scared he’s going to—’ I hold back the words ‘kill me’ and shake my head.
‘Take revenge? Let me put your mind at ease. The whole point of this meeting is to end this feud and prevent repercussions. The school will support both of you. You have my word.’ He glances up as there is a knock at the door. My heart skips a beat.
The receptionist pokes her head round. ‘The other student is here with his mum.’
‘Perfect. Send them in,’ Gilchrist says.
Imran strolls in and crashes on a chair, manspreading like he owns the place. I notice he’s got a nose stud that spar
kles like a tiny star. There is absolutely no sign of him ever having been injured. His tiny, frail-looking mother flashes me a death look, then perches on the far side of Imran, muttering as she adjusts her turquoise dupatta, bracelets rattling like shackles.
‘Assalaamu alaykum,’ Amma says.
‘Vaa salaam!’ Mrs Akhtar shoots back, shading Amma by refusing to even look at her.
‘OK – first of all, thank you all for coming,’ Mr Gilchrist says, pressing the wooden veneer of his desk so hard it crackles beneath his fingers. ‘I’m especially grateful to Mrs Akhtar and Mrs Mian, who have taken time out to attend this important meeting.’
Imran smirks because his mum spends all day watching Urdu dramas on TV or on the phone to Pakistan.
‘You’re welcome,’ Amma says. ‘We both want things to be resolved quickly so our sons can get on with their studies.’
Imran’s mum asks him in Punjabi what Amma just said. He tells her to shut up. Gilchrist raises eyebrows.
‘My mum don’t speak English, innit,’ Imran says, folding his arms across his broad chest, thrusting hands into his armpits.
I study him again, scanning for the head wound. I decide he must have Wolverine’s mutant Healing Factor because there isn’t a scratch on him. Even his nose piercing looks healed.
‘Oh, well, please do translate for her, Imran,’ says Gilchrist, smiling at his mum.
‘Calm.’ Imran nods, not bothering to translate a word.
‘So, I just want to preface this meeting by stating the facts,’ Gilchrist continues, consulting a printout. ‘There was some name-calling in the boy’s changing room at the end of a PE lesson, which resulted in a physical altercation between your sons. Ilyas sustained injuries to his nose and mouth, while Imran fell back and cracked his head open.’
‘No, no,’ interjects Imran’s mum. She points at me. ‘He have knife! He kill him, you know?’ She makes stabbing motions in the air.
Mr Gilchrist shakes his head. ‘No, Mrs Akhtar. There were witnesses, and we checked the boys’ bags. No weapons of any sort were involved.’
Kick the Moon Page 13