Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Feeling sick again, dear? Must be man flu!’ Jade says theatrically.

  The lower school laps it up, giggling like an army of chipmunks.

  ‘One in eight men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime. The number doubles for black men,’ Chris says.

  ‘What’s he saying that for, though?’ Daevon complains.

  ‘To raise awareness?’ I suggest.

  He looks at me. ‘Yeah, well put an actual black man up there then, innit?’

  Next up is a pre-recorded video. Jade and her friends’ backs are to us, but I recognize Kelly straight away because of her bright red bushy hair. The five strut away from the camera, their arms interlinked, then spin round dramatically. They reveal themselves to be wearing different-shaped moustaches, pulling surprised faces for effect. Each girl takes it in turn to talk about the particular moustache she is wearing and drop grim factoids about prostate cancer.

  Last up is Kelly. ‘This is the Rock Star,’ she tells us, pointing at the classic Movember tache, twitching it for effect.

  The video cuts to her wearing a leather jacket, holding a bright red electric guitar in the shape of a cartoon explosion. She rocks out, bouncing up and down on one foot, giving a guitar solo, which has got to be from a backing track. I laugh and clap my hands.

  Imran glances over at me, a mocking look in his eyes. ‘Trust you to get excited by the DUFF.’

  ‘What? She’s funny. Plus, she ain’t fat,’ I say loyally.

  ‘Open your eyes, fam. That’s some nasty lard arse that Becky be twerking. And she’s got hair like a witch,’ Imran says, chuckling.

  ‘Definite DUFF, bro,’ Noah says. ‘Watch dat bitch jiggle.’

  I want to punch Noah in the face, breaking every tooth in his stupid caged mouth. How dare these fools shade Kelly. She’s ten times braver and smarter and cooler than any of them.

  Too late, I notice Imran studying me. ‘Oh my days, y’all. Ilyas be a chubby chaser. Go on then.’

  I blink, trying to contain my emotions. ‘Huh?’

  Up onstage, Chris is telling everyone that he will be shaving off his beard and moustache at break-time and that buckets will be coming round to classrooms to collect donations.

  ‘Look at that tramp,’ Imran says, distracted as he scowls at Chris up onstage. ‘Break-time, mate.’

  Good, I think. I’ve got no clue what your beef is with Chris, but knock yourself out. Just leave me and Kelly the hell alone.

  But Imran has a memory like an elephant. He gestures at Kelly with his goatee.

  ‘That’s your target, Ilyas. She’s the lucky girl you get to strip. And don’t forget to film it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I told you—’

  ‘What do you reckon Gilchrist would do if I cut myself and tell him you did it?’ Imran says casually.

  My eyes widen. ‘Bro, you wouldn’t do that though.’

  ‘I reckon your mum might top herself if that happened, especially after all the trouble with your sister and the shop …’

  Everything Daevon warned me about is coming true. This isn’t just about me any more. It’s about my family too. My face says it all.

  Imran winks. ‘Now you get it.’

  In the background, I vaguely hear Mrs Waldorf telling everyone to support Jade and her mates at break-time as they sell fake moustaches or paint them on under the archway.

  ‘But you said DedManz means bros for life,’ I plead. ‘Looking out for each other no matter what.’

  Imran nods. ‘Exactly. Man needs to take care of his mans. Haven’t you been listening to the assembly? You gonna get prostate cancer if you stay virgin.’

  ‘Leave him,’ Daevon says.

  Imran gives him the finger, and, just like that, Daevon is defeated. He’s as scared as I am.

  ‘But it’s haram,’ I persist.

  ‘So? Pray for forgiveness later, innit?’

  The air becomes humid, and the bitter taste of bile coats my tongue.

  ‘You gonna do it, like a Don?’ Imran asks, eyebrow raised like a sword.

  This isn’t a mandem; it’s a slavedom. Somewhere along the line, Daevon, Noah and me forgot how to survive alone and made Imran our master.

  My head nods like it belongs to someone else. Someone I really don’t like.

  ‘You all right, Ilyas?’ Ms Mughal asks, squatting beside my table.

  I come back down to earth with a bump and am startled by the fresh fabric-softener scent of her – as if she just breezed out of a washing machine. It triggers a forgotten memory of when me, Amma and Shaista went to the local laundrette six years ago. Amma gave us four pounds each to spend at the newsagent next door. Shaista bought a copy of Seventeen (even though she wouldn’t be seventeen for another five years) while I got a pad and pencil. I spent the afternoon in a wide beam of sunlight, leaning against Amma’s side as she read from her Kindle, sketching PakCore doing amazing things. Back in those days, he was nothing more than a desi Superman rip-off, but he meant the world to me.

  Now my world is filled with gangs and violence.

  I blink at Ms Mughal, surfacing from my thoughts. ‘Sorry, miss. I was daydreaming.’

  She pulls a face. ‘This isn’t like you. You’ve been my star student since you joined this class.’

  Kara leans in so close, I can smell the fruity Maoam on her breath. ‘I thought I was your favourite. You cheatin’ on me with this boy?’

  Ms Mughal laughs. ‘You’re all my favourites. Now if you don’t mind …’

  Kara takes one look at my dazed face, then gets back to work.

  ‘So.’ Ms Mughal turns back to me. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me?’

  Suddenly I want to tell her everything. She seems so much like a fairy godmother with her beautiful smile and her kind eyes.

  Slowly I shake my head. ‘I’m good.’

  ‘What did you do for work experience last year?’

  The randomness of this question finally wrenches me from my stupor. ‘Er, worked for my dad at his shop.’

  ‘Any career plans for after you smash your GCSEs and A levels?’

  ‘Uh … probably working for Dad.’ I am so low-key depressed right now, I can’t even hide it.

  She adjusts her jewelled hijab pin: a shiny amethyst surrounded by spiky golden stakes. ‘I was talking to my brother about you. He works in advertising, producing graphics and special effects. But he’s also a huge comics fan – he has an entire basement dedicated to countless issues sealed in plastic wallets.’

  ‘Plastic wallets? That is next level,’ I say, grinning in spite of myself.

  ‘And don’t get me started on his cabinet full of Funko Pop! and Hot Toys figures,’ she says, shaking her head in dismay.

  ‘A whole cabinet of sixth scales?! Man must be minted.’ I know that even one of those figures costs well over a hundred quid.

  She sighs. ‘And possibly crazy, but don’t tell him I told you.’ She winks conspiratorially. ‘He’s very sensitive about it. So, Idris said there’s going to be an open call for comics creators in December. There’s a twenty-five-thousand-pound prize for the best entry and a chance to have someone in the industry develop your idea.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I say, perking up.

  ‘He’s picking me up from school today. Come back at ten past three if you want to have a chat with him. I promise he’s not in the least bit intimidating.’

  I gawk.

  ‘You’re a very good teacher,’ Kara whispers, having listened to our entire conversation.

  ‘Even though I’m a serial cheater who tells you all that you’re my favourite?’ Ms Mughal asks. ‘Appreciate the feedback, Kara.’ She winks, gathers her midnight jilbab, and goes to help Nawal.

  At break-time, I spot Kelly under the arches with her gurls. They’ve set up a stall with a row of plastic chairs. Some of the chairs are occupied by kids having moustaches painted on, most of them lower school.

  ‘Come on,’ Daevon says, slapping my shoulder. He’s carrying
a large plastic bucket for some reason. ‘Let’s watch Chris get owned.’

  I look at him in surprise. ‘What’s Chris ever done to you?’

  He smirks. ‘Come on – everybody hates Chris.’

  ‘Don’t you ever feel bad about all the evil stuff Imran makes us do?’ I sigh.

  ‘It’s called life, Ilyas. If I’m not the man with the whip, I’m the man getting whipped.’

  ‘Or you could be the man who chucks the whip away. No whip, no one gets hurt.’

  ‘You talking about being a hero? Martin Luther King was a hero. Malcolm X was a hero. They ended up dead. You still wanna be a hero?’

  ‘Nah, I’m all right.’ I know I’m a lightweight. Now if I was PakCore, things would be way different. Realization dawns on me that me and Daevon are never going to be able to open up to each other.

  I watch Kelly painting a moustache on a ticklish Year 7’s finger.

  Daevon follows my eyes. ‘You gonna put the tip in?’

  ‘Dude!’ I say, mortified. ‘When did everything become about sex?’

  ‘You kidding?’ he says, laughing. ‘We’re teenagers. Sex is all I ever think about. Even in Gordon’s class, which is the unsexiest place on the planet!’

  I shake my head, but now he’s got me curious. ‘You done it, then?’

  He nods, smirking in a self-satisfied sort of way. ‘Denusha. That girl, bro! She into some nasty …’

  I tune him out. Right now he could be Imran or Noah, because the thing that makes Daevon unique, and my friend, has slipped away. I’m left with this sexist DedManz drone.

  A Year 7 screws up her face as Kelly uses a make-up wipe to scrub away a moustache that went badly. When I’m with Kelly, I always feel like I’m my best self: spreading positivity and art and stories into the world.

  Suddenly an amazing sensation has me mooing like a cow. Daevon is running his afro comb over my scalp, firing nerve endings with every stroke.

  ‘Just sprucin’ up my boy,’ Daevon says, sticking the comb back in his own hair. ‘Now stop checking her out like a creep and go get her, tiger. Before someone else does.’

  When is he going to realize this is about being mates, not hormones or urges or whatever?

  He wheels me towards the arches just as Kelly finishes drawing the outline of a moustache on a girl’s finger. The girl holds it under her nose and pulls a face. Her little friends giggle and take selfies with her.

  When I look back, Daevon is heading off to the field where a crowd has gathered to witness Chris getting a shave. Two teachers are on duty: the head of RS and a trainee.

  Standing in line under the arches, self-consciousness sets in as I realize I’m the only boy queuing up.

  ‘Yes?’ Jade asks.

  My tongue swells like a sponge dropped in water. This Poison Ivy’s beauty can paralyse.

  ‘You already have a moustache! Of sorts.’ She laughs.

  ‘Wait …’ says Melanie, flexing her fingers for what I can only assume will be malicious air quotes. ‘Isn’t this “gangsta mans” from the bridge meme?’

  Jade does a double-take, recognition registering in her eyes.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Kelly says, stepping in their way. She curtsies like a RADA-trained actress. ‘Hail, fellow well met. Taketh thou a seat, sir, and I shall upon thy fair cheek moustache maketh.’

  I sit down, grinning like a fool, rummaging in my pocket for change. ‘How much?’

  ‘A pound,’ says Jade. ‘More if you’re feeling generous, since all proceeds do go to charity.’

  The twenty-five-thousand-pound comic book prize springs to mind. With that sort of cash, I could go uni, help my family out, and make an Angelina Jolie-style donation to charity. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Does PakCore – this idea I’ve been obsessed with since Year 5 – even have what it takes to win a competition?

  ‘Which cheek?’ Kelly asks, blackened paintbrush poised like a quill.

  ‘Up to you, so long as it ain’t a bum cheek!’

  We both crack up. I feel a deep admiration for Kelly. She’s being nice to me in front of her mates who so obviously hate me. Could I return the favour? But here’s the thing: Kelly’s mates don’t want to sexually humiliate me. This is why I have to keep DedManz away from my friend.

  While Kelly inks up my right cheek, I wonder if I should drop in news of the competition. Fifty-fifty – twelve and a half grand each. Not that someone like her would need the cash, but fair is fair. Meeting Ms Mughal’s brother is probably a good first step. If the competition is legit, I’ll bring Kelly up to speed tomorrow, I decide.

  She straightens up abruptly, rising on to tip-toes. ‘What’s that about?’

  Melanie glances across to the field, shielding her eyes from the harsh winter sun. ‘A ghetto fight over some fried chicken. Hot wings, probably.’

  Clearly Kelly’s punch to the face failed to knock any sense into her. I twist round in my seat. Kids are surging on to the field, congregating round someone wearing a scarlet-and-gold Cavaliers hoody.

  ‘Is that Imran?’ Kelly asks.

  ‘I think so …’ I murmur, watching the crowd around Chris flock to Imran instead.

  ‘Hey, I haven’t finished painting your mo on!’ yells Jade after a Year 8 girl escaping to the field. ‘You’re not getting a refund!’

  ‘Aren’t you curious?’ Kelly asks.

  Gotta admit I actually am. Kelly pulls me up and, for better or worse, we’re suddenly part of the mass migration.

  ‘Kelly! Don’t you dare!’ shouts Melanie. But her voice is drowned out by the playground-wide commotion.

  By the time me and Kelly manage to push through, Noah, Daevon and a couple of guys from the basketball team are working the crowd, collecting donations in plastic buckets, which look nicked from the caretaker’s cupboard. Imran poses on his throne, gripping his chin pensively, cheekbones more on fleek than ever. He is a GQ cover brought to life.

  ‘OK, fans!’ he growls in a sexy-tiger voice. A hallowed silence falls over the gathering. ‘See this peng topknot? I’mma shave it off in the name of charity. Man’s head gonna be bare-arse naked. So donate generously, yeah?’

  ‘Y’all need to dig deep!’ bellows Daevon, electing himself hype man.

  ‘This be a once-in-a-lifetime event, fam!’ Noah yells, making weird hand signals, which he probably thinks are cool.

  ‘Shut up and take my money!’ squeals Kara fanning herself with a fiver.

  ‘Excuse me!’ shrieks the RS teacher who had been supervising Chris’s event before it flopped. ‘This event wasn’t authorized by senior staff.’

  Imran kisses his teeth at her. Taking their cue from the unofficial Fresh Prince of Stanley Park, the crowd starts booing her in an epic show of solidarity.

  ‘I’m doing it for charity, though!’ Imran explains. ‘Think man wants to walk around looking like some pendu with no hair? I’m doing it for poor people in Pakistan.’

  ‘The school is raising money for prostate cancer!’ snaps the teacher.

  He goggles at her like he can’t believe she just said that. ‘What, you think we ain’t got prostates in Pakistan?’

  ‘Ooooooooh!’ the crowd jeers in unison.

  The teacher glances nervously at the sea of angry faces. The Cult of Imran has converted them into a mob. The student teacher babbles something about calling senior teachers for help as she bails. From the look on her face, I reckon she’s out to save her own skin.

  Chris bustles into the fray, looking like he lost a fight with a lawnmower. He’s sporting exactly half a beard and one-quarter of a mo. ‘Do you have any idea how long it took me to grow this beard? You’re spoiling weeks of planning just because you want to hog the limelight!’

  Imran stands up, and they face off, like a poster for some testosterone-fuelled versus movie. Suddenly the corners of Imran’s mouth curl up. Chris’s whole face twitches in confusion.

  ‘Let the people decide,’ Imran says, acting like a benevolent king. ‘You wanna see man
shave all this off?’ He pulls out his hairband, letting his luscious locks fall about his face like Don Juan. ‘Or you wanna see this –’ he gestures with his chin at Chris – ‘shave his ginger pubes?’

  ‘Imran! Imran! Imran!’

  Imran’s fandom is legion. If this fool ever ran for prime minister, I’d hate to think what might happen. Chris goes bright red, and I feel for the guy. He has a reputation for being a try-hard, but does not deserve this.

  ‘Wooo! Imran!’ cries a girl to my left.

  I turn my head and see it’s Kelly. A pang of jealousy, as hot and fiery as the tip of a soldering iron, punctures my gut. How can she be impressed by Imran? He’s EVIL.

  ‘Come on my Gs!’ Imran roars. ‘Dig deep and gimme them Ps. And I will shave it all off for you. Down to the bone.’ He runs a hand through his long hair.

  I feel like I’m on a ship about to capsize as the pushing and shoving intensifies, the frenzy for Imran to entertain us blowing up. So much cash changes hands that within minutes the collection buckets are overflowing. These people have to know not a penny of it will make it to charity.

  Jade and Melanie come jostling to the front. They give Imran both barrels with glares straight from the bowels of Hell. He winks at them, and though Melanie gives him the finger, I notice colour rising to Jade’s cheeks. That’s when I realize how truly powerful Imran has become.

  Daevon holds up an electric clipper for the audience to see. God knows where he got it. Unless …

  It suddenly occurs to me that Imran must have been planning to sabotage Chris’s event for days. I remember the comment he made in assembly: Look at that tramp. Break-time, mate.

  I wonder what their beef is about. A dirty look? A misunderstood comment? Will Chris end up as the next Stanley Park meme?

  ‘Listen up!’ Imran bellows, commanding the crowd more effectively than at least half the teachers could. ‘Whoever donates a twenty, I’mma let you do the honours.’

  The crowd reacts with delight to this news.