‘Brave man!’ I say, having been on the receiving end of enough nicks and yanks with Dad’s monthly buzz cuts. I wonder what Imran will look like bald.
‘Don’t be tight!’ Imran goads the crowd. ‘Man is starting to look like a loser.’ He pouts with flirtatious cuteness. He’s turned manipulation into an art form.
‘Here!’ Like the Lady of the Lake wielding Excalibur, a hand shoots into the air brandishing a crisp new twenty.
Heads turn to see who it is. The girl steps into the ring, and my heart drops.
It’s Kelly Matthews.
The crowd goes quiet as Daevon ceremoniously hands the clippers over to Kelly. He proceeds to give her a crash course in hairdressing. Imran takes his shirt off to a wild cacophony of wolf whistles and appreciation for his angel-wings tattoo. He grins devilishly, flexing for the fans. Then he goes dead serious, bouncing on the balls of his feet, throwing quick punches like he’ll be getting in the ring with Anthony Joshua.
‘Ugh! Look at her,’ Jade says snarkily, shaking her head.
Melanie nods. ‘Acting like a ghetto hoe. Tell me she’s being ironic now.’
I want to tell them to shut up, but I’m too busy battling my own corrosive mixture of jealousy and horror.
The clippers buzz to life in Kelly’s hand. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ she says, giggling foolishly, unsure where to start.
Nearly two thousand people have flocked to the field, yet Imran’s eyes still manage to find me. He glances at Kelly then back at me and winks. It’s the moment I realize he’s not done with humiliating me yet.
‘Do me,’ he says, making fists, legs jackhammering.
Daevon flaps his arms to get the crowd excited – anticipation levels now going through the roof.
Kelly runs her fingers through Imran’s beautiful hair, blushing profusely, covering her mouth, backing away, grimacing, then finally moving in for the kill. Imran screws up his face, and the crowd is loving it. Me? I want her to act like the feminist she’s supposed to be and lop that bastard’s head off. The clippers devour his hair with electric fury. Handfuls of thick hair fall on to his shoulders like raven’s feathers.
‘I don’t think I can do any more!’ Kelly says, fanning her cheeks.
‘I’ll do it!’ shouts Kara, pulling off Zumba moves in her excitement.
A flock of hands fly into the air; desperate fans wanting to touch Imran’s head. For a split second, I wonder if he could be the Antichrist.
Imran ignores them all. He grabs Kelly’s hand, gently manoeuvring the clippers back to his scalp. I grind my teeth as the seconds stretch into minutes. The whole thing feels way too intimate. The crowd laps it up.
Minutes later, Kelly is done. Imran stands up and poses like a wrestler. Even without his hair, he is still perfection. His chiselled skull looks like a Michelangelo carving. The only imperfection is a small pink scar at the back of his head. This, I realize, is where I accidentally brained the bastard. Phones rise into the air, and flashes strobe like lightning, the moment instantly uploaded to Snapchat, Instagram, Twitter and YouTube. Imran’s star power has now gone viral.
‘One of me and the girl!’ Imran roars, pulling Kelly on to his lap. She clutches on to him tightly in surprise, and they both laugh, their mouths uncomfortably close as more pictures are snapped.
‘You lost your chance, bro,’ Daevon whispers in my ear. ‘She’s Imran’s now.’
I barrel through the masses, fighting my way out. I get cussed for pushing, and I cuss right back. My head is a mess of betrayal and disgust. A couple of senior teachers are on their way down, and suddenly everyone’s hightailing it.
Kelly said I was her bestie. I did everything I could to protect her from Imran and would never have betrayed my friend, not even if it meant getting thrown off another bridge. Thought she was smart; thought she was different.
It’s the end of the school day, and I’m nervously pacing up and down the corridor in the maths building. I’m about to take another peek through Ms Mughal’s window when the door flies open and Year 7 kids come pouring out, saying bye to her and chattering excitedly about their lesson.
‘Miss, I made a card for you,’ a girl announces, and honestly, she’s the cutest thing. She’s dwarfed by a giant kawaii backpack shaped like a cupcake. Fun Hong is written on it in marker so neatly, it’s practically font.
‘For me?’ Ms Mughal asks her, acknowledging me with a nod.
The girl turns to look at me, alarmed. ‘Um … I’m embarrassed.’ She tips her head forward to hide her flushing cheeks.
‘You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. This is Ilyas, and he’s a fellow artist. Just like you, Fun,’ Ms Mughal says.
Fun peers at me suspiciously, and I nod. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m all about the creative arts.’
‘OK, but if anyone laughs, I’m gonna cry,’ she says matter-offactly, unzipping her backpack and pulling out the handmade card.
Fun has drawn a chibi-style picture of Ms Mughal teaching a class full of cute little animals. To my favourite teacher is proudly written across the top in lavender glitter glue.
Poor Ms Mughal looks like she’s going to cry.
‘This is literally the cutest thing ever, Fun!’
‘You got talent,’ I chime in, cos I know how good it feels to hear it.
Fun hugs her bag. I can almost see happy stars popping above her head like an animated filter.
‘Oh!’ she says, placing a hand over her mouth. ‘I wanted to tell you something else too, but I’ll tell you tomorrow instead. Can I come at break-time?’
‘Of course you can. And thank you so much for this card. It’s going on my wall, and every time I feel down, looking at it will cheer me right up,’ Ms Mughal says.
Fun giggles, then scampers down the corridor, pausing only to wave, before vanishing down the stairwell.
‘Smart kid,’ Ms Mughal says with a dewy-eyed expression. ‘Come in, Ilyas, and take a seat.’ She kicks off her shoes and slips into a pair of bright orange Nikes. ‘Just going to zip off to collect my brother from reception. Back in five. OK?’
‘Sure … Miss? Can I open my comic on your computer? To show your brother, I mean?’
She gives me an affirmative thumbs-up, before zooming into the corridor, her jilbab flapping in the slipstream.
I log in to her computer, slot in my memory stick, and open up my file. Up on the interactive whiteboard, my comic suddenly looks different. Nausea grips my stomach. It’s like my comic has mutated since I last saw it. A billion rookie mistakes fly out at me like ninja stars. Proportion, expression, perspective – it’s all wrong.
I close my eyes, trying to slow down my jacked-up heart. ‘You’re imagining things. It was fine last week when you showed Kelly. Not that she cares anyway,’ I mutter to myself.
‘Imagining things is good practice for a comic book artist,’ comes a new voice from behind me. ‘I’m Idris, Ms Mughal’s brother. Nice to meet you.’
He has the same bee-stung lips as Ms Mughal. But there the similarity ends. His eyes are chocolate brown, a unibrow hovers above thick glasses, and he is big – tall and very wide.
‘This talent-in-the-wings is Ilyas,’ Ms Mughal tells him, walking into the room behind her brother.
I shake Idris’s hand, feeling like a dork for having been caught giving myself a pep talk.
‘Whoa!’ he says, glancing up at the board. ‘Is this your own work?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling shyly before switching gears. ‘Why – is it bad?’
Both he and Ms Mughal look at me like surprised geese.
‘Are you being modest or do you seriously not know how talented you are?’ Idris asks.
I cover my mouth with both hands. If Dad could see me right now, he’d give me a smack for being so girly. But I am so overcome with emotions, my hands are shaking.
‘D-d-do you think I have an actual shot at winning?’ Boom – it’s out: the thought that’s been plaguing my mind ever since Ms Mughal mentione
d the competition.
Idris smiles thinly, sitting down on a table, his legs spreading in his beige trousers. ‘Tell me more about this character. Does he have an origin story? Who are the bad guys? Where is it set?’
‘Take your time,’ Ms Mughal says gently, gliding over to a table at the back. ‘I’ll just be over here marking some tests.’
I tell Idris all about PakCore. He nods encouragingly, but doesn’t let on whether he thinks it’s great or if he thinks it sucks.
‘Do you reckon I have a chance?’ I ask again.
He deflects the question. ‘How much do you want to win?’
‘Oh man!’ I say, shaking my head deliriously. ‘More than Lois Lane wants Superman. More than T’Challa wishes the Vibranium in Wakanda had stayed in Wakanda. More than—’
‘OK – I can see you’re committed,’ Idris says, chuckling. ‘The Kablamo! Kon IV competition takes place just before Christmas. That’s not a lot of time, so I’m going to be blunt with you.’
Ms Mughal looks up from her marking. ‘Not too blunt, please.’
‘Psh! I’m never too blunt,’ he says.
‘Ha! You used to call me Stick Insect Gal and say my superpower was getting blown away in the wind.’
‘Only because society told me to be jealous. But thankfully I’m BoPo now.’ He pats his stomach.
This is a guy Daevon should meet.
‘So, Ilyas, can you handle the truth?’
I nod, gulping.
‘Your artwork is incredible, the Living Shadows make seriously creepy villains, and I love that you came up with a British Pakistani hero. A move that’s long overdue.’
‘OK,’ I say uncertainly, waiting for the sting in the tail.
His unibrow curves like a rainbow. ‘But the actual character of PakCore seems too familiar.’
I blush, wringing my hands. ‘But I made him up! He’s a mash-up of loads of different characters. Something old to make something new.’
‘That’s the problem, my friend. It’s really easy to identify your individual inspirations.’ He ticks them off on his fingers. ‘Superman, Spider-Man, Ghost Rider.’
All that effort drawing those pictures, scanning the images, and digitally enhancing them. Literally hours and hours of hard graft. And all this time, I’ve been polishing a turd. A stolen turd. Who does that?
‘How can he fix it?’ Ms Mughal interjects quickly.
Idris shrugs his round shoulders. ‘It has to come from inside you, Ilyas. Producing original ideas to order is bread and butter for any comic book artist. And with this genre at saturation point – thank you, Hollywood! – it has become almost impossible to come up with something that hasn’t been done before.’
I nod gloomily. ‘There’s probably tons of people entering the competition anyway. Like, adults and that.’
‘But –’ Ms Mughal waves her pen like a magic wand – ‘your drawings are already on a par with those of adults, so that’s one hurdle down. Just need to fine tune those brilliant ideas of yours. Please help him, Idris. Can’t you see how much he wants this?’
Her brother shakes his head. ‘Come from you, it must,’ he says in a nasalized voice, pushing his ears out in imitation of Yoda. ‘But what I can do is show you a promotional video I made for a small comics company called Diamond Chain. Maybe it’ll inspire you, and your ideas will build from there.’
He puts the smallest USB I have ever seen into the port and double-clicks on a video file. My mouth falls open. The stylish cartoon images shift and pan and breathe – a noir comic book brought to life. A creative big bang happens inside me, and a million possibilities shimmer before my eyes.
‘It’s called a motion comic,’ he explains. ‘Lots of movies use them in the opening credits nowadays. I made this one in After Effects, manipulating the original artist’s drawings.’
‘How?’ I whisper, my eyes like hubcaps, my heart rate spiking.
‘I’ll show you.’
Saturday morning, my phone pings. A text from Kelly.
I flash back to her working on PakCore’s life model, giggling nervously while stroking his stupid sexy scalp.
A traitorous smirk breaches my defences. I miss Kelly. Besides, with a genocidal order of alien mercenaries on your back, well, who could say no to that?
I gaze up at the Matthews’ large, picturesque house. Hearing that Mrs M is enjoying a spa weekend in Swansea swung it for me.
Kelly throws open the door before I even ring the bell. She’s wearing a beige robe with a green hood pulled low over her eyes. Massive pointy ears poke out on either side.
‘Come early, you have,’ she says, hands folded in front of her, making that familiar nasalized voice.
‘You know, you’re the second person to go Yoda on me this week,’ I say.
‘Really?’ She rips off the hood, revealing a ballerina bun sitting on the crown of her head. Without her waves spilling everywhere, she almost looks like a different person. ‘Who was the first?’
So I go inside and tell her all about Idris and the Kablamo! Kon IV competition.
‘Oh my God!’ she says. ‘This is totally a sign. Place your hands upon the scared bun of prosperity.’ She pitches her head forward so my nose is virtually nesting in her hair, the fresh apple scent of it filling my nostrils.
She glances up at me. ‘Is that a thing? Can we make it a thing?’
‘Let’s not,’ I suggest.
‘OK. But at least tell me you see this is a sign.’
‘Not really …’ I admit, scratching an arm.
‘We were talking about collaborating, right? And then this drops. There aren’t any coincidences, Ilz. Just psychic engineering.’ She taps her head. ‘And prosperity-activating buns, obvs.’
‘So you’re still up for collabing?’ I ask, raising a doubtful eyebrow.
‘Did you hit your head on the way over? Of course I am!’
I shake my head. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way, yeah, but I like doing things on my own. All my life, I’ve had people tell me what to do, how to act, what to say. And I’m a loser, so I do it.’
‘You’re not a loser …’ She gently pushes my chin with her fist.
‘Don’t lie, fam. You know I’m at the bottom of the food chain. If I didn’t have Imran and DedManz, I’d be in a full body cast by now.’
She drops her eyes because she knows it’s true.
I scratch my neck, gearing up to poke the elephant in the room. ‘Why’d you pay twenty quid to shave Imran’s head?’
Silence.
‘It was for charity,’ she eventually says, twisting an ear on her bathrobe. ‘Plus, he was being really funny.’
‘He’s not a nice guy …’
‘Nobody’s perfect.’
‘But he looks it. That’s the problem. I’ve seen so many girls get burned cos they got too close.’
‘Well I’m not “so many girls”. Besides, it was nice to get one up on Jade and Mels. They always have to be at the centre of everything. And for once it was me.’ She grins impishly. ‘Anyway … I believe we were talking about entering this competition?’
I swallow, trying to arrange my thoughts. ‘Comics is the one place I get to call the shots. The one place I cannot be controlled.’
Kelly’s eyes sparkle. ‘You can still have ownership, silly. I’ll be Jack Kirby to your Stan Lee. Look, you came up with the character, and you found out about the competition. This dream belongs to you. I’ll just figure out how to make your ideas gel.’
‘But it’s your dream too …’
She shakes her head. ‘My dream is to be the author of the sassiest, smartest, science fictioniest novel ever. I’ll settle for nothing less than a ten-book deal thankyouverymuch! But I’m pretty sure I need to work more on my writing before that can happen. So for me, your comic will be like an internship.’
‘Thanks, Kel,’ I say, smiling. ‘Swear down you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘C’mere, you li’l scamp!’ Sh
e draws me into a hug and rubs my back.
‘Check me out getting hugs off a Jedi Master! Right now, a whole fandom of nerds must be snapping their plastic lightsabers in protest.’
‘Grope you naughty, I must,’ Kelly says, making grabby hands.
‘Oh my days!’ I yelp, skipping away, then breaking into a full pelt.
She chases me round the house, both of us giggling like little kids, careening round corners, sliding down banisters, rolling under tables. I realize that Imran hasn’t stolen Kelly away from me after all. The Hair Shaving Incident was nothing more than a blip: normal service has resumed.
I skid into the kitchen, only the floor has recently been waxed, and my feet fly out from under me. Kelly follows too closely, and we both end up in a heap just in front of the oven. We howl with laughter, tears streaming from our eyes.
I suddenly sit up straight. Kelly stops laughing when she sees the expression on my face.
‘What’s up?’ she asks, panting for breath.
I turn to look at her, my eyes wider than Sparkle’s after she’s smelt food. The big bang that began after watching Idris’s video has finally reached critical mass.
‘Kelz, I got it!’ I announce. ‘I know how to make PakCore stand out from the crowd!’
My wild pencil marks streak and mesh across Kelly’s A3 pad. With a final zigzag and a couple of curlicues, I push the finished drawing towards her.
She stares at it with reverence. ‘This looks like Ms Mughal.’
I nod. ‘Don’t you get it? She makes the perfect superhero. High school teacher by day; defender of the oppressed by night. I honest to God saw Ms Mughal pull off a kung fu move one time when she kicked a door shut. Just imagine what seeing someone like her saving the world would do to a hater’s mind.’
Kelly makes hand explosions beside her head. ‘Ooh I could have fun writing her lines. Just think of the clapback potential!’
‘Make ’em savage,’ I reply, making fists.
‘I’m sold. So what are we calling this avenging angel?’
I scratch behind an ear, lower lip protruding. ‘Dunno yet. I reckon she’ll tell me her name when she’s ready.’
Kick the Moon Page 16