Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘Makes sense. I’m calling my flu story Project X until it’s finished. That’s when you know what the heart of the story is, then the name just pops out at you.’ She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing my drawing. ‘Hmm!’

  ‘That don’t sound like a good hmm …’

  ‘Something else just popped out at me. Two somethings, in fact. You’re definitely going to have to modify the design.’

  I glance at my drawing. Poised like a lioness on the hunt, my superhero’s jilbab ebbs and flows around her like liquid silk, green eyes flashing with formidable vengeance. The Living Shadows have gathered round in a circle of doom, creeping forwards, electrical fangs bared. But the smirk on her full lips makes it clear they don’t know who they’re dealing with.

  I look up at Kel. ‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Tits and ass.’

  ‘But I didn’t!’ I yammer.

  ‘You most definitely diddo, kiddo,’ Kelly says, placing a hand on her hip. ‘And look at that micro waist! How’s a girl to kick bad-guy arse on an invisible stomach? Try mansplaining your way out of that!’

  I’m roasting so bad right now, you could have me with gravy.

  ‘If you want this character to be unique, Ilz, we have to give her realistic proportions so our fans won’t end up aspiring anorexics.’

  ‘I dunno how it happened!’ I say, sweating a river – I don’t want Kelly thinking I’m a perv. That’s Imran’s job. Amma taught me better.

  ‘Relax – you’re just a victim of everyday sexism.’ She sighs affectedly. ‘Women have been objectified to the point we’ve almost stopped noticing it.’ Kelly gestures to the picture. ‘Why do some Muslim women wear a gown anyway?’

  I take a moment to consider all the women in my family who wear jilbabs. ‘I guess so you have to listen to what they’re saying instead of checking them out.’

  Kelly drums her fingers along her jawline. ‘Like an objectification shield?’

  I shrug.

  ‘That actually makes a whole lot more sense than the oppression angle we hear so much about.’

  ‘Yeah, the media loves its daily dose of shit-stirring,’ I say. ‘My sister’s a beauty vlogger. On World Hijab Day, she posted a video special in which she interviewed some of her mates about why they wear the hijab.’

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ Kelly says, beaming. ‘I think all women should wear whatever they want without being judged or banned or assaulted.’

  In her Yoda robe, she looks so totally comfortable; so unapologetically Kelly. Does Jade even know this side of her exists?

  ‘OK, Lieutenant Mian – stand by to improve the character design on my mark,’ Kelly says, raising a finger in the air before bringing it down sharply. ‘Engage objectification shielding!’

  ‘Aye aye, cap’n.’ I flip the page and start over, sketching a less sexualized version of my character, this time bursting through a stained-glass window in an explosion of coloured glass and smoke. A flickering in my peripherals distracts me. For a moment, as if it was really there, I see the vape jellyfish Imran blew back at the abandoned park over half-term coursing through the air.

  I blink, and it’s gone.

  ‘Oh my days!’ I practically scream as an idea replaces the jellyfish. ‘I know what her superpower is: Phantom Breath!’

  ‘Explanation, please?’

  Over the years, I’ve watched Imran smoke everything from shisha and spliffs to bongs. This is my opportunity to turn something evil into something good. ‘She has mystical lungs, which produce Phantom Rings. These rings can shift between gas and solid.’

  ‘Deposition to sublimation, eh?’ Kelly mutters, tenting her fingers.

  ‘They can also change size. So she can blow one at an enemy and, depending on what she’s looking for, can bind them like a straitjacket. Or strangle them into unconsciousness with a shrinking ring round the throat.’

  ‘Gruesome. I like!’ Kelly says, nodding like a bobblehead.

  ‘Or she can blow acidic vapour, which can eat straight through metal. You know – to melt guns and that.’

  Kelly waves her hand in the air as if she’s in class. ‘Ooh! Ooh! How about this? She can blow an entire cloud of acid rain and melt enemies in a torrential downpour!’

  I consider it. ‘Or if she concentrates hard enough, she can blow a cloud that envelops enemies before switching to thundercloud mode and frying the fools in an electrical storm!’

  Kelly claps her hands excitedly. ‘Any thoughts on a name yet?’

  In my imagination, fresh from cuffing enemies’ hands behind their backs with frisbee-like Phantom Rings, the character glances over her shoulder. A cop is asking her who to thank. She starts telling him thanks aren’t necessary, then thinks better of it. Going anonymous gives the press a free pass to pick a name for her. Muslim Maiden or Burka Bae. She tries not to retch, then announces her name as clear as a bell.

  ‘Big Bad Wafiyyah,’ I announce. ‘But we’ll shorten it to Big Bad Waf.’

  ‘As in the Big Bad Wolf?’

  ‘Think about it! The wolf goes around terrorizing the three little pigs by doing what?’

  Kelly looks baffled, then a smile creeps across her lips. ‘Huffing and puffing!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Swear to God, you’re a creative genius, Ilz! I can practically see your brain throbbing!’

  ‘Team effort,’ I say sheepishly.

  ‘We’re totally making Waf’s eyes hazel though, because yours are really pretty.’

  ‘You think?’ I say, wrinkling my brow.

  She prods me in the centre of my chest. ‘Don’t milk it, mate, or Yoda will have to get handsy with you again.’

  We burst out laughing.

  Kelly and me spend the rest of the morning coming up with ideas for Big Bad Waf, feeding off each other’s energy and excitement. Our minds form an almost telepathic link. I’ll start out describing something, and she’ll finish off, somehow knowing exactly what I was going to say. Kelly reins in my craziest ideas and plays Sexism Police. The fact that DedManz has rubbed off on me in little ways I hadn’t even realized is actually pretty disturbing.

  When the pizza guy arrives, Kelly insists on talking to him in Yoda-speak. I try not to laugh.

  ‘The crazy is strong with this one,’ he says, winking as he takes his tip.

  Kelly has ordered us a feast, which we spread out across the dinner table. Starting at opposite ends, we wolf down the insanely delicious food followed by illegal amounts of ice cream – the kind made with clotted cream.

  With full bellies, we return to our creative brainstorming. By the end of the day, we have enough material for an entire series of comics. I don’t say it out loud – don’t want to jinx it – but I’m starting to believe me and Kelly have a very good crack at taking home the big prize.

  Sunday at Chez Mian is bliss. With Zaman in custody, and DX Dingoes at war with the Bloo Bludz, our family is finally out of the heat. Following a large lunch, calorie-rich dessert and family bantz, us Mians go upstairs to indulge in one of our famous super-long siestas.

  As I’m rolling about in my bed, trying to find that perfect spot that will trigger sleep, an overwhelming sense of foreboding suddenly attacks. It grips my throat like an invisible assassin, squeezing a gasp out of me.

  I shoot up ramrod straight, listening to the ambient sounds of the house. Difficult when your blood is thunder, and your ears are acting like amplifiers. Closing my eyes, I try to hone in on the cause of the psychic disturbance. A false alarm. As I’m settling back down, I suddenly catch the tiniest sob.

  It’s enough to rouse me from my bed.

  I leap up, slip on my sliders and scramble into the corridor. Everyone’s bedroom door is closed. Dad’s peaceful snores punctuate the hollow silence, but my Spidey sense is pinging.

  Curling my hands round the cold banisters, I peer down into the entrance hall. Another sob; this one as clear as breaking glass. I scurry down the stairs and push open the sitting-room door.
Amma is curled up in the armchair, covering her face. Her shoulders quake with silent sobs, the telephone receiver lying at her feet.

  ‘Amma, what’s wrong?’ I ask, kneeling beside her, squeezing her shoulder.

  Amma looks up. Her puffy wet face scares me because Amma is the most together person I know. She clings to me, crying into my bony chest, our roles reversed.

  ‘Don’t cry, Amma. We’ll sort it, whatever it is,’ I say, grabbing the discarded phone and whacking it back on the cradle.

  ‘This isn’t the type of thing that can be sorted, beyta,’ she finally says, drawing away and blowing her nose like a bugle horn. ‘Your auntie Ambreen is losing her mind.’

  I am shook. Mum’s sister is only five years older than her. ‘W-w-what?’

  ‘She’s very sick.’

  ‘Well, can’t she come back here and get treatment?’

  Twenty-five years ago, my auntie Ambreen baffled my grandparents by wanting to up sticks and move to Pakistan. She eventually got her way, got hitched to my rich uncle Sohail and began enjoying the Swag Life. Pakistan isn’t the place people think it is. If you have money, like my uncle Sohail does, life can be pretty sweet.

  Amma is staring into the middle distance, no longer in the sitting room with me, but four thousand miles away in Lahore, holding her sister’s hand. I suddenly feel very lonely.

  ‘She has early-onset dementia,’ Amma says, almost to herself. ‘It’s very rare in people under sixty-five. None of us knew what it was. She’d always got bad grades at school, and she was so forgetful. Called herself a “Beverly Hills Bimbo”. Made us laugh. Oh how she made us laugh! We never thought for a moment it could be a disease. Her poor kids!’ Amma starts to cry again.

  Feeling beyond inadequate, I stare at my feet. A series of flashbacks fills my mind. All the times Auntie Ambreen came to visit, and how excited me and Shais and Amir would get knowing she never came empty-handed. Dad complaining cos the sweets she’d bring weren’t Desi. Auntie telling Dad Asian sweets are ‘diabetes in a box’. I consider reminding Amma about this, but worry it might make her even sadder.

  ‘Amma, can’t she pull through? Like, if we pray really hard?’

  Amma frowns, rallying to answer my question. ‘There’s no coming back from this, beyta. She’s deteriorating quickly. Soon she won’t be able to remember any of us.’ She says a prayer in Arabic. It’s the one you say when disaster strikes, and you tell Allah you trust Him even though your heart is breaking.

  ‘I’ll go mosque, yeah, and pray for her. I’ll stick a twenty in the collection box,’ I babble, wanting so desperately to make it better. I can’t see Amma like this. She’s too nice to have to suffer any more disasters.

  Amma pats my head sadly, clearly appreciating the thought. ‘Will you be OK without me for a while?’

  My heart implodes. The thought of Amma gone is unbearable. But how can I be selfish at a time like this?

  ‘Yeah, course,’ I say, like it’s no big deal. ‘Take all the time you need. I could come with?’

  She shakes her head promptly. ‘Absolutely not. You’ve got your GCSEs round the corner. Osman might want you to take over the store, but I know you’ve got your heart set on university. Without idiots like Imran getting in your way, I know you’ll flourish and make us proud.’

  Now my own eyes are filling with tears.

  ‘I’ll tell everyone how much you wanted to be there.’ Amma wipes her eyes, the armchair creaking as she gets up. ‘Suppose I’d better talk to your father …’ Her eyes cut back to me, whirlpools of worry. Placing her hands on the sides of my head, she tilts my face up. ‘Promise me …’

  ‘Anything,’ I say.

  ‘Promise me you’ll try to get on with your dad and Shaista. We don’t get to choose our family, but trust me, blood is thicker than water.’

  A week without Amma passes by feeling like an entire month. Everyone at home pitches in to make it run smoothly, but we’re all wearing our game faces. I take over cooking responsibilities after Shais cremates beans on toast and tries to pass it off as something she saw on The Great British Bake Off. Sometimes Dad orders takeaways, but they’re too expensive and never match up to Amma’s cooking. The only silver lining is not having to see Imran at school as I’m too busy getting my homework done in the library so I can get on with the housework when I get home.

  The following week, I see DedManz in hysterics, passing Imran’s phone around at lunchtime. I wonder if Chris’s shaving fail got the full meme treatment.

  ‘What’s good?’ I say, making with the daps.

  ‘My Becky’s been busy with the Thot Filter,’ Imran says, grinning from ear to ear.

  I glance at the screen and see a girl morphed into doll-like cuteness by a filter. The pouting girl is Kelly.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I say, sweat beading my brow. ‘How does that make her a thot, though? Everyone uses that filter.’

  ‘My yute,’ Imran says haughtily. ‘That filter makes ugly girls look buff. Only thots do shit like that.’

  I shake my head, my cheeks buzzing. ‘Why you stalking her Insta anyway?’

  ‘Cos man’s going to get jiggy with this piggy!’ Imran laughs loudly.

  Daevon sees my expression and taps Imran. ‘Stop it, fam.’

  Imran glares at him. ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

  ‘Come on, man. You know the girl is Ilyas’s mate …’

  ‘Bros before hoes,’ Imran intones, pounding the table with knuckles of stone. ‘Number one rule of DedManz.’

  Noah looks at me with disgust. ‘Why you making friends with dumbass girls anyway?’

  ‘Kelly’s not dumb,’ I reply, my lip curling. ‘She gets nines for everything, and she’s going Cambridge, innit? And anyway, girls always get better exam resul—’

  ‘Bitch, you gay?!’ says Noah, slapping my face.

  Imran turns to look at me with amusement. ‘What is it with you and Becky-with-the-bad-hair, anyway?’

  ‘Her name’s Kelly.’ Naming my friend gives her back her dignity. ‘She gives me a hand with my writing.’

  ‘Yeah? Well she’s gonna give me two hands with my wanking.’

  Noah and Imran boom with laughter. Daevon shakes his head and mouths, Go.

  I take my cue and leave, my heart thudding in my chest.

  At the end of the day, I’m about to ride out of the school gates when I hear a sound like a shire horse galloping behind me. I glance over my shoulder and see it’s Kelly.

  ‘Ilyas!’ she says, puffing to a halt as I squeeze the brakes. ‘Wanna go down the cafe and talk Big Bad Waf?’

  I should say no, that I have to get on with the tarka daal and make the roti. But, honestly, I miss being fifteen instead of fifty.

  ‘Sure!’ I say, hoping off my bike so we can walk together.

  ‘So I’ve got a script,’ she tells me, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘I thought you were writing the prologue.’

  ‘I was. My ideas snowballed, and I couldn’t stop! I tried to stay faithful to your vision of her, but I’ve added a few feminist touches. Let’s have a read through and see how we feel.’

  ‘Cool!’ I say. ‘Then I can get on with the layouts and panels and that.’

  Once we reach the front of the queue, Kelly orders us hot-spiced apple drinks, popcorn cookies and a lemon tart each.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts!’ she says, spreading the goodies on the table between us. ‘Ugh! I sound like Mum.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing wrong with that,’ I say, grabbing a cookie.

  ‘You’ve met my mother. You know this is not true.’ She cuts her tart with a fork, flavouring the air with the zest of lemons. ‘She found the pizza boxes in the bin and asked me if I had you over while she was out. So I said yes, and she went very quiet.’

  ‘Does she hate me?’

  She pauses to look at her phone and sniggers at a message.

  I can’t help but wonder who it’s from.

  ‘I think she preferred it when y
ou were Jade or Melanie or even Chris.’ She pulls a face, and it’s so unselfconscious, it makes me laugh. ‘I haven’t even met your mum yet. Hint, hint!’

  ‘Amma’s gone Pakistan,’ I say glumly. ‘She went to be with her sister before she loses her memory. You know – from dementia.’

  Kelly pauses, trying to figure out whether I’m being serious or if this is just a very bad joke. ‘Sorry. Why didn’t you tell me this before? Wait – doesn’t dementia only happen to really old people?’

  ‘I can’t right now,’ I say, feeling my throat sealing up like an allergic reaction.

  She studies me, and I drop my eyes. They’re playing a song on the radio that I thought was going to have a good beat but is lacking. A woman is telling her giggling mate that she’s going to dump her boyfriend if he buys her any more ‘old lady’ perfume for Christmas. Outside, a Scottish terrier is yapping at a surprised bull mastiff, while its owner stares through the window, licking his lips.

  ‘When life gives you lemons,’ Kelly says, pushing my plate towards me, ‘eat lemon tarts.’

  I smile and take a bite.

  She grins. ‘So here’s what I was thinking about Big Bad Waf …’

  After a week that has dragged on forever, saved only by my time hanging out with Kelly, I can’t think of a better way to spend my Saturday. A minute passes with no reply. I stare at my phone screen, checking to see if the message failed to send.

  Ten minutes later, my phone vibrates, and I pounce on it.

  That’s a downer. I look at the Kelly’s text one more time, then push my phone away.

  Cheering up is what I need, and nothing on God’s green earth cheers up a comic book fan greater than a variant cover. The thought gets me hype. Considering my options, I eventually settle on the traditional portrait route for the debut issue. Getting my hands dirty feels good, using pastels and chalk on matt black paper; dipping into a pot of water every now and then, for eye-popping colour boosts. Pretty soon, I have Big Bad Waf staring back at me, rendered in lines as vicious as knife slashes, layered with smudged tones for the illusion of volume. Metallic gold and neon pastels play off each other, bringing her hazel eyes to mesmerizing life.