Kick the Moon

by Muhammad Khan

  Turning the paper first one way then the other, I make sure I haven’t subconsciously given her a boob job or a Brazilian Butt Lift. That’s when a major design flaw hits me like a ton of bricks: How does she keep her identity secret? For a moment, I consider giving her a niqab, but realize this would interfere with blowing Phantom Rings. I run a hand across my mouth, absent-mindedly smearing neon colours into my beard. ‘Wait, what if …’

  Throwing down another sheet of black paper, I make a second drawing very similar to the first, but under her hijab, I sketch PakCore’s eye mask. Definitely better, but still no wow factor. Picturing Ms Mughal in my mind’s eye, I zero in on her hijab pin, that halo of golden spikes surrounding an amethyst crystal. Snapping open my eyes, I quickly sketch a golden crown on top of her hijab – making each tine an ornate sword or dagger.

  Now for the moment of truth. Mentally severing all ties with my work, I take a step back and open my eyes.

  I scream with joy. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, take a knee, cos my queen Big Bad Waf has finally arrived!’

  Big Bad Waf is everything PakCore was and more. Athletic and fierce; powerful and mystical. The final colour palette is simple: glittering bronze skin, hazel eyes and the vast blackness of a rippling jilbab. Red lips? Forget it. Catwalk heels? Nope – think Uncle Fiz’s boots. But my favourite part has to be that fierce crown.

  Comic book world, I think, you are so not prepared for what’s about to hit you.

  Monday morning, I’m late to first period – I had to hand-wash the plates cos the dishwasher wouldn’t start. Mr Welch, my geography teacher, is not happy.

  ‘Don’t just slink in and sit down. Why are you late?’ he snaps.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear my alarm this morning.’

  He gives an indignant snort and turns back to the board.

  ‘What we doing?’ I ask Ray, quickly getting my books and pens out.

  ‘Dunno,’ he says, looking how I feel. ‘Something about rivers and levees, I think.’

  I skim-read the text.

  ‘Ilyas, you’re Muslim, right?’ mutters Ray out of the blue.

  I nod, writing the date and title in my book.

  ‘So I was wondering …’ He shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks going pink for some reason. ‘Are you guys allowed to date people from other religions?’

  ‘Muslims aren’t down to date unless the end goal is marriage. But people do whatever they want, innit?’

  Ray processes this. ‘Do you reckon … Nah, forget it.’

  Just as I’m writing down the answer to the first question, he changes his mind.

  ‘Do you reckon Nawal would go out with me?’ He looks like a chameleon dropped in a bowl of strawberries.

  ‘Bro, you need to ask her that.’ His depressed face gets me in the feels. ‘But for what it’s worth, she seems pretty into you.’

  ‘For real?’ he says, with hopeful eyes.

  I give him a confidence-boosting back slap, then turn my attention back to the textbook. Unfortunately the words don’t make any sense, even after reading through twice. The late shift I worked at Dad’s shop yesterday is taking its toll … Then Shais threatened to make dinner, and I didn’t want to die of food poisoning … Just need to close my eyes for a moment, give them a short rest …

  ‘How dare you turn up late and fall asleep in my class!’

  Sitting up so fast, I nearly somersault backwards off my chair. A chain of drool stretches from my lips to the table.

  ‘I see!’ Mr Welch continues, trembling like a self-contained earthquake. ‘Instead of doing the set task, you’ve been drawing queens.’

  At some point between arriving late and falling properly asleep, I’ve drawn Big Bad Waf winking and tipping her crown, a boot placed squarely in the middle of a felled enemy’s chest. The pose is so sassy, I can’t not be impressed.

  ‘He is a queen!’ someone says, getting some laughs.

  Then Welch goes off on one, blasting me for being tired. Why do teachers think shouting at someone has the same effect as a can of Red Bull? It’s mad demotivating, not to mention humiliating. Then to top it off, he sets me a detention, forcing me to stay awake for an extra forty minutes after school. Madness. Whoever bullied Welch as a kid knocked the logic straight out of his head. This is why scientists need to develop a vaccine against bullying.

  I sigh, propping my head firmly on my hands. Gonna need to stay awake for the rest of class before I get myself into any more trouble.

  The rest of the week at school drags on in a predictably boring way, until the weather that’s had reporters and my mate Kara whipped into a frenzy all week finally arrives on Friday as I’m on my way home.

  Snowflakes like ostrich feathers tumble out of a colourless sky, coating south London in a blanket of whiteness. Squeals of delight fill the air as kids try catching snowflakes on steaming tongues. Kara and her cousin are belting out a gospel version of ‘Let it Go’ while a trio of Year 7s on the opposite side of the street are competing with ‘Do You Want to Build a Snowman?’

  I bury my hands deeper inside my pockets, seeking refuge from the blistering cold. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a black Volvo slow down, and the passenger window lowering. DX Dingoes! my paranoid mind screams. Instinct kicks in, and I dive to the other side of the pavement, ready to roll over someone’s wall at first sight of the barrel of a gun.

  ‘Hello, Elias! Hope I didn’t give you a fright?’ It’s Kelly’s mum, who is just about as far away from DX Dingoes as you can get. ‘Can I offer you a lift? Such inclement weather!’ She flings open the door, spilling toasty warmth into the street.

  ‘Aw thanks, Mrs Matthews!’ I say, climbing in, making sure to mind my manners. Even if I’m not middle class, rude is rude, and I don’t want her making assumptions about Amma. I glance into the back. ‘Where’s Kelly?’

  ‘Oh, she won’t be joining us,’ she says, giving the indicator a flick and pulling out. ‘She’s getting extra help from her maths teacher, which is actually why I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Me?’ I ask in a small voice, starting to feel like a caged mouse.

  She cranes her neck, eyes like chips of ice. ‘What do your parents do?’

  ‘Uh, you asked me this before …’

  ‘So I did! You said your father was a taxi driver.’

  I blink.

  ‘Or a security guard? I forget which.’

  ‘My dad is a businessman,’ I say, trying not to sound annoyed.

  ‘Specifically what kind of business?’

  ‘Produce. Dad owns a shop on the high street.’

  ‘Ah, a greengrocer.’

  Somehow she makes it sound like Dad sells copies of the Big Issue outside Quindom station.

  ‘You see, Elias,’ Mrs M continues, cutting through the snowflakes with a jet of screenwash, ‘our families are really quite different. Kelly comes from a long line of proud academics. For the first time in her life, my daughter is struggling with her studies. She’s been distracted for weeks.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard they’re making the exams harder every year.’

  She gives me a look. ‘No, I don’t think that’s the case at all. Kelly used to be friends with girls like Jade and Melanie and Victoria. Serious girls, all academically motivated. Ever since the incident with Melanie, she just hasn’t been quite as focused.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Mrs M, Melanie is a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘It’s worth nothing,’ she says, slamming on the brakes, practically giving me whiplash. ‘High school politics get left behind. I know what girls are! At loggerheads one minute, bosom buddies the next. Exam results are what you carry forward. Now I know Kelly is very talented and can apply her mind to nearly anything, but her father and I want her to focus on academic pursuits. I understand it must be very exciting for you to have someone like my daughter helping you with your story books. I respect your choice, I absolutely do.’ She nods like she’s proud of how liberal she can be. ‘You are passionate about becom
ing a graphic novelist. But you both stand at opposite ends of the talent pool. Therefore I am going to have to ask you for a favour I know I have no right to.’

  She turns to face me.

  When I was younger, I saw a cartoon version of A Christmas Carol on YouTube. There was this one scene I will never forgot: Jacob Marley – Scrooge’s dead partner – untying his head bandage so his jaw popped open like an overhead bin on a plane, letting out an otherworldly wail. Scared me shitless. This is what Mrs M’s face is doing to me now, although without the wailing bit.

  ‘I want you to leave Kelly alone.’

  ‘You can’t ask me that!’

  ‘No, perhaps not, but I am anyway. Deep down, I think you want what’s best for Kelly too. Please, please leave her alone.’

  Shame crawls inside my chest, hot and spiky. Mrs M thinks I’m a parasite out to drain Kelly of all her talent. Floundering out of the car – which incidentally is nowhere near where I live – I want to slam the door so hard, the window shatters.

  But I won’t. I’m not who this woman thinks I am, and she doesn’t get to change me.

  As soon as I get indoors, I go to feed Sparkle some apple crunch treats.

  ‘Hey, Spark-fu,’ I say, stroking from silken head to cotton-ball tail. A cloud of fluff, almost like a ghost Sparkle, rises up and drifts away. ‘What you moulting for, girl? It’s like the North Pole outside.’

  Sparkle cocks her head at me quizzically, then begins licking my hand.

  ‘Mrs M thinks I’m leeching Kelly’s talents. It ain’t like that, Sparks! We’re a team. Put us together and magic happens.’ I furrow my brow. ‘Only now she’s ghosting. Do you think Kelly still likes me?’

  Sparkle sidesteps this question by hiding her face in the nook of my fingers. That ain’t good. I rack my brains, trying to figure out what I did wrong. Is she pissed at me cos I took so long to invite her over? Does she think I’m a freeloader cos I let her pay for me back at the coffee shop? Did her mum finally get to her? By the time I’m done analysing, my ego is confetti. As I pull out my phone, Sparkle chitters.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know – Mrs M told me to get lost. But screw her, innit?’

  Sparkle executes a bunny ear flick making me laugh.

  My heart drops three floors, landing in a dumpster. Don’t get me wrong: Kelly is my best mate, and I’m not jealous in that way. My problem is who that boyfriend might be. I pause, before typing again.

  Part of me is still holding out, praying that the answer is no. But as the seconds balloon into minutes, hope fades.

  Whoomf! The dumpster catches fire. Seven words, one symbol. A lethal combination I will spend my entire weekend obsessing over, wondering whether Kelly has outgrown me. Just like Daevon did. Mrs M’s all up in my grill when it’s Imran she should be worried about. He’s the real danger here.

  Having chewed a hole through her willow ball, Sparkle looks at me with defiant pride, then hurls it out of her window.

  I think about hopping on my bike and riding up to Kelly’s place to warn her that she’s making a terrible mistake. Or even just giving her a regular call. No good can come of her dating Imran. Literally everybody knows the man’s sleaze all over. But all the bastard has to do is bat those thick eyelashes at you, stroke that angular jaw, and you forgive and forget.

  No one is safe from his charms.

  ‘Ilz!’ It’s Monday lunchtime, and Kelly has come over to sit next to me on the memorial bench.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, my heart twinkling like the Bifröst rainbow bridge of Asgard. We’re hanging together in school, and she doesn’t seem to care who sees. ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘We went to an incredibly sketchy club, and they thought we were over eighteen and let us in. It was brilliant!’

  She’s happy, but it won’t last. I have to protect her. ‘Kelly …’

  ‘Thanks for giving me space, Ilz. You’re the best. Which is why I feel like I can tell you everything now.’

  Bracing myself for the worst, I hold on to my knees for support.

  ‘You’re right. I’m dating Imran. Wait, don’t hate me!’

  I shake my head. ‘Never. But …’ Static crackles as I rub my scalp. ‘I think you’re making a big mistake. A huge mistake. Everybody knows Imran is a sexist pig.’

  ‘I know he can be difficult, but that’s just his tough-guy persona. He has this whole other side that’s really sweet. We’ve been talking for ages, he asked me for my number after the Movember thing, but I didn’t want to tell you before. You seem so down on him every time he’s mentioned. He asks about my writing, and he bought me this.’

  She thrusts her hand out like a new bride. On her finger is a giant Medusa Hip Hop ring: a black and gold centre encircled by cubic zirconia. I don’t mention that they cost a fiver at Brixton market.

  ‘Look, Kelz, the other day he was showing his mates your Insta page, and they were taking the piss.’

  The hurt in her eyes is like one of Big Bad Waf’s vape rings squeezing my throat.

  ‘Hey, Kelly! Wanna watch man shoot some hoops?’

  Suddenly Imran is towering over us, spinning a basketball on his finger. My cheeks prickle, afraid he might’ve heard me bad-mouthing him.

  He grins at her, and though her lips twitch, the seed of doubt I’ve sown is starting to take root. It surfaces as a whorl on her forehead.

  ‘Have you been showing your friends my Instagram page?’

  He shoots me a death stare. ‘That what my boy told you?’

  Kelly raises her eyebrows, waiting for an answer. I am so happy right now, even though I may pay for it in broken teeth later. Imran is about to be served a big slice of comeuppance.

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ he finally admits, bouncing the ball. ‘Course I’mma show my boys the lovely girl my heart belongs to.’

  WTF?!

  I’m sick in my mouth, but certain a smart girl like Kelly will be able to see through his fakeness. Glancing at her face ends that hope. She’s making goo-goo eyes. He reaches out, and she readily places her hand – the one with the tacky ring – inside his. The urge to grab her other hand and pull her away is overwhelming.

  ‘See you around, fam,’ Imran says making a clicking sound and winking. Then he leads Kelly away, Pied Piper style.

  I don’t see Kelly again till a couple of days later at school. I walk up behind her and tap her on the shoulder.

  ‘Kelly, man, we need to talk.’

  She looks up and down the science corridor, then nods. ‘Yep, guess we do.’

  ‘People are laughing behind your back. Imran is laughing behind your back. You need to dump this player. You’re too good for him.’

  Her eyes shift between mine, in a detached sort of way that has me worried. ‘You’re pretty convincing.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I know what this is really about. You’re angry with me because I haven’t been spending time with you.’

  ‘Oh my God – I swear on my life, people are chatting shit about you!’

  ‘I know, OK?’ she snaps back. ‘This school is a mean place where people get off on criticizing others. How dare a fat chick date a hot boy? It’s hard enough ignoring them without you reminding me every five minutes.’

  ‘But I’m trying to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t need protecting. God! Just because I’m a girl, doesn’t automatically make me a damsel in distress.’

  ‘Does Imran know this?’ I shoot back.

  ‘I’m helping him become a better man. It’s not his fault he hasn’t had any strong female role models.’

  ‘So you’re basically saying all the girls he’s treated like shit deserved it?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just saying that if you don’t respect yourself, than you can’t expect anyone else to either. Nobody’s challenged Imran before. People assume he’s a sexy thug, then blame him when he plays up to that stupid stereotype.’

  ‘You’ve only known him five minutes, and you think you have him
all figured out? He’s not some loveable rogue, and you’re not some mystical feminist goddess with the power to fix him. Did you hear about the guy from DX Dingoes who got arrested for firearm possession? He’s Imran’s cousin.’

  ‘So because my mum’s a bitch, that makes me one too?’ She stands up, her eyes brimming with hot accusation.

  ‘No, Kelly, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘I know exactly what you meant. Thanks a lot.’

  She turns on her heel and walks away.

  ‘Hey, man, really appreciate this,’ I say as we walk through the shopping centre.

  It’s a late Saturday afternoon, when there are slightly fewer shoppers about. Zayn Malik’s new song is playing, and a flash mob wearing clown wigs has gathered by the fountain. A middle-aged bloke with a big red nose is barking orders, handing out banners.

  Daevon looks at me and smiles. ‘No problem. You been through a lot lately. Plus, Mum’s stuck me on some low-cal diet, but man needs his carbs, right? Gotta boost them muscle gains.’

  ‘Auntie Candice ain’t making patties no more?’ I ask in horror. His mum’s patties are legendary. One bite, and you’re hooked for life.

  ‘Worse. She’s making healthy ones with quinoa and adzuki beans and kale. Taste like shit.’

  I notice a couple of girls checking Daev out. With his hair tied back and his slick goatee, my boy is looking damn fine. It makes all this dieting business even more messed up. He should embrace the extra pounds.

  The merry-go-round with bright flashing lights and loud carnival music is up ahead. We stop, watching cartoonish cars spinning round and round. Most of them are empty. I glance up at the sign. Five pounds a ride. No wonder there are so few takers.

  ‘Brah, you ain’t thinking of riding, are you?’ Daveon asks with concern.

  I chuckle. ‘Nah.’

  ‘Auntie Foz used to bring us here back in the day. Remember that?’