‘That’s good enough for me!’ she says. ‘Hey, can someone take pics of me kissing the Chrisses?’
‘Astagfirullah!’ Nawal says. ‘I ain’t getting involved with your sex-doll madness.’
‘Sounds like a new show,’ Ray quips. ‘Kisses with Chrisses.’
‘Strictly pay-per-view. Adult-channel exclusive,’ Daevon says with a suggestive wink.
I volunteer to be Kara’s photographer. Honestly it’s the least I can do after everything my friends have done to get me here.
So we spend the morning wading through row after row of comics, DVDs and Blu-rays, toys and games, model kits, busts and statues, trading cards and stickers. Ms Mughal buys some limited-edition Pop! Vinyls for her brother. Then we visit the interactive pods set up by movie studios trying to outdo each other with the latest immersive tech.
‘Man is in LOVE!’ Daevon announces. His dilated pupils seem to be hoovering up a woman in Power Girl cosplay.
I’m about to reply when my phone buzzes. My blood runs cold. ‘Guys, my phone just buzzed …’
‘Well, look at it, you fool! Here, lemme do it!’ Kara snatches my phone and reads the text. Then, giving nothing away, she dramatically clears her throat.
‘What is it?’ I ask, ringing my hands. ‘What did they say?’
‘Ilyas got selected!’ she screams. ‘He’s in the final five!’
My friends whoop for joy. One minute, I’m covering my mouth in disbelief; the next, I’m at the bottom of a celebratory pile-up, being squashed to death by my overenthusiastic mates. We draw lots of stares; some friendly, others openly hostile. Yet even in the face of this mind-blowing success, all I can think about is Kelly.
‘Stop worrying, bruv!’ Nawal says as I get back on my feet. ‘You’ll walk it. For sure.’
Smiling, I let my mates believe my silence is nothing more than regular nerves. How could I even begin to explain what my friendship with Kelly means to me? We’re like a single creative soul split apart by an evil troll called Imran. Saying it out loud makes it sound like I’m in love with her so I swallow my words.
By 2 p.m. my panic levels are off the scale. The Green Room looms ahead like the Emerald City.
‘You are going to be fine,’ Ms Mughal says, slow and steady, like a hypnotist. ‘You made it this far, and nothing happens without a reason.’
‘Wallah!’ says Nawal, raising a hand. ‘Preach my teach!’
‘Can’t you lot come in with me?’ I ask, wringing my tie.
Ms Mughal shakes her head. ‘Only VIPs, I’m afraid.’
‘But we’re all rooting for you,’ Kara says, slapping my back. ‘We’ll make bare noise when it’s your turn.’
‘Yeah, and we’ll boo for all the other entries!’ Nawal adds, snapping her fingers.
‘Do it for Stanley Park!’ Ray says, smoothing my tie and adjusting my tuxedo.
‘Do it to show tramps like Lee Garrison that brothers can have heroes too,’ Daevon says, making a Black Power fist.
‘You remember that?’ I ask in surprise because it was six years ago.
‘Course!’ he says with a wink. ‘I been wanting to slap that fool ever since he started on you with his outdated racism.’
‘So why didn’t you?’ demands Kara.
‘Too scared, innit?’ he says, making her laugh.
‘Go win this thing!’ Ms Mughal says with a flourish of her arms, her jilbab sleeves cracking like whips, spurring me on.
I take the deepest breath, say a prayer, then enter the Green Room.
The first thing that hits me is that the Green Room is actually red. Red walls, red carpet, red-and-black furniture. The second thing is that every other competitor is an actual full-grown adult.
‘Sorry, this place is only for Breakout Stars,’ says a very pale man dressed entirely in black. A nest of black hair sits on top of his head. I wonder if he’s in cosplay.
‘Yeah, get outta here, kid!’ sneers an American woman with large Harry Potter glasses and frizzy blonde hair. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘Oh, um, hang on …’ I rummage through my pockets, before remembering my ID is on the lanyard round my neck. ‘Here!’ I say, holding it up.
‘You’re the fifth competitor?’ says the American. ‘Huh. What are you – some kind of Boy Genius?’ She chuckles snidely, looking at the others with a sour expression.
I laugh nervously, feeling like a dork.
The other competitors quickly lose interest in me and go back to their private conversations.
‘Here, come and sit next to me,’ says a lady with a green pixie cut. ‘I’m Fenfang. How old are you?’
‘Fifteen, nearly sixteen,’ I say, as if that makes it any better. ‘Oh, I’m Ilyas, by the way.’
The American lady scoffs. ‘So I hear diversity is a thing right now.’
‘Ignore Julie,’ Fenfang mutters. ‘Companies only care about their bottom line. If you’re in the final five, it’s because your idea has marketability.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, wiping sweat off my brow. ‘Did I do something to piss her off?’
‘I actually wish you had. But no. She’s just got a chip on her shoulder because she flew all the way over from LA and apparently her dad was a legend – her word – who used to be friends with Stan Lee. She thinks winning is her destiny.’ Fenfang rolls her eyes, adjusting her smartwatch.
It turns out Fenfang is a professional sculptor whose work has been included in exhibitions all over the world. Her favourite theme is animal cruelty.
‘My work makes people uncomfortable,’ she explains. ‘I make bold statements, and people get offended.’
Fenfang briefs me on everyone’s entry. Compared to them, Big Bad Waf is seriously childish. Their entries are all high-brow stuff, full of political commentary, satire and subversion. Me? I was looking to create a rollercoaster of fun with a little representation. Sitting here, listening to them discussing their comics, it becomes clear that I’m punching above my weight. Nobody asks me about my comic, and it’s actually a big relief.
An important-looking woman with a clipboard and a steel-grey power suit walks in and clears her throat. ‘Hello, everyone! I’m Geraldine, and I just want to let you know that in about ten minutes, the show is going to start.’
My stomach gurgles loudly.
‘Don’t go crapping your pants, hon!’ says Julie making me blush.
Geraldine goes over the format in excruciating detail. Everything still flies over my head. I need Kelly. If we’re supposed to pitch our ideas to the judges, I’ve already lost. I can barely finish a sentence without slipping into slang. Kelly could make a shopping list sound exciting. If only my pictures could speak for themselves—
Fenfang nudges me.
‘Huh? What?’ I say, blinking myself back to this dimension. Everyone laughs.
‘Geraldine just went over the order of appearance. You’re up last,’ Fenfang says.
‘No fair!’ complains Julie theatrically. ‘He’s going to steal all our best ideas.’
‘Then let’s switch,’ I say, finally losing my rag with her. ‘Whoever goes first sets the bar. Going last is like the worst gig.’
‘OK, Julie – they’re about to introduce you to the panel,’ Geraldine says, beckoning her over.
Julie gives me the slow burn as she rises. ‘Aquila non capit muscas.’
‘Excuse me?’ I say, raising my eyebrows.
Julie swishes through the curtains and is welcomed with excited applause.
‘Forget her,’ Fenfang says. ‘It’s Latin for “the eagle does not catch flies”. It means an important person doesn’t deal with insignificant matters.’
Wow. Shaded by an adult over a comic book competition. Shit got serious.
I try to listen to what Julie is saying to the judges and the audience, but it’s just making me psychotically nervous, so I give up.
‘I’m going to pray,’ I announce. Kicking off my shoes and rolling up my trousers, I head into a corner before a
nyone can stop me. This is my protective bubble, I think. This is how I deal.
Pacing up and down nervously, writing and rewriting my pitch over and over on a sheet of paper I begged off Geraldine, I still can’t get the words to flow.
I pull out my phone, and even though I know it’s the last thing I should be doing right now, I open a selfie of me and Kelly, grinning like idiots in anime onesies. My heart twangs, and suddenly I miss Kelly so much, I think I might actually cry. Thumbs fluttering over the screen, I type out a text, then hover over the send button. I end up deleting it. How can I go on spamming Kelly when she never replies? Why I can’t I just accept she doesn’t want to be mates any more and move on?
I’ll move on, I tell myself. But I can’t leave it like this.
I speed dial her and get voicemail.
‘Hey, Kelz,’ I say, in a thin voice. ‘It’s me again, hanging around like a bad smell. Sorry.’ I swallow. ‘Just wanted to let you know I made it to Kablamo! Kon IV. And I’m sorta pissing myself. I got Ms Mughal, Daevon, Kara, Ray and Nawal in my corner, all backing me for the win. Who’da thunk it? Yesterday I had no one.’
Polite laughter filters through the curtains as Fenfang works the audience.
‘In a moment, I’m supposed to walk onstage and tell scary-ass judges and a thousand superfans why Big Bad Waf should win. Only I’m starting to think she shouldn’t. Don’t get me wrong, you made her ten times better than PakCore ever was, but … well … You ducked out, didn’t you? I get it now. You were abandoning a sinking ship, and you didn’t want to hurt my feelings. Big Bad Waf isn’t anywhere near as cool or sophisticated as Project X. Man, did seeing all the other contestants’ ideas make that clear! I’m just an idiot with a pocket full of dreams and a brain full of air.
‘We didn’t get much time together, but thank you for being my friend. You made me feel more important than I’ve ever felt in my whole life … Got three minutes before I’m due onstage. Gonna be making a fool of myself, innit? Should be used to it by now. Goodbye, Kelly … You won’t hear from me again.’
A tear rolls down my cheek as I terminate the call. I highlight the folder on my phone containing all our moments together then hit the bin icon. All gone.
Sniffling, I walk to the window, pulling the curtain away to stare up at the sky. If I had wings, I’d fly away. Geraldine would have a fit, but I’d be long gone.
‘Ilyas!’ Geraldine calls, making me jump. ‘You’re on now.’
I’ve never had a panic attack before. Apparently you get hot and sweaty, your head starts pounding, and it feels like all your airwaves got blocked.
It’s happening to me now.
As I lurch towards Geraldine, my own body turning traitor, her expression switches to concern.
‘Are you all right? It’s literally just a short introduction about yourself and the idea behind your comic. There’s a clicker for you to flick through your images. Finally a brief piece, lasting no more than ten minutes. OK?’
I nod, breathing through my mouth.
‘Would you like some water?’ she asks, holding out a bottle of mineral water.
I’d rather go home, I think. Go back to living in the shadows, where it’s safe and boring and lonely. Why did I ever reach for the stars, when all they did was burn me?
Grabbing the bottle, I rasp my thanks, then push myself through the curtains.
I. Am. Not. Prepared.
Calling the auditorium ‘big’ would be like calling the Taj Mahal ‘pretty’. Three thousand people from the furthest-flung places on the planet have come to watch. Sitting on ten levels, they spread around the stage like a two-seventy-degree slice of colosseum. There are cameras everywhere, including one attached to a zip wire. My dumb face is projected on to four IMAX-sized screens. The ceiling has been done up like a galaxy, sprinkled with ice-white stars, glowing planets and interstellar bodies.
Ten metres away stands a ghostly lectern made of clear glass, glowing blue with hidden LEDs. As I lurch towards it, my eyes swim in and out of focus. The applause sounds like a thunderstorm.
Nausea jabs at my stomach, but I keep pushing on. I owe it to my teacher and my friends to see this through. I owe it to Amma, who never quit encouraging me, even when it meant arguing with Dad. I owe it to Shaista, who believed in me for once in her life. I owe it to Kelly, even though she isn’t here. But most of all, I owe it to myself. This has been my life-long dream, and I will never forgive myself if I don’t give it my best shot.
‘G-g-good afternoon,’ I stutter into a microphone that nearly blows my eardrums out. ‘My name is Ilyas Mian. I’m fifteen, and I go to Stanley Park Academy in south London.’
‘South London represent!’ screams someone who is probably Kara. Other Londoners whoop it up for our home city.
‘I’m here to talk about my comic book character, Superman. No!’ I shake my head. ‘PakCore.’ I slap myself, and the sound of it reverberates through the speakers. Laughter spreads through the hall. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ I say, blushing so hard. ‘I mean Big Bad Waf. She went through a lot of changes to get to this point so …’ My attempt to explain my confusion clearly isn’t working. I change tack. ‘Here’s the cover for issue number one.’
I hit the clicker, and the screen behind me fills up with a picture I no longer recognize as the one I created on black card with coloured pastels in my dank bedroom. The illusion of bas-relief is brought to 3D life through light and shadow and a whole lot of smudging. Big Bad Waf stands like a statue, arms raised, fingers pointing as she makes the Sign of Wahid. Her hijab is adorned by a golden crown of daggers, the uneven spikiness of the tines evoking a crown of thorns, symbolizing her sacrifice for humanity. Her eyes are luminescent ovals of golden-green as she powers up. Vapour seeps from her lips, rising to form the title is wispy font:
Who’s Afraid of Big Bad Waf?
created by Ilyas Mian & Kelly Matthews
I yank at my tie as if it’s a hangman’s noose. Tremors and heart palpitations threaten to bring me down. Jamming the water bottle in my mouth, I slurp for my life. My lips make a smacking noise, and I’m left gasping, rubbing my wet mouth on a sleeve. The audience gawps, unsure what to make of me.
‘See, the truth is, I’m no good at this … talking,’ I admit. ‘My co-creator, Kelly Matthews, is the girl with the silver tongue and brilliant ideas. Like, if it wasn’t for her, my character might’ve been just another big-boobed, funnel-waisted chick leaping from panel to panel doing a whole lot of sexy poses. And my mum woulda slapped me silly!’
There’s laughter and some clapping. I blink, taken aback by this.
‘Um …’ I scratch behind an ear doubtfully. ‘So …’
I’ve got nothing. The unexpected positivity has fried my brain. Being hated is what I’m used to. Shit.
‘Ilyas is just being his usual annoyingly modest and adorable self,’ says a disembodied voice from a universe that no longer exists.
Kelly is sauntering over to me. She’s wearing a floaty evening dress in fiery colours and Uncle Fiz’s DM boots. She places an arm around me as if to prove she’s actually there. But I only start to believe it when I see us, side by side, on one of the HD screens.
‘I’m Kelly Matthews,’ she says into the microphone without a hint of fear. ‘And I’m here to fill you in on all things Big Bad Waf.’
I gape. She speaks. They listen.
Kelly tells the audience that the world desperately needs Big Bad Waf. She talks about the dark times we’re living through, how people’s mistrust has evolved into hate, how it spreads like a plague. She talks about Big Bad Waf being a character with universal appeal. Someone to unite fans, blast stereotypes and stay true to her faith and culture.
‘The news is full of depressing stuff,’ Kelly says. ‘And we play spin the bottle with the finger of blame. Gotta hate those social-justice warriors for spoiling everybody’s fun! And how about those Feminazi bitches? They’re on a mission to castrate every last man!
‘The truth is it’s
not a level playing field out there. It never has been. No matter what you tell yourself, the world still isn’t a safe place for girls.’
She’s not going there. The world is watching. People are judging. Please don’t do this to yourself, Kelly!
‘I recently had a really bad experience at school,’ she tells a deathly quiet audience. ‘It nearly destroyed me. I’m a girl who knows her privilege. I’m white, middle class, and I usually get top grades. So life should be a bed of roses, right?’
Silhouettes like sand dunes in a breeze shift about uncomfortably, titters sifting through.
‘I fell in love with a boy. A boy who lived and breathed toxic masculinity. My friend here tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen to him. So I did everything I said I’d never do. I tried to conform to the sexy-gal stereotype Ilyas has just been talking about. I’m not proud of myself, but neither did I deserve what happened. The guy discarded me like trash, and I was slut-shamed by kids at school. So if I’m so smart, why did I do it?’
My lips are as dry as autumn leaves. I lick them, wanting Kelly to stop telling the world her business. I can’t bear her being judged any more.
‘Why?’ she demands, spreading her hands quizzically. ‘Because comics. Because TV. Because music videos and movies and toys and dolls and everything else you feed us. You put this stuff out there; you should take responsibility for it. If I’d had a character like Big Bad Waf to look up to when I was younger, maybe I would’ve thought I was good enough just the way I was. And maybe the guy who used and abused me might have thought twice about treating a girl in that way.’
The auditorium is so quiet right now, it’s like everyone got abducted by aliens. With Kelly by my side, words stir inside me, rising to the surface, refusing to be denied. I step towards the mic, next to Kelly.
‘People aren’t born evil,’ I say. ‘We pick stuff up from the characters we want to be. I never had anyone to look up to. I ended up in a gang. Something terrible had to happen to wake me up. But I’m one of the lucky ones. Some people never get that wake-up call. Ladies and gentlemen, the antidote to global madness. Meet Big Bad Waf.’
Kick the Moon Page 23