Graffiti My Soul

by Niven Govinden

  ‘I hear your eyes met in a crowded chemistry lab. Were there fireworks?’

  ‘He came to apologise, actually. He’s really sorry about all that business . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes. He’s so sorry about hanging out with the Paki bashers that he still hasn’t apologised personally to the Paki in question.’

  Two Pakis in one sentence makes her flinch. Me too, if I’m honest. I’m not part of the radical reclamation camp. I know it’s good enough for the niggas, but . . .

  ‘He really wants to make it up with you and Jason. Really, he feels dreadful about it.’

  ‘Did you just say dreadful? What is he doing to you? You’ve never said dreadful in your life.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘What, family pearls under that hoodie of yours?’

  ‘You should give him a chance, VP, he’s really not as bad as you think.’

  ‘Once a tosser, always a tosser. You’ve been together for what, a month? And not a peep from your noble boy. Just lots of diving into corridors whenever he sees us.’

  ‘Like I said, he does feel bad . . . but he’s kinda pissed at you too. After I told him about you snooping.’

  Moon found me flicking through her phone on the bus after the Challenge outing to Godalming. I was properly caught out. Didn’t think quickly enough. I should’ve said I was looking for Jase’s new mobile number, that I’d programmed the digits the wrong way round. But everything’s easier with hindsight. She went fucking ballistic, really fucking bunny boiler, because one thing Moon hates is anyone going through her stuff, even me. Been stung too often by her crazy parents being secretively investigative in the name of welfare. I only have myself to blame. This is the first time we’ve spoken since.

  ‘How else was I supposed to find out? I knew something was up. You’d been acting funny all day,’ I go. ‘You were hardly going to tell me otherwise.’

  I may be thinking other things, but as far as she’s concerned, I’m admitting nothing.

  ‘I was working up to telling you VP, OK? It’s just been a difficult situation . . . I was probably going to do it that afternoon, if you hadn’t spoiled it.’

  ‘Snogging a boring bastard who’s tried to kick your mates to shit. Twice. Can see how that could prove difficult.’

  I don’t mention my theory about her being in love with him, in case she tells me it’s true. Prefer to think I’m being stupid, making up shit to make myself feel worse.

  She can’t shut up.

  ‘I like how I look when I’m with him. I look like I matter. I’m no longer this girl who sits up in her room and obsesses too much. I stop thinking about running the world and how I’m going to be in twenty years’ time. I hang off his shoulder like some trophy, and I see myself as I am right now, and I like it. I like how I can live in the moment.’

  ‘We live in the moment, don’t we? You and me?’

  ‘Not in the same way. We make out we’re spontaneous, but we’re just projecting what we want to be. With Daniel, I just live it. There is no projecting.’

  ‘Fucking load of bo-lax, you’re on about. You talk shite sometimes.’

  A member of staff comes over and asks us to keep our voices down. A couple of the parents on the sofas aren’t taking too kindly to our language. They have the timid eyes and weak pallor of secondary school teachers or social workers, but none that we know. Their rugrats are all under three, dribbling gob everywhere, and practically bald. The Starbucks skivvy is Polish or something, so she has to repeat herself about five times before we understand what she’s saying. We nod all apologetically when we finally get it, and then, when she’s out of sight, back to her milk frother, we give the offending parents the fuck-you finger and an evil eye. Your filthy rugrats look a greater threat than us – hygienically speaking. Like, where’s the fire?

  Now we’re laughing, the pair of us, like it’s old times. But it only lasts a minute. Short and deliciously sweet, like the Frappuccinos they make here (the best!). There’s still a connection between us.

  ‘How’s life with her?’ she asks, ruining it. ‘I hear the pair of you are like love’s young dream.’

  Patronising, even if she is three months older. She leans forward, elbow on table, left hand cradling chin, looking like she’s interested, even though her tone has become as cold as ice again. Makes Kelly sound like scum. If I come any closer she’ll whip her hand out and give me a slap. It’s her classic defensive position; I’ve seen her in action, know all the moves, even the hidden ones. I’d hug her in a second if she let me.

  ‘It’s kushty,’ I tell her, even though it doesn’t always feel that way. ‘Kel’s safe. We went to see Britney a few days ago.’

  ‘So I hear. I’m sure you looked like a real couple.’

  Moon’s been hearing a lot of things. This isn’t getting us anywhere. Sarcasm can only outdo sarcasm for so long. We used to compete in our rooms, cussing cast-offs that could last hours if our minds were up to it; but today neither of us has top trump. Brains lazy from too much lovin’. Emotional holes filled, momentarily content. We leave the lattes and piss off.

  31

  Mum goes on a proper date, the first follow-through from the speed-dating evening. His name is Mike and he’s a solicitor-barrister-type person. Has his own business in Esher and a staff of ten. I’m more interested in seeing a picture, and clocking how old he is, but have to make do with the information Mum gives me. She’s being very limited on this front. There’s no time after work to see her mate at the beauty counter so she does everything herself, and makes a pretty good job of it. She’s lost a load since joining WeightWatchers and doesn’t look bad at all. This was after the summer when she saw our snaps from Portugal and had a fit over the size of her thighs. She’s wearing trousers this time, black and flarey, with one of those floaty tops that all the makeover women wear on TV, very bright pink, so Mike will have to wear his sunglasses.

  I put a note in her make-up bag just in case there’s any first-night wobbles. It says ‘Don’t Worry. You Look Fantastic! XXX’

  She meets him at the new Italian that’s opened opposite the library, and leaves just before seven-thirty, giving me an evening of fun. Kel is having tea round her nan’s so no action there. Have to make do with Jason’s company. Preferable to Kel, what with the mood she’s in (I had to let her in on the Starbucks business).

  I let Jase smoke a large one out of the back window, whilst I burn the new 50 track from one of those illegal sites, and try and get trapped on a porn cycle. Unfortunately Mum’s been fiddling more than she should have done and has activated all the AOL child-locks. This is what happens when your parents start to get too computer literate. Means the only Vs we are getting to see on the computer screen tonight are violins or violas.

  Dad calls around ten. See it’s him because we have caller ID. Can’t face exchanges with him and Moon in the same day. It’s too much to ask. Get Jase to answer, shouting down the phone like a madman, saying that the house is on fire. He’s stoned, and throws himself into it. Lives the part. Bellows like smoke’s choking his every last breath.

  We put the phone on speaker. Can hear Dad’s panic until he realises it’s a wind-up. ‘Hello? Is everything all right? Hello? Veerapen, why are you shouting like that? Let me speak to your mum right away.’ He only hangs up when he hears the laughing.

  We’re on the floor, cackling like idiots. Wetting ourselves. Clinging to the walls because our sides are splitting. Lasts a good fifteen minutes. He doesn’t call back.

  32

  Moon can never be subtle about anything. You only get this with spend-whores. Anyone else would have more decency. She has a stayover when her parents go to Tallin for the weekend. They won flights at the Citizen’s Advice Xmas Raffle and had been wetting their pants over it for weeks. Mum, who was also there, had been feeling lucky and spent an extra ten pounds on raffle tickets, so was pissed at the outcome, their single ticket coming through, and muttered about it for days.

  ‘Sympathy v
ote for the Lib Dems, that’s all it is. They can’t win anything else, that’s why they let them win the bloody raffle!’

  She still managed to keep it all smiles when she was outside our four walls, their eyes meeting when taking out the wheelie bins, or bumping trolleys at the Tesco car park.

  For the sleepover Gwyn invites the gay-boy Goths who adore her, and the sappy Christian mate Ohmygod. Moon includes the top tier of the library posse, these two dozy science swots who think everything she says is completely radical. One of them, Captain Vegetable, has a lazy eye and used to wear an eyepatch. These are the kind of people she used to hang round with before I rescued her. Jase and Pearson complete the set, the pair of them acting as totty for her guests as well as Gwyn’s.

  The invite doesn’t extend to myself, my place being taken by Captain Vegetable and his team of soggy legumes. Botched corrective eye surgery over me. Makes me feel so special. I’ve had lunch with Moon almost every day this week and she has never mentioned anything about a stayover. Meathead’s on a weeklong lunch detention, which is why this is possible. Whenever he’s present, I’m lower down the evolutionary scale than even Captain sodding Vegetable.

  It’s Gwyn who gives the game away when she sees me at the shops after school.

  Her: Coming over later?

  Me: Uh? (blank potato face like I’m having a spastic attack)

  The stayover means nothing, even though Mum’s on a late shift, giving me all the time in the world to get up to tricks. I book a couple of movies on Sky Plus and make myself my own comfort zone: duvet on the sofa, Diet Coke, trashy food I’d be arrested for eating if Casey caught me. It’s fine. It’s real. I’m in my universe and they’re in theirs. Same zoo, different cages.

  But I can’t fool anyone, least of all myself.

  First, the TV thing doesn’t work. I have one eye on Will Smith, the other on the curtains, and what’s going on beyond my windows. I Robot is a bucky duck compared to the happenings across the street. I’m too wound up to even touch the nachos. Watching robots go mad isn’t the best suggestion for someone who’s almost strangling themselves with their self-control. All it makes you do is want to follow suit, start your own revolution.

  Next, I get a call from Jase, asking me which races Kelly Holmes won the medals for.

  ‘Why you wanna know that?’

  ‘It’s a quiz question. Triv Pursuit. And if anyone knows the answer to that it’ll be you, right?’

  There’s laughing in the background, female, and Pearson shouting his mouth off about something or other. The music is Chili Peppers.

  ‘Where are you playing Triv Pursuit, Jase?’

  ‘You know.’

  I give him the answer, one right, one wrong.

  I Robot is dead after that.

  The best spot is upstairs. I stand at Mum’s window and do my watching. Thinking how MI5 need people like me. A Paki who likes nothing better than snooping around. I’d be killer at it.

  They are sitting on the living room floor drinking white wine and playing their dumbass Triv Pursuit. Wait ’til I tell the boys down the sports block that Pearson was sipping vino and doing board games! What a pussy joker! No wine for the Jones girls, of course. The bottle being passed round is a concession to the weaker will of their guests. No judgement! They stick to Diet Coke and keep their opinions to themselves.

  Moon and Pearson are in the centre of the room by the fireplace. Where else would they sit? They’re a couple! Practising their prom pose (and would be in with a chance if Moon wasn’t so unpopular, ha!). They are glued together and don’t move. When it isn’t their turn on Triv, they lightly snog. Gwyn waits on their guests hand and foot, occasionally helped by Jase. Aside from the wine – only one glass each – there’s Fanta and nachos and spiral crisps and absolutely NO SMOKING. Everyone seems to find Pearson incredibly funny. The cunt seems to have a goofy answer for everything. After some question that one of the gay-boy Goths asked, his answer took about five minutes. How does he know enough words to last five minutes? He can barely say the days of the week let alone anything else. Everyone’s laughing at whatever the retard is saying, including my so-called stoner mate. It’s excruciating.

  Watching a room of people laughing whilst you are standing alone feels as if you are being stabbed repeatedly. It’s fun.

  I wonder about the sleeping arrangements; where Moon and Pearson will sleep. Thinking about it takes up half my night, and now, the jumbo bag of nachos. Turns out everyone crashes on the living room floor. Sofas moved back. No excuses for creeping away.

  I make a couple of crank calls to kill the boredom and the hurt. Two calls to a reflexology woman’s house down the street (she’s always leafleting her details); one call to Pizza Express. On each occasion I scream down the phone like I’m being murdered. I stuff a sock down my throat so that no one can guess it’s me. In one of the three calls I also cry. I’ve done it a few times. People seem to find it very realistic.

  I know this makes me a weirdo, but you have to do the things that make you feel better. Ease the pressure in your head.

  I save the best for Moon’s place. The silent caller act. The lights are off at my house, car out the drive. Can’t pin anything on me. The beauty of *1471.

  Darth Vader breath.

  I give up after the sixth ring. Gwyn keeps picking up.

  The next morning me and Moon take the bus into Kingston to buy Jase a birthday present. I call for her at eleven-thirty and the house has already emptied, all evidence cleared away. I tell her about a boring night watching daft movies, and ask about hers. She says she had a quiet night in.

  33

  Jase makes no attempt to hide where he’s been when I ask him about Moon’s sleepover.

  ‘They didn’t want you there, mate. End of. Knew that it would kick-off with Pearson otherwise. You can’t act all surprised about it.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be friends, Moon and me. Us. How come you can be there and I can’t? You’ve had fights with him too.’

  ‘I don’t hold grudges, VP. I think that’s the difference.’

  Again, this can be attributed to the Jew gene and the Tamil gene, both parents being natural born grudge-holders.

  ‘Anything to report, from this A-list-only, cream-of-the-crop party?’

  ‘Not in the way you’re thinking. It wasn’t X-rated,’ he goes, in his fake LA accent, which is so dumb it sounds like he’s from Bristol or something.

  ‘Look, it was a laugh. Simple as. Turned up, had a few drinks, watched a video, played games, acted stupid . . .’

  ‘Yeah. “End of.” I get it.’

  ‘I was out of my box by about nine o’clock anyway. Didn’t pay much attention to anyone after that. You know what these things are like. I’m only good to have around when they want me to get things going. After that, it’s “See ya.” Look at what goes on at all those park parties I get asked to. I ain’t stupid. Watch how Gwyn’s friends will blank me at school next week. And Pearson. He’ll act like he never met me.’

  ‘Unless we’re together, of course, then he’ll act all matey just to wind me up.’

  ‘Just ignore it. Stop getting yourself wound up. Concentrate on what you do want, and then one day you’ll have forgotten why you got so angry in the first place.’

  ‘You think?’

  He pats me on the shoulder, and looks me in the eye. Sort of thing my dad would do.

  ‘You can’t bottle all your anger all the time. It isn’t healthy. You have to open the lid from time to time, and let all the unnecessary anger just dissolve. Trust me. I know.’

  34

  I’m having lattes with Gwyn. Same Starbucks, same red hoodie. Says she wears it ’cos it makes her feel closer to Moon. Gywn’s a bigger girl, so she really has to squeeze herself into it, but I get her point. If I could fit into any of her clothes right now I’d be doing the same.

  Only see her back at the counter when I arrive and my heart stops beating. I don’t register that the hair is long
er, the waist thicker. And then she turns round, and the reality is half horror half let-down, like in that mad seventies film where you’re faced with that midget hag that wants to kill you. This was a pretty similar set-up.

  The txt had come out of the blue, several days after the ghost passed me in the Mall. Starbucks midday – time we talked. Over that night I gave myself a hundred and twenty-four reasons why I shouldn’t be sitting across a table from Gywn, why I should be wringing her neck for making sure that I was the one landed in it, but somehow I found myself leaving the house, getting on the bus, walking through town, turning up.

  Sitting on the same table that me and Moon used to hang out on is too much of a head-fuck, so we’re on the sofa. Not sure how to take Gwyn today. Her face is red, skin around the eyes inflamed from more crying probably, but she doesn’t look mad at me. Buys the lattes for a start, and biscotti. You don’t do that unless you really want to give your enemy a false sense of security. I should have my guard up but find myself melting into her. Maybe because of how cuddly she looks in the hoodie, securely round, the weeniest touch of belly poking through the bottom, or possibly because of those tender just-dried eyes. Or maybe, and this is the reason closest to the truth, just because we both need people to be nice to us. There’s been more than enough hate.

  She’s holding my hand and talking about how nice the funeral was, and how she wished I stayed for the whole of the service. I couldn’t bear it as the vicar did his final wrapping up, so I bolted. Went AWOL for about two hours. Even now I have no idea where I went, only that I managed to get myself to their house for the wake. Really, that day was one long AWOL with brief reality breaks for the church and the wake. No wonder everyone is treating me strangely.

  When I got to Moon’s house, looking like it had always done, just with five hundred cars parked outside, I wasn’t sure of the reception I’d get, if they were going to punch me or feed me sandwiches. Relations at the church were civil enough, but that was church. Hardly the best place for a dust-up. But at that point, walking up to the door and ignoring the bell, banging the knocker very hard, twice, I was fearless again. I’d lost everything, a door slammed in my face is a pinprick in comparison.