My fingers squeeze his phone. ‘Getting evidence.’
‘Huh?’
Whipping round, I sprint towards Officer Pryce. Imran swears, and I know he’s coming, know he’s going to tear me apart with his bare hands and make fritters out of my liver. The very ground shakes with rage, and the promise of revenge hums in the air, and for a moment, I believe Imran can control the universe.
Officer Pryce’s confused face switches up fast, her shoulders squaring, her hand reaching out for the phone. Holding it out like a baton, I barrel towards her. Imran’s hand snatches at my blazer, twisting the fabric. Gripping his phone tightly, I fling my arms back like wings, still pumping my legs as I slip out of the jacket. And I run like the wind, like the devil is on my heels blasting jets of fire and skunk.
Five metres, three metres, one—
Officer Pryce’s shoulder catches me in the side, sweeping my feet out from under me as she intercepts Imran. My bum slaps the polished floor, and I go skidding. Officer Pryce uses Imran’s own momentum to swing him round, slamming the side of his face down on to her interview desk. Snick-snick. She’s cuffed him.
‘GERROFF ME!’ he yells, bucking and twisting, trying to yank his wrists out of the handcuffs.
‘Don’t make this worse than it has to be!’ she says, pinning him down. But it’s like trying to nail down lightning.
His eyes cut into mine. ‘You got no idea what you’ve done. What happened to your dad’s shop was nothing, fam. Watch.’
Mr Gilchrist rushes in to help Officer Pryce restrain Imran, while she radios for back-up. Heart trying to explode out of my chest, my ears echo with Imran’s final threat, as I walk away dazed—
Suddenly, a gag of flesh and sweat slips over my mouth, mashing up my nose, then I’m being dragged out of a fire exit. The next thing I know, I’m flying through the air and kissing the playground tarmac.
‘Paigon!’ Noah yells.
Pushing myself up on grazed palms, my heart drops when I see the seven-inch Ka-Bar knife he’s wielding. My eyes cut to the fire exit.
‘Ain’t nobody coming for you now, bruv. DedManz had your back. But you turned it. Now you the deadest man.’
Noah’s hair gathers round his skull like twisted flames. Red lips curl over razor-wire braces in a grin that belongs in Arkham Asylum.
‘You don’t wanna do this, Noah …’ I say backing up, eyes trained on his knife. ‘Officer Pryce is just in there, and life in prison ain’t worth it …’
But Noah isn’t listening. His eyes have glazed over, and he’s chanting drill lyrics, something about making me ‘leak juice’ and putting me in a body bag. Gilchrist and Pryce are occupied with Imran. The whole school is busy in lessons. The playground is no-man’s land, and I am completely alone.
With nobody else to turn to and nothing left to do, I make the Sign of Wahid, hands slicing through the air, cleaving apart one reality, opening up another. Here comes the burn. First in my brain, then in my heart, energy waves like ripples in a pond. Suddenly I am Big Bad Waf and I am PakCore together. I’m that angry nine-year-old in a Superman costume who was told brown boys aren’t allowed. I am Ilyas Mian and I am Kelly Matthews. I’m every bullied kid ever. And I am vengeance.
I leap to the right, then to the left, springing into the air with blossoming rage.
Noah’s blade whistles past my cheek, splitting light into a spectrum of psychedelic colours. My left leg whips round, spinning my whole body through a wide arc. BAM! My heel strikes Noah square in the forehead. KA-DUNK! My right foot slams into his chest. PHWOOSH! A squall of spittle blasts from his ruby lips.
Then the tarmac is soaring up to meet me, and I know I am in for a world of pain. But just before I crash out, I glimpse Noah stagger like a drunk as Gilchrist rugby tackles him to the ground.
I fricking kicked the moon!
Then I’m just screaming.
Worry, worry, worry.
I wake up with a knot in my stomach, hoping this will be the day Kelly finally comes back to school, or calls me. With Imran and Noah both arrested, I figured she’d make a triumphant return, desperate to talk about how I channelled Big Bad Waf and saved her honour. But nothing. Her story has inspired a whole bunch of girls to come forward with allegations against Imran though. Texting her daily gets me mad depressed because there’s never a reply. Part of me is still hoping she’ll appear in time for us to enter Waf into Kablamo, but I know deep down that the dream is over.
After a full week of silence, I bite the bullet and approach Jade’s galdem in the refectory on Friday.
‘Hey,’ I say, acting like a boss, though I’m low-key shitting myself. ‘You guys know where Kelly’s at?’
Jade’s hostile glare changes to amusement. ‘Have you tried the local brothel?’
Her friends crack up. These girls are savage.
‘She’s definitely dropped her standards,’ Melanie adds, appraising me. ‘But probably not that low.’
My face sizzles but not because of the shade. What these girls think of me doesn’t even rate. It’s because these ungrateful witches benefited from Kelly’s genius. Assemblies, trips, events, the school paper. The girl with the Midas touch made Jade’s crew look golden, gave them status. Then the one time she messes up, they turn cannibal.
‘Better check in with the Kardashians!’ Nicole quips, provoking screams of laughter.
‘Who are you supposed to be, anyway?’ Victoria asks, arching her eyebrows. ‘Discount Zayn Malik?’
More hooting.
‘Hang on,’ Jade says, raising a hand to silence the coven. ‘This is the boy who ratted Imran out to the police.’
‘Did you think with him out of the picture, you’d be seen as a hero?’ Melanie sneers.
The greatest comeback of all time sizzles on the tip of my tongue. Then I walk away.
‘You owned him!’ I hear one of the girls say behind me.
She’s wrong. DedManz is over. I finally belong to no one but myself.
When I get home that evening, I consult Sparkle, and we both decide I should try texting Kelly one more time.
I wait with bated breath, staring at my phone screen, as if I can Franklin Richards her reply into existence. That kid has Omega Levels of telepathy; Ilyas Mian has nothing but an old phone with a dodgy signal.
I’ll clearly be waiting a long time.
The next day, Saturday, I hear the doorbell ring and only manage to make it to the top of the stairs before Dad answers the door.
‘Hello, Mr Mian,’ says a familiar voice. ‘I’m Ms Mughal.’
‘I know you,’ he replies. ‘You’re Ilyas’s maths teacher. What’s the bugger done now?’
‘Oh no! Nothing like that. He’s a brilliant student. And a very talented artist.’
‘I thought you said you was his maths teacher?’
‘I am. The thing is, there’s a comic book competition at Olympia London today and we think he has a really good chance of winning. But he won’t do it alone – which is why I’m here.’
‘Comic books?’ Dad says, opening a chasm of sarcasm. ‘That’s not art. That’s the trash kids read instead of doing homework. I should know. Used to get The Beano, twelve pence a pop.’
Kara’s voice butts in. ‘Mr Mian, why can’t you be supportive of Ilyas’s dreams? My mum’s on benefits, yeah? But even she pays for me to go drama class cos it helps me with my confidence and makes me happy.’
What on earth is Kara doing here?
‘Kara,’ Ms Mughal says, reminding her of her manners.
‘I do want my son to be happy, young lady,’ Dad says. ‘But it’s different for blokes. He can’t waste his life doing namby-pamby stuff, else he’ll end up getting beaten up for it.’
‘Not if you let him hang around people who get his talent,’ a boy’s voice says, which sounds a lot like Ray.
‘What would you know?’ Dad scoffs. ‘No offence, but some day you’re gonna be a grown white man with the world at your feet!’
A finger p
okes me from behind, and I nearly fall down the stairs. It’s Shais.
‘Who’s Dad talking to?’ she whispers.
I shrug.
‘Uncle Osman,’ I hear Daevon say.
Exactly how many of my friends did Ms Mughal rope in for this intervention?
‘Making comics is Ilyas’s talent. I know where you’re coming from. Me and Ilyas have been in a gang since we were eleven, so we wouldn’t get beaten up. But now Imran’s been arrested for revenge porn and Noah’s been arrested for carrying a knife. You’d hate it if that was Ilyas.
‘Being in a gang is whack. You believe you’re a boss, but you’re just a worker, crushed by this pack mentality. Ilyas is the only one of us who wouldn’t get involved in intimidating other people or taking drugs. And you wanna know why? Cos he had his drawing.’
‘Look Ms Maths Teacher,’ Dad says, ignoring Daevon. ‘I don’t know why you care so much, but if Ilyas doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to. He’s helping me in the shop today and he’s happy about it. He’s finally come round to the right way of thinking and I don’t appreciate you coming to fill his head with more of this rubbish. ’
‘Oh, Dad, just support him for goodness sake!’ Shais says, making my jaw drop. ‘He’s probably going to make a fool of himself, as usual. But there’s a tiny chance he might win. And if we don’t let him go, he’s going to be wondering about it for the rest of his life, and it’ll be your fault.’
‘Ilyas! Get down here!’ Dad hollers.
Shyness and shame compress me like bookends. Here I am, eavesdropping on all these people saying stuff about me they’ve never once said to my face, and now I’m expected to look them in the eye. I wish Amma was here to tell me what to do. She wouldn’t be standing on the doorstep arguing with Ms Mughal.
Stumbling down the stairs, I act all surprised when I see them gathered on our stoop.
‘Your maths teacher and friends are here asking me to let you go to some weird competition in London. You put them up to it, did you?’ Dad says.
I quickly shake my head.
‘Do you, uh, want to go?’ he says with disappointment.
My first instinct is to lie. It’s what’s kept the peace all these years. But after everything my friends and my teacher have done for me today – not to mention Shaista’s eleventh-hour boost – I owe it to all of them to be honest. It’s my dream and although I don’t want to do it without Kelly, I suddenly realize I owe it to myself.
‘Yeah,’ I say simply. ‘I wanna go.’
Dad stares as if he sees me for the very first time and isn’t sure how to feel about it. ‘All right, all right. You’ve twisted my arm, Ms Maths Teacher. But you’re taking full responsibility, all right? You drive him there, and you bring him back. And you’re buying him lunch too.’ He wags his finger. ‘And I should warn you: he looks like a Twiglet, but eats like a horse.’
Dad is low-key treating Ms Mughal like she’s a kid. I’m half expecting her to clapback.
‘Done!’ she says with a dazzling smile.
And suddenly my respect for her rockets even higher. Whether it’s Mr Gordon (from maths) or Dad, men seem to talk down to her a lot. But she never gets shouty. Just responds with this level-headed dignity. It’s what Amma and Kelly were trying to teach me about rising above it.
‘We’ll all take very good care of Ilyas,’ Ms Mughal tells Dad. ‘He’s Stanley Park’s finest artist.’
‘Wish I had a teacher like you when I was a kid,’ Shais says jealously. ‘And you’re so pretty. You have to let me do your hair and make-up some day.’
Ms Mughal smiles at her, then looks back at me and shrugs. ‘Well, with your lovely family onboard, the decision is yours to make. Absolutely no pressure. But if you’re up for it, I think it would be a good idea to change into a suit.’
‘Ha! Good luck with that!’ Dad says waggling his eyebrows. ‘Last suit Ilyas wore was to a wedding three years ago. Try squeezing him in, and he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life.’
Ray steps uncomfortably close, arranging my limbs like a mannequin. ‘You’re about my size. Miss, can we quickly pop round to mine, so he can borrow a suit?’
Dad blinks in surprise then gives Ms Mughal a dark look. ‘Who are you? Snow White with your seven dwarfs?’
Ms Mughal leads us over to a shiny blue people carrier. On the side is stencilled: Ginsby Mosque, Keeping It Halal Since 1988! ‘Thanks for doing this, miss,’ I say in a small voice.
Ms Mughal glows. ‘No worries. Your friends were the ones who kept pushing me.’ Unlocking the doors, she leaps in the front.
‘I call shotgun!’ yells Kara, shoving Ray aside.
I open the rear door and am surprised to find yet another classmate hiding back there.
‘About time!’ snaps Nawal. ‘I was literally dying in here. You better win this damn competition, boy.’
‘Nawal’s got a bet riding on this,’ Ray says with a wink.
Ms Mughal drives like the wind, first to Ray’s place, where I change into a skinny-fit navy tuxedo – which looks ridiculously baggy – and then straight on to central London. Seeing all the classic landmarks whizzing by – London Eye, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and the Thames – brings home that this is really happening.
‘We should’ve got T-shirts printed,’ Kara says. ‘Team Big Bad Waf.’
‘That woulda been lit!’ Daevon agrees. ‘But considering we weren’t even sure Ilyas would be allowed to enter, I guess not the smartest investment.’
‘What’s the name of the story you’re entering anyway?’ Nawal asks.
‘Who’s Afraid of Big Bad Waf?’ I say shyly.
‘OK, he’s definitely winning,’ she replies, then promptly starts singing ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’, sampling rhymes from Cardi B and making up a few of her own.
Daevon gets in on the action with some old-school beatboxing.
Everyone is hype for this. But in the midst of all the happiness, I can’t stop thinking about Kelly. Entering the competition without her seems so wrong. But between her not answering my calls, and Mrs M wanting to slaughter me, I guess there’s not a lot I can do. Even after Imran’s arrest, Mrs M still blames me for bringing him into Kelly’s life. One bad experience with an Asian boy, and she blames all of us. Madness.
We get to Olympia early, since Ms Mughal has GPS traffic updates built into her brain, where Ray elects himself our tour guide.
‘My parents are always bringing me to this place,’ he says, throwing his arms out. ‘Ideal Home, House & Garden, Food and Veg, Weddings.’
‘So basically your parents are freaks who take you to all the most boring shows?’ Kara says.
‘Don’t call food boring.’ Nawal throws him an angry glare. ‘Or weddings.’
Everybody looks at Ray, who looks like he’s going to crap himself. We burst out laughing.
‘Let’s finish our GCSEs before sending out the invites, please!’ Ms Mughal says, hushing us as she steps up to the box office to sort us out ID badges.
‘We’re entering the Breakout Star competition,’ she tells the man at the desk.
He gives us a massive form to fill in. I’m panicking so much, Kara has to take charge and fill it in for me. She sprinkles a generous amount of hearts all over it. Then I’m being asked to hand over my USB and art portfolio case. Parting with them is a lot harder than I thought it would be. The man tags both with barcodes and scans them through to be sent on to Level One scouts. They’re the gatekeepers who get to decide whether I make it to Level Two or not.
‘Here are your day passes,’ the man says pushing a tangle of lanyards across the counter. ‘Competition entrants should keep their phones on at all times. Between twelve and one o’clock, texts will be sent out to the lucky five picked to present their work before our panel of judges. If you’re one of them, you’ll need to head directly to the green room for two o’clock sharp, with the main event scheduled to take place at three.’
Eyes watering, teeth c
hattering, I nod like there’s no tomorrow. It doesn’t get any more intense than this. Even facing off against Imran and Noah doesn’t compare. This time, it’s personal. My one true talent being judged by the very people who do comics for a living.
‘You got this,’ Daevon says, hooking an arm round my shoulder, leading me away. ‘Not gonna lie: winning would be sweet. But if you don’t, so what? You could try again next year. Or you could go art school.’
‘I know you’re right. I just feel like this is my one chance to prove to my dad that I’m not the dud in the family.’
‘I feel you, bro. Pops gave up on me a looooong time ago. He’s always telling Mum I’m her son, like he’s washed his hands of me. Doesn’t help that my brother and sister are both investment bankers. I pretend like I don’t care, but it hurts.’ He gives the thousand-yard stare. ‘Guess being part of DedManz dulled the pain.’
‘Exactly! The stuff I did for Imran to get his approval.’ I shudder. ‘Just cos I never got it from Dad.’
Daevon ruffles my hair. ‘Look at us! Coupla of nutjobs whinging cos “Daddy never loved us”.’
‘Know what? We should totally win at life, doing the stuff that matters to us.’
Daevon sighs. ‘Dunno, fam. Might be a bit late for man …’
‘We’re fifteen. There’s time to fix up.’
‘Tell you what,’ Daev says, unwrapping a muesli bar. ‘Win this shit, and I’ll start believing good stuff really can happen to good people.’
Hearing this from the friend I thought I’d lost to the cult of DedManz gives me all the feels.
‘I love you, man,’ I say.
‘This bar tastes like shit.’ He chucks it in a bin. ‘Come on, let’s check out some comics.’
The moment we walk through the turnstiles and enter the exhibition hall, it’s like sensory overload. Too many colours, a thumping, soaring film score, and hazardous levels of excitement and anticipation.
‘It’s cray cray in here!’ Kara says, pirouetting. ‘Omigosh: there’s Chris Pratt! Aaagh: there’s Chris Evans! Holy Black Jesus: there’s Chris Hemsworth!’
‘Those are waxworks,’ Ms Mughal says, trying to calm her down.
Kick the Moon Page 22
