I’m in the lower set for maths. My whole mandem is, but I bring the algebra. To be honest, it’s kind of distracting always having to pass my book over to Imran, Daevon and Noah so they can take pics, then copy my answers. Plus, every time I get one wrong, I’m guaranteed a smack. Maths is starting to give me concussion.

Our teacher is Mr Gordon, a lanky, grey-haired dude with a nose like a parrot’s beak, and a moustache the size of a USB port. Gordon resents having to teach a lower-ability set. That’s what I think, anyway, but Imran has other ideas. Reckons the man’s a racist cos apparently he spotted him on this anti-immigrant march one time on the news. I think Imran’s just pissed off cos Gordon keeps giving him detentions for not doing homework. Besides, guys like Imran don’t even watch the news.

‘Here he is!’ says Imran, announcing me as I enter the classroom. He’s wearing a claret-and-gold Cleveland Cavaliers hoody, a pen wedged behind his ear. Gordon is going to be vexed. Imran knows hoodies are banned, but I suppose arguing about it means less time doing maths.

‘Oh shit!’ Daevon says. ‘You done the homework, bro? Cos I totally forgot.’

‘Forgot, or couldn’t be arsed?’ says Noah, chuckling.

‘Look, guys,’ I say, trying to muster up some courage. Having practised my speech in the bathroom mirror every morning of half-term, the words should roll off my tongue. Only mine are a jumble of letters, melting on my tongue like Alphabetti Spaghetti. ‘If you copy from me all the time, yeah, what you gonna do when it’s the actual exams?’

‘Don’t hold out on us, fam.’ Imran glares at me, hand extended for my book like it’s a foregone conclusion.

‘I’m not,’ I say quickly. ‘But you guys know what Gordon’s like! Copy one of my mistakes, and we all get detention. Or a phone call home.’

‘Let us worry about that,’ Imran says, fingers flexing for my book.

I feel blood rise to my face, dew forming on every strand of my fuzzy moustache.

‘No,’ I say, raising a finger.

The room falls silent, and I am suddenly aware of dozens of pairs of eyes watching us.

I lick my lips. ‘Amma is sick of getting calls from Gordon saying I copied you when it’s always the other way around. I ain’t doing that to her no more. She’s had enough stress with my big bro pissing off to America.’

Daevon has the decency to look ashamed. ‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right. I’ll take the L.’

Imran’s eyes flash at me, and it’s as if he’s casting a spell over my hand. It slips into my bag, ready to hand my homework over – the homework I spent ages doing by watching a ton of YouTube videos presented by teachers who could actually teach, instead of confuse-the-hell-out-of-you Gordon. No, no, no! I scream silently at my hand. You have to stand up for yourself.

‘Oi! Hand it over,’ Imran barks, boiling over with impatience.

‘Well, what a nice surprise!’ Mr Gordon says in his nasal voice, misinterpreting the tense silence in the room. ‘We’re certainly getting off on the right foot this term, aren’t we? Guess you lot have finally realized you only have seven months left to scrape through with those Fives. Stranger things have happened …’

Imran’s basketball-honed hands shoot out and grip my bag. I cry out in surprise as he rips it from my fingers, giving me burns.

Gordon traps me in his crosshairs. ‘Nice to see you on your feet, Mr Mian. No, no. Don’t sit down. Your genius has finally revealed you’re a cut above these dunderheads. You’re being moved up two sets. Cheerio!’

I blink in surprise as Gordon sits down behind his desk and unlocks the computer.

‘You still here?’ Gordon asks, looking like he’s just swallowed a kangaroo anus left over from last year’s I’m A Celebrity. ‘Skedaddle, Mr Mian. Skedaddle!’

‘Sir, are you saying I’m in set two?’ I stammer, unable to believe it, because good stuff never happens to me.

‘Cor blimey!’ he sneers. ‘If you can’t even subtract two from four, then perhaps you shouldn’t be moving up at all.’

‘My boy’s moving up to Ms Mughal’s class. Represent!’ says Daevon, fist pumping in celebration.

I throw him a grateful glance. Imran shoots my bag at my chest, and I catch it, absorbing the impact with my puny arms.

‘Go on then. Piss off,’ he hisses.

‘Language, Mr Akhtar!’ Gordon trills.

‘Oh sorry,’ Imran says, canines glinting like daggers. ‘Dafa ho, panchod.’

My mouth drops open at the insult.

‘Speak words we can all understand!’ snaps Gordon.

I leave them to it. The first day of term just got a whole lot better. Without my mates dragging me down or Mr Gordon confusing me, maybe I can get a decent grade in maths after all? Everyone knows maths and English are the subjects you need to pass if you don’t want to end up cleaning toilets for the rest of your life.

I gangsta walk it to my new classroom, feeling little explosions of happiness going off in my chest. In my mind, I’m PakCore, patrolling Stanley Park, keeping these ends safe. At the first sign of danger, my hands will swing out, making the Sign of Wahid. This, I imagine, is how I’d summon mystical energies from the universe to aid in my fight against evil. Fingers raking through the air, snipping apart atoms, setting off a chain reaction of incredible power. A dazzling glow will envelop me, replacing my civilian clothes with a totally dope superhero costume. Jade and black leather, studded with silver Urdu letters, and a glowing green trim that accentuates every muscle and supercharges them. Approaching the door, the knock I give is anything but ordinary. It’s a super-knock.