At break-time, I see my mates playing football on the field with a bunch of scary-ass sixth-formers. Noah and Daevon hold back a little, but Imran is fearless. He dribbles the ball towards a meathead, feints left, then thunders right, the ball tracking his foot like magic. Two players try to tackle him, but he’s already sprinting towards the goal, topknot flapping in the wind, muscles vibrating. Imran is drama incarnate.

Before I even know what I’m doing, my phone is out, and I’m snapping pics of him. Noah glances up at me, which quickly brings me to my senses. I turn my phone round and start talking into it, walking off as fast as I can.

With nothing better to do, I head for my safe space: the gap under the stairs in the science block. Unfortunately a supply teacher is on guard, banishing anyone seeking shelter. The woman must be descended from those stingy innkeepers who wouldn’t give Mary and Joseph a place to crash. But if DedManz has taught me anything, it’s Finessing 101. Rule number one: act like you’re doing something perfectly legit, and people won’t bother you.

‘And where do you think you’re going, young man?’ booms the woman, intercepting me immediately.

Rule number two …

I give her Shocked Face, which is guaranteed to cause extreme levels of self-doubt. Use with caution.

‘Ms Wallington told me to come for detention?’ I make it sound like a question, as if she should already know this.

‘Oh I see,’ she says momentarily softening before thinking better of it. ‘And where is this detention?’

Rule number three …

I point up the staircase, ‘Room thirty-three G, third floor. Come up with me if you want?’

‘No, that’s all right,’ she says, as if I just asked her up to my bedroom or something. ‘Just hurry up then.’

Giving a salute, I meander towards the stairs. Once her back is turned, I skid into the dark place under the stairs. Thirty seconds to make sure I haven’t been seen, then I silently unzip my bag and pull out my sketch pad.

Flipping to a blank page, I arrange my special art pencils in a semi-circle close to my right thigh and pull out my phone. I swipe through the pictures I just took of Imran, searching for the perfect look – that unique mix of bravery, determination and cockiness that is SO PakCore. Not easy when you don’t have the guts to ask someone to pose for you. Really I should man up and ask him instead of going all stalkerazzi. Maybe he’d be flattered by the idea of having a comic book hero modelled after him?

Yeah, and pork chops are halal …

My finger hits the perfect shot.

Placing my phone on the floor, I sketch a skull shape on my pad, then go in with a softer pencil, marking in the hollows of the eyes, the strong bridge of the nose, and the squareness of the jaw. As I’m doing all this, I begin to imagine what it must be like to be Imran. A natural-born leader, a gyalis like no other, and the undisputed MVP of Stanley Park Academy. What does the world look like when you’re so tall, your head is practically saying ‘Yo!’ to the clouds? What does it feel like to fear nobody – bullies, teachers or parents?

Working my way down the torso, chiselling away at his abs with a medium graphite pencil, I find myself thinking about Imran’s family situation. It’s hard to feel sorry for the guy everyone wants to be, but actually his life is kind of sad. His dad walked out on them when Imran was only seven. Rumours have it he ran off with some desi babe half his age, but Imran’s mum claims he’s a huge landowner in Pakistan, regularly sending cash over to support them. While it’s true Imran’s never short of a few quid, I once overheard Auntie Simrat telling Amma that something seriously dodgy is going on with vans regularly bringing stuff in and out of their house under cover of darkness.

As I add shading to PakCore’s eyes, I realize this is the one and only bit of myself I’m transferring over to the character. Hazel eyes gleaming through his black eye mask, the ties at the back of his head rippling in the wind like cobras attacking in tandem. Ten minutes in, the image has become my best yet. If I had one shot to present PakCore to the world, this picture would be it. My heart races, imaging PakCore becoming the Next Big Thing, licensed for comics and movies and action figures.

Reality check: if Amir won’t take over the family business, I have to. Haji Mian & Sons has been in the family for three generations. It’s survived riots, recessions, and competition from supermarkets. Who am I to turn my nose up at all that history?

The pips go, and I gather up my stuff.