My mind begins to unravel. In confusion, I grab my bag to place over Imran’s exposed junk. That’s when Gilchrist loses it and pulls me away. My bag hits the ground like a sack of potatoes. In hindsight, I realize it looked a lot like I was trying to finish the job instead of spare Imran’s blushes.

‘Right, you little terror!’ Gilchrist booms, dragging me along the corridor. ‘We’ll have your parents in, and you can explain this to the police.’

‘Anything I can do?’ Mr Kumar asks, scratching behind an ear, eyes twitching nervously.

Mr Gilchrist secures me in a headlock as I thrash about.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he yells. ‘Call an ambulance and send the other boys home!’

Live teacher-on-teacher rage. Shit got serious. The fight goes out of me, and Mr Gilchrist hauls me to his office like a rag doll.

I’m sat in between Amma and Dad, on the opposite side of the table from Mr Gilchrist and the police liaison, Officer Pryce. I’m still in my bloodstained PE kit, knobbly knees knocking together, holding an ice pack to lips that look like freshly done butt implants.

‘We’re so sorry,’ Amma says. ‘He’s never done anything like it in his life. I promise you, he’s the gentlest boy in the world.’

‘I can’t believe it!’ says Dad, trying to rub off the last of his thinning hair. He’s still in his grocer’s apron. ‘Imran’s a good lad and twice this one’s size.’

‘Good lad, my foot!’ Amma says, snorting. ‘The Akhtar boy is nothing but trouble. Terrorizes his own mother!’

‘The point is,’ Dad says, ‘how could Ilyas have landed a blow on Imran? That’s David and Goliath right there!’

All this time, Dad’s been telling me to stand up for myself, and when I finally do, he sides with the enemy. I hate my life.

‘I didn’t, though!’ I say. ‘It was an accident, Dad. He was mouthing off, saying all this stuff about …’ I pause – can’t bring myself to repeat the dirty things Imran said in my mother’s presence.

‘Sticks and stones, young man!’ says the officer, leaning forward. With bulging biceps and silky black hair, the woman looks perfect for the role of She-Hulk. ‘You’re in high school,’ she continues. ‘If you’re going to be assaulting every kid who calls you a nasty name, you’ll end up in prison before you’re eighteen! Do you understand?’

I grunt. Amma gives me a sharp prod.

‘Yes, miss,’ I say, sulkily.

‘Well,’ says Mr Gilchrist, eyeing my written statement distastefully. Beside it are another two. They could literally be from anyone. No shortage of offers to back up golden boy Imran against a wasteman like me. ‘It appears the attack wasn’t altogether unprovoked. But violence is never the answer, as Officer Pryce has just outlined for you. Now according to Stanley Park rules, there are sufficient grounds for a permanent exclusion—’

Amma gasps.

‘But,’ he continues, raising a finger, ‘we take a liberal approach here, and I do believe Ilyas is a good lad at heart – current actions notwithstanding. If we don’t give our own another chance, then what sort of a school are we? I’m going to recommend to the principal and governors five days of suspension, effective immediately, followed by one week of hour-long after-school detentions with me.’

‘But what about his GCSEs?’ Amma looks fraught. ‘He can’t afford a week out of school.’

Dad nudges her and shakes his head. She ignores him, large eyes imploring Mr Gilchrist to reconsider.

‘The school has a legal obligation to provide work for your son to continue his studies at home. It will all be uploaded to the school’s virtual learning environment, Mrs Mian.’

‘Come on, Mr Gilchrist – you know as well as I do that his studies will suffer. How can a fifteen-year-old self-motivate for an entire week?’ Amma blinks like a sad owl.

‘Your son is the cause of another student missing out on his classes for who knows how long,’ Gilchrist points out. ‘The medics have advised us they are on top of the situation, and Imran should have no lasting damage, but one simply cannot underestimate the negative impact this will have on his GCSEs.’

What about smoking pot and disrupting every class he’s in? I want to shout. What effect will that have on the idiot’s results? And what about what he did to Jasmine? What will that do to her GCSEs? And let’s not forget Imran never does any homework, anyway. You’re only giving him a free pass cos of all the cups he’s won for the school.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Amma says pulling a tissue out of her handbag to dab at her eyes.

‘Please don’t cry, Amma!’ I beg, reaching for her.

She stiffens. ‘I’ll stop crying when you thank these nice people for giving you a second chance.’

‘Chance? One week’s suspension and five hours of after-school detentions! How is that a chance?’

Amma waits for my rude outburst to cease before continuing. ‘And you promise me –’ the rebuke in her eyes is painful – ‘promise me you’ll never raise your hand to another student ever again, no matter how much they provoke you. What’s the point of your teachers making allowances for you to do your Friday prayers if you’re going to attack people?’ She sniffs. ‘I thought we raised you better than that.’

My own eyes fill with tears of frustration. I don’t want to let Amma down, but if only she knew the truth, she’d see that I was trying to stand up and do the right thing. But the world in my head – the one in which PakCore swoops in and saves the day – is not the world I live in.

On the drive home, I sit in the back, sinking lower and lower as my parents argue over why I’m such a screw-up.

‘No more hanging out with the bad boys! You’re grounded until further notice.’ Amma catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, her brow like a scrunched-up paper bag. ‘I don’t care how cool it makes you feel. Associate with skunks, and you start smelling like one.’

‘Now wait a minute,’ Dad says, hanging a sharp left that sends me sweeping across the back seat and banging my head against the window. ‘Hanging around with Imran’s what taught him to be assertive. It’s miles better than hanging with artsy-fartsy anoraks and sissies.’

‘Oh for goodness sake! It’s not the 1950s, Osman,’ Amma snaps. ‘Ilyas isn’t like you or Amir. He’s a gentle, intelligent sort of boy.’

‘You ’avin’ a laugh? Amir was so intelligent, he got summoned by Uncle Moneybags himself! S’why the selfish git buggered off.’ He shakes his head. ‘Promised his old man he’d help out with the family business so I’d pay his college fees, then pulled a fast one.’

On and on it goes.

Gently squeezing my throbbing nose, I lower my head till my tears gather into a massive droplet on the tip. I’m not manly enough, clever enough or even gentle enough. Not only am I completely useless, but I’m wrecking my parents’ relationship too.