Daevon texts me on Saturday.

I’ve been thinking about Daevon a lot. Wondering how Gilchrist of all people suddenly appeared in the boys’ changing room. Daevon was standing at Gilchrist’s elbow with an expression I didn’t recognize at the time. Now I’m thinking it was guilt.

I wait for a reply, getting madder and madder by the minute. When it finally comes, I boil over. It’s the middle-finger emoji. I hurl my phone across the room.

‘Oi!’ Dad says, appearing out of nowhere. ‘Want me to confiscate your phone ’n’ all? In case you hadn’t realized, you’re in the doghouse, mate.’

Silently fuming, I go over and pick up my phone, wiping off the dust bunnies.

‘Wanna work your way back into me and your mum’s good graces? Well, you’ll be working bloody hard, I can tell you! Ten minutes. Get dressed, powder your nose, then you’re coming with me to the store. It’s time you started to learn your future.’

‘But I gotta revise!’

My protests fall on deaf ears. Dad blinks at me threateningly, retracting his thick neck into his shoulders. ‘Di’nt you hear what I just said? Pull your finger out! Ten minutes.’ He points at me for emphasis, then shuts the door.

Man, I hate going to Haji Mian & Sons. All these rude people everywhere, talking loudly, stealing the plastic bags cos they can’t be bothered to spend a pound at Tesco. And don’t get me started on the abuse of the produce. Sniffing, poking and scratching. Wanna make out with a mooli? Buy the damn thing first! Of course I learned the hard way to keep my trap shut. One time, I caught a woman taking marrow biopsies with her nails and asked her to stop. She went and complained to Dad, who clipped me round the ear. Respecting elders is how we roll, even when they’re wrong.

So I spend the whole morning in an itchy white coat stacking shelves and trying to help customers who seem to assume I can speak all five hundred Asian languages just cos I’m brown. And you should see the look on their faces when I ask them to repeat it in English.

‘Ilyas!’ Dad shouts for the tenth time in two hours.

He’s up at the till serving a long line of customers. They all turn round to stare at me as I scamper over, rubbing at my war wounds. Turns out stacking shelves is a lot like playing with knives.

‘Yes, Dad?’

‘Fetch a mop and clear up this mess.’

I look down and see a glass bottle floating in a sea of garlic sauce. Lovely.

In the back room, I fill a bucket with water and bung in a few drops of pine disinfectant. Grabbing a mop, and tucking a kitchen roll under one arm, I carry everything to the till. I cover the puddle in swathes of kitchen roll. The beige sauce soaks straight through, reducing them to a soupy sludge.

‘Pick up the bottle first, you div!’ Dad snaps. Then, turning to the woman who must be responsible for the spill, he says, ‘Honestly, what do they teach ’em in school these days?’

This may surprise you, Dad, but cleaning floors isn’t on the curriculum. In fact, it probably counts as slave labour, since you’re making me do it for free.

‘Why’s he not in school today?’ Ms Nosy inquires.

‘This one picked a fight with a kid nearly twice his size, would you believe!’

‘No!’ she says, giving me evils like Dad had just told her I kill kittens for fun.

‘It’s why he’s got them ugly bruises under his eyes. Punched on the hooter.’

The woman continues to stare. I take my aggression out on the floor with the wet mop.

‘Schools have gone soft,’ she concludes. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child. That’s what my dear mother used to say.’

Your mum was a psycho.

‘Exactly!’ Dad says, reaching into her basket and pricing a packet of curry powder. ‘Used to give my elder son licks with the belt. Now he’s at Harvard studying business management!’

‘Ooh, you must be so proud,’ the lady coos.

Apparently, getting beats off Dad was the secret of Amir’s success.

‘Thank God, don’t I? But my old woman won’t let me teach this one any manners. She’s all “Mumsnet this” and “Supernanny that”. All that modern malarkey!’

‘Heavens!’ says the woman. ‘The internet has made us into a nation of deviants. All this sexy-camming and selfie-shooting, I ask you! What’ve we got to show for it? Nothing but mental health problems, stabbings and suicides!’

‘A woman after my own heart!’ Dad says, going all dopey.

‘Married the wrong girl, didn’t you?’ She chuckles.

I hurriedly clean up the mess before I add to it with my own vomit.

‘Listen,’ says the woman in my ear, nearly making me jump out of my skin. ‘Make your dad proud. He’s a good man, and children always learn too late that parents won’t be around forever.’

How about you learn not to break bottles and mind your own business?

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I mumble. Two minutes of bantz with a middle-aged Romeo, and this woman thinks she’s got my family sussed.

As the morning wears on, Dad works me harder than any of his employees. Then his workers get in on the act too, bossing me around like a sweatshop boy. I think about contacting Childline, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.

At lunchtime, I go and hide in the stockroom to eat my sandwiches and flip through some rough panels I sketched for my comic. The pictures are fire, but now there’s a bitter aftertaste because PakCore shares faces with Imran – the reason I’m in this mess.

‘There you are!’

For one horrible moment, I think Imran has made a miraculous recovery and is here to deliver the arse-whupping of a century. It’s actually Zaman, his older, less attractive cousin. As he steps towards me, my eyes dart around nervously, searching for an escape route. Or a weapon. Does a can of fly spray count as a weapon?

He grips my arm.

‘Piss off!’ I yell, flapping my arms like a turkey trying to take off.

He crushes my windpipe between his dry worker’s fingers. ‘You put Imran in hospital. The only reason I’m not choking you now is because Uncle Osman is the boss.’

‘Except you are choking me!’ I squeak, pushing a palm at him, imagining I’ve summoned a mystical mandala like Doctor Strange. ‘Plus, it was an accident. Imran tripped over his own bag.’

Zaman processes this new bit of info, then sneers. ‘Obviously. As if a tiny maggot like you could take my cousin in a fair fight!’

‘Everything OK?’ Yunus asks, standing at the threshold.

Zaman releases me and ruffles my hair in a mildly threatening way.

‘All good,’ I lie.

Yunus gives us some side-eye, then grabs a couple of boxes of soap powder from the shelves. Zaman flashes his eyes at me, then retreats to the shop floor. A minute later, Yunus follows him out.

My sandwich goes in the bin, the thought of Imran’s return killing my appetite. On that day, I’ll be a sitting duck. I think about asking Dad for help, then remember his answer to everything: Man up!

Grabbing my navy-blue parka, I head out. Up on the shop floor, Dad is holding a mug of tea, telling dirty jokes in Punjabi to two of his workers.

‘Dad, just nipping out to see Amma, ’kay?’ I say, beelining for the door.

‘No, absolutely not,’ he says. ‘Can’t go running off to your Amma every time life gives you lemons. Man up.’

‘I’ll be right back. Just for lunch, yeah? I need to apologize for letting her down.’

One of the workers chips in. ‘Ainu jaan dhey – let him go. When his mum greets him with slaps, he’ll come running back.’

Jogging to the library, I feel ice crystals scrape against my cheeks. I can’t even remember the last time it snowed, like, proper snowed.

Crossing the street, it comes back to me. Year 6, school playground, me and Daevon having this great idea of building a snow Batman. We were so proud of our sculpture, until Lee Garrison and his mates beat us up for building a ‘snow boyfriend’.

The memory makes me nauseous. An uncomfortable idea drops into my head. Is this the reason Daevon started making tough mates like Imran and Noah? Did he start seeing me as a bully magnet and a threat to his own safety?

At the end of the road, the frosted glass apex of our local library pops into view, and as I travel down the decline, the rest of the pyramid appears to rise. Our library was a total tip when I was small. Then Amma got involved, mobilizing a group of shouty parents, who campaigned for renovation and funding, arguing that every child deserved access to books. Amma can be fierce when she needs to be. She bullied the local MP, Theodon Papadakis, to take the war to Westminster. Funding finally went through, and we got our shiny new library.

The sensors pick me up, and the doors hum open.

‘Hey, Ilyas!’ says Mohamud, the security guard. We fist bump. ‘Why aren’t you at school today?’

Mohamud fled Mogadishu about four years ago after pirates hijacked his family’s house. Came for them in the dead of night with guns and knives and messed-up intentions. Trouble is, things got worse when his family arrived in Britain. He lost his mother and three sisters in a fire started by faulty electrical wiring. Mohamud only escaped that night because he’d been praying Tarawih at the local mosque. The thing is, the guy still has a hundred-watt smile. Whenever he lights the room up with it, I feel guilty for complaining about my own stupid problems.

I fill Mohamud in on my temporary exclusion.

He sighs. ‘Mate, why are you doing this to your mum?’

I shrug, too sad to give my reasons; too exhausted to explain that I’m the victim here.

‘Seriously, brother, you don’t know how lucky you are to have access to free education and two loving parents.’

I’m standing in a tar pit, sinking lower and lower with every word he speaks.

Mohamud puts a slim hand on my shoulder, and leans in close. ‘Look, I can see you’re sorry. That’s half the battle won. Now go give your mum the biggest, cheesiest hug you can manage. You’re her favourite, you know?’

‘Ya think?’

‘Ye-ah!’ he says, appearing surprised that I’d doubt this. ‘Auntie Fozia’s always telling everybody about your drawings and how kind you are. She said you look after an abandoned rabbit better than some parents look after their own kids.’

A jalapeño fieriness spreads across my cheeks. Teenage boys and bunnies aren’t supposed to mix. This gets out, I’m dead.

‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Mohamud says quickly. ‘Allah placed mercy in your heart. You’re like a young Abu Bakr, the first Caliph of Islam.’

I give him a seriously doubtful look.

‘He was all about the baby camels. Abu Bakr literally means “Father of the Camel”. Maybe we should call you Abu ‘Arnab!’

Sparkle’s Daddy? I chuckle in spite of my current mood. ‘Thanks, bro.’

Inside the library, Amma’s sitting on a beanbag in the ‘interactive section’, reading a picture book to a bunch of hypnotized little kids. She’s doing all the voices and everything, just like she used to when I was small. Warm bath first; mad wailing as she’d scrub my crusty heels; then marshmallows and a dope story, snuggling up on the sofa together. Man, I miss those days.

Amma notices me, blinking behind her large glasses, then asks a worried-looking lady to take over. I raise my hands and shake my head furiously, but it’s too late cos she’s coming over.

‘What’s the matter, beyta?’ she asks, taking her glasses off and massaging the bridge of her nose. ‘I thought you were helping Dad at the store today?’

‘Yeah, I was. I am. I just … I feel crap, Amma. I don’t want you hating on me.’

Amma strokes my cheek, her eyebrows dipping. ‘Silly boy. I could never hate you. You’ve disappointed us, and I’m sure we’re partly to blame … but hate you? Don’t ever think that again.’

I shake my head. ‘This is all on me. Imran’s been pushing me for time. But I didn’t have to get into it, right? I could’ve just walked away and spared you the embarrassment.’

She nods. ‘They’ve stitched his wounds, and he’s on the mend. Thankfully it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, but his mother is still worried.’

‘I’m sorry …’

‘Are you?’

Her questions catches me off guard, and I shake my head.

‘He could have died, Ilyas. Or ended up with permanent brain damage. How would that have made you feel?’

‘But he was seriously out of order—’

‘You have to stop thinking with your fists. No matter what your father might say, there’s always a better way of handling things.’ She looks over her shoulder. The kids stare back with eyes like fishing rods. ‘Better get back, love. Chantelle doesn’t like doing the voices.’

I want to say more, want her to help me figure stuff out, but I realize Amma has a life outside of our family.

She turns back briefly. ‘I want you to go to mosque and think about how you could have handled things differently. And if you get stuck, I want you to speak to the Imam.’

Wish I could be the son Amma deserves, but every time I think about Imran chatting shit about her, I want to smash his pretty-boy face in with a cricket bat. Truth be told, my life would be a million times easier if he never came back.

Carrying a ton of self-loathing on my back, I head back to the shop.