You’d think the shop drama would’ve made me forget about Monday morning. Just thinking about facing Noah and Daevon has me bricking it, knowing I’m in the Traitor Zone. Pulling a sickie for the rest of my life and staying home to protect Amma and Shaista seems the wisest option to me. Sadly Mum’s having none of it.

‘You’ve already missed a week of school!’ she says. ‘You can’t afford not to go and end up like these thugs.’

At the breakfast table, I practise swiping the fruit knife, just for protection. I can totally see Noah trying to beat me up at school. Pulling a knife on the bastard would stop him in his tracks. But then what? Stab him? Like I’d ever do that. Besides, knowing my luck, I’d probably get caught carrying and end up in a Young Offender Institution before lunch.

Instead, I grab an apple from the bowl and set off out the door.

Spotting Mr Gilchrist standing at the school gates. I jump off my bike, trying to avoid eye contact. Given he’s the size of a small mountain, that ain’t happening.

‘Morning, Ilyas. Hope you’ve had a chance to think about your actions?’ He deliberately blocks the gate with his bulk.

‘Yeah, course,’ I say, placing a hand over my heart. ‘I’m steering well clear.’

‘Don’t forget to come down to room F10 at 3.10 p.m. sharp for you first detention.’

I nod gloomily. He steps aside, and I wheel my bike in, then glance back over my shoulder. ‘By the way, I’m sorry, yeah. For real.’

‘We’ll determine that at 3.10 p.m. Have a good day.’

It’s an order.

My day turns out to be hell. I get all the stares and whispers. I’ve transformed into Notorious I.L.Y.A.S. – the kid everybody chats shit about.

‘Is that the guy who …’

‘… one crazy mutha-f …’

‘Looks like a homo. How could he …’

‘… heard he tortures kittens …’

‘… jacked up on LSD and went batshit with a knife!’

Room F10 looms in front of me, like the gateway to hell. I knock on the door, tired from a day of being stared at.

‘Sorry I’m late, sir. We had Spanish on the other side of school last period.’ I spot another student in the classroom, only her head’s on the table, drowned beneath a sea of auburn curls.

‘Take a seat, please, Ilyas,’ Mr Gilchrist says, directing me with a hairy hand. ‘As you’ve no doubt just realized, there are two of you. A pair of rusty nails spoiling the otherwise perfect veneer of Stanley Park.’ He turns to the girl. ‘Sit up, please, young lady!’

The girl slowly winches herself up off the table and folds her arms. I’m shocked to see it’s Kelly, Jade’s friend – the posh girl with the battered DMs. Just like Imran has always been the school mascot for Sports, Jade’s crew are squad goals for overachievers. What on earth could a girl like that have done to end up here?

‘I don’t need to remind you how dire your situation is,’ Gilchrist drones. ‘Never in all my born days has any student displayed such disregard for the rules. You’ve both violently assaulted another member of the school. Needless to say, we’d be well within our rights to permanently exclude you. Do I make myself clear?’

I nod. Kelly shrugs. The girl is brave, I’ll give her that.

‘Take out your best writing pens,’ he says, placing two sheets of A4 lined paper in front of each of us.

I raise an eyebrow. ‘You making us do lines?’

‘No, that would be pointless. Didn’t work for old Dolores Umbridge now, did it?’

Gilchrist is a Harry Potter fan? Somebody, Avada Kedavra me right now.

‘I’d like you to join me in a reflective task. You’ve had a week of suspension to contemplate the error of your ways. Hopefully you’ve arrived at the conclusion that violence never pays. With this fine idea in mind, you will pen a letter of apology to your victims.’

‘What?’ Kelly and I blurt simultaneously, then look at each other, before quickly looking away, because having a ‘moment’ is major cringe. Me and her run with different crowds.

Mr Gilchrist places gorilla paws on the desk, elbows jutting out. ‘Ms Matthews, Mr Mian – refuse and you leave us no choice but to pursue the path of exclusion.’ He pauses for effect. ‘Perform the task successfully, and I will recommend to the governors that we expunge the incident from your permanent record. And may I point out that with an incident of this severity against your name, it would be unlikely that any college would consider taking you on.’

I swallow. No college would definitely mean being stuck working at Haji Mian & Sons till kingdom come. And worse still, Amma’s disappointment.

‘Do you have something to say, Kelly?’ Gilchrist asks.

‘No … It’s just, I don’t really see the point of this. You kicked us out for a week – obvs assuming here …’

I realize she’s talking to me, and I nod.

‘So,’ she continues, ‘seems like overkill. We did the crime, we’ve done the time, and we’re better people for it. Can’t we all go home now?’

‘It’s that attitude that got you into this mess in the first place, young lady! A perfect academic record blighted by a single, but very serious, error in judgement.’

‘OK, OK – I get it. But you haven’t even listened to my side of the story yet,’ she says reproachfully.

‘You are walking on very thin ice here.’ Gilchrist flashes his steely eyes in warning. ‘We’re bending over backwards giving you a second chance. Write that letter of apology or I’ll have your mother in again.’

Kelly looks away, shaking her head like she’s being blackmailed. Gal’s got me intrigued. Who did she hit and why?

‘Begin!’ Gilchrist orders.

Dear Imran,

Yo, bro!

Imran,

Sorry I hit you. Violence is never the answer.

I pause, because it’s the only answer in every single superhero comic ever.

I glance up at Gilchrist, who is either involved in an intense WhatsApp session, or could be on the final level of Candy Crush.

‘Damn!’ he says.

His eyes flick up, and I immediately drop mine. Satisfied that Kelly and me are not going to kill each other, Gilchrist walks into the corridor to speak privately on his phone. We hear him slowly plodding away.

The air grows thick and stale, each minute drawn out like an hour. My ears begin to ring. Five sessions of this seems impossible. Why couldn’t they have stuck me in the Phantom Zone instead?

‘What’s that?’

I glance up, getting an eyeful of Kelly’s long shaggy mane, which smells of fresh apples. Her fingertip rests on the picture of PakCore I must have unconsciously sketched in the middle of my letter. Shit! I turn the page over protectively.

‘Nothing,’ I mutter.

‘Really?’ Kelly says, raising her eyebrows. ‘Well it was an awesome nothing then. That character looks like he could leap off the page.’

I keep quiet, hoping she’ll go back to her seat. I get that I’m the only other human being in this room, but in five years, we’ve never spoken or even smiled at each other. Doing it now is so fake. She’s part of the elite crew, and I’m a wannabe gangsta. Plus we have a job to do, and it doesn’t involve talking.

‘So have you written anything yet?’ she persists, sitting on my desk like I invited her over.

‘What? No. Look you better get back over there, else Gilchrist’s gonna exclude both our arses.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Don’t be basic. If they were going to exclude us, it would’ve happened back when they summoned that She-Hulk police officer.’

I blink in surprise. Calling Officer Pryce ‘She-Hulk’ was an inside joke that never made it to the outside. With all that long red hair, this girl is definitely giving me Jean Grey vibes. Maybe she is a mind reader?

‘I’ve written a story,’ she announces proudly. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

‘No.’

‘Rude! I said I liked your drawing.’

‘PakCore.’

‘Did you just call me a whore?’

‘What? No!’ I say, nearly falling off my chair.

‘Good, cos I have a mean left hook, mister. Just ask Melanie.’

I recall her pretty band of friends, zooming in on Melanie with her Chun-Li hairdo and her Catwoman poses. ‘Why’d you hit her?’

A stern look sweeps over her face. ‘Because I have anger-management issues, I guess. These fists were flying, she got in the way, so ka-pow.’ She gives a quick left-right combo, making the table quake.

In spite of myself, I smile. ‘Ka-pow? As in comics?’

She nods. ‘But with smaller tits.’

I blush. ‘Not all comics are like that …’ But even as I say it, I know they mostly are.

‘I prefer speculative fiction, where you get to imagine the heroine without a massive pair of jugs crammed into a tiny bondage suit. Yep, science fiction and fantasy are my jam.’

‘What, like Star Wars?’

She grins impishly. ‘Also like that.’ In a single fluid movement, she flips over my page, a stubby nail coming to rest on PakCore’s bulging pecs.

‘Stoppit, man!’ I growl.

‘Why? If I could draw even half as good you, I’d be drawing all over these walls right now, sharing my talent with the world.’

Her words give me flashbacks. Leaving the DedManz tag on private property all over the town I was born in. The dirty money Imran’s been paying me to do it.

‘Who taught you how to draw?’ she asks.

I shrug. ‘Everyone can draw, innit?’

‘Not like you, they can’t.’ She clicks her heels together – Dorothy, but with battered man-boots instead of ruby slippers. ‘My mum taught me how to write. Aged three.’

‘Seriously?’ I say, ninety-nine per cent sure she’s exaggerating.

‘M’hm. Mum has always had these insane ambitions for me.’

‘I always figured it was just Asian parents that were mad demanding.’

Kelly pouts thoughtfully. ‘Well, what do your parents want you to be?’

‘Me? Nothing. But it’s sorta cultural to want your kids to become doctors or engineers or go into business. Anything else is considered a fail.’

‘Because they want their kids to become high earners?’

‘You do not understand. My lot love to brag. Telling every random on the planet how successful their kids are. It’s a massive badge of honour.’

She narrows an eye. ‘So how comes your parents aren’t like that?’

I sigh and shake my head. Don’t want to get into it. Don’t want to tell this privileged white girl about my #BrownPeopleProblems so she can just have a laugh about it with her mates later.

‘Well I think my mum wins the prize for Most Dictatorial Mother Ever. She wants me to be a –’ her fingers twitch in the air like animated quotes – ‘fierce, feminist prime minister with egalitarian values and conservative morals.’

The thing is, I can totally imagine Kelly killing it at Prime Minister’s Question Time. She practically owned Gilchrist before he weaponized her mum. ‘That what you want?’

‘Nooooo,’ she says, curls bouncing like rings of flame. ‘I want to write fantasy—’

The door slams shut. We jerk our heads in the direction of a very cross-looking Mr Gilchrist. Kelly scrambles back to her seat as he stomps over like he’s going to rip our heads off.

He snatches up our pages, ignoring our protests. ‘I asked for a single letter of apology, and what do I get? A story about a space princess and a picture of a ninja!’

‘She’s not a space princess!’ Kelly says.

‘He’s not a ninja!’ I say.

Mr Gilchrist blinks. ‘I’m sorry. Have I just entered the Twilight Zone? Your brief was completely clear. Lucky for you, we have four more sessions to get your letters sorted out. It just so happens I’ve run into a bit of an emergency at home, so we’ll have to try this again tomorrow. Off you go!’

He doesn’t need to tell us twice. We grab our bags and bolt for the door.

‘Same time, same place!’ he booms after us.

Out in the corridor, we glance at each other. Without the four walls of a classroom imprisoning us, awkwardness sets in like rot. Kelly opens her mouth to say something.

‘Laters,’ I say, hurrying in the opposite direction.