It’s the end of the school day, and I’m nervously pacing up and down the corridor in the maths building. I’m about to take another peek through Ms Mughal’s window when the door flies open and Year 7 kids come pouring out, saying bye to her and chattering excitedly about their lesson.

‘Miss, I made a card for you,’ a girl announces, and honestly, she’s the cutest thing. She’s dwarfed by a giant kawaii backpack shaped like a cupcake. Fun Hong is written on it in marker so neatly, it’s practically font.

‘For me?’ Ms Mughal asks her, acknowledging me with a nod.

The girl turns to look at me, alarmed. ‘Um … I’m embarrassed.’ She tips her head forward to hide her flushing cheeks.

‘You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. This is Ilyas, and he’s a fellow artist. Just like you, Fun,’ Ms Mughal says.

Fun peers at me suspiciously, and I nod. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m all about the creative arts.’

‘OK, but if anyone laughs, I’m gonna cry,’ she says matter-offactly, unzipping her backpack and pulling out the handmade card.

Fun has drawn a chibi-style picture of Ms Mughal teaching a class full of cute little animals. To my favourite teacher is proudly written across the top in lavender glitter glue.

Poor Ms Mughal looks like she’s going to cry.

‘This is literally the cutest thing ever, Fun!’

‘You got talent,’ I chime in, cos I know how good it feels to hear it.

Fun hugs her bag. I can almost see happy stars popping above her head like an animated filter.

‘Oh!’ she says, placing a hand over her mouth. ‘I wanted to tell you something else too, but I’ll tell you tomorrow instead. Can I come at break-time?’

‘Of course you can. And thank you so much for this card. It’s going on my wall, and every time I feel down, looking at it will cheer me right up,’ Ms Mughal says.

Fun giggles, then scampers down the corridor, pausing only to wave, before vanishing down the stairwell.

‘Smart kid,’ Ms Mughal says with a dewy-eyed expression. ‘Come in, Ilyas, and take a seat.’ She kicks off her shoes and slips into a pair of bright orange Nikes. ‘Just going to zip off to collect my brother from reception. Back in five. OK?’

‘Sure … Miss? Can I open my comic on your computer? To show your brother, I mean?’

She gives me an affirmative thumbs-up, before zooming into the corridor, her jilbab flapping in the slipstream.

I log in to her computer, slot in my memory stick, and open up my file. Up on the interactive whiteboard, my comic suddenly looks different. Nausea grips my stomach. It’s like my comic has mutated since I last saw it. A billion rookie mistakes fly out at me like ninja stars. Proportion, expression, perspective – it’s all wrong.

I close my eyes, trying to slow down my jacked-up heart. ‘You’re imagining things. It was fine last week when you showed Kelly. Not that she cares anyway,’ I mutter to myself.

‘Imagining things is good practice for a comic book artist,’ comes a new voice from behind me. ‘I’m Idris, Ms Mughal’s brother. Nice to meet you.’

He has the same bee-stung lips as Ms Mughal. But there the similarity ends. His eyes are chocolate brown, a unibrow hovers above thick glasses, and he is big – tall and very wide.

‘This talent-in-the-wings is Ilyas,’ Ms Mughal tells him, walking into the room behind her brother.

I shake Idris’s hand, feeling like a dork for having been caught giving myself a pep talk.

‘Whoa!’ he says, glancing up at the board. ‘Is this your own work?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, smiling shyly before switching gears. ‘Why – is it bad?’

Both he and Ms Mughal look at me like surprised geese.

‘Are you being modest or do you seriously not know how talented you are?’ Idris asks.

I cover my mouth with both hands. If Dad could see me right now, he’d give me a smack for being so girly. But I am so overcome with emotions, my hands are shaking.

‘D-d-do you think I have an actual shot at winning?’ Boom – it’s out: the thought that’s been plaguing my mind ever since Ms Mughal mentioned the competition.

Idris smiles thinly, sitting down on a table, his legs spreading in his beige trousers. ‘Tell me more about this character. Does he have an origin story? Who are the bad guys? Where is it set?’

‘Take your time,’ Ms Mughal says gently, gliding over to a table at the back. ‘I’ll just be over here marking some tests.’

I tell Idris all about PakCore. He nods encouragingly, but doesn’t let on whether he thinks it’s great or if he thinks it sucks.

‘Do you reckon I have a chance?’ I ask again.

He deflects the question. ‘How much do you want to win?’

‘Oh man!’ I say, shaking my head deliriously. ‘More than Lois Lane wants Superman. More than T’Challa wishes the Vibranium in Wakanda had stayed in Wakanda. More than—’

‘OK – I can see you’re committed,’ Idris says, chuckling. ‘The Kablamo! Kon IV competition takes place just before Christmas. That’s not a lot of time, so I’m going to be blunt with you.’

Ms Mughal looks up from her marking. ‘Not too blunt, please.’

‘Psh! I’m never too blunt,’ he says.

‘Ha! You used to call me Stick Insect Gal and say my superpower was getting blown away in the wind.’

‘Only because society told me to be jealous. But thankfully I’m BoPo now.’ He pats his stomach.

This is a guy Daevon should meet.

‘So, Ilyas, can you handle the truth?’

I nod, gulping.

‘Your artwork is incredible, the Living Shadows make seriously creepy villains, and I love that you came up with a British Pakistani hero. A move that’s long overdue.’

‘OK,’ I say uncertainly, waiting for the sting in the tail.

His unibrow curves like a rainbow. ‘But the actual character of PakCore seems too familiar.’

I blush, wringing my hands. ‘But I made him up! He’s a mash-up of loads of different characters. Something old to make something new.’

‘That’s the problem, my friend. It’s really easy to identify your individual inspirations.’ He ticks them off on his fingers. ‘Superman, Spider-Man, Ghost Rider.’

All that effort drawing those pictures, scanning the images, and digitally enhancing them. Literally hours and hours of hard graft. And all this time, I’ve been polishing a turd. A stolen turd. Who does that?

‘How can he fix it?’ Ms Mughal interjects quickly.

Idris shrugs his round shoulders. ‘It has to come from inside you, Ilyas. Producing original ideas to order is bread and butter for any comic book artist. And with this genre at saturation point – thank you, Hollywood! – it has become almost impossible to come up with something that hasn’t been done before.’

I nod gloomily. ‘There’s probably tons of people entering the competition anyway. Like, adults and that.’

‘But –’ Ms Mughal waves her pen like a magic wand – ‘your drawings are already on a par with those of adults, so that’s one hurdle down. Just need to fine tune those brilliant ideas of yours. Please help him, Idris. Can’t you see how much he wants this?’

Her brother shakes his head. ‘Come from you, it must,’ he says in a nasalized voice, pushing his ears out in imitation of Yoda. ‘But what I can do is show you a promotional video I made for a small comics company called Diamond Chain. Maybe it’ll inspire you, and your ideas will build from there.’

He puts the smallest USB I have ever seen into the port and double-clicks on a video file. My mouth falls open. The stylish cartoon images shift and pan and breathe – a noir comic book brought to life. A creative big bang happens inside me, and a million possibilities shimmer before my eyes.

‘It’s called a motion comic,’ he explains. ‘Lots of movies use them in the opening credits nowadays. I made this one in After Effects, manipulating the original artist’s drawings.’

‘How?’ I whisper, my eyes like hubcaps, my heart rate spiking.

‘I’ll show you.’