Kick the Moon

Saturday morning, I put my board art in the corridor, leaning against the radiator, as I snag my jacket off the hook. I was up till midnight designing and creating it.

‘What’s that?’ Shais asks. She’s dressed in a bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel turban.

Before I can tell her not to, she flips it over and glares at it. ‘Oh …’ she says, disappointed. ‘This is actually pretty good.’

It’s the nicest thing Shais has ever said to me. I want to tell her she looks lovely without make-up, you know, to make her feel better about herself. But I’m pretty sure she’s going to twist my words and make out I’m saying she wears too much of it. So instead I take a leaf out of Daevon’s book and give her a massive hug. She goes rigid, her face as shell-shocked as The Scream (if the dude in the painting was rocking a towel turban and ombré nails).

I’m hot and sticky by the time I get to the Matthews’ house. The cold air converts my sweat to liquid nitrogen. Resting the board against the front gate, I wipe my brow. The Ghost of Mrs M hisses in my ear: If I ever catch you on our property again, God help you!

My insides shrivel. There’s no convincing some people. Mrs M wants to believe I would hurt Kelly so she can justify cutting me out of her life. Being as stealthy as I can, I open the gate and stalk up the long drive. Carefully placing the board on the drive, I scamper away.

From a safe distance, on the opposite side of the street, I pull out my phone and text Kelly.

Her bedroom window remains completely still. No peeping eyes, no twitching curtains.

I still love you, Kelz. There’s nothing you can say or do to ever make me hate you. And I want you to know there’s a ton of other people at school who think you’re amazing.

On Saturday, Ms Mughal and a bunch of students from my maths class want to come with me to Kablamo! Kon IV. They legit think we can win! Never gonna happen – I can’t do it without you. You and me, Kelz; we ain’t had things go our way for time. But we have to keep hoping and fighting, right? Nothing worth having comes easy.

OK, I’m gonna go now, cos it’s freezing out here. Miss you. But take all the time you need. I’ll still be here when you’re ready.

I send the message, but end up staying another fifteen minutes, staring up at Kelly’s bedroom window, wishing for a sign. Icy serpents slip between my ribs, coiling inside my lungs. Maybe her phone was confiscated? Wiping my leaky nose on a square of kitchen towel I find in my pocket, I resign myself to going home.

The painted board lies under her window: Cassie and the rebels from Project X realized in moody street art. I hope it brings a smile to her face. Hope she sees it before Mrs Matthews reports it to the council.

Later that day at Dad’s shop, I carry a large crate from the stockroom, struggling under its weight, as I make my way outside. Not the best way to spend your Saturday, but Dad needed an extra pair of hands, and I need something to focus on.

Beneath a tangle of shredded paper lie fresh brown cassavas that have travelled all the way from Ghana. Tipping the hairy buggers into the display tray, one root catches my eye, and I pluck it out. It looks like a Hobbit foetus. For a moment, I’m about to snap a pic and send it to Kelly, but then I remember she’s gone off-grid and isn’t replying to messages.

My heart leaps into my throat as I spin round, ready to hug the life out of Amma and beg her to sort out my messed-up life. But standing in front of me is a small lady wearing dark glasses and a pink coat with stains on. She starts speaking to me in what I think might be Gujarati.

‘Sorry, Auntie,’ I say, placing Frodo’s baby on display. ‘Could you say it again in English, please?’ I offer her a smile, hoping she’s not going to call me out for losing touch with my roots.

‘Yes,’ she says, looking off sadly. ‘I am trying to buy kaki, but I am blind. Can you help me find fresh ones, please? I always end up buying the bruised ones, and they go off before I can eat them.’

I spot the white stick she’s clasping tightly and wonder how I could’ve missed it. Ripping off my gloves, I guide her by the elbow round to the fruit stall. Dad is crap at spelling, so it’s just as well she can’t see the price cards. Carkey/purssimom/Japinees frut. Dad’s doing them three for a pound.

‘Bung any three in,’ Yunus whispers, carrying a sack of blushing onions over to the other side. ‘Or we’ll be left with ones we can’t sell.’

I nod, waiting for him to go, then pick the best three I can find. ‘There you go!’ I say, placing them in the blind woman’s basket. ‘Not a blemish on any of ’em.’

Putting her basket down, she reaches out and touches my face, cold, dry fingers fluttering over my features.

‘You have an honest face,’ she finally concludes, picking up her basket. ‘May Lord Ganesha bless you with happiness and success!’

I glance round. Kelly’s mum is standing beside a tower of bright yellow buckets of vegetable ghee. With her merino wool coat and periwinkle leather gloves, she sticks out like a sore thumb.

‘Mrs Matthews!’ I bombard her with a hundred questions about Kelly till she cuts me off with a raised hand.

‘I asked you to keep away from Kelly because I knew you were trouble,’ she says.

Her lips shrivel like salted slugs. ‘Who else? What sort of a boy seduces a teenage girl into performing misogynistic sex acts on him, secretly films it, then sends it to her peers? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

‘Well given that you’re the only boy Kelly is friends with of a tan complexion …’

‘But I’m not!’ I say. ‘I got lighter skin than the guy on that video. Plus I’d never do anything like that. Trust!’

‘What’s going on here then?’ Dad asks, bustling over and looking at Mrs Matthews with distaste.

My ears burn with shame. Even though I’ve done exactly nothing, I don’t want Dad to hear what she’s accusing me of.

Mrs Matthews blinks, turning her hatchet face to Dad. ‘Are you Elias’s father?’

‘What’s it to you? Why’re you scaring my customers with all your shouting?’

‘Your son coerced my daughter into performing a filthy sex act, filmed it and distributed it to the entire school. I want to know why he did it. I want justice for my daughter!’

Dad’s face colours. ‘I don’t appreciate you coming here and throwing around accusations about my boy. He’s a good lad, and if he says he didn’t do it, I believe him. So either buy a banana or clear off.’

‘Well la-dee-da!’ Dad retorts. ‘Someone call the press: we have a lady here who shops at M&S!’

Mrs Matthews and Dad glare at each other. Customers goggle like they’re being treated to an exclusive performance of Punch and Judy. A few of the aunties give me evils, instantly assuming the worst.

‘You may have your father fooled,’ Mrs M says stiffly, ‘but you don’t fool me. My daughter doesn’t deserve to have her reputation destroyed by a teenage lothario. If I ever catch you on our property again, God help you! Oh – and that ridiculous sign of yours has gone straight in the bin.’

‘You’ve made your point, now piss off. Nobody’s interested in your cock-and-bull story,’ Dad growls.

Mrs Matthews ignores him, fixing me with a look that could cryogenically freeze a polar bear. I gulp. She makes a show of adjusting her expensive leather gloves, then marches off, stiletto heel boots shivving up the pavement in a preview of what’ll happen to me should I darken their door again.

‘All right, show’s over,’ Dad tells the gathered scandal-mongers. ‘And for the record, my son is not guilty, so you can wipe those looks off your faces.’

Two women drop their shopping baskets and walk out. One of them calls me a name that sounds like ‘Weinstein’. But right now, all I can think about is that Dad stood up for me.