Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

I’ve got all my rings on for this very reason, big chunky bastards. Put them on in the bus when Mr Morgan was concentrating rather too much on Moon’s homage to all things rock. He has yet to notice that I’m wearing nearly all of them. When he retires to the back of the hall, I’ll slip on the daddy, the knuckleduster, which Jason attempted to buy from a Goth shop in Guildford, and when that didn’t work, stole. I don’t know much about woollen jackets, but who needs wool when this little beauty gives you the edge?

Usually before a match the teams will crack open a Diet Coke and chat about skate parks, whilst the teachers talk about the drive and make some vague allusion to the tension of the forthcoming head to head. The world-famous knife-edge. There is plenty of this here at Godalming. We each sit in our corners in the teachers’ lounge and talk rubbish. Means that boys bands and film crap are mentioned from our camp more than once. They’re happy to sit there and let us do the talking, more interested in their own reflections. We can talk about East Coast/West Coast and the traffic until we’re blue in the face. Doesn’t mean shit. The general expectation by all in the room is that they will win.

But here’s the thing; we manage to hold our own until the final round, brilliance that surprises everyone. The reflexes of my eggheads, Peter and Charlotte, are ridiculously slow. Neither of them do any sports so I shouldn’t be expecting miracles. Get them in front of a Playstation or a textbook and they’re fine. Give them a buzzer, a light, and a room full of judgmental girls, and they’ve got problems. The guys on the other team are protean all-rounders and don’t seem to have this problem. They look like they wouldn’t be rubbish at anything — except perhaps rapping. Normally we can polish off the quick-fire, but today it virtually finishes us off.

Up until this point tension has steadily mounted, apart from Moon, who’s too relaxed. There hasn’t been a dry seat in the house. I look up from the quizmaster occasionally and see teachers from both sides cacking it. Now that we’re starting to lag behind, however, everyone relaxes.

I press the buzzer on every question, regardless of whether I can take a punt or not. You have to be in it to win it.

‘In politics: which act passed in 1984 made it illegal for companies to subjectively discriminate against employees purely on colour, creed, or sexual orientation?’

I buzz.

‘The Equal Opportunities Act?’

‘Correct.’

‘In history: which monarch’s accession ended the wars of the Roses?’

I buzz.

‘Edward II?’

‘Incorrect. Godalming?’

‘Henry VII.’

‘Correct.’

The Godalming squad gleam modestly at my fuck-up.

Chinese Peter wakes up and gets in on the act, now beating me with the fastest finger. I catch his glance, realising that he’s fuming over that crowing look from across the competing table. Gives me and Charlotte the nod that we’re going to have it.

He aces some background on the Geneva Convention, and correctly names the infamous early Picasso painting that got everyone in Paris wetting their pants. Godalming get the year the Titantic sunk. Charlotte dredges up the first lesbo who flew across the Atlantic single-handed and gets sloppy seconds on the nationality of Marie Curie when the wool blazers fuck up by saying she’s Swiss.

The Godalming vibe is now not so friendly. The friends of the wool blazing three, and there are plenty of them, are throwing evils the size of rocks. The smiles from the teachers as we just inch past them on points become tighter and more fixed. The only love we have in the room comes from Morgan. Moon is so relaxed she’s virtually tranquillised. In previous matches, she’s on her feet shouting abuse at this point. Heckling the opposing team whenever they get a wrong answer. Barking like Snoop when we scoop points at their expense. Even Morgan comes to expect it.

Today there’s none of this. She’s barely paying attention. I make for eye contact between questions, not because I need to be worshipped from my podium, but because I need help. I’m saying it silently, final call, team mascot, to no response. All she’s concerned with is her txting. The girl with no friends sending and receiving like a maniac. Doesn’t look up once.

Chinese Peter can’t stop beaming. Our successes, the ruction they’ve caused the opposition, colour his face and cloud his judgement. He buzzes in on naming all three members of Busted and cocks it up. Says James, Charlie and Ed. Everyone laughs like cackling witches. The Godalming captain throws me this smug look which may as well be a red rag. Arrogant bastard. I finger the knuckleduster decisively, twisting fingers back and forth, like I’m ready to use it. At this point, with only a minute or two left, all fronts are well and truly dropped; no one is interested in being polite.

I give Peter the Whyyy? look, so does Morgan and even Charlotte, who never appears unhappy with anything. It’s always been our unspoken rule: I answer the music questions. Chinese Peter for science and equations, and Charlotte for everything else.

Now Moon decides to join in and gives the captain of the Godalming the finger. Too little too late, darling. He looks straight past her. Thanks to Peter’s over-eager finger, they have now officially caught up. This pissing about takes another thirty off the clock. My stomach is turning over like a car engine. The question master seems in no hurry to resume play. Looks like he wants to laugh like the rest of them. Probably plays golf with half their parents. Get on with the questions, dammit! Some of us want to win.

Last twenty on the clock.

‘What is the capital … Prendrapen … of Australia?’

Shit. That night in my room, and now my mind goes blank.

I look up for Moon. She’s still txting and doesn’t register. In a world of her own. I’m looking and looking. Nothing. It’s the longest five seconds of my life. Worse than any run. Not that the answer’s eluding me, there is that, but that Moon is somewhere else when she’s supposed to be here for me. Doesn’t she even feel the change in the atmosphere? I don’t understand it.

Charlotte breaks into a nervous cough.

‘I’ll have to hurry you,’ says the question master irritably. You know he’s itching to give the point to the other side. It’s written all over his face.

I give Moon one last chance, but she’s still staring at her phone. I don’t wait, I can’t.

‘Adelaide.’

‘Incorrect. Godalming?’

‘The capital of Australia is Canberra.’

‘Correct.’

‘Fuck.’

Ding! Match ends. We’re slaughtered.

It’s a miserable ride home. Morgan thinks the radio will do the trick to cheer everyone up, but none of us are having it. Dizzee Rascal never sounded so lifeless. I make a point of sitting with Charlotte, taking the back left window — the furthest seat possible from Moon. Try my hardest not to stare at her, but can’t help it. She’s talking to Morgan, looking confused. How do you think I feel, babe? I want to shout. I’m the confused party here. What have you been playing at?

At the petrol stop I break into her bag, fish the phone. I have to see what the big attraction was. Hope it’s worth the price of me now blanking her. She’s saved her recent history, silly girl. The whole story is there for me on a plate, complete picture, no join-the-dots. I catch the txt volley to and from the one particular person who’s captured her attention when she should have been concentrating on the match, and saving me from a thrashing.

A new boyfriend. Pearson.

I have the same dream every night, where Moon has her hands around my throat and is strangling the life out of me. At the point before I lose consciousness, Moon’s hands become Casey’s, and he’s stroking my face as much as he’s throttling me. This is when I wake up, heart beating faster than if I’d done the 100m, sweating like a P.I.G.