Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

The dreams started before Moon died and they still keep coming. I’m the King of Repetitive Strangulation. It doesn’t scare me. It should, but it doesn’t. Anything to keep me closer to her, that’s why.

Part two in the rehabilitation programme: Mum takes me to dinner round Jason’s. She notices the slight change in me and pounces on it. Thinks it might do me some good to be with guys who have been through a similar experience, that a bit of soul-searching activity with different people might gee me up. Moon wasn’t killed in a hit and run, and she isn’t my sister. OK, both deaths were unexpected, like a fish falling out of the sky and slapping you on the head. An unknown hand flicking the inner switch that shuts off your feelings, mine at least, but I don’t see any other similarity. I sulk for a day, but end up going, more for her sake than mine. She’s been going stir crazy staring at my expressionless mug every night. New boyfriend keeping a low profile out of respect. This is her way of opening us up, by visiting all the best folks our town has to offer. Means I can find myself on any number of sofas.

Part Three, the final stage of the programme, grieving spring semester, is dinner with Moon’s parents and Gwyn, though none of us are ready yet for that particular evening. We have a long way to go before that invitation appears.

I do see Mum’s point, I do. There has to be a point when you think, fuck it, and you stop wallowing in this dull ache that seems to be consuming you. But I just don’t know how ready I am to cut my losses. I’m still hoping that maybe there’s something in this pain worth holding out for.

Mum brings wine, for obvious reasons. Me and Jase even get a glass, which turns into two, and then three. That’s how I know how messed up these women are.

Jase’s mum, Billie, has made a roast, and makes a big fuss about us eating everything up. There’s enough food for ten people. She makes do with a chicken wing, two potatoes, and a vat of buttered carrots. The three of us take it in turns to watch her eat. Billie, normally sensitive about dinner with company (i.e.: she never invites anyone round, ever), relaxes with us, secure in her new role as counsellor rather than counselled.

I’m expecting Billie to give a sermon any minute, but there isn’t one. Instead we talk about how Chelsea is slaughtering just about everybody, and whether Catherine Zeta has had any work done. It’s only when we’re all clearing plates that she makes sure we lag behind the others, and whispers in my ear.

‘It gets better, Veerapen. It gets better. I know it doesn’t seem like that at the moment, but it does, I promise you.’

Her hand squeezes my shoulder. It’s the most reassuring touch I’ve had in days.

The food is good, not like anything Mum makes, who’s all about steam cuisine, and not a fan of standing over a stove for longer than fifteen minutes. I’m used to watching my carb intake over protein, can’t get out of the habit, but since I’ve no use for that regime any more, I keep quiet when Billie piles the roasties on my plate, scoffing everything put in front of me.

I’m starting to notice what I eat. Feeling the muscles in my legs and belly grow slack from no track work, feel the extra weight when I walk, but no guilt. Different month, different body. Nobody can expect me to go back to how I was before.

There’s ice cream for desert, not chocolate. No Matchmakers. I expect she’s keeping them for herself when we’ve gone; gonna rip open those boxes and stuff herself silly. I’m a malicious bastard. A big one. Billie’s a lovely woman, why do I have to ruin everything good by thinking this junk?

As the evening progresses, it’s clear the dinner is all about the mothers. Another bottle comes out, followed by the Baileys. Finally, they want to open up. Stuff they’ve been keeping from each other over the past few weeks. Itching to compare notes. Me and Jase are only getting in their way. We go and hide in his room after the ice cream. He’s downloaded this new Dizzee remix, which is heavy, and plays it on loop for about an hour.

‘What’s been happening?’ I go, meaning school.

‘Not much. There’s flowers everywhere. Head’s been going round, offering counselling to anyone who was in the corridor when it happened. Lizzie Jennings missed the science test because she said she was too upset. Sat in her office from third period through lunch.’

‘Lizzie Jennings skipped lunch? Shit, she must be really upset.’

It’s the first time we’ve laughed since it happened.

‘They say Year Head’s gonna lose her job over it. What with her being there at the time and not…’

‘Don’t wanna talk about it,’ I go, feeling the proper dinner about to rise out of my stomach, ‘’cos there’s not a lot we can do to help her, is there? My head’s too mashed to make sense of it.’

‘I’ve got some knowledge for you, V.’

‘Appreciate it. I’m so fucking dumb right now.’

‘Check it, there’s nothing you can tell me about death,’ he goes, looking down into his lap, rolling one out without a care. Billie turns a blind eye apparently. Payback for the chocolate.

‘The only thing you need to understand, yeah, is that the luckiest person is the one who kicks it. For them, it’s all over. Done. They’re the ones who don’t have comeback. Not like the rest of us.’

Jason missed Moon’s death by about a minute. He still looks like he wished he could have been there. I’m glad he wasn’t. It’s not the sort of thing you want your mates to see.

I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about emotional fallout from his sister and the car, the latest buzzword on Mum’s radar, or if he was specifically referring to my situation. Since the funeral and that moment in the wood, we haven’t seen each other. Steered clear. Thinking it was maybe better that way. Not much fun in mute chatting to mute. Dinner has been good, but the two of us here now, alone now on his bed, is uncomfortable. I’d rather be with Gwyn. We both feel it, though the spliff does something to take some of that unease away, at least for him. Dizzee rattles in my head with the smoke and neither of us say much else after that. Smoking buddies, nothing more.

Moon’s not going to make me look like a pussy in public. She’s not the only one who can get themselves attached. Kelly Button blows out Lizzie Jennings and takes me to see Britney. Her and Lizzie had been planning this trip for months, but what with us getting together, old tatty ginger is left out in the cold.

She tells us she’s fine about it, ‘I’m not bothered. Not bothered,’ she goes at every lesson and every break, meaning she’s as mad as fuck and probably suicidal. Lizzie has plenty of friends, but isn’t as tight with anyone like she is with Kelly, so she takes this kind of stuff seriously. Kelly tells me she’s not bothered either. Wants to take her boyfriend and that’s that. Shit, Lizzie would drop Kelly like a stone if by freak chance she managed to get a bloke of her own (one with a guide dog). Also, Kelly’s dad got the tickets so it’s pretty much her shout who comes with her. End of.

Britney is the first proper date, the official one you tell your mates about, but in keeping with how the girls run things these days, we have a pre-date a couple of days before, which consists of riding the bus into town after school and eschewing Starbucks for Café Nero. Here she makes plans on where we’re going to meet, the best kind of clothes to wear, and how we’re going to get home. All I need to is prop my elbow on the table and take it all in.

Kel manages to snack and organise at the same time.

At the point when our plans have been formalised — that’s to say, that she’s happy with them, and she’s going on for the hundredth time about how excited she is, and saying that even though Britney is getting kinda lame these days, that it’ll still be an amazing show which’ll put all those lapdancers in the shade — my plate of food is still untouched.