Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

Mum goes on a proper date, the first follow-through from the speed-dating evening. His name is Mike and he’s a solicitor-barrister-type person. Has his own business in Esher and a staff of ten. I’m more interested in seeing a picture, and clocking how old he is, but have to make do with the information Mum gives me. She’s being very limited on this front. There’s no time after work to see her mate at the beauty counter so she does everything herself, and makes a pretty good job of it. She’s lost a load since joining WeightWatchers and doesn’t look bad at all. This was after the summer when she saw our snaps from Portugal and had a fit over the size of her thighs. She’s wearing trousers this time, black and flarey, with one of those floaty tops that all the makeover women wear on TV, very bright pink, so Mike will have to wear his sunglasses.

I put a note in her make-up bag just in case there’s any first-night wobbles. It says ‘Don’t Worry. You Look Fantastic! XXX’

She meets him at the new Italian that’s opened opposite the library, and leaves just before seven-thirty, giving me an evening of fun. Kel is having tea round her nan’s so no action there. Have to make do with Jason’s company. Preferable to Kel, what with the mood she’s in (I had to let her in on the Starbucks business).

I let Jase smoke a large one out of the back window, whilst I burn the new 50 track from one of those illegal sites, and try and get trapped on a porn cycle. Unfortunately Mum’s been fiddling more than she should have done and has activated all the AOL child-locks. This is what happens when your parents start to get too computer literate. Means the only Vs we are getting to see on the computer screen tonight are violins or violas.

Dad calls around ten. See it’s him because we have caller ID. Can’t face exchanges with him and Moon in the same day. It’s too much to ask. Get Jase to answer, shouting down the phone like a madman, saying that the house is on fire. He’s stoned, and throws himself into it. Lives the part. Bellows like smoke’s choking his every last breath.

We put the phone on speaker. Can hear Dad’s panic until he realises it’s a wind-up. ‘Hello? Is everything all right? Hello? Veerapen, why are you shouting like that? Let me speak to your mum right away.’ He only hangs up when he hears the laughing.

We’re on the floor, cackling like idiots. Wetting ourselves. Clinging to the walls because our sides are splitting. Lasts a good fifteen minutes. He doesn’t call back.

Moon can never be subtle about anything. You only get this with spend-whores. Anyone else would have more decency. She has a stayover when her parents go to Tallin for the weekend. They won flights at the Citizen’s Advice Xmas Raffle and had been wetting their pants over it for weeks. Mum, who was also there, had been feeling lucky and spent an extra ten pounds on raffle tickets, so was pissed at the outcome, their single ticket coming through, and muttered about it for days.

‘Sympathy vote for the Lib Dems, that’s all it is. They can’t win anything else, that’s why they let them win the bloody raffle!’

She still managed to keep it all smiles when she was outside our four walls, their eyes meeting when taking out the wheelie bins, or bumping trolleys at the Tesco car park.

For the sleepover Gwyn invites the gay-boy Goths who adore her, and the sappy Christian mate Ohmygod. Moon includes the top tier of the library posse, these two dozy science swots who think everything she says is completely radical. One of them, Captain Vegetable, has a lazy eye and used to wear an eyepatch. These are the kind of people she used to hang round with before I rescued her. Jase and Pearson complete the set, the pair of them acting as totty for her guests as well as Gwyn’s.

The invite doesn’t extend to myself, my place being taken by Captain Vegetable and his team of soggy legumes. Botched corrective eye surgery over me. Makes me feel so special. I’ve had lunch with Moon almost every day this week and she has never mentioned anything about a stayover. Meathead’s on a weeklong lunch detention, which is why this is possible. Whenever he’s present, I’m lower down the evolutionary scale than even Captain sodding Vegetable.

It’s Gwyn who gives the game away when she sees me at the shops after school.

Her: Coming over later?

Me: Uh? (blank potato face like I’m having a spastic attack)

The stayover means nothing, even though Mum’s on a late shift, giving me all the time in the world to get up to tricks. I book a couple of movies on Sky Plus and make myself my own comfort zone: duvet on the sofa, Diet Coke, trashy food I’d be arrested for eating if Casey caught me. It’s fine. It’s real. I’m in my universe and they’re in theirs. Same zoo, different cages.

But I can’t fool anyone, least of all myself.

First, the TV thing doesn’t work. I have one eye on Will Smith, the other on the curtains, and what’s going on beyond my windows. I Robot is a bucky duck compared to the happenings across the street. I’m too wound up to even touch the nachos. Watching robots go mad isn’t the best suggestion for someone who’s almost strangling themselves with their self-control. All it makes you do is want to follow suit, start your own revolution.

Next, I get a call from Jase, asking me which races Kelly Holmes won the medals for.

‘Why you wanna know that?’

‘It’s a quiz question. Triv Pursuit. And if anyone knows the answer to that it’ll be you, right?’

There’s laughing in the background, female, and Pearson shouting his mouth off about something or other. The music is Chili Peppers.

‘Where are you playing Triv Pursuit, Jase?’

‘You know.’

I give him the answer, one right, one wrong.

I Robot is dead after that.

The best spot is upstairs. I stand at Mum’s window and do my watching. Thinking how MI5 need people like me. A Paki who likes nothing better than snooping around. I’d be killer at it.

They are sitting on the living room floor drinking white wine and playing their dumbass Triv Pursuit. Wait ’til I tell the boys down the sports block that Pearson was sipping vino and doing board games! What a pussy joker! No wine for the Jones girls, of course. The bottle being passed round is a concession to the weaker will of their guests. No judgement! They stick to Diet Coke and keep their opinions to themselves.

Moon and Pearson are in the centre of the room by the fireplace. Where else would they sit? They’re a couple! Practising their prom pose (and would be in with a chance if Moon wasn’t so unpopular, ha!). They are glued together and don’t move. When it isn’t their turn on Triv, they lightly snog. Gwyn waits on their guests hand and foot, occasionally helped by Jase. Aside from the wine — only one glass each — there’s Fanta and nachos and spiral crisps and absolutely NO SMOKING. Everyone seems to find Pearson incredibly funny. The cunt seems to have a goofy answer for everything. After some question that one of the gay-boy Goths asked, his answer took about five minutes. How does he know enough words to last five minutes? He can barely say the days of the week let alone anything else. Everyone’s laughing at whatever the retard is saying, including my so-called stoner mate. It’s excruciating.

Watching a room of people laughing whilst you are standing alone feels as if you are being stabbed repeatedly. It’s fun.

I wonder about the sleeping arrangements; where Moon and Pearson will sleep. Thinking about it takes up half my night, and now, the jumbo bag of nachos. Turns out everyone crashes on the living room floor. Sofas moved back. No excuses for creeping away.