Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

‘Paneer, mate. Say “Paneer”,’ goes Jase, as we reach the top of the hill and the start of the Downs. No longer shielded by the tree canopy, we are overwhelmed by light and sky. Three specs, dotted onto the simplest of natural equations: ground and sky. Feels like we’re running on top of the world.

‘What?’ calls the Sri Lankan, still under the canopy, but nearing its end. ‘You want some Paneer? I haven’t got any Paneer.’

‘He’s asking you to say cheese, you muppet,’ I call down, helping out. ‘We just need to take a picture.’

Jase gets what he wants, before we start rolling the guy’s gear back at him down the hill. Asylum-seeker skittles. That, together with the pics, cheer us right up later when we’re round my kitchen, drinking tea and waiting for X Box to load up.

Pearson doesn’t even try to hide it. I get to my locker at lunch to find YID LIVES HERE tagged onto it. An address card that wasn’t there at 9 a.m. Feel like my insides have been kicked inside out and then some, but get over it in about a minute. The corridor is kinda busy so there’s no point in letting people see you fall to pieces. It’s the kind of evidence we are all looking out for. Some gigantic public fuck-up that you dine off for weeks.

I know that it’s Pearson because it’s written with a navy Sharpie, and you would never use that if you were a serious tagger. Only pranksters write abuse with a Sharpie. And by pranksters, I mean boys. Girls have more creative forms of torture. Also because I saw him and a couple of the shadier volleyball boys tagging Year Head’s door last year with a scrawl that was too similar to make it a co-incidence — something about her being a lesbian with one of the PE teachers. Gossip that we all knew was pretty much true. Tall, uneven block lettering that looked like the work of someone learning to write the Western alphabet for the first time. The V in LIVES clumsily morphed into an E. Fucking retard. He can’t concentrate for a minute.

The thin sharpie ink on the locker is dryer than a nun’s cunt, meaning it’s been up there from at least morning break. The corridor where my locker is is mainly for my year and out of bounds for the younger kids. The lettering isn’t big, but it ain’t exactly tiny either. The words running along the bottom of the door like ticker tape, reaching about halfway. Making it clear that a return visit is more or less obvious.

Pretty much everyone I’m remotely bothered about has probably seen this diss between break and lunch, and no one has seen fit to give me a heads-up on it. That’s a great feeling to start the afternoon with.

Jason’s got the day off so I can’t blame him. Moon is walking around like someone has kicked her. Tittle tattle getting on top of her. When she’s not hiding under Pearson’s protective chimp arm, she’s scuttling towards the library and the warm arc of Gwyn and Ohmygod. Wonder if she knows about the tagging. Wonder if she worked out how the gossip started in the first place. Egged him on. Maybe she even suggested it. You have to be extra-perceptive to know that I’m part-Jewish. Most people are too caught up in my Tamilness to notice anything else.

Pearson’s diss fires up an unforeseen reaction in me. It makes me laugh. He may have done his homework, but I can only see the funny side. That Yidding me out is going to tip me over the edge or something. Anything but. I ain’t dropping from any ledge yet. I like the attention too much. Agree or disagree at your leisure, but I find that anti-Semitism makes a pleasant change from Paki-bashing. I’m a strange boy, I admit it. At times, I’m fucking warped.

Moon makes me wait forty minutes as she turns foxy into FOXY ‘in case the paparazzi turn up’, leaving me to make excruciating small talk with the stern mother. Jason got blasted all night and woke up late. Billie’s still asleep, so we have five minutes absorbing the dampness around his stoop whilst he gets his shit together. I chew my lip inside out in the meantime. Moon takes advantage of the extra minutes to add an extra coat of lipgloss, her fiftieth, judging by the thickness of the final result. We get to Casey’s an hour later than we should have. You can tell he’s been pacing up and down all this time, wondering what the hell is going on, ’cos he opens the front door as soon as he hears our footsteps. Cap and coat on, keys glued onto a sweaty palm. I shrug when our eyes meet. When Moon is getting dressed and whatever else, there’s no point; like, how long is a piece of string?

‘You’re late?’ he goes. ‘I didn’t even notice. I wasn’t expecting you ’til after five.’

I give him the W. Whatever .

‘Now get out,’ I say. ‘Give us an hour. Go for a run or something. Mum will be here any minute.’

He eyes up our serious amount of baggage with suspicion. We’re loaded with carriers and mysterious unmarked holdalls.

‘You’re not gonna mess up anything, are you? I don’t want any of my stuff touched up or played around with.’

‘Casey, you’ve got nothing to mess up, remember?’

‘Hey! I might not have much, but I like what I have. Just respect my things, that’s all I ask.’

‘Case, this isn’t a makeover,’ I say. ‘We’re just doing a little summat summat. Chill, guy.’

‘Go on,’ goes Moon, giving him a little push the way I would never dare. ‘Give us time to make everything nice.’

Jase won’t stop staring at Casey, but we all pretend not to notice.

Kicking someone out of their flat before their surprise party isn’t ideal, but we didn’t have anywhere else we could do it. In real estate terms, there was a scarcity of premium locations.

Mum was keen on helping, part of her new phase in ‘Understanding the Child’, but refused outright to have the party at our house.

‘There’s no way we could have that kind of event here, Veerapen. Casey’s or any other party. I mean, come on! I’m busy enough as it is.’

‘You wouldn’t have to do anything. I’d take care of all of it.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘This is pathetic. Being in this house is like living in a dodgy African state. I can do whatever I want, so long as it’s your way.’

‘My way or the highway, son. Your choice. I’ve told you I’ll help, but we’re not going to do any entertaining here.’

‘Is that what you told Dad? My way or the highway?’

‘What?’

‘Do you want me to go to Germany? Is that it?’

I didn’t get a slap, but she did try to shake me. Small woman five-foot-five trying to shake the brains out of a six-foot lug. I would have laughed if she hadn’t thrown herself into acting so crazy.

We didn’t speak for two days, which isn’t that much different to how our relationship can be from time to time, when she’s got stuff on her mind and gets drawn back into the arms of the pity party. She couldn’t work out whether she should continue to ‘Understand the Child’, or if she should throw the book out the window. If anything, episodes like this, with the full-on silent treatment, leaving me to get my own dinner, give unexpected freedoms. Gets her off my back.

The compromise was that we’d hold the party at Casey’s, so long as he was up for it, but I hadn’t hedged any bets on Mum or anything. During our two-day skirting around Coventry, I pursued up every other opportunity. Jase said over his dead body, even though Billie would appreciate the company; Moon loved the idea but knew she wouldn’t get it past The Rottweiler TM, who was only liberal when she wanted to be. I even thought of swallowing some pride and chatting to Brendan about using the Harrier Centre, but stopped myself when I realised that even if he did agree, there was no guarantee that Casey would set foot there. And then there was the Christian Fellowship… but there was no way I was asking about that. If Mum can’t get me into a synagogue, there’s no way in hell I’m going to be organising raves at some backstreet chapel where they’re too forgiving for their own good.