Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

We did get what we came for, however, two kiddie sippy cups filled to the brim and covered with a lid to avoid any awkward questions.

‘Christ! What’s his game?’

‘Leave him alone, I said. He’s all right.’

‘Your mate “Keith” has given us shandy, like we’re kids or something. Go on, taste it!’

‘What’s the problem? You never drink more than half a bottle anyway.’

‘I thought we were getting real beer, not this watered-down muck.’

‘You’re very picky all of a sudden, V. We haven’t been entirely swindled, there’s still beer in there.’

‘Whopee-do!’

‘And if you start drinking up, we can go back and get a top-up.’

‘I think I’ll just chuck mine in this plant pot and dream of the real thing.’

‘Suit yourself. Give it here then and I’ll drink it. Stupid to waste it, now it’s in our hands and everything.’

‘If you’re going back for more, Jase, you’re on your own. I’m not going to forsake the sanctity of my family history for another teensy cup of warm shandy.’

‘What are you going on about?’

‘Long story. Listen, how come he knows so much about your mum, and I don’t? What’s that about?’

‘’Cos you don’t ask, V. You don’t ask.’

If there wasn’t anyone around, and I was a more comfortable kinda fella, I’d put my arm round his shoulder, and tell him that I’m always around to talk about his mum, that I’m not as selfish as I appear to be. It’s what I really want to do, slip my left arm over his left shoulder, turn my body into his, feel a little closeness, try to make real some of the stuff that sits in my head. But I’m way too scared to do anything. You don’t get this shit going down round here. Jase is looking out onto the lanes and shifts a little, feels my breath on his cheek and moves back, seeming to read my mind, the way I’m unable to read his.

There’s a few kids in our year who are making the most of the lanes, but no one worth talking too. Satellite mates, you know the kind. Fine for five minutes but not the kind of folk you’d miss if they were killed in a road traffic accident or anything. Jesus, what is with my mind tonight? We get chips, soggy with vinegar and criminally anaemic from the microwave, and sit on the banquette that overlooks the centre lanes. It’s only place worth sitting. If you sat in the diner section, the way lot of the kids do, you don’t get to see anything: who comes, who goes, the aggro over scores, the fights. It really is the best spot.

An extra order of chips later and there’s still no one about of any note. Jase txts a couple of troublemakers to see where they’re at, both of them bouncing back notifications of Park and Odeon. Even with a shandy inside me (I changed my mind), the night feels like a washout.

And then they’re here. They’re here. I’m not saying that I’ve gone all soppy and hear some kind of special music every time I see her these days, but I’m not exactly lying either. There is something special that happens when she enters a place. She’s still not the most popular girl (quite the opposite — none of the high school bitches can work out what she’s doing with Pearson), but somehow she manages to alter the vibe of a room, the chemistry as soon as she appears… or as soon as I see her anyway. We were sitting on a banquette covered in crumbs, watching a load of kids make a cack-fisted attempt to bowl, with some lame watered-down R&B coming from the speakers above our heads. Wacko on a big scale, a painful excuse for a night out. But then Moon’s in the room, and everything starts to fizz. The music gets slightly better, the shandy seems to have a stronger kick, the kids bowling start picking up a rhythm, with that hefty and satisfying clack of bowl meeting skittle becoming faster, harder, more frequent.

Pass the cheese, please, but it’s true, man. Moon’s the reason for everything.

She’s the only girl in Pearson’s group. It’s him and a couple of the volleyball idiots. We give a couple of whassups. Pearson nods his head up and down at me so quick it’s like he’s got palsy. He’s not even looking at me when he does it, just the side of his head does a quick move in my direction. That’s not respect, it’s some bogus bollocks just to make him look friendly in front of his crowd. Jason, Jesus, Jason gets a fucking hug! It’s enough to make me want to kick things off, but I know what the deal is with Pearson. It’s a given. I can’t go crying every time he tries to shut me down like that. Which is why, still seated, unlike Jason who’s up on his feet, I’m Pearson’s mirror, less palsy-like but still the same up-down; whassup, mate, good to see ya. This muppet is looking at the king of shut-downs. I ain’t going anywhere.

‘Hey,’ goes Moon to the pair of us, but no hug, what with her being a taken lady and all. This week, hugs are no longer appropriate. She seems to have forgotten about how she last visited me a week ago… when we did more than just hug.

‘We’re just going to start our game. We’ll catch up with you guys later.’

Is that all I get? I ain’t greedy, but is that all I get? I haven’t seen Moon for two days, haven’t spoken to her for three. She talks at us like we’re people who took a science class together, like, four years ago or something. Married lady stuff — this week at least. A fake brightness in the voice, and facially, shutters down. Her way of avoiding an argument; a maturity that’s hard to swallow.

I look at their feet and see they’ve already got the stupid shoes on, ready to take to the floor.

‘Hey, Pearson,’ I go, ‘aren’t you gonna change into your bowling shoes before you get going?’

He’s so thick it takes him a few seconds to get the diss. Not the others, including Jase, they’re already cracking up. I’ve kept it upbeat, so it sounds friendly and not like I’m dissing the arse of the cunt.

‘Yeah, funny,’ he goes, but he doesn’t rise to it. Been there too many times before, we’re both tired of it. And he’s got the girl on his arm, that’s the clincher. I can try and make him look like a muppet all I like, it ain’t gonna make any difference.

And then, when I think he’s swallowed it like a lemon, he calls back.

‘Yo, Jase, we got a spare place on the team, if you wanna play. Go get some shoes, if you’re up for it.’

They’re already on their way to the far end of the lanes, playing by the twenty-something couples because they’re oh-so mature. They don’t wait to see the look on Jason’s face, they don’t have to. They know he’ll come. So do I. And I get it, I do. Jase is loyal, but he’s lonely. For him, bonding with someone at a mate’s sleepover means friends for life. I’m pissed, but can’t be really pissed if he wants to go play. It’s Jase, innit.

Moon is the one who looks back, sees Jase as his ears break into a should-I-shouldn’t-I dance. Flapping like Dumbo. She watches as I take his shandy and push him in the direction of the fit black girl with the good honey weave in the centre booth where they swap the shoes.

‘Go on, mate. I’m cool watching here with my watery shandy.’

You gotta do it, haven’t you? Getting into a denial twist with your closest friends is only gonna get your head messed up otherwise.

I’m like some old hippy, really. Everyone should be free to do what they wanna do, or something.

Moon is wearing the top I bought her, the H&M number I picked up when she had me over a barrel over some evidence. A baby-blue sweatshirt with some OK-looking graffiti on it, old-fashioned New York subway stuff that makes you look like a rapper from 1982. It took me ages to find that jumper. Had to go to three different branches to find it. So she’s got no right to stand there and give it the silent lip in support of Pearson whilst she’s wearing the top I bought her. Does she even remember where it came from? When she takes it off, she can give all the wordless judgement she likes. Until then, she needs to shut it. I’m not afraid of going over and taking it off, if I have to. I’m not.