Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

Before lunch I have History, Science, Maths. Laughs, laughs, laughs. No one manages to get any work done for all the gossip and sniggering. It was just a regular training programme, I tell them. Learning the kind of techniques that’ll make me a champion. Trying to tough it out and embellish makes it worse. Makes me out to be an on-going faggot with a boyfriend and all that nonsense. I’ve nothing against faggots, I just don’t want to be labelled one. It would have been better if I had been assaulted or something: less sniggering and more sympathy.

There’s no sign of Pearson, but then there doesn’t have to be. His work is done. Lizzie Jennings, the walking chatroom, takes the baton for the second time in her soft overweight life and runs with it. She has the choice of deciding which should become the lead story. At this point in time, she’s probably the most powerful person in the school. Can make or break either of us. And one who decides to right the humiliation heaped upon her best friend Kelly Button by some chancer who dated her on the rebound. For a ginger fatty, she doesn’t forget much, and that morning works as hard on her choice as I do on the track. Makes sure there’s enough noise about a boy who fancies old men to drown out any mumblings about some rapist and his abortion-magnet girlfriend. I don’t even know if Moon has twigged yet.

Everyone at school knows about my bizzle by lunchtime. E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E.com. The only person it doesn’t seem to bother is Jason, possibly because he knows he can fight his way out of anything. We stand in the lunch queue like the bogstandard flashing beacons we are. One hardnut, the other pink and unkosher. But no one dares to shout anything, not with Jase there.

‘You’re the talk of the school,’ goes Moon, who crashes the queue and looks flustered. Still not making me sure whether it’s my gossip that’s reddening her cheeks, or hers.

‘You should be worried too, shouldn’t you? With all those stories?’ goes Jase.

‘Everyone knows the stories about me are bullshit. Even the girls who hate me know that.’

‘What makes you think so?’ I go.

‘Because no girl, however twisted or messed up, really believes that a woman needs to be punished by gossip just for having consensual sex. I’m pissed that my business is public business, but not over anything else.’

What clears things up is the way she’s speaking, all matter-of-fact, like some newsreader who keeps harping on with the bad stuff when you don’t want to hear about bombs any more, or innocent people being hit over the head with axes, just ’cos they’ve got brown skin. From anyone else it would sound like the wooden spoon doing 360s, but not from her. From her mouth it’s a grim confirmation, nothing more.

There’s only Year 9s behind us, who wouldn’t say shit to Sherlock, so we don’t have to worry for a moment. Moon is the Year 9 idol. Kooky has yet to enter their vocabulary, but Moon is most definitely it. Seriously, get Moon in a crowd of Year 9s and the waves part. Something to do her with her mentoring a class last September when they were green and cacking it. She’s the big sister that everyone needs.

‘I’m gonna break out this afternoon,’ I go, ‘I can’t bear it. There’s no way I can sit through an afternoon of this.’

‘Do what you have to do,’ goes Jase vaguely. ‘In an ideal world, you’d confront Pearson and give him a good kicking.’

‘That sounds like the ideal solution,’ goes Moon all sarcastic, a tone we both hate ’cos it makes us both sound like idiots. ‘Show that you’re not gay by beating someone up.’

‘Sounds about right to me,’ goes Jase, even more sarcastic than Moon. He’s more pissed at her than he is at either me or Pearson. If we’re going to get all grown-up about it, you could say that he feels betrayed. Moon’s been doing too much of that lately, ignoring any loyalty to her friends in favour of Pearson and his luscious lips; deferring her responsibility.

Moon gets this and avoids eye contact. Looks down at the pizza on the hot plates like it’s the most interesting convenience food in the world.

‘What choice do I have?’ I go. ‘If I don’t do this, then it’s gonna follow me around for ever.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ says Moon lamely.

She knows as well as I do how much worse Pearson can make it for me.

‘That wanker needs to say something about me, so that I can get involved,’ goes Jase. ‘I am itching for a re-match.’

Everyone is fully aware that there’s no way he can dive in otherwise. Them’s the rules. My name being swilled around, my battle — simple as.

‘Where is he anyway? Why hasn’t he shown his face?’

‘Don’t ask me. We don’t live together or anything.’

Moon drops the pose and starts to look rattled. It’s the tension on my face, and the fact that I’m speaking through gritted teeth. If I relaxed even slightly, I’d be liable to head-butt the pizza woman or start punching the wall. Away from the track, I’m not so good at keeping my cool. The tension gives away everything.

It’s an issue that needs addressing. One that can’t be met with a blue bracelet.

The tables are taken, so we stand in a corner and eat our pizza. We’re not supposed to stand once we’ve got our food, but we do it anyway. What’s the worst they can do, throw us out? One minor victory against a piss-shower of failures keeps us dry for about a second. Jase wants to stage a table takeover but I’m against it. The front tables are full of jocks and their hangers-on, and we’d get slaughtered. I eat my pizza slice in ten seconds.

‘This is stupid. I’m gonna go.’

‘You can’t leave. Year Head will kill you if she sees you on the CCTV.’

‘I’m going to the library. No one’s gonna bother me there.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ goes Jase. In his head, everyone is a conspirator. On the table directly ahead are Pearson’s two best hangers-on lunching with their hangers-on. They grin at me like their Christmas has come early. I don’t leave for the library until I have a second slice of pizza and a drink. I’m no chicken.

Year Head stops me in the corridor. I’m on my own, Moon and Jase staying to confer/get the gossip they wouldn’t get with me hanging around like a bad smell. I don’t have to turn round to see their expressions: relief that I have finally left them.

‘I’m hearing your name mentioned an awful lot this morning Veerapen,’ she goes.

‘What can I say? I’m a popular boy.’

‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’

We’re standing by her office. Door’s open.

‘Why don’t you come in and we can have a chat?’

Two girls walk past, sports clique wannabees, way below me on the food chain. They exchange a silent conversation as soon as they see me, like I’m some X Factor finalist on my way out. It’s humiliating. This is why I want to get shot of this school. Losers like this are no good for my mental health. I want to become a champion, not a fuck-up.

‘I can’t. I need to go to the library.’

‘Forget the library. Step inside for a minute.’

The air in Year Head’s office is incredibly cool. As soon as I sit down — blue leather seat that looks about a hundred years old — I feel the pressure lifting. Being here feels solid and reassuring, the only rational space I’ve entered all day. Like I’ve been airlifted from the big top halfway during a show or something. I’m not a snitch, but I sometimes appreciate being in the company of grown-ups that aren’t parents or perverts.

‘You’re not having a good day, by the sounds of it,’ she begins. She’s sitting next to me rather than across the desk, the way she does with girls who get themselves pregnant and are too scared to tell their mums, so I know that she’s expecting me to pour my heart out, or cry at the very least.