Niven Govinden - Graffiti My Soul

‘Where is your fucking head today, boy? God pardon my language,’ Casey’s saying in my ear, after I mess up another 1200.

‘I’m trying the visualising, and it’s not working.’

Like I’m going to tell him about Dad. I’m lying on my back, out of breath, because he’s made me do fifty push-ups for messing up, followed by squat thrusts. With the shoulder, it’s agony. I’m almost crying.

‘Do your Hail Marys and quit moaning,’ he says whilst I’m huffing and puffing like some out-of-shape fatty.

I’m hoping to get on with the next run. Skip the lecture.

‘Don’t blame the technique, V-pen. That’s bullshit. It’s not working because your heart’s not in it. Blaming the technique. Sign of a bad athlete.’

That’s enough to get me on my feet. Hopping about like Ali.

‘What kind of motivation is this? Aren’t you supposed to say how great I’m going to be tomorrow, instead of this fruity telling-off?’

‘Hey! What have I told you about calling me that?’

We’re both pissed off, and skulk to our respective areas. Him to trackside, by the long jump, where his trainer marks have already given him a ready-made grave; me back to the starting line. During the next 1200 I visualise being chased by a naked Casey. He’s got an acorn, and is screaming after me like a girl, ‘Want a lift? Want a lift?’ It seems to do the trick. I break my previous best. A couple more of those and everyone’s happy. Now, when I’m on my back again, top off, doing some quick chest curls, he lies down beside me and tells me how great I’m going to be tomorrow.

‘I know,’ I say, getting up, only after I’ve finished my reps. Making no effort to put my top back on. I like how my pecs look at the moment; it’ll take more than Casey to get me to hide them. The trick with PPPs is to give them eye contact the whole time, especially when they start doing things like lying down next to you. They’re quick to wheedle once they see the first sign of hesitation.

I’m back on my feet and start on the cool-down within a minute. I don’t like the attention as much as I think.

Moon catches up with me at lunchtime. We’re in different sets, so half a day can go by when I barely see her. I’m walking quickly down the corridor because I’ve been told to avoid trouble. I need to avoid trouble. The school letter proves it. She catches me up, finally, and pins me against a locker. Legs all up my back like we’re a couple — which I love, as it winds everyone up — and clutching her phone like it’s an Oscar.

‘You’re not the only one who’s been busy with the pictures. Just so you know, I got mine.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of you, stupid … and your PPP.’

‘Fuck! When?’

‘This morning. I told you I was going to do it.’

Moon now has a smug look, like she just ate shit. Everyone is giving us the eye, though that’s more due to the leg action and the fact that my hands are now cupping her tits.

She runs her hands through my hair, taking locks through her fingers, and gives a firm pull. It hurts like hell, feels like someone’s stabbing me in the head with a handful of pins, but of course, I’m turned on by it. Have to turn in towards her so that no one can see how physically turned on I am, especially as it’s in public, and implies an intimacy most of them are still dreaming about.

It’s always the same with every girl I’ve been with. They always go for the hair; they can’t get enough of it. Thick and black, curls stubbornly upright, stiff like a cherub who wants to get it on, framing my face like the centre of a lightbulb, and finished off with pearly whites that know how to grin. That’s the cherry on top, my cheek. If I’m frozen out by the hair snobs, I’m all theirs for the cheek.

Like I say, I don’t know whether it’s the Tamil in me or the Jew in me, but I’ve got to give thanks to someone for pulling that off, the hair, when I was bubbling in the gene pool. It’s a calling card I’m happy to have.

Kelly Button, still unsuitable but very tasty, is one of the crowd in the corridor. I think she’s interested. She has this look on her face that suggests she wants to take Moon out. Pull her hair and stamp her sovereign rings into her eye sockets. It’s a good job Moon’s talking in my ear or she’d be dead meat.

Moon flicks through her photo file and pulls it up. Me on the floor with my vest off and nips out. Casey almost on top of me. His mouth is millimetres away. It’s a post-snog-that-never-happened kind of photo.

‘How come I didn’t see you?’

‘Because I was undercover, dufus.’

I start to panic because I look like the biggest faggot. If this fell into anyone’s hands, say Pearson’s for example, I might as well move schools.

‘Fuck! What are you going to do with it? Moon, don’t even think about sending this to Mum.’

‘Course not, VP,’ (I let her call me VP occasionally), ‘it’s going nowhere. You were taking the piss out of me the other day. I just wanted to prove to you that I could do it. Think of it as evidence.’

I’m very cool before I say this. Don’t want to give her the wrong idea, that I’m bothered about any of it.

‘But we’re mates, Moon. Why would you need evidence?’

She thinks for a moment before replying, ‘I don’t know, VP. I just do.’

I should have had her surveillance work deleted on the spot, but I didn’t. Too much of a softie. I’m like a giant Mr Whippy, all floaty and genial. I was feeling it all the more too, because I remembered the extra warm glow I had after we did it at Christmas. It was spilling it to Jason that did it, made me forget to watch my back. I’m a foot and a smudge taller than her, and carry enough muscle. I could have had that phone out of her hand in a flash. File deleted before she even noticed. All just by holding my hand above my head. But I don’t. At that point, her having that picture didn’t seem to be a problem.

I’m too busy worrying about my own evidence. It’s tough trying to be hard, when you’ve got this conscience-thing pricking into you the whole time. If our latest slap turns out to be Pearson’s dad, then we’ve got problems. Moon is convinced that it is. Parents’ evening last term, when she was serving the coffee and spilt half a cup on his trousers because she has poor hand-to-eye coordination, and was completely the wrong person to be asked to walk round with a tray of drinks. She says the look in the eyes was something similar. Also, the half-bald head is something of a giveaway. She promises to keep her mouth shut, even from Jason. Takes a bag of Maltesers and some micro cardigan from H&M before I’m completely sure.

I don’t know what I’m worrying about. There’s no way this would get back to Pearson. The man looked so old he’d have trouble recognising us anyway. We were wrapped and Nike’d up like all the other kids who live round here. Needle in a haystack. Also, it was very dark, which helps. Thank God for conservation areas and low-level lighting. Local heritage is a slapper’s best friend. It nixes modern security techniques. And even if Pearson did get hold of the slap somehow, there’s very little to trace it back to us. Unless, of course, Pearson’s dad knows anything about bikes, in which case Jase’s Mountie Series 5, polished titanium and very specalised, leaves us wide open. But, like, he’s going to know anything about bikes!

It’s a niggle larger than the last. Stays for days.

Mum and me are having celebratory KFC in the car on the way back from the races. I trounced the 400 and the 1200m. I’d like to say the wins were down to the lion, but they had more to do with Casey chasing me naked. It was a last-minute decision, the only image I came up with that would stick. I may have to shag Moon again just to make sure that Casey and his acorn don’t come back next meeting.