Graffiti My Soul Read Free Page A

mention of nutters, and its accompanying floorful of dropped Ts. She’s become like that whenever she’s around Jason.
    â€˜We’ve been hanging round the mall,’ I say, ‘looking for evidence.’ By which I mean, hoping to find a couple of God-Squadders out with their embarrassing parents. Digging for dirt. Everyone is looking to have one up on someone at that school.
    â€˜Come round later, if you’re knocking off any time soon,’ Icontinue, knowing that Moon will have to owe me one if he does turn up.
    â€˜Uh huh, uh huh,’ he goes, kinda interested, kinda not, his eye on the pasta he’s stacking. They drum it hard into those boys, these supermarket managers; Jason takes his job very seriously. He can’t rest until all the boxes are lined dead straight.
    â€˜TV and shit, easy for a Monday. They’re showing Barbershop on Sky, around eight, I think,’ she says, knowing it.
    â€˜Cool,’ he says, ‘I’m there.’
    Whilst Mum is at the checkout, Moon drags me back across the mall to the kiosk where they turn a blind eye, buys twenty Benson, and a packet of king-size R. She’s got some gear in a tin under the carpet tiles in her wardrobe and she’s planning on bringing it over.
    â€˜Gotta make our guest feel at home,’ she goes later, when it makes an appearance in my room. She’s always so sure about everything. Knows that he’s going to show. And who would turn Moon down? She’s not popular but she’s perfect. Works out. Isn’t a shortie. Long layered mud-coloured hair, which she swishes to her advantage. Clear skin that’s never seen a spot. This open face that says to potential suitors, mould me, whilst her brain says the opposite. A great rack. Half the school is after her.
    She’s wearing her new Nike-girl hoodie, baby pink to match her top braces, with only her push-up bra underneath. It’s an outfit designed for easy access. Luckily I haven’t seen Barbershop , so I’ll be able to keep my eyes on the screen no problem once she and Jason get down to business. Almost.
    He turns up on the dot, wearing one of the Triple 5 Soul shirts with only three buttons. They don’t even make it past the titles. Someone should make me a saint, the crazy shit I have to put up with.
    5
    The price for not looking whilst Moon is getting touched up is three Benson and a whole tube of Pringles. Both banned substances on my new diet sheet, one stuck on the fridge door, the other above my bed. Multiple fags may sound excessive for a near non-smoker, but Barbershop is a long film. My chest feels it in the morning. There may as well be two Sumos sitting on top of me. At training, I’m coughing up all kinds of shit. Casey isn’t impressed.
    â€˜Cigarettes are a one-way ticket to an early grave,’ he goes, as I hack my way around the track.
    He looks at the state of me and prescribes a 1200m warm-up, followed by a series of 200m sprints, because I was choosy about telling him who I was smoking with.
    â€˜Don’t be doing with the bad crowds, V-pen. They aren’t with you when you’re on the track. I’m only interested in one winner, V-pen. The finishing line is only concerned with one winner, V-pen.’
    He’s been calling me V-pen ever since I started with him last autumn. Nothing I can do about it.
    I trained with the Harriers all through primary school, up until the end of the last summer holidays, when we had a disagreement about me training there after hours. They didn’t like it that when the place was shut, I’d bring Moon, Jase, a couple of others, and a few bottles of sauce. Fences around the place are babyishly short. Even Moon in a skirt finds it an easy proposition. I admit I was mullered on my alcopops by the time we left there, usually no earlier than ten-thirty, but technically I had still been running. I told Mum that I’d reached the top age limit and had