Free Graffiti My Soul by Niven Govinden Page B

school. The three on the team, two boys and a girl, are friendly enough. Surprisingly non-nerdish. The first to come over and shake hands, confident and chummy, showing us up somewhat as we were good and ready for our usual tactic – to avoid all prior contact by throwing evils and bitching in a corner.
    We’re all presentable enough, but they’re more evolved, closer to mini-adults with the odd patter of teen talk thrown in. There are the smallest of looks on their part, reassuring, expected, when they see our uniforms, a defiant paean to man-made fibres, all shiny and static. They, smug in their grey wool blazers that seem to fit just so, as opposed to ours, which just ‘fit’, are the perfect hosts.
    I’ve got all my rings on for this very reason, big chunky bastards. Put them on in the bus when Mr Morgan was concentrating rather too much on Moon’s homage to all things rock. He has yet to notice that I’m wearing nearly all of them. When he retires to the back of the hall, I’ll slip on the daddy, the knuckleduster, which Jason attempted to buy from a Goth shop in Guildford, and when that didn’t work, stole. I don’t know much about woollen jackets, but who needs wool when this little beauty gives you the edge?
    Usually before a match the teams will crack open a Diet Coke and chat about skate parks, whilst the teachers talk about the drive and make some vague allusion to the tension of the forthcoming head to head. The world-famous knife-edge. There is plenty of this here at Godalming. We each sit in our corners in the teachers’ lounge and talk rubbish. Means that boys bands and film crap are mentioned from our camp more than once. They’re happy to sit there and let us do the talking, more interested in their own reflections. We can talk about East Coast/West Coast and the traffic until we’re blue in the face. Doesn’t mean shit. The general expectation by all in the room is that they will win.
    But here’s the thing; we manage to hold our own until the final round, brilliance that surprises everyone. The reflexes of my eggheads, Peter and Charlotte, are ridiculously slow. Neither of them do any sports so I shouldn’t be expecting miracles. Get them in front of a Playstation or a textbook and they’re fine. Give them a buzzer, a light, and a room full of judgmental girls, and they’ve got problems. The guys on the other team are protean all-rounders and don’t seem to have this problem. They look like they wouldn’t be rubbish at anything – except perhaps rapping. Normally we can polish off the quick-fire, but today it virtually finishes us off.
    Up until this point tension has steadily mounted, apart from Moon, who’s too relaxed. There hasn’t been a dry seat in the house. I look up from the quizmaster occasionally and see teachers from both sides cacking it. Now that we’re starting to lag behind, however, everyone relaxes.
    I press the buzzer on every question, regardless of whether I can take a punt or not. You have to be in it to win it.
    â€˜In politics: which act passed in 1984 made it illegal for companies to subjectively discriminate against employees purely on colour, creed, or sexual orientation?’
    I buzz.
    â€˜The Equal Opportunities Act?’
    â€˜Correct.’
    â€˜In history: which monarch’s accession ended the wars of the Roses?’
    I buzz.
    â€˜Edward II?’
    â€˜Incorrect. Godalming?’
    â€˜Henry VII.’
    â€˜Correct.’
    The Godalming squad gleam modestly at my fuck-up.
    Chinese Peter wakes up and gets in on the act, now beating me with the fastest finger. I catch his glance, realising that he’s fuming over that crowing look from across the competing table. Gives me and Charlotte the nod that we’re going to have it.
    He aces some background on the Geneva Convention, and correctly names the infamous early Picasso painting that got everyone in Paris