Graffiti My Soul by Niven Govinden

doing magnificently this season. Our guys will have to watch out for you in the finals!’
    â€˜They’ll have to watch the smoke from my trainers as I leave them behind.’
    I was expecting him to say something else entirely, because I know he’s been keeping a close eye on my progress since I left, but the unexpected courtesy doesn’t throw me. I’m not bothered about being a gracious winner.
    â€˜And you’re still training alone, I hear?’
    â€˜Yep. Nothing anyone can teach me. I’m a natural.’
    â€˜Well …’ he claps his hands together and you can see about a pound of skin flakes falling to the floor.
    I’m glugging my energy drink and almost throw it back up.
    â€˜â€¦ I know we’ve had some differences, but if you’d like to return to the centre …’
    â€˜Piss off.’
    â€˜You’d be more than welcome. Although I can see your manners are as elusive as ever. Goodbye.’
    Two reasons for ending the conversation: Casey, whom no one over the age of fifteen knows about, and I see Mum coming over (ref: reason number one).
    â€˜What did he want?’
    She thrusts a KitKat in my hand and throws daggers at Brendan’s under-moisturised back. She’s about as keen on him as I am.
    â€˜Nothing. Just wanted to know my secrets.’
    â€˜I hope you kept them to yourself! Bloody hypocrite. If he was that interested in the first place, he should have made an exception and kept you on. Those stupid rules about age restriction. You’re only fifteen, for Christ’s sake.’
    Her eyes start popping out, the way they do when she’s on a roll. She only shuts up when I give her three bars of the KitKat.
    Moon says hi and then disappears. She’s being elusive. I haven’t seen her since she showed me the picture yesterday. She’s with her bitch sister, who hates me; I could hear her booing as I passed her in the 400. They’re off to see Incubus at Wembley and now things are wrapped up, are making their haste to leave known.
    â€˜Congratulations, great run,’ spits the bitch sister.
    She’s standing at least five feet away, as if coming anywhere near me is cutting into her time with precious Incubus. Mum is right next to me, so I’m forced to acknowledge the bitch sister as Gwyn Jones. If she wasn’t, I probably would have ripped into her saggy Welsh arse. Great tits, though. Make Moon’s look like lemon slices.
    The Jones girls are local landmarks. Everyone knows them, even if you don’t go to our school. Moon has the looks, Gwyn has the tits. Both have the milk white skin, which, in Gwyn’s case, does her plenty of favours. Without that complexion she’d look like Quasimodo. Although Jason is interested in Moon, like we all are, he’s always saying how he’d take Gwyn’s tits anytime. Says they’re wank tits.
    Moon waves from Gwyn’s car and says she’ll call me. She throws daggers at Kelly Button, who’s been shivering in her tiny skirt, and making eyes at me for the past hour. Like I don’t know what she wants.
    The KFC in the car tastes like heaven. It’s a rarity. Mum usually insists on the house being a fast-food-free zone, claiming that there are more chemicals in those things than there are in an E.
    â€˜When you’re out with your friends, there’s nothing I can do about it. But when you’re at home, I’m not giving you any of that junk.’
    On the days before a race I stick to the pasta, chicken, fruit. I’m not Lynford yet, but I am taking it as seriously as I can.
    Mum hadn’t been to one of my races for a while. Too busy working. Has to take my word about how good I am. Gets verification whenever she catches my mug in the papers. Normally after a race we’d have a laugh about things, take the piss out of the other runners, especially the ones who dribble, or start praying before the whistle. Today