Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  I’m in the kitchen adding dried pasta to a saucepan of boiling water when Bonnie staggers through the back door wearing a tie-dyed kaftan and a pair of jewel encrusted flip-flops, a floppy straw hat on her head. Her face is flushed and her eyes are shining. Combined with the bulging carrier bags looped over her wrists, this means just one thing – she’s been shopping. And just like that, my good mood evaporates.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she says, dumping the bags on the already heaped kitchen table.

  I wait for her to ask me how my first day back went, but despite the fact I’m wearing my school uniform, she’s clearly forgotten.

  ‘What’s in the bags, Bonnie?’ I ask instead, trying my hardest to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Oh, just a few groceries,’ Bonnie says vaguely, running her fingers through her hair. ‘Lidl have some brilliant offers on at the moment.’

  I peer in one of the bags. ‘But we already have peas,’ I say, noting the half dozen tins. ‘And rice. And since when do we use that much soy sauce? There are like ten bottles here.’

  ‘I like to dip my prawn crackers from the Chinese in it,’ Bonnie says, pouting.

  ‘So buy one bottle.’

  ‘It was buy one get one half price.’

  ‘So buy two bottles.’

  ‘And then run out and have to go back and buy them at full price?’ Bonnie tuts and wags her finger. ‘I thought you were supposed to be clever, Ro Snow.’

  According to whom exactly? I always give Bonnie my school reports to read, but I doubt she gives them much attention. If she did, she’d know I’m totally average in every single subject – middle set across the board.

  I spot a packet of cigarettes nestled on top of at least six tins of fruit cocktail. ‘I thought you were giving up,’ I say, holding them up.

  ‘I’m cutting down,’ Bonnie replies, plucking them from my hands and clutching them to her chest. ‘This pack will probably last me all month.’

  Yeah, right. I’ve emptied her ashtray at least five times in the past week alone.

  I move on to the next bag. It’s full of greetings cards. Annoyance stirs deep inside me. I take out a handful and leaf through them – ‘Congratulations On Passing Your Driving Test!’ and ‘I’m Sorry For Your Loss’ and ‘Happy Hanukkah!’

  ‘Who are these for this time, Bonnie?’ I ask. It’s getting harder and harder to keep calm.

  ‘Just people,’ Bonnie says vaguely, picking up a bottle of soy sauce and studying the label.

  ‘What people?’

  Bonnie and I don’t know people. Bonnie isn’t in touch with any of her family, and apart from her singer friends – women who enter and exit her life like they’re riding a carousel – she has no other significant relationships I’m aware of.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Bonnie says.

  ‘So why did you buy them?’

  ‘Because you never know when they might come in handy.’

  I turn one of the cards over. ‘This one cost three pounds seventy-five!’

  ‘Oh, did it?’ Bonnie says. ‘It must be all the embellishment. Isn’t it pretty?’

  I wouldn’t mind so much if Bonnie sent the cards, or even just put them away carefully. But she doesn’t. She just dumps them wherever she feels like it, just like she randomly dumps everything she brings into this house, regardless of its value.

  I look at the rest of the price tags, adding up as I go. ‘You’ve spent over forty pounds on cards, Bonnie.’

  ‘I told you, they’re an investment,’ she says, snatching them from my hands and stuffing them back in the bag.

  ‘Did you pay for all of this with cash or card?’

  ‘Card. Why?’

  ‘The water bill comes out of the account on Friday. This lot is going to send us over our overdraft limit.’

  God, I hate the way I sound right now. Like a middle-aged nag. Everything is the wrong way round. I’m 14. I should be the one being told off for wasting money; it should be Bonnie worrying about all this stuff, not me. My chest burns with familiar resentment.

  ‘Well, there’s no point it getting in a tizz over it, is there?’ Bonnie says cheerfully. ‘It’s done now. Besides, I’ve got three gigs at the weekend – Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Pip who, eh? Come this time next week, we’ll be back on track, you’ll see. Now, are we done here, because I’m dying for a wee.’

  She doesn’t wait for an answer, dropping the bag of cards on the floor and humming as she disappears into the hallway.

  My fists tighten. I want to scream, to take every one of those soy sauce bottles and smash them against the concrete paving slabs outside.

  But I know I won’t. I can’t. Because I’d be the one who’d have to clean it up, so what would be the point in that?

  The boiling water hisses as it foams over the side of the saucepan. I swear under my breath and reduce the heat.

  I can hear Bonnie singing ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ at the top of her voice – not a care in the world. I shut the door to the hallway to block it out and reach into the back pocket of my jeans for my mobile.

  After listening to three separate automated menus and successfully passing through security, I finally make it through to a human being.

  ‘Hello,’ I say in my very best grown-up voice. ‘My name is Bonnie Snow. I’d like to extend my overdraft please.’

  12

  ‘Over here! Over here!’ Tanvi cries.

  She’s been scampering about the netball court like an overexcited puppy for the past forty minutes now, her hands permanently in the air even when the ball is nowhere near her. As someone whose chief aim is to avoid contact with the ball wherever possible, it’s both exhausting and confusing to watch.

  The second Ms Bello blows her whistle I rip off my bib and break into a run towards the changing rooms, ignoring Tanvi’s cry of ‘Ro! Hey, Ro, wait for me!’

  Seriously, when is she going to get the message and leave me alone? Despite offering to give me a lift home every afternoon this week and getting a firm brushoff every single time, she’s showing no signs of backing off. If anything, she’s acting keener than ever.

  Today is no exception, Tanvi cornering me as I tie up my shoelaces.

  ‘Hi!’ she says.

  I look up. She’s half-dressed, her jumper hanging round her neck, and one leg in her tights, the other bare and goose-pimpled.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, my flat delivery hopefully making it clear it’s not an invitation.

  It doesn’t work.

  ‘You can actually,’ Tanvi says, sitting down next to me on the bench, her skinny thigh pushed up against my less skinny one, her grasp of ‘personal space’ severely lacking. ‘Can you help me find room twenty-one-four?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve got stuff to do this lunch time.’

  As I say this I feel mean, but ‘distant yet polite’ doesn’t seem to be doing the trick. If I’m going to get Tanvi to back off, I’m going to have to be a little more direct.

  ‘Oh please!’ Tanvi says, clasping her hands together in prayer position. ‘I’ll probably be wandering around lost for ages if you don’t.’

  ‘Can’t someone else help you?’ I ask, gesturing desperately at the changing room full of people. ‘What about Marissa?’

  Tanvi leans in, her flapjack breath warm and sweet on my cheek. ‘Between you and me, Marissa is a bit too full-on.’

  I raise an eyebrow. Marissa is too full-on for Tanvi?

  ‘I promise this is the last time I’ll ask!’ Tanvi says, swiping her hand across her heart. ‘I’m just so hopeless with directions. Please, Ro. Pretty please with a cherry and whipped cream on top!’

  Room 21.4 is in the music department. If we walk quickly, it will take me five minutes at most to escort Tanvi there. Hopefully, after that, she’ll stick to her promise and seek out a new tour guide.

  ‘OK, fine,’ I say. ‘But this is absolutely the last time, got it?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’ Tanvi cries.

  As we
walk against the tide of students making their way to the canteen, Tanvi fires questions at me like she’s a red carpet reporter. What’s your favourite film? Do you like cats? Do you think Emerson Saxby is cute? (My answers: I don’t know, I’m allergic, and NO.)

  ‘Who do you like then?’ Tanvi asks, as we enter the music department.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know! As in, who do you fancy?’

  ‘No one,’ I reply, trying and failing not to picture Noah’s face.

  Since hearing from him on Monday, we’ve exchanged dozens more texts, mostly about schoolwork and television shows we like.

  ‘What?’ Tanvi says. ‘But there must be someone.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t.’

  ‘I’ll tell you who I like, if you tell me you like.’

  ‘That really won’t be necessary.’

  ‘I know, I’ll guess! Um, Kai Clarke? Tre Morgan? Theo Gold?’ Tanvi asks, reeling off the names of the best-looking boys in our year. ‘Ryan Attah? Jacob Shapiro? Jamie Cannon?’

  She lets out a gasp of delight.

  ‘See, I knew there’d be someone!’ she cries, looking incredibly pleased with herself.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I stammer.

  ‘Oh really? Then why else did your face go all red when I said Jamie’s name?’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes, it did,’ Tanvi says gleefully. ‘It was like I’d turned on the switch to your blood vessels! Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I’m an excellent secrets keeper.’

  ‘Look, I don’t fancy anyone, OK?’ I snap.

  ‘OK,’ Tanvi agrees, biting her lip to stop myself from smiling.

  ‘I don’t!’ I cry.

  ‘No, no, I totally believe you … Not!’ she says, cackling in delight.

  God, she’s irritating.

  ‘Aha, new blood!’

  Tanvi and I whirl round in unison.

  Mr Milford, one of the music teachers has emerged from room 21.4 and is rubbing his hands together like the child catcher.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he says, beckoning us across the threshold.

  That’s when I notice the poster on the door behind him.

  CHOIR

  EVERY FRIDAY LUNCH TIME

  NEW MEMBERS WELCOME!

  I take a very large and very deliberate step backwards. ‘I’m not staying,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, a dagger to my heart,’ Mr Milford cries, clutching his chest with both hands and staggering about on the spot.

  ‘Oh, please stay, Ro,’ Tanvi says, waggling my arm. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  I stare at her in horror. ‘But I already do an extra-curricular activity,’ I say.

  ‘So? You can do more than one.’

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t you just give it a try,’ Mr Milford says. ‘And if you’re not keen, I promise I won’t be offended if you don’t come back next week. Well, not too offended.’

  ‘But I don’t sing,’ I say.

  ‘All the more reason to come to choir,’ Mr Milford says.

  ‘Exactly!’ Tanvi chimes in, pulling me into the room, her grip surprisingly strong.

  I attempt to shake her off but Tanvi clings on for dear life.

  ‘Get off,’ I hiss. ‘I’m not staying.’

  ‘Just try it,’ Tanvi says serenely, the tranquil expression on her face at odds with her pincer-like fingers.

  ‘But I don’t want to.’

  People are starting to look.

  ‘OK, so from left to right, we’ve got sopranos, mezzos, altos, tenors and bass,’ Mr Milford says, ignoring the kerfuffle and pointing at the rows of chairs arranged in a semicircle around an upright piano. ‘Put very simply, high voices to low voices. Don’t worry if you’re not sure which you are, nothing is set in stone.’ He pauses, his hands on his hips. ‘So, ladies, are we staying or leaving?’

  Tanvi and I are still standing in the centre of the room, Tanvi’s fingers wrapped around my forearm, digging in, even through the double layer of my blouse and blazer.

  ‘Staying,’ Tanvi says. ‘Right, Ro?’ She fixes me with a dazzling smile.

  The room is suddenly silent. Practically the entire choir is looking at us now.

  ‘Right, Ro?’ Tanvi repeats, somehow immune to the daggers I’m shooting from my eyeballs.

  ‘Right,’ I mutter.

  Tanvi finally lets go of my arm.

  ‘Great stuff!’ Mr Milford says. ‘Now, if you’re not sure, I’d suggest starting out with the sopranos – they tend to get to sing the tune most of the time – and seeing how you go from there.’ He directs us to two empty chairs.

  I sit down in semi-shock. How exactly has this happened? Next to me, Tanvi is oblivious to my annoyance, humming happily as she removes her blazer and drapes it over the back of her chair.

  Mr Milford rolls up his shirtsleeves and sits down at the piano. ‘Welcome, everyone,’ he says. ‘It’s great to see so many new faces. Now, how about we start with a warm-up.’

  The warm-up consists of scales and tongue twisters and breathing exercises, similar to the ones Bonnie does around the house before her gigs. I join in half-heartedly, my eyes trained on the clock above Mr Milford’s head. Next to me, Tanvi is singing at the top of her voice, hitting maybe 50 per cent of the notes at most. I steal a sideways glance at her. Despite the awful din she’s making, she looks ecstatic. It’s very, very weird.

  After the warm-up, Mr Milford hands out sheet music. It’s a pop song from the 1970s called ‘Lean on Me’.

  ‘There are a few solo lines towards the end,’ he says. ‘Any takers?’

  Tanvi actually has the nerve to give me a nudge. I respond with a fierce shake of my head and the dirtiest look in my arsenal.

  ‘Why not?’ Tanvi whispers.

  ‘Because I’d rather have my toenails pulled out?’

  She giggles, clearly under the misapprehension that I’m joking.

  In the end, a sixth former called Bailey raises her hand.

  ‘Great! Thank you, Bailey,’ Mr Milford says. ‘Right, let’s take it from the top.’

  Mr Milford breaks down the lines individually, hammering them out on the piano one by one until he’s satisfied all the groups have got the hang of their harmonies. I continue to sing quietly, happy to be drowned out by the other singers.

  ‘OK, let’s be brave and have a go at putting it all together!’ Mr Milford says.

  I’m surprised by how good our first attempt sounds. It’s not perfect by any stretch, but even I have to admit that some of the harmonies sound really quite nice. Even more surprising is just how satisfying it feels, like slotting together the final pieces of an especially tricky jigsaw.

  ‘What a way to start to the term!’ Mr Milford says, playing a closing flourish on the piano. ‘Sadly, though, I think that’s all we have time for today.’

  ‘Aw,’ at least half of the choir chorus.

  I glance up at the clock, startled to discover time is up.

  ‘To be continued,’ Mr Milford says. ‘In the meantime, if you could help me get the classroom back in order, that would be great.’

  ‘What should we do with our music, sir?’ Tanvi asks, waving her copy in the air.

  ‘Ah. Well, that all depends. Have I done enough to entice you back?’

  Tanvi nods her head enthusiastically.

  ‘In that case, feel free to hang onto it until next week’s session. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Tanvi Shah,’ Tanvi replies happily.

  ‘Brilliant. Very happy to have you on board, Tanvi Shah. And how about you?’ he says, turning to me. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name either.’

  ‘Ro Snow,’ I admit.

  ‘And how did you find it, Ro Snow?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, shrugging.

  ‘See you next Friday, “OK”?’ Mr Milford asks, wiggling his eyebrows up and down.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ I say, picking up my bag and leaving the room without loo
king back.

  ‘Wait!’ Tanvi calls after me.

  I increase my speed but Tanvi catches up with me within seconds.

  ‘Did you really not like it?’ she asks, scampering alongside me.

  ‘Why do you sound so surprised? I told you I didn’t want to do it.’

  ‘But you’re a really good singer.’

  ‘Don’t be mental.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Tanvi insists. ‘You literally have to come back to choir next week. It would be, like, criminal if you didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t have to do anything.’

  ‘Oh, please, Ro! Pleeeeeease!’

  ‘Ugh, I’ll think about it,’ I say, more to get her off my back than anything.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing after school today?’ Tanvi asks. ‘Do you want to come round to mine?’

  ‘What for?’ I ask, my voice laced with suspicion.

  ‘To hang out? Watch some telly maybe? My mum went shopping yesterday so we’ve got loads of yummy stuff in. I think we might even have some cookies and cream Häagen-Dazs.’

  I blink in confusion. No one has asked me over to their house since I was at primary school.

  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Fancy coming round to mine tomorrow instead? It’s going to be proper hot apparently. We could get the paddling pool out.’

  ‘I work on Saturdays,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve got a job?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I deliver leaflets.’

  ‘Cool! Whereabouts?’

  ‘Near the park.’

  ‘Sunday, then?’ Tanvi asks. ‘We could do our homework together then watch a film or something. I have my brother’s Now TV password so we’ve got loads to pick from.’

  ‘Sorry, family stuff.’

  ‘Have you got a big family too?’ Tanvi asks, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  I can tell Tanvi wants me to elaborate. I don’t, of course.

  ‘Canteen?’ Tanvi asks as we reach the bottom of the stairs.

  We’ve got ten minutes to grab food before the bell rings for registration.

  ‘I’ve already got a sandwich,’ I say.