Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  The canteen is for canteen-bought food only. Plus, I’m still annoyed at the way she tricked me into going to choir.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Tanvi says, hiding her disappointment behind a smile. ‘See you in registration then.’

  ‘Yeah, see you there,’ I mutter.

  I walk away, Tanvi’s eyes burning a hole in my blazer.

  13

  I have an earworm. ‘Lean on Me’ has embedded itself in my head and shows no signs of going away. I literally. Cannot. Stop. Singing. It.

  I blame Tanvi Shah entirely.

  It’s Saturday and I’ve been leafletting for the past two hours. As Tanvi promised, it’s officially hot and my T-shirt clings to my back as I drag my trolley behind me.

  Long, wide and lined with cherry trees on either side, Hopewood Gardens is probably the prettiest street on my route. In the spring, the trees sprout petals that fall to the ground like wedding confetti, cloaking the pavements with a blanket of baby pink.

  Despite my earworm, I’m feeling the most relaxed I have in days. Avoiding Tanvi all week proved surprisingly exhausting in the end and I’m grateful for the break. I may have a full trolley of leaflets to deliver, but at least I don’t have to worry about her pouncing on me.

  I’m about halfway down the street when I hear a familiar voice yelling my name.

  No.

  No, no, no, no.

  Slowly, I turn round.

  The front door of the house I just leafletted is wide open and Tanvi is heading down the driveway towards me wearing a cow-print onesie and unicorn slippers.

  My heart sinks.

  Is this actually happening to me?

  ‘When you said you delivered leaflets near the park, I had a feeling you might do my road,’ she says, a wide grin on her face.

  Wait, she hasn’t been waiting for me all morning, has she?

  ‘It’s so funny I’ve never seen you before,’ Tanvi continues. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Hilarious,’ I murmur.

  ‘How long did you say you’ve been doing this job for?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘How many more houses have you got to do?’ she asks, trying to peer into my trolley.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ I say, pulling it behind me. ‘In fact, I really need to get on.’

  ‘Do you want some help?’

  ‘You’re not dressed.’

  ‘It would only take me a second.’

  Considering how long she takes to get changed before and after PE, I doubt this.

  ‘Seriously, please don’t,’ I say.

  ‘Why not? It’ll be fun doing it together. Not to mention waaaaaay quicker.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you come back here when you’ve finished?’ Tanvi suggests, scampering next to me, the silver unicorn horns on her slippers flopping from side to side with every step. ‘My mum always makes pancakes on Saturday mornings. French style ones with bananas and Nutella. They’re insanely good!’

  My stomach chooses that exact moment to let out an angry rumble. I cough to disguise it, not wanting to give Tanvi any ammunition. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that this girl doesn’t understand ‘no’ in the usual sense of the word.

  ‘No thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Next week then?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Tanvi.’

  ‘Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.’

  I keep walking, Tanvi’s hopeful voice ringing in my ears.

  After my shift, I head home for lunch and a rest before my weekly pilgrimage to the launderette. For the past three years, ever since the washing machine stopped working and Bonnie refused to get it fixed, I’ve spent my Saturday afternoons at Luna’s Launderette.

  Luna’s is a 1970s time warp. A pink neon sign hangs in the window, but I’ve never seen more than two of its letters illuminated at once. All the washing machines are a lurid mint green and take for ever, rumbling violently on their final cycle. The flooring is made up of peeling black-and-white checked lino, the white bits scuffed and closer to grey than the gleaming white they must have been once upon a time.

  I’m the only person in here. This is not unusual. Occasionally, the bell above the door lets out a mournful tinkle and someone shuffles in to drop off a service wash, but most of the time, apart from a few stalwart regulars, I more or less have the place to myself.

  I empty the two huge laundry bags I dragged from home. As usual, Bonnie left her dirty things in a heap on the bathroom floor for me to pick up. And, as usual, I left them there until the very last minute, seriously flirting with the idea of ignoring them and letting Bonnie run out of clean things. Ultimately, though, I knew I’d pick them up. Because if I didn’t, Bonnie certainly wouldn’t bother. And although a big part of me thought that was exactly what she deserved, another, bigger part of me couldn’t be doing with the inevitable fallout.

  I wait until the machine has started to whir before climbing up on top of it, leaning my back against the woodchip wall and taking out my phone.

  I get comfy and scroll through my latest conversation with Noah. Until now, we haven’t really talked about personal stuff but the other day he started to moan about his dad and, before I knew it, I was joining in and moaning about mine (albeit with some heavy editing). The weirdest bit was, I felt better afterwards – like something small but significant had shifted.

  I’m reading our messages for the third time while munching on a cereal bar when I notice a familiar face squished up against the glass.

  Tanvi.

  Twice in one day? OK, this is getting ridiculous now. And not in a good way. What on earth is she doing here? We’re nowhere near Hopewood Gardens.

  She straightens up and waves through the glass, grinning and oblivious. Behind her, two men and a woman – who I guess must be Tanvi’s family – are sitting in an olive green car.

  Don’t come in, Tanvi. Please don’t come in.

  She comes in.

  ‘Hi!’ she says. ‘I’m not stalking you, I promise! We were just passing by and I saw you through the window and I was like “Stop the car!”’

  I’m still sitting on top of the washing machine, cereal bar crumbs clinging to my lips. I wipe them away with the back of my hand before climbing down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Tanvi asks, trailing a finger across the row of dryers.

  ‘Well, we’re in a launderette so why don’t you take a wild guess,’ I say.

  Tanvi giggles. ‘How come you’re stuck doing it, though?’ she asks.

  It’s a fair question. I doubt many 14-year-olds are solely responsible for their household’s laundry, and Tanvi’s reminder stings a little.

  ‘My mum’s not very well,’ I lie.

  Tanvi’s face sags with concern. ‘Oh no! What’s wrong with her? Is it serious?’

  ‘Oh, just a cold. She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Just not up to doing to the washing this week.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Well, that makes sense,’ Tanvi says. ‘For the record, I’m not usually this dressed up.’

  She’s wearing a faded denim jacket over the top of a cerise pink sari.

  ‘I mean, in case you were about to ask. We’re just on our way to my grandparents’ house. They’re having a party for their wedding anniversary. Fifty years! Can you believe that?’

  I’m not sure how long my grandparents have been together. Dad’s parents live in Spain these days and I’ve never met Bonnie’s. From what I can gather, they haven’t been in contact since way before I was born.

  ‘Look, shouldn’t you get back to your family?’ I ask, glancing at them through the window. They’re chatting happily.

  ‘Oh, they don’t mind,’ Tanvi says, waving at them.

  They smile and wave back.

  ‘See!’ she says brightly.

  My stomach tenses. Other people’s parents make me nervous.

  Tanvi opens the door of one of the unoccupied washing machines and peers in. ‘Do you reckon I could fit in o
ne of these?’ she asks.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ I say, one eye still on Tanvi’s family.

  ‘I reckon I could. If I try, do you promise not to lock me in?’

  ‘Seriously, your family is waiting, Tanvi.’

  ‘Oh, they’re fine,’ she says, with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘We’re early anyway. So, do you promise?’

  ‘Promise what?’

  ‘That you won’t lock me in?’

  ‘I’m not a monster.’

  ‘Just checking!’ Tanvi says, removing her jacket and bundling it into my arms.

  She squeezes inside the washing machine, giggling the entire time.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s really warm in here!’ she cries. ‘Hey, can you take a picture? My phone’s in my jacket pocket.’

  I sigh and retrieve Tanvi’s phone.

  ‘The passcode is two-four-one-two-one-seven,’ Tanvi says.

  As I’m typing it in, Tanvi pulls the door to, pressing her face up against it, her breath steaming up the glass.

  I can’t help it, I start to laugh. In response, Tanvi hams it up, pretending she’s stuck.

  ‘Save me!’ she cries. ‘Heeeeeeeelp!’

  Her muffled shouts are interrupted by the sharp tinkle of the bell above the door.

  I spin around. Linda, one of the regulars, is waddling towards me, a plastic basket of dirty laundry tucked under her arm.

  ‘All right, Ro,’ she says, dumping the basket on the skinny bench running down the centre of the launderette and opening one of the empty machines. ‘God, time flies. Has it really been a week already?’

  Shut up, Linda. Please just shut up.

  She clocks Tanvi, still in the washing machine.

  ‘Brought a little friend with you this week, have you?’

  Tanvi wriggles out. ‘Hi, I’m Tanvi,’ she says, extending her hand for Linda to shake.

  ‘Linda,’ Linda replies, looking amused.

  ‘She’s just going actually,’ I say, pressing her phone and jacket into her arms. ‘Aren’t you, Tanvi?’

  Tanvi shoots me a confused glance but, miraculously, seems to take the hint.

  ‘I’ll see you at school then,’ she says, glancing from me to Linda then back to me.

  ‘Yeah, see you at school,’ I say, turning away and pretending to squint at the dial on the dryer, even though I know every setting by heart. I don’t look up until the bell above the door has rung to indicate Tanvi’s departure.

  14

  Avoiding Tanvi Shah is proving a full-time occupation. She’s clearly memorized my timetable, and as a result, I’ve had to resort to sprinting out of my lessons the second the bell rings in a bid to escape her ambushes. If Tanvi’s at all bothered by my behaviour, she shows no sign of it, playfully scolding me for my elusiveness when I see her in registration but otherwise remaining her cheerful self. I just wish I knew what it was about me she finds so appealing, because, from where I’m standing, her interest in me makes absolutely no sense.

  ‘Choir?’ Tanvi asks, catching up with me as I walk back to the changing rooms after Friday’s PE lesson.

  OK, time to be firm.

  ‘I’ve had a think, like I said I would, and I’m not coming,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re so good!’ she cries.

  I smile tightly, not wishing to point out that I don’t exactly trust Tanvi’s musical ear.

  ‘What will you do instead?’ she asks.

  ‘What I usually do. Eat my lunch outside.’

  ‘But it’s going to tip it down.’

  As if on cue, the sky darkens and the heavens open, forcing us to break into a run to avoid getting drenched.

  In the changing rooms, I dress quickly, slipping out of the door while Tanvi’s back is turned and heading straight for the seldom used disabled toilet at the far end of the maths corridor – my favoured wet-weather lunch spot. When I try the handle though, it’s locked. Frowning, I press my ear against the door. I can hear tinny music and giggling coming from inside, suggesting its occupants are not planning to vacate any time soon.

  Great.

  I back away and peer out of the window. The glass is streaked with fat raindrops. Maybe I can just hang out here. I perch on the windowsill and take out my sandwich. I’m unwrapping the foil when a loud ‘Oi!’ echoes down the corridor. It’s one of the sixth form lunch monitors, easily identifiable by their blue sashes and overzealous enforcement methods.

  ‘You know the rules,’ the boy barks, his power trip at full throttle. ‘If you want to eat your packed lunch you either go outside or to the designated social area for your year group.’

  ‘But it’s raining.’

  ‘Did you not hear what I just said? That’s what your social area is for.’

  I get the feeling it’s not worth arguing with him and slope away, leaving him to hammer on the door of the disabled toilet, bellowing: ‘I know you’re in there!’

  I head up to the social area and peer through the glass panel in the door. All the popular kids are lounging on the beanbags as usual, forcing everyone else onto the hard seating around the edge of the room. Jamie is amongst the crew in the middle. He’s sprawled on the biggest beanbag of them all, his legs spread, Sienna nestled between his knees. He glances up and for a few seconds our eyes meet. I pull away, my heart beating, and walk away as fast as I can.

  The warm-up has already started by the time I slip into choir practice. Mr Milford gives me a thumbs up from behind the piano as I slide into the spare chair next to Tanvi.

  ‘Yay! You came!’ she whispers.

  ‘Only because of the rain,’ I say. ‘This is strictly a one-off.’

  I’m not sure she believes me though, her smile a bit too knowing for my liking.

  After the warm-up, Mr Milford announces we’re going to be working on a song from a brand-new Broadway musical.

  ‘You all did so well with “Lean On Me” last week, I thought we might step things up and try something a bit more advanced today. I saw this show in previews when I was in New York at the end of August and the second I heard this number, I just knew I wanted you guys to give it a go.’

  He plays us a recording of the song. He’s right. It’s beautiful, and when it’s over I’m surprised to discover I’m itching to sing it.

  Mr Milford breaks it down, starting in the middle, with the chorus, working through it bar by bar, before returning to the opening verse – a solo.

  ‘Anyone fancy having a try?’ he asks.

  No one responds.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t be shy!’

  Tanvi sticks her hand in the air.

  I raise an eyebrow. Say what you like, but there’s no denying this girl has serious guts.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Mr Milford says, clapping his hands together. ‘Thank you, Tanvi. Now, how about we take it from the top, nice and slow.’ He begins to make his way back to the piano.

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ Tanvi calls after him. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting I sing the solo.’

  Mr Milford stops in his tracks and turns to frown at her. ‘You weren’t?’

  ‘Uh-uh,’ she says. ‘I was thinking Ro should do it.’

  What??? I turn to look at her in horror. Tanvi beams back, all big brown eyes and oblivion.

  ‘That OK with you, Ro?’ Mr Milford asks, continuing to stride towards the piano as if it’s a done deal.

  ‘No!’ I yelp.

  He stops walking. ‘No?’ he repeats.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I repeat in a quieter voice, my heart pounding.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to just give it a go?’ Mr Milford asks. ‘No pressure or anything.’

  No pressure? Who is he kidding? The entire choir is gawping at me.

  I nod firmly, my face hot with embarrassment and annoyance and a big dollop of anger reserved for the pint-sized interferer sitting next to me.

  ‘Oh, go on, Ro,’ Tanvi says, nudging me with her elbow. ‘You’ll slay it. Honestly, sir, Ro has such a nice voice.’

  Oh my G
od, I want to kill her. Strangle her skinny little neck with my bare hands.

  ‘Ro?’ Mr Milford says, cocking his head to one side. ‘Anything I can do to persuade you?’

  Giggles break out across the room and my face flames even hotter.

  ‘Quiet please,’ Mr Milford says, irritation flashing across his face. ‘Ro?’

  I raise my eyes to meet his and shake my head. ‘No, sir,’ I say.

  He holds my gaze for a few seconds. ‘Fair enough,’ he says eventually. ‘Bailey? You up for giving it a go?’

  ‘Are you mad with me?’ Tanvi whispers as Mr Milford goes over the tune with Bailey.

  ‘Yes,’ I hiss back.

  ‘Oh, please don’t be,’ Tanvi begs. ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Help? By making me look like an idiot in front of the entire choir?

  ‘Please, Ro,’ she adds. ‘I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you were mad with me.’

  ‘Too late,’ I say, burying my head in my sheet music and keeping it in there until the rehearsal is over.

  The second Mr Milford dismisses us, I leap to my feet, gathering up my things as quickly as I possibly can and doing my best to ignore Tanvi’s continued pleas for forgiveness.

  I’m heading for the door when Mr Milford calls my name.

  ‘Can I grab you for a quick word before you go?’ he asks.

  Panic sloshes in my belly. What an earth can he want?

  ‘Do you want me to wait for you?’ Tanvi asks.

  Is she crazy? I’m so cross I can barely look at her. ‘No,’ I snap.

  ‘OK,’ she says in a small voice, sloping out of the room with her head down.

  As the room slowly empties out, I hover awkwardly at the back of the room, trying to work out what on earth Mr Milford could want. When the last person has left, Mr Milford sits down at the piano and beckons for me to sit next to him. I do as I’m told. Without saying a word, he begins to play the introduction to the song we’ve just been working on.

  ‘Do you read music, Ro?’ he asks.

  I nod. The house is full of sheet music. When I was little, I’d follow with my finger as Bonnie practised songs for her gigs, matching the notes and lyrics to her voice, and reminding her of the words if she forgot.