Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  I used to fantasize about having a big brother – Jake, I called him. Jake was kind and wise and knew exactly how to handle Bonnie, and together we were a united front – strong and capable and in control. With Jake on the scene, there were no worries about Social Services. With Jake on the scene, we were untouchable.

  I’m relieved when the conversation moves on to safer topics – school, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, how to make the ultimate toasted cheese sandwich, the future colonization of Mars, whether Tanvi should get a fringe cut in.

  And it’s actually sort of fun.

  ‘Try one of those seedy cracker things with a dollop of hummus, a couple of olives and a Percy Pig,’ Tanvi instructs. ‘I promise you, it’s heaven in your mouth.’

  ‘You sure about that? It sounds horrible.’

  ‘I know! That’s what’s so amazing about it. Go on, try it.’

  I grimace but for some reason find myself doing as I’m told. As I suspected, it’s beyond disgusting and I have to spit it out into a tissue.

  ‘You’ve got messed up taste buds, Shah,’ I say, swigging down some pink lemonade to get rid of the taste.

  ‘I prefer to think of them as sophisticated,’ Tanvi replies in a posh voice. She loads up another cracker, this time adding a sun-dried tomato and a wedge of Brie into the mix, cackling with delight when I pull a face.

  ‘I meant what I said before,’ Tanvi says, breaking a chocolate chip cookie in half, crumbs going everywhere.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Yesterday. In choir. I really am sorry.’

  Weirdly, Tanvi mentioning it doesn’t reignite my anger the way it did earlier.

  ‘It’s … fine,’ I say. ‘Well, it’s not fine. I don’t know, just don’t do anything like that again, OK?’

  ‘I absolutely promise,’ Tanvi says, swiping her finger across her heart. ‘I just didn’t want that Bailey girl taking another solo. Especially when you’re so much better than her.’

  I make a face.

  ‘But you are!’ Tanvi insists. ‘She can hit the notes and make a pretty sound and all that, but then so can loads of people. When you sing I get all goose-pimply.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘It’s true! Sing something and I’ll prove it.’ Tanvi yanks up the sleeve of her hoodie and thrusts her bare arm in front of my face.

  ‘Don’t be a dick,’ I say, batting it away.

  ‘I’m not! I’m telling you, your voice makes me all tingly.’

  ‘Shush, no it doesn’t.’

  ‘It does! If I had a voice like yours I’d never shut up. I’d sing entire conversations, the way they do in Les Mis.’ She plucks a broken cookie from the packet. ‘This cookie is delicious,’ she trills, holding it aloft. ‘Don’t you agree?’ She pauses, gesturing for me to reply in song.

  I roll my eyes at her. As if.

  ‘But don’t you want to show off?’ Tanvi asks.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What?’ she asks, incredulous. ‘Not even a teeny bit?’

  ‘Not even a teeny bit.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Tanvi says, reaching for another cookie. ‘You know what you are, Ro?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An onion.’

  ‘An onion? Wow, thanks.’

  Tanvi punches me on the arm. ‘I mean it in a good way! Because onions have loads of layers that need peeling away and that’s exactly what you’re like.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I say. ‘I’m more like a …’

  My brain frantically gropes for the most straightforward of vegetables.

  ‘… a turnip!’

  ‘A turnip?’ Tanvi repeats, sitting up straight and putting her hands on her hips.

  ‘Yes!’

  She shakes her head. ‘I must say, I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed someone align themselves with a root vegetable quite so enthusiastically.’

  ‘What can I say? Typical turnip behaviour.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Tanvi says, chucking a Percy Pig at me.

  It bounces off my shoulder and lands in the hummus. I fish it out and throw it back at her. She attempts to catch it in her mouth and misses and it ends up in the grass. She lunges for it, popping it in her mouth without even looking at it.

  ‘Five-second rule,’ she declares before chucking a ball of mozzarella at me, somehow managing to get it down the front of my V-neck T-shirt.

  ‘Tanvi!’ I shriek, jumping up and un-tucking my T-shirt, freeing the offending (and surprisingly cold) mozzarella ball while Tanvi rolls about on the blanket, howling with delighted laughter.

  Using a kettle chip as a scoop, I catapult a dollop of dip in Tanvi’s direction. My aim is perfect, the hummus hitting Tanvi square on the nose with a satisfying splat.

  Tanvi blinks in shock, and for a moment I’m worried I’ve taken things too far.

  There’s a beat. Slowly, Tanvi sticks her tongue out of her mouth and licks the tip of her nose, her eyes glinting.

  ‘OK, Snow,’ she says, reaching for the breadsticks, brandishing one in each hand like they’re Samurai swords. ‘This means war.’

  Five minutes later, the picnic is pretty much demolished. I’m soaked and sticky from a dousing of pink lemonade and Tanvi has crumbs in her hair from where I crushed two massive handfuls of kettle chips directly over her head. Giddy and exhausted, we lie on the blanket, our heads just centimetres apart, chests heaving up and down as we catch our breath.

  ‘Is that your phone?’ Tanvi asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

  I sit up and listen. My phone rings so rarely I’m not entirely familiar with its nondescript tone.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Ro, it’s Eric. Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that it’s nearly two and you’re usually back by now.’

  ‘It’s nearly two?’ I say, jumping up. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m on my way now.’

  I hang up and begin stuffing our rubbish into the empty hamper. How did I manage to lose track of time quite so spectacularly? If you’d asked me what time it was, I’d have said midday at the latest.

  ‘Do you have to go?’ Tanvi asks, her eyes clouding over with disappointment.

  I blink at her. I feel a bit like I’ve just woken up from a weird dream. ‘I really do,’ I say.

  ‘But we haven’t opened the eclairs yet.’ She digs a packet of chocolate eclairs out from the bottom of the hamper. ‘Ta-da!’ she says, stroking the packaging. ‘They’ve got salted caramel cream inside them.’

  ‘Sorry, but I’m already really late,’ I say, pulling on my shoes, the blanket they were holding down flapping in the breeze.

  ‘Time flies when you’re having fun and all that,’ Tanvi says, reluctantly returning the eclairs to the hamper. ‘Give me a few minutes to pack up and I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Sorry, but I need to go now. Er, thanks for the food and stuff. I’ll see you at school.’

  I stride towards the gate without looking back. I may have had fun just now, but the very last thing I need is a new friend, especially one as nosy as Tanvi Shah.

  16

  I feel a little shy as I walk into registration on Monday morning. Even though I’ve gone over our conversation over and over in my mind and concluded I didn’t reveal anything too personal to Tanvi on Saturday, I’m still gripped with nerves as I approach our desk. Tanvi doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort, smiling broadly and launching straight into an energetic monologue about the rest of her weekend as I slide into my seat.

  She’s recounting an argument she had with Devin when Ms Cameron calls me to the front of the class and hands me an envelope with my name printed on it in unfamiliar writing.

  ‘What is it?’ Tanvi asks as I return to my seat.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, angling my body away from her and slicing open the envelope with my fingernail.

  I reach inside and pull out a leaflet with an orange post-it note stuck on the front. The Post-it note says the following:

  I th
ink this could be right up your street! Application deadline midnight on Friday.

  Mr Milford’s signature is at the bottom.

  I remove the Post-it and take a closer look at the leaflet. On the front there’s a photograph of dozens of singers wearing smart white shirts and navy blue waistcoats. They must be singing about something happy because their eyes are bright and shiny, their open mouths upturned at the corners.

  ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain,’ Tanvi reads aloud over my shoulder.

  Quickly, I turn the leaflet over, placing it face down on the desk.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read the rest?’ Tanvi asks.

  I shrug.

  ‘Can I, then?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  She turns over the leaflet and spreads it open on the desk. ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain is one of the most prestigious youth choirs in the world,’ she recites in an overly loud and theatrical voice. ‘Fancy schmancy! Ooh, listen to this, they get to perform all over the world!’ She skims the rest of the leaflet, reading aloud the highlights – the residential rehearsals, the travel, the concerts. ‘Oh my God, it sounds amazing,’ she squeaks. ‘You have to apply, Ro, you have to!’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But why not?’

  Because girls like me don’t do things like join fancy choirs. And even if they did, who would take care of Bonnie and the house while I was off jetting around the world? With Bonnie left in charge, Social Services would be on our case within days.

  ‘I told you the other day,’ I say. ‘I’m not interested in getting up on stage.’

  ‘But this is a choir,’ she says, flapping the leaflet in front of my face. ‘You’d be singing as part of a group.’

  ‘Still not interested.’

  Emerson chooses this moment to turn round. ‘All right, ladies?’ he says.

  ‘Hello, Emerson,’ Tanvi replies primly. ‘Can we help you?’

  ‘You talking about the National Youth Choir?’

  ‘We are. Why?’

  ‘My sister applied for that once.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Tanvi says, giving me a nudge.

  ‘Yeah,’ Emerson continues. ‘Didn’t get in.’

  ‘See!’ I say triumphantly. ‘It’d be a waste of time even applying.’

  ‘I dunno about that,’ Emerson says. ‘I heard my sister practising and it was like listening to a cat getting strangled.’

  Tanvi giggles.

  ‘Mr Saxby, face the front of the classroom please!’ Ms Cameron barks.

  Emerson rolls his eyes and turns back round.

  ‘You should at least try,’ Tanvi whispers.

  ‘I won’t get in,’ I whisper back.

  ‘Mr Milford thinks you might.’

  ‘He’s probably just saying that.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe so I’ll go back to choir on Friday?’

  ‘No offence, but I don’t think he needs to make up the numbers that badly. He clearly thinks you’ve got a shot.’

  ‘At least read the leaflet,’ she adds, pushing it towards me.

  ‘There’s no point,’ I say, pushing it back.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re stubborn.’

  ‘Or realistic.’

  ‘No, definitely stubborn.’

  The bell for first period rings. I stand up, heaving my backpack onto my shoulders.

  ‘Hey, you forgot this,’ Tanvi says, waving the leaflet in her hand.

  ‘I know,’ I say over my shoulder, before heading out of the classroom.

  I forget about the leaflet until later that day. I’m at home, emptying my backpack, when it falls from between the pages of my Spanish folder and flutters to the ground.

  Tanvi must have put it into my bag during afternoon registration, the sneaky thing.

  I let out an exasperated sigh, screw it up into a ball and throw it at the wastepaper bin, only my aim is off and it bounces off the rim. Sighing again, I peel myself off the bed and retrieve it from under my desk. It’s unfurled a little, a cluster of slightly wrinkled choir members beaming right back at me.

  I intend to throw it straight in the bin but end up veering off course and heading back to the bed. Feeling self-conscious, I sit down and smooth out the creases. I look over my shoulder and immediately feel ridiculous. I blame Tanvi Shah. Thanks to her track record, the idea of her bursting out of the wardrobe or wriggling out from under the bed, crowing ‘I knew you’d read it!’ doesn’t exactly seem far-fetched right now.

  I curl up on the bed, my back to the rest of the room, and begin to read.

  I stare at the glossy photographs and try and fail to imagine myself slotting in at the back. Although the choir’s members come in lots of different shapes and sizes, they all share a certain neatness – from their perfectly ironed shirts to their immaculate hairstyles – that I just know is out of my reach. I’m just not like the Melanies of this world – pristine and perfect and spotlessly turned out at all times. No matter how hard I try, something – a loose thread, a scuffed shoe, an oily forehead – always seems to let me down, as if the universe can’t bear to pass up the opportunity to remind me where I come from.

  For a second, I imagine filling in the online application form and attending the audition, but the pictures fail to form in my head properly. The choir simply isn’t for people like me. It’s for kids who have the sort of mums and dads who take them to ballet and piano lessons, and check their homework, and ask them questions about their day.

  Kids like Izzy.

  Not to mention the fact the rehearsals are residential. The last time I was away, it took Bonnie just five days to almost entirely block the route from the kitchen to the living room. I dread to think what kind of state she might get into without me around for longer.

  No, the choir is definitely not for me.

  And yet, here I am, reaching for my laptop and typing ‘The National Youth Choir of Great Britain’ into the YouTube search bar. I don’t know why. I mean, what exactly am I hoping to achieve here? In fact, I should probably just stop now, put my laptop away and stop being so stupid.

  Only then the choir on the screen starts to sing.

  And all I can do is stop and stare.

  Because they’re amazing.

  More than amazing.

  Mind-blowing.

  I turn up the volume, my eyes and ears glued to the screen.

  The choir, dressed in their signature navy blue waistcoats, is assembled on the stage of what looks like a huge concert hall. The harmonies they’re singing are precise and difficult, yet playful and almost unexpected, the resulting sound almost painfully beautiful.

  When they finish, the audience breaks into thunderous applause, and as the camera zooms in on the glowing faces of the choir, I feel an ache deep in my belly – a brand-new kind I’m not sure I’ve experienced before.

  I watch the next video. And the next. And the next.

  You can’t do this, I keep telling myself. You can’t leave her on her own, you know you can’t.

  At the same time, I can’t stop watching.

  The ache doesn’t go away.

  If anything, it gets stronger.

  17

  Three nights later, the itching begins.

  I scratch and scratch but the itching is only getting worse. Unable to sleep, I turn on my lamp, the pale yellow glow revealing raised red spots on both wrists. There must be a mosquito in here. I listen for its buzz, but I can’t hear anything over the sound of the falling rain outside. It’s the satisfying sort of rain I like – big fat heavy drops that splatter rhythmically against the window pane and make me feel safe and cosy in a way few other things can. Only tonight, I’m too uncomfortable to enjoy it.

  I grope for my phone, on charge by the side of the bed, and check the time: 2.28 a.m. Frowning, I turn off the light and lie flat on my back, arms outside the duvet, and desperately try to resist the temptation to scratch my insanely itchy wr
ists. Over the next few hours, I experiment with every possible sleeping position, but no matter which one I go for, my wrists feel like they’re on fire. I finally drop off around dawn, sleeping for what seems like about two seconds before my alarm goes off and it’s time to get up.

  In the bright light of day, the spots look even angrier and redder than they did in the night. Even though they’re still itching like crazy, at least I can hide them under the cuffs of my school shirt.

  By the time I reach school though, the itching has spread to my neck. I duck into the toilets before registration to assess the damage. The back of my neck is covered with raised red bumps identical to the ones on my wrists. Reluctantly, I release my hair from its usual sensible plait and arrange it down my back.

  I should have known my change in hairstyle wouldn’t escape Tanvi’s attention.

  ‘Your hair!’ she gasps as I sit down. ‘It looks so pretty! Emerson, Abi, doesn’t Ro’s hair look pretty?’

  Emerson and Abi turn round.

  ‘Sure,’ Abi says, shrugging.

  ‘Er, yeah, really nice,’ Emerson says, barely looking at me.

  Who is Tanvi kidding? Since leaving the toilets and sprinting across the courtyard in the drizzle, my hair has practically doubled in size, wiry hairs sticking out in all directions like I’ve been freshly electrocuted.

  ‘It’s just so thick and wavy,’ Tanvi continues to gush. ‘Mine is so wispy. When my hair grew back last year, I ended up with all this weird baby hair. See!’ – she points to her hairline – ‘Super annoying.’

  I hadn’t considered the fact that Tanvi probably lost her hair during her cancer treatment. I picture her sitting in a stark white hospital bed with a bald head covered with downy tufts of hair, big startled eyes dominating her delicate face even more than they already do.

  ‘What made you wear it down today?’ Tanvi asks.

  My stomach turns over. ‘No special reason,’ I say, sitting on both hands to stop them from reaching to scratch my flaming neck. ‘Just fancied a change.’