Paper Airplanes

by Dawn O'Porter

  “GROSS. I can’t believe you let me go in there with that going on.” He runs over to the pool and dunks his hand in like he’s being attacked by a swarm of wasps. I’m still lying down under the tree, just my feet illuminated by the outside lights. The empty bottle of white wine is next to me, my jeans are undone, my limbs and head are about as useful to me as cucumbers.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot,” I slur.

  “How can you forget?” he says with total disgust.

  “I’m not a very good drinker.”

  “No shit!” He picks up his bottle of sambuca and storms back to the pool house. After a few minutes I hear a roar of laughter. One cackle in particular makes me want to shrivel up and die under this tree. I have proved her right again.

  I feel so sick. If I can just get to a bed to have a little lie-down then I can sleep this off and get home later. I grapple onto all fours, then, like a sick dog trying to find somewhere to die, I follow the perimeter of the garden wall all the way to the main house. The door is open. I fall through it. This is better. I have no idea what happens next.

  RENÉE

  It’s 11 P.M. I am drunk. I think I’ve had about six ciders and quite a few shots of sambuca. Carla and Gem are both straddling their boyfriends on a sofa and there are loads of people around the pool, smoking weed. Samuel is now getting off with a girl from the year above, and Lawrence is nowhere to be seen. Sally just left—she was really drunk. Just before she went she was sitting alone on the floor with makeup smudged all over her face, her eyes rolling into her head. I was watching her through the window. After a good half hour of no one talking to her, she stumbled out of the pool house and down the driveway. Just as she got to the gate she threw up in a hedge, then her mum got out of her car and ran to help her, but Sally pushed her away and climbed into the backseat. It was like watching Cruella De Vil have a nervous breakdown. People like Sally really shouldn’t drink.

  I’m starving. Drinking does that to me. Carla and Gem never eat when we drink; they say it’s a waste of calories, but I have to. The snack cupboard is all I can think about. Maybe Gem’s mum will have some of that ready-made prawn cocktail dip she gets. I need a big dollop of that between two slices of white bread and a packet of salt and vinegar chips—that’ll sort me out. I have an excuse to go into the house because my bag is in there, so I walk boldly and with purpose to look less suspicious.

  As I walk through the entrance hall toward the kitchen I see a Doc Martens boot sticking out of the downstairs loo. I go to pick it up but realize it has a foot in it, and that there is a leg attached to the foot.

  “Margaret?”

  I pull the door open and expect to find her lying dead and murdered on the floor, but it isn’t Margaret. It’s Flo Parrot. She’s passed out on the floor with her pants down, holding a tampon. Further inspection reveals a used one in the toilet. I’m no Miss Marple, but I am guessing she’s fallen off the loo halfway through the job. This is doing nothing for my nausea.

  “Flo. FLO.” I shake her with my foot, but she doesn’t wake up. It’s a moral dilemma. This is Sally Du Putron’s best friend; she’s an enemy by proxy. Really I should just leave her, but she’s about to make a total mess on the floor. If she does that, Gem’s mum might get mad for once and not let us have any more parties, and besides, Flo Parrot has never actually done anything to me. She has to wake up.

  “Flo. FLO.” I kneel next to her and shake her as violently as I can without risking a brain injury. She is breathing and making groany noises but is totally out of it. I try all the obvious things, like splashing water in her face, running her hand under the cold tap—but then I remember that is what you do when you want a sleeping person to wet themselves, so I stop quite quickly. I shout in her ear, but nothing. It’s getting late—Gem’s parents will be home soon, and I can’t just leave Flo lying here with her pants down surrounded by period paraphernalia. I flush the toilet, pry the unused tampon out of her hand, think for a moment about doing the unthinkable but instead fold a massive wedge of loo roll and put it in her pants. After a bit of yanking and pulling, she is dressed again.

  “Flo, wake up . . . You can’t stay here. Flo. FLO!”

  I now feel totally responsible for her, which is annoying. If I leave her and she chokes on her vomit, then I will have played a big part in her death. Sally has left—not that she would have tried to help Flo anyway. She’d probably have taken loads of photos and then passed them around class on Monday. I exhale loudly, for no one’s benefit other than mine, and think about doing a runner, but I can’t do that. Nope, this is down to me. I have to get her home.

  I remember where she lives from a birthday party she had when we were in primary school. It’s not too far away. If I can just get her to stand up, I can probably walk her home. It’s amazing how an experience like this can sober you up.

  I get her to her feet. With one arm around my neck and her legs dragging on the ground, we’re off.

  “Come on, Flo. I’ll get you home. Everything’s going to be OK.”

  It takes us three-quarters of an hour to walk just under a mile. She falls into three hedges, nearly gets run over twice, and keeps saying, “I am not a good tinker,” which I presume means she isn’t a good drinker. I don’t think she has a clue that it’s me who’s with her.

  The house is bigger than I remember, a huge white townhouse on a main road just up from the hospital. Three cars are parked in the driveway, and there’s music and male voices coming from inside. I prop her up the best that I can next to me. I bang on the door.

  When he opens the door I nearly drop her. He’s holding a bottle of Budweiser that’s half full. His dark blond hair is messy but thick and clean. His eyes are dark brown, and they sparkle. His bottom lip is full, but the top one is thinner, with a perfect curve to his mouth that exposes some of his teeth. His nose is straight, and he has a bit of a beard. He’s tall, with broad shoulders. He’s wearing quite baggy jeans with a black T-shirt, and the top of his boxers is poking out. His chest is wide, his middle narrow, his legs long. His fingernails are clean, and his arms are the perfect amount of hairy. He is the most handsome person I have ever seen in real life. Every detail of his body floods my brain. Who is he?

  “For fuck’s sake,” are his first words. “Did you get her into this mess? Who are you?”

  “Renée. No, I found her and brought her home.” I feel very small all of a sudden. Like a little mouse.

  “Sure you did. Good one.” He takes her from me and we go inside. He drops her onto the sofa in front of all his friends.

  “We should take her upstairs. I don’t think she would want everyone seeing her like this,” I say, feeling sorry for Flo, who is looking pretty rough.

  “She’s my bloody sister. Who are you again?”

  “Renée,” I say, trying not to stare at him too much.

  “OK, well, I am going to carry her upstairs, and you’re going to get her into bed. Does that work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  He picks her up and throws her over his shoulder like a lumberjack moving a tree. I follow him upstairs. He’s bumping her around, but at least she isn’t being stared at by all his mates. In her room he drops her on the bed.

  “OK, over to you.”

  “Thank you,” I say as he goes to the door. “Where does she keep her pajamas?”

  He laughs and goes downstairs.

  I rummage through her drawers and find a pair of My Little Pony pj’s. She probably hasn’t worn them in years, but they will do for tonight. It isn’t easy getting them on her, but her clothes are filthy and I can’t let her sleep in them. She barely opens her eyes as I do it. When I’ve finished, I turn off the light and close the door.

  Downstairs in the hall I nervously push open the door to the living room. All five of the boys go quiet.

  “Bye then,” I say, trying to sound confident.

  He looks at me as if to suggest I should only have entered with something
interesting to say. I go to leave.

  “Hey, Renée,” he calls after me. “Nice jeans.”

  I could die.

  FLO

  Sally’s been a real cow this week. I don’t know if she’ll ever stop laughing at me about what happened Saturday night. There are only so many times you can be reminded of the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you. I don’t think I’ll ever go to another party again. Samuel is always out, I won’t be able to avoid him. I’ll be known as “Period Pants Parrot” forever. Maybe it will all be forgotten by everyone else, but there’s no chance Sally will let it go. She’s told everyone at Tudor Falls, and I know her dream scenario would be to bump into Samuel and his mates so that she can embarrass me in front of them.

  Double science on a Thursday morning is my favorite time of the entire week. Not because I’m riveted by the periodic table, but because I got dropped down a set, which ended up being the best thing ever. Sally is in Set One, I am in Set Two. This means I can only get a C or below in my exams but also that I get an hour and ten minutes away from her, which is worth the sacrifice of a grade A.

  I sit in the second row back in the science lab because the teacher, Mrs. Suiter, has a tendency to hold really uncomfortable eye contact if you sit at the front. I think it’s a nervous thing. When she’s speaking for more than, say, thirty seconds, she picks someone in the front row, locks eyes, and doesn’t let go until she turns to write something on the blackboard. I can’t handle it at all. I find myself not knowing what part of her face to look at—her nose or mouth, or sometimes I just go cross-eyed trying to focus on the bit in between her eyes. Sitting at the second bench from the front is the best solution.

  When Mrs. Suiter turns to write something on the blackboard, something hits me on the back of the head. I look down. There’s a paper airplane by my right foot with my name on it.

  Hey

  I hope you didn’t feel too awful on Sunday morning? Sorry about the My Little Pony pajamas, I couldn’t find anything else.

  Renée x

  I don’t move for around three minutes. What is she talking about? How does she know about my My Little Pony pajamas? I turn around to make a confused face at her. She smiles and waves. I smile too but I’m not sure why. This is very weird.

  Hey Renée

  Did you mean to send this to me?

  I fold the piece of paper, following the lines. It doesn’t quite make it to her at the back when I throw it, but she pretends to drop a pen off the front of the bench and walks around and picks it up. I’m not sure it would have crossed my mind to do that.

  A few minutes later it hits me on the head again. I unfold it to see a picture of a girl with horns on her head and big, mean teeth. SALLY is written across the top. I laugh so loud that Mrs. Suiter asks me what’s so funny. I tell her it was a sneeze and she believes me, which makes me laugh even more because it sounded nothing like a sneeze. She doesn’t think to tell me off—I hardly have a track record of messing around in class. I turn around and Renée giggles back at me. When the bell rings, she comes over to my seat.

  “Do you not remember me taking you home?”

  I think for a second. I remember something—something about falling into a hedge, and headlights. And someone helping me up.

  “Was that you? Oh no, was I embarrassing?” I ask, bracing myself to be laughed at.

  “No, just drunk. We’ve all been there,” Renée says, as if it were nothing.

  We start to walk into the corridor. I don’t really know what to say. This is all so bizarre. Renée Sargent was in my house? She dressed me for bed?

  “I’m sorry I got off with Samuel. I hope I didn’t upset you or anything,” I say, feeling guilty about that.

  “Don’t be silly. Samuel gets off with everyone. I really don’t care.”

  I look at her. Her face is so cheeky. She’s smiling like the sides of her mouth are being pulled by pieces of string. I find it absolutely impossible not to smile too. Then Sally’s voice comes booming down the corridor.

  “Flo, hurry up. We need to get down to the pavilion for hockey training early to tell Miss Trunks you’re swapping partners.”

  Back to reality.

  RENÉE

  I’m currently doing everything I can to be kicked off the hockey team. Today’s tactic is simply to not go to practice. For months now I have been deliberately rubbish, but all that seems to do is get me yelled at by Miss Trunks, who is by far the moodiest person I have ever met in my entire life, and from someone who lives with Pop, that is saying something. She’s fat and ugly, and she hates girls. Well, she hates girls who don’t suck up and who are not Olympic-standard hockey players. Do they even play hockey in the Olympics?

  Why would I want to run around a field in the freezing cold wearing a tiny skirt and a massive pair of hideous regulation-green knickers? I hate having to wear regulation-green knickers, but if Miss Trunks sees we’re not wearing them she screams so loud her face turns red, and we get an order mark. I don’t want to get order marks for things like not wearing massive pants. I need to save up my order marks for stuff that actually matters, like skiving lessons, being caught smoking, flicking fountain pen ink at people, and playing really funny tricks on Sally Du Putron when she isn’t looking.

  So today, instead of hockey practice, I am sitting just on the other side of the wall from the hockey field, in a circle in an old stone Victorian bath, holding hands with Margaret Cooper, Nancy Plum, Bethan Collins, and Charlotte Pike. We are having a séance. I nearly asked Flo Parrot to join us, but just as I went up to her, Sally ran over waving a hockey stick, and I honestly thought she was going to hit me with it. I can’t see why Flo is best friends with Sally. Flo seems so nice, and Sally is a real tit.

  “All we have to do is close our eyes, hold hands, and imagine a dead person,” says Nancy, our class hippie. “My mum told me the spirits just appear.”

  “I’m a bit scared,” says Bethan in her littlest voice. “What if they want to kill us?”

  Everyone loves Bethan because she is small and has a voice like a five-year-old. She’s best friends with Charlotte Pike, who is massive, but not in a fat way. She’s “big-boned,” or so she tells us all the time. She’s quite manly, with a deep, loud voice, but she’s got long black hair and big boobs.

  “Don’t be scared, Bethan,” she says. “It’s daylight, and we are outside. If any spirits are scary, then I will just sit on them and you can run away.”

  We all laugh.

  “Right, who we gonna call?” asks Nancy. We all yell “Ghostbusters” in unison, then apologize to each other for being so obvious. The nice thing about these girls is that no one is remotely cool. Bad jokes happen with no piss-taking, and no one cares about boys or clothes. It’s very different from being with Carla and Gem. Lovely as they are, all they talk about is their boyfriends, their new clothes, the parties they go to. It all gets a bit boring. I like being girly to a point, but it can all get a bit high-pitched and frilly with Carla and Gem. With this little crowd I am the cool one. I like that.

  “I don’t know anyone who is dead,” says Bethan.

  “What about Marilyn Monroe?” suggests Charlotte.

  “Do you honestly think Marilyn Monroe will come and visit us in this old stone bath in Guernsey?” Nancy snaps.

  “She might. My mum says that when you die it doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like anymore,” says Charlotte confidently.

  “Well, we can’t call Marilyn Monroe. Has anyone got any other suggestions?” Nancy says, losing her patience a little.

  There is a few minutes’ silence. I find myself closing my eyes and screwing my face up as if preparing to be punched. And then Margaret blurts, “What about your mum, Renée?”

  I open my eyes. All four of them are looking at me like hungry puppies.

  “I’m not bothered,” are my first words. Shortly followed by, “Sure, whatever.”

  I never let on a shred of emotion about Mum at school. I p
retend I don’t care, if I mention it at all. It’s easier for me that way, because generally as soon as someone shows me sympathy, I burst out crying.

  “Great!” says Margaret as she grabs Bethan’s and Nancy’s hands. Charlotte squints at me and lowers her head to find my eyes. When I look back at her she raises her eyebrows as if to ask, “Sure?”

  I nod dramatically and reach for their hands. “Let’s do it! I don’t believe in this nonsense anyway.”

  “Calling the spirits. Spirits, are you there?” starts Nancy in a weird, breathy voice. “Spirits, come to the bath and show us your face.”

  “SHOW US YOUR FACE?” cries Margaret hysterically. “What if they died in an accident and their face is mangled?”

  “Bloody hell, have some respect, Margaret,” says Charlotte. “Renée’s mum didn’t die in an accident, she died of cancer. Her face will be fine.”

  This isn’t true. The last time I saw my mother’s face it was gray and loose, like an empty plastic bag. Her eyes looked lower than they had before. Her cheekbones stuck out like hard lumps that were hurting her from the inside. Her face wasn’t fine at all. I don’t want to see it again, not like that.

  “Oh yes, sorry. I forgot we were calling your mum. Maybe you should ask her to come on her own, Nancy? We might get all sorts turning up if you just say ‘spirits,’” says Charlotte, taking control.

  “OK, good idea. What was your mum’s name, Renée?” asks Nancy, with no sense of awkwardness about using the word “was.”

  “Helen,” I say, my eyes still closed. My head is telling me not to believe in this, but I still find myself imagining her face. What if she comes? What will I say?

  “Right, then, Helen it is. OK, everyone hold hands again.” Nancy gets herself back into the zone. “Helen, are you there? Helen?”

  My mind starts to wander—back to when I didn’t even know she was dying. The warmth of Charlotte’s and Bethan’s hands feels so nice in the cold air; the distant sound of the hockey game turns into a low hum. I start to visualize her. I can smell her, the best smell in the world—Chanel No. 5, cigarettes, and leather. The perfect smell.