Paper Airplanes

by Dawn O'Porter

  Limbs fly everywhere as I drag her to the floor. At first I am on top, pulling at her uniform, trying to win the fight without actually hitting her, because despite my brazen move I can’t bear the idea of whacking another human in the face. I wrestle like a dog playing, all teeth and thumping paws but no claws. And then she punches me. Right in the eye. It really hurts.

  “Sally Du Putron, what on earth are you doing?”

  Miss Anthony is standing over us. Her timing is impeccable.

  “She attacked me, miss. I was defending myself,” says Sally, nursing her sore fist.

  “Well, that isn’t exactly what I saw,” Miss Anthony says.

  Almost everyone in the classroom nods.

  “But, miss,” continues Sally, “she pulled me off the desk and started attacking me. I had to punch her to get her off.”

  “Punching someone in the face is unacceptable, no matter what the circumstances. If Renée was attacking you so badly why didn’t one of the other girls try to get her off you? I’m going to issue you with a detention, Sally. Fighting is unacceptable at Tudor Falls.”

  “But, miss, I have never had a detention. I would never start a fight,” Sally begs.

  “You did start it,” I hiss. “You and your big, nasty mouth.”

  “OK, Renée, that is quite enough. You have a detention too. Both of you stay behind after school next Wednesday. I will be writing to both of your parents—guardians, that is,” she says, looking at me, “to tell them why.” Miss Anthony walks to the front of the class. “Right, now please, can everyone take their seats. I have some very sad news, and I need your full attention.”

  Sally and I head for our desks. The temptation to pull her chair out from under her is hard to resist.

  “You may have heard that Flo’s father has passed away,” begins Miss Anthony.

  Sally’s face drops as the position of “news breaker” is hijacked by someone with more authority.

  “He was found yesterday afternoon at his home,” Miss Anthony continues.

  “He was in his front garden. He was wearing his slippers,” Sally interjects, desperate to be involved in the storytelling.

  “Yes, Sally. Thank you,” says Miss Anthony, silencing her. “Flo and her family are obviously devastated at his sudden passing, and so I ask that when Flo comes back to school, when she is ready, that you all respect her and handle the situation with care. The funeral will be held on Monday, and if any of you feel that your presence will be useful and supportive for Flo, then I will happily excuse you from lessons that afternoon.”

  Sally’s hand shoots up. “I will be going, Miss Anthony. I am Flo’s best friend.”

  “Thank you, Sally. I will make note of your absence. As Flo’s best friend I hope you realize how important you are to her right now. At times like these, friends and family are everything. So take good care of your friend.” Miss Anthony nods her head as if to close that conversation. “Right, you had all better make your way down to assembly. Renée, Sally, please come to the staff room at lunchtime to get the confirmations of your detentions. You are all excused.”

  Sally’s smug look sweeps back across her face. I feel even more sorry for Flo knowing that she is stuck with that as her support system.

  The rest of the day is weird. Most people are acting normal, but I can’t see how they can. I keep thinking about Flo and what she must be going through. Wondering if Julian is being nice to her, if he is OK too. Is her mum realizing that she loved their dad after all? I think if Pop died, Nana would die on the spot. She might be terrified of him, but she can’t survive without him. He keeps her alive. I don’t have anyone in my life that I couldn’t survive without. I have no idea if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

  After school I walk home. When I arrive I go straight to the bathroom. I need the comfort of Mum’s drawer. I wonder if Flo has anything similar to remind her of her dad.

  When I open it I see that all of Mum’s makeup has been removed. In its place is a selection of sanitary towels and tampons.

  FLO

  “A neighbor found him in his front garden. Unfortunately it looks like he had a heart attack,” Miss Grut tells me gently.

  “Was he wearing his slippers?” I ask, knowing that Dad would have been mortified to be found outside with his slippers on. It really bothered him.

  “I don’t know, Florence. I am sure your mother will tell you everything you need to know when you get home. She says she will come and pick you up as soon as she has picked up your little sister from preschool. You can wait in my office until she gets here. Would you like me to get you anything? A drink of water?”

  I shake my head, trying to work out what she just said.

  I can hear machines. The phone, the fax, the printer—they are all so loud. The windows are closed. The air is thick—I feel like I’m breathing oil. I put my hands on my face, and it’s wet. Where is my mother?

  I breathe in more oil.

  Why am I sitting in this horrible, loud, oily room? Everything suddenly becomes unbearable. Miss Grut’s voice blends into all the other sounds, and I have no idea what she is saying to me. I run out. I think she calls after me, but I don’t stop. In the school foyer I bang into a table and land facedown on the floor. It is hard, but nothing hurts. I crawl out of the building. Then, on my knees in the middle of the netball court, I scream for my dad. It’s cold and the sky is full of broken clouds. I scream and scream until my head hurts so much that I can’t bear the sound of my own breath. There are people all around me. Someone is lifting me. I don’t resist them at all.

  Next thing I know, I am in my kitchen. I stare at a spot on the floor. No one is saying anything. Then I hear my mother’s voice.

  “Well, how much is it?”

  She’s on the phone. Abi is playing in the living room. Julian is sitting at the other end of the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

  “And when will we get it?”

  She puts the phone down.

  “He had life insurance. So at least that’s something.”

  I scan the room for objects to hit her with. I want to hammer her over the head with something—or stab her. I don’t know what stops me, but I guess that’s the difference between a good person and a murderer. The murderer doesn’t stop themselves, but that doesn’t mean that good people, like me, don’t have the same thoughts sometimes.

  “You have to understand the mental state he was in, Flo,” Mum says. “He wasn’t a happy man. When you do that to yourself it’s basically suicide.”

  The lid flies off my head.

  “Do WHAT to yourself? What did he DO to himself?”

  Mum looks at me. “He stopped trying to please other people and then he stopped trying to please himself. Flo, this is a result of his own actions, and you will have to accept that.”

  “You think he did that to HIMSELF?”

  I feel fire come from my feet, up my legs, through my belly, and into my face. It’s anger so hot that it’s burning holes in my clothes. I must have launched forward, because now I am being pressed into the wall by Julian, and Mum is looking at me with total shock from the other side of the table. I sit, panting, as tears fall like boulders from my eyes.

  How am I ever going to survive without my dad?

  RENÉE

  As I get to the end of the school lane I see Lawrence sitting on the wall, waiting for me. Hasn’t he gotten the message yet? Every step I take, I dread more and more having to speak to him. Before he fell in love with me he was so funny, so in control of himself. Now he is pitiful, everything he says is delivered with puppy-dog eyes that embarrass me, and I don’t want to look at him in case it encourages him or gives him the wrong impression. Why did he have to change? And why is he still wanting to see me after I so blatantly got off with someone else in front of him? He should hate me after that.

  “Hi,” he says as I get close to him.

  “Lawrence, I have stuff on my mind. I think I’d like to walk home on my own.” I ca
rry on walking past him. He doesn’t take any notice of what I say and follows me.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks, tripping over his feet to keep up.

  I want to make sure he knows that neither he nor Samuel is what is on my mind.

  “Flo Parrot’s dad died,” I say as I stop. “Everyone is acting like it never happened, but I keep thinking about her. I feel so sorry for her.” I stare at the ground. Too nervous to see the look on his face in case he takes it the wrong way and tells me he loves me again.

  “Come here,” he says after a little bit of internal decision making. “Come here.”

  I resist his cuddle for a few seconds, but then I relax. It’s nice to feel he is there for me, even if I don’t really know how I feel about him. It’s not like he has actually done anything wrong. I tell myself to lighten up.

  “Would you like to come to my house? I’ll make you cheese on toast,” he says, sounding more like the old Lawrence.

  I look at him. Maybe I should give this another chance, see if he’ll stop making me feel like I have to be lovey-dovey all the time. Maybe his recent behavior is just a silly phase. With this thought I say yes and walk with him to his house, still unsure whether it is a good idea or not.

  In Lawrence’s bedroom I sit on his bed and wait for him as the smell of toast wafts in. His room is big and very tidy. Books and VHS tapes are neatly lined up along the edges on the floor, and on the far side there is a big glass tank, home to his pet snake, Frank.

  I watch Frank slither around. I have always wanted a pet, but I don’t know why anyone would want a snake. What is the point in a pet you can’t cuddle? Being alone in the room with it starts to make me feel uncomfortable. I imagine its head butting the side of the tank and shooting toward me with big, sharp teeth. I feel pinned to the bed, convinced I am about to be savaged and poisoned to death. Lawrence’s room is suddenly the last place I want to be.

  “Here you go,” he says as he comes back in with a plate piled high with cheese on toast. “What’s the matter?”

  I realize that I am pressed right up against the wall.

  “Can he get out?” I say, pointing at Frank.

  “Only if I take him out.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “To give him a bit of freedom. I think it does him good after a big meal.”

  “What does he eat?” I ask, hoping Lawrence says “grass.”

  “Mice. I have lots of dead mice in the freezer. I drop them in, and he swallows them whole. It’s so cool to watch. Would you like to see?”

  “NO! No, I wouldn’t.” I take a piece of toast and turn myself sideways so I can’t see Frank. I don’t feel comfortable at all, for so many reasons. We sit and eat everything on the plate, then Lawrence gets up, puts a video in his machine, closes the curtains, and says, “Let’s watch a film.”

  One thing I know is that if you are in a boy’s bedroom and they suggest turning the lights off and watching a film, they have no intention of watching a film at all. It’s just an excuse to get you comfortable so they can try to get their hands in your pants. I immediately feel like an idiot for getting as far as his bedroom.

  “Here, sit back,” he says as he plumps up his pillows and leans on them. “Come and sit by me.”

  Not feeling that I have much choice, I do what he says and sit next to him on the bed. The film starts and I wait for a hand to start rubbing my leg. Sure enough, five minutes in and his little finger is starting to move. It’s in between us, but he has slowly pressed it closer to me so it is touching my outer thigh. He is moving it up and down in a very deliberate way. After a while his whole hand joins in, and then it moves onto my thigh. It rests there for a few seconds as we both pretend this isn’t happening, before creeping, very slowly, up toward my crotch. I am staring hard at the TV. I have no idea what the film is about, but I am pretending to be engrossed. If I ignore him enough, will he realize I don’t want this and stop?

  No. His fingers start to move again. Now they are right at the top of my thigh and starting to move in between them. His elbow is bent awkwardly and occasionally rubs against my boobs, and his little finger tickles me gently on my vagina. We continue to stare at the screen like it isn’t happening. Am I supposed to even notice? Finally he cups me and squeezes his hand, his elbow now hitting me in the face. I am pleased that it gives me something to react to.

  “Lawrence, stop it!” I say, grabbing his hand and pushing it away. “I don’t want to do that.”

  “OK, OK, I thought you wanted to. Sorry,” he says, clearly very embarrassed. “You give me so many mixed messages, Renée. You met me almost every day after school for months, but if I tried to do more than kiss you, you pushed me away like I was the most hideous thing ever. And you just did it again. Why did you come to my bedroom if you didn’t want to do something more? It’s not like you haven’t done loads of stuff with other guys!”

  “I haven’t done loads of stuff with other guys!” This is only half true. I feel angry that he coaxed me here and is now turning it around, making me look bad for coming. “Look, I don’t want some drippy boyfriend who follows me around and strokes my hair, OK?”

  He looks visibly damaged.

  “Well, I’m sorry for having feelings. It’s just that you never gave the impression you didn’t want me to fall in love with you, did you? You have led me on from the start, used me for fags and chips.”

  “I don’t use people for fags and chips,” I say, realizing that I kind of do, and what a horrible person that makes me. I grab my blazer from the end of the bed and go to the door. I hear a loud hiss as I leave. I can’t be sure if it came from Lawrence or Frank.

  FLO

  I know that there are lots of people sitting behind me in the chapel, but I can’t face turning around. I’ve cried so much and in front of so many people over the course of the past five days that I can’t bear it anymore. My head has a pain, like when you eat ice cream too quickly. My eyes are so red I’m wondering if it might be permanent, and I have dry skin all around my nostrils from wiping my nose so much.

  Family members have been coming to the house all week. I’ve met most of them a maximum of once in my whole life, mostly when I was a baby, so I have no memory of them at all. They have all offered me their condolences and told me how awful this must be for me, having been the last person in the family to see him alive.

  Is that supposed to make me feel better or more guilty? Because in all honesty I am ridden with guilt, and nothing anybody says to me is helping with that. I shouldn’t have left him. I should have gone to live with him, to keep his spirits up. Abi would have been OK, she could have spent more time with us. I could have cooked for him and made him laugh, made him feel better. All he needed was some confidence and he would have been fine. But I chose the big house over his big heart, and I absolutely hate myself for it. Dad’s sister Ada, who told him she would never speak to him again if he married my mother and therefore didn’t, assured me there was nothing I could have done to stop his heart attack. But I think Mum is quite enjoying the idea of me thinking that there was.

  The only person in our household who doesn’t give me grief is Abi. She isn’t at the funeral. That is one thing we all agreed on.

  Dad’s coffin looks too small. He was a big man, six feet two, with wide shoulders, so why is the coffin not bigger? It is the kind of question I would ask him if he were here. I mean here and alive, obviously.

  We are gathered here today to give thanks for the life of Marcus Walter Parrot. Father to Julian, Florence, and Abi, and loving husband to Theresa.

  I buckle at the sound of my mum’s name. I’m finding it hard to look at the vicar because he is standing so close to the coffin. I know that if I look at it, the tears will come back, and the thought of more crying makes my head ache even worse. I keep my head down and read the program that Aunty Ada put together. On the front cover, just under my dad’s name and the dates 1953–1994, she has put the words:

  Blessed are
they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Matthew 5:4–5.

  Blessed are the meek? Dad was meek, and he died—how is that blessed? I hear Sally cough behind me. A fake cough. A cough designed only to have people turn to look at her. Why can’t she be the meek one? I bet if she died tomorrow, people would say what a lovely girl she was. They’d use words like “popular” and “kind,” and everyone in the congregation would do their best not to shout “SHE WAS A BITCH” because it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead. But I bet that won’t stop my mother speaking ill of Dad. Poor Dad. I look up. The vicar is saying a prayer. Why is that coffin so small?

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust . . .

  I recognize these words from films and TV. I know this is coming to an end. A red velvet curtain starts to spread itself around the coffin. For the first time since the service started, I take in my surroundings and truly understand that my dad is inside it. As the curtain hides it I begin to panic. I didn’t know that was going to happen. I didn’t realize he was going to be obscured from my view like that and taken away before I was ready. And what happens next? Where will he be burned? Does it happen right here? In this building? Will I smell it? Aunty Ada starts sobbing loudly. It’s all so final. I am not prepared. I haven’t said good-bye; no one has said good-bye. This funeral has been too fast, too impersonal. This isn’t fair on Dad.

  I stand up.

  “I have to say something.”

  The curtain stops.

  I recognize a few people from Dad’s old job. The rest are neighbors, distant family members, and others I don’t know. In total I’d say there are around forty people. I want to take them all in. These are the people who have bothered to turn up to my father’s funeral; in essence, these are the only people I have in the world. What a weird mix of strangers, and how lonely I feel among them. I see Sally, dressed far too revealingly for church, looking back at me with her usual “don’t make a fool of yourself, Flo” face. I move my eyes away from her and try my hardest to ignore her presence. Then, right at the back, wearing her school uniform and a sort-of smile that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end, is Renée Sargent. Another fireball lights in my belly; this one feels better. I breathe in hard to put it out, focus on her eyes, and then start talking.