Paper Airplanes

by Dawn O'Porter

  The rain is getting heavier. We are sheltered from it, but I wonder if I have a plastic bag in my school bag that I can use to cover my hair for the walk home. I start to look, but drop my bag when she casually says, “Sex?”

  My throat tightens. I bet Renée has got off with loads of boys. What am I supposed to talk about in a conversation about sex? I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation about sex.

  “Have you ever done it?” I ask, trying to make it as much about her as possible.

  “No. Not full sex, but I have done everything else.”

  “Like what? Have you done blow jobs?” I ask, feeling silly for saying “blow jobs” out loud.

  “Yeah, they’re all right. You just have to shut your eyes and hold your breath. It never takes long.”

  “How do you know when to stop?”

  “Oh wow, you really haven’t done anything, have you?” she says, trying to stop herself from laughing at me.

  The truth is I haven’t. Sally has never let me get close enough to anyone to even try. And she makes me feel so stupid and insecure, and fat and ugly, that unless I’m out of my brain like I was under that bush with Samuel, then I just don’t have the confidence to do that stuff with a boy. I avoid her question.

  “Why didn’t you do it with Lawrence?” I ask.

  “Because I didn’t want to. He would be my first, and I don’t want to regret it. But who knows if it will work out that way. I guess it will depend on how drunk I am when the moment comes.”

  She laughs, but she isn’t really joking.

  “Renée, you will tell me when you have sex for the first time, won’t you? I think we both know you will do it first.”

  “Sure, friends tell each other everything, right?”

  “Right!”

  She draws a noughts and crosses grid on the wall and we start to play. I win.

  RENÉE

  “Margaret,” I whisper loudly as I poke my head out of the cloakroom. “The dark ones, just the dark ones.”

  She crawls along the corridor on her hands and knees, digging out the carpet tiles with a pen and holding them under her arm as she goes.

  “How many have you pulled up?” she shouts back, thinking that she whispered it. I turn to Flo, who has six tiles in her hand, and relay it back to Margaret.

  It’s lunchtime, and while everyone else is downstairs in the dining room, we are upstairs swapping the carpet tiles in the corridor with the different-colored ones in the cloakroom. Why this amuses us so much I am not quite sure, but Margaret and I have done it for years. We are the Phantom Carpet Shifters, and for years teachers have tried to catch us in the act. People speculate that it’s us, and Miss Trunks has even checked my fingernails for bits of fluff before, but until they catch us, we are innocent. This time is the most fun ever, though, because Flo is with us too.

  “I can’t believe it was you all this time,” she says. “I used to think this was so funny, but Sally said whoever did it was immature.”

  We lay the dark red tiles in the spots where the beige ones used to be and press them down with our feet.

  “Why is this so fun?” asks Flo. We laugh, unable to answer the question. It just is.

  “Teeeeeaaaaacccchhhheeerrrrrr!” screeches Margaret as she runs back in and dives under all the duffel coats that have fallen off their pegs. Like clockwork I get under the pile on the other side of the room, completely forgetting that Flo doesn’t have our ingrained hiding tactics. From my spot on the floor, I watch her through a buttonhole as she runs awkwardly around the cloakroom with one last tile in her hands.

  “Flo Parrot! Of all the girls to find, I never expected it to be you,” says Miss Le Hurray as she storms in. Flo drops what she is holding like it is made of fire. She looks terrified. I feel so bad that she is left to take the blame. Just as I’m about to creep out from under the pile of coats and fess up to years of carpet tile rearranging, Flo starts to speak.

  “Yes. It was me. It was me swapping the carpet tiles all along.”

  What is she doing?

  “It’s always been me. Just me. I’ve done it for years,” Flo says proudly.

  For a moment Miss Le Hurray looks at her like she might be joking. But a confession is a confession, and there isn’t much to question when Flo gets down on her hands and knees and starts pressing in the last red tile from the corridor floor into a gap.

  “Right, I see. Please stop that now, Flo, and follow me downstairs. I am taking you to see Miss Grut.”

  Flo follows her out of the cloakroom, turning back at the last second to wink at the pile of coats that she knows I am underneath. I wait to hear the double doors shut before I move.

  “PHEW, that was a close one,” says Margaret in a voice that makes me wonder if she had been holding her breath the entire time.

  “Yeah, phew,” I reply, emotional and amazed that Flo took the blame for us. I hurry downstairs and sit opposite Miss Grut’s office, pretending to read a magazine about careers. Eventually Flo comes out.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Flo tells me nonchalantly. “She just thinks I am acting up because of what happened to Dad. I got a warning and had to promise not to move any more carpet tiles. Maybe you and Margaret should stop doing it now. I think I would get into a lot of trouble if it happened again.”

  “No, sure. Of course. Thank you!” I still can’t quite believe Flo did that.

  “It’s fine.” Flo grins. “It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it? It was quite exciting. I have to go and put them all back now. You could help me with that?”

  We head back upstairs, and when all the tiles are back where they should be, I nip to the loo, leaving Flo sitting on a pile of duffel coats, eating an apple. I can’t stop smiling.

  As I am coming back into the cloakroom, I stop when I hear voices.

  “What do you mean you had lunch up here? Why?” It’s Sally’s voice. She sounds annoyed, as usual.

  “I just wanted some peace and quiet, that’s all,” Flo tells her.

  “I think what happened to your dad has made you go a bit funny lately. Anyway, come on. I want to go through our history prep for this afternoon.”

  I hear them leave the cloakroom with absolutely no resistance from Flo. It wipes the smile right off my face.

  RENÉE

  I am loaded up with crisps. I have three packets of Quavers, two of Wotsits, one cheese-and-onion Walkers, and one salt-and-vinegar Walkers. After five weeks of secretly meeting Flo almost every day after school, I now know that she eats all the Wotsits, so I always buy two packets. We start with a packet of those each, then tear open all the other packets and share them while we talk about life in general. She usually eats most of the cheese-and-onion ones, and today is no different. I don’t mind; I like salt and vinegar the most. We are sitting on the back of someone’s boat in the marina facing the town. A white stripy canopy is sheltering us from the rain, and the other boats act as windbreaks, making this boat an unlikely hideout from the cold.

  “What’s the most embarrassing thing about your body?” I ask, my mouth full of crisps.

  She stops chewing and looks at me suspiciously.

  “Come on. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” I press.

  She takes a deep breath, exhales just as fast, and with a surprising level of calm says, “I have a long dark hair growing out of my right nipple.”

  I spit a mouthful of Quavers out into the sea. They congeal on the surface and get further mashed by the rain that’s falling out of the sky like dead birds. A rogue Quaver wedges itself in my throat, making me hack as I bend forward trying to cough it up. Flo doesn’t help me by slapping me on the back. When I catch my breath, red faced and still horrified, I manage to eke out, “SERIOUSLY?”

  “Well, you asked,” Flo says, sounding a bit cross.

  “Wait, but what do you mean? Like a head hair or a pube? And out of what part of your nipple?”

  “I guess it’s a bit pubey. It
’s thicker than the ones on my head and it goes out of the bit around my nipple. Renée, STOP laughing at me. You asked me, I was honest, and now you will tell everyone and I’ll never live it down!”

  She slumps back. For a moment I presume she is joking, but then she starts to cry. Really cry. Like the rain.

  “That’s just what I need, another friend who thinks I am hideous,” she says through her tears.

  I feel awful.

  “I don’t think you’re hideous, Flo. I was just shocked that you went straight in there with the nipple hair thing. I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

  “But you asked me what the most embarrassing thing on my body is. I was being honest. Now I feel like a giant freak.”

  I snuggle up as close to her as I can. “I love you for your honesty,” I tell her.

  She sniffs and wipes her eyes.

  “Anyway, I’m not one to judge, I have to bleach my big toes with Nana’s mustache cream because they’re so hairy. Oh, and look.” I lean over to rest on one buttock and pull down the side of my school skirt, simultaneously lifting up my shirt. “Look, I have terrible stretch marks. I hate them so much I never want to be naked, ever.” My stretch marks are purple and shimmery, and I’m sure they’re getting worse. I have them on my sides, inside my thighs, and on my boobs. “I think I am the gross one. At least you can pluck your hair out. I’m stuck with these forever.”

  She stares at them, really stares. Showing my stretch marks to someone is my biggest fear, but I owed it to her after laughing so hard at her nipple. She unfolds her arms, obviously reassured that me baring my stretch marks means I’m not going to tell everyone about her right boob.

  “You can put them away now.” She pauses. “You’re just a bit stripy, right? Stripes are pretty. If they really bother you, I won’t pluck my nipple hair out so we are equal. How’s that?”

  “Deal,” I say, and we eat some more crisps. “Thanks for being sweet about my stretch marks. I feel way better about them now.” I pause for a few long seconds. “But pluck that hair out of your nipple. Please?”

  She thumps me on my arm.

  As we walk toward home her brolly is torn inside out by a massive gust of wind. This winter on Guernsey is particularly brutal. Pop says it is the sea air reminding us that we are nothing in the grand scheme of things and that we are at the mercy of nature at all times. Trust him to remind me that there’s no point in bothering with life at all.

  We walk into the rain, our arms linked and our heads pushing through it like snowplows. It’s too cold to have a conversation, so we focus on the top of the hill where we say good-bye most days when we split to go our separate ways. Just as we are reaching it, Flo screams and drags me off the pavement and behind a bush. With twigs tangled in my hair and leaves in my mouth, I spit and splutter until I manage to ask her what on earth she thinks she is doing.

  “That was Sally’s mum’s car. It was coming right toward us. Thank God we were near this bush. I should have known she would come this way after clarinet. Phew!” She is pleased with herself.

  With half a tree stuck in my hair, I’m struggling to see the brilliance of our situation.

  “Great. Well, I’m glad she didn’t see us. God forbid you will ever be honest about us,” I huff.

  I storm back into the rain. I’m so angry I could scream at full volume in her face. What is Flo’s problem?!

  “Renée, wait. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s WRONG? Are you mental? We have met almost every day after school for more than a month. We tell each other everything. You take the rap for bad things I do, we have this amazing time together, and then all day in classes you ignore me like I don’t exist. And I have to watch you and Sally together, and you licking her arse and not telling her about me. And when she says something mean to me, you just stand there. I don’t even answer back like I used to, I take it and you just stand there and let her speak to me the way she does. What about the fact that I am your best friend now? How do you think that feels, Flo? It feels HORRIBLE, that is how it feels. HORRIBLE.”

  I leave her standing in the rain. I deliberately go slowly so she can catch up, but she doesn’t. I get all the way home, and she never comes after me. The smell of burnt pastry wafts into my face as I open the door of the house.

  We eat our dinner to the sound of Pop grunting like a pig. Nell looks agonized by her own thoughts, her cheekbones like fists under her skin. Nana seems to have no concept of how bad the dinner she has cooked us tastes. Then Nell starts talking.

  “I’m thinking about getting in touch with Dad. I want to see him.”

  Pop slams down his cutlery. Nana stiffens like a corpse. I close my eyes.

  “I have the right to see my own father. It isn’t his fault he left. You made him,” Nell continues.

  She is in one of her provocative moods. Statements like this can only go one way in our house. She wants to cause a fight, a big fight. She’s decided tonight is the night.

  “I want his phone number. I know you have it. I want to see him, and you have to let me.”

  Pop’s lid flies off, I swear I see it. He stands up and crashes his hands down on the table. He pushes his face forward and right up close to Nell’s. I remain silent.

  “Your father made his own choice. He ran off with some Spanish tart and left us to deal with his mess.”

  “Is that what we are? His mess? Mum’s mess?” says Nell, getting louder and more determined. She screams. A long, loud, frustrated scream that makes me cover my ears with my hands. Then she runs upstairs and locks herself in the bathroom.

  Pop sighs very loudly, then turns to me. “What nonsense have you been filling her head with for her to say those things?”

  “I haven’t said anything to her, Pop. That’s how she feels.”

  “Go and do some revision or you’ll fail everything. Then what will people say about me? That I didn’t bring you up right?” he says as he points at the door.

  “That’s right, love. Go and do your schoolwork. The exams aren’t far away now,” Nana says quietly.

  I sit on my bed, listening to Nell sobbing in the bathroom and Pop’s voice bellowing and plates smashing, as he deals with his anger the only way he knows how.

  FLO

  I didn’t run after Renée because I couldn’t tell her what she wants to hear. When I thought Sally was going to see me with her, I panicked. I felt like the ground was opening up and I was going to get sucked in.

  Renée thinks it will be easy to tell Sally, but if I do, then I will still have to sit next to her for the rest of the year. We will still be in the same classes for everything but science, and she will never let us just get on with being friends. The only way Renée and I can keep seeing each other is to keep it secret. Maybe over time I can phase out my friendship with Sally, maybe by the time we come back for sixth form she will have found someone else to boss around, and Renée and I can sit next to each other and then it will all be fine, but it’s how we get to that that terrifies me. I need Renée to give me more time. Sally is not someone you just break news to. There’s a system. I just need to work out what that system is.

  When I get back to the house I’m soaking wet and starving. Mum has recently decided that ready meals are the best way to feed me, so the fridge is full of them. I hate ready meals. Dad used to cook big dinners before he moved out, but Mum never ate much of them. She lived on a diet of coffee and fags. Spaghetti Bolognese, chicken curry, lasagna—if I concentrate hard enough I can still smell them. I inhale deeply and imagine the smell filling the house. Dreaming of the meals Dad used to cook, I follow my nose into the kitchen, but I don’t quite make it to the fridge.

  “Flo,” says Mum in a stern voice. She is sitting at the head of the kitchen table. There is a man leaning against the sink. I don’t recognize him. “This is Fred. He is going to come and live with us. OK?”

  I fall silent for what feels like half an hour. Neither of them offers to chat through it. Move in? Already? The
house still smells of Dad.

  “What do you mean, live with us? In Dad’s house?”

  “It isn’t your dad’s house anymore. It’s my house, and yes, Fred is going to come and live with us in this house.”

  I hear a banging in the hallway. Two men carry Mum’s mattress down the stairs, and a new one is shortly brought in. I watch this while we stand in another cold pool of silence.

  “Hello, Flo. Nice to meet you.” Fred reaches out a hand to me. I shake it. His palms are clammy, and his eyes are creepy. He is tall, and his face is shiny. His hair isn’t blond, but it isn’t brown, it’s browny-gray. A bit of it is combed over his head to hide some baldness, but it’s thin and pointless really, I can see his skin through it. I don’t say anything at all.

  “We are going to go to France for a few days,” says Mum. “We leave tonight. The childminder will have Abi while you’re at school, but you need to take over when you get home. I’ll be back at lunchtime Thursday. OK?” Mum’s tone suggests I have no choice but to agree.

  “OK,” I say like a robot. I’m stunned and unable to do much more than stand there looking at them.

  They both leave the kitchen and go upstairs. My appetite has gone.

  I go into the living room. Julian is watching TV and drinking a beer.

  “Julian, do you know about this man who is going to live with us?” I still have something of the robot about me.

  “Fred. Yes. Mum met him at work. He’s all right.”

  “She is supposed to go to work to get money to feed us all. Not to get a man to live with us all. What is happening?” I’m shocked by how unconcerned he is by Fred.

  “She doesn’t have to work anymore. The life insurance came through. Everything’s fine now,” Julian tells me.

  “Everything is fine now? Excuse me? Is Dad being dead, Mum being rich off the back of it, and some random bald man suddenly living with us the definition of fine?”

  He doesn’t offer the slightest hint that he cares.

  “And when are we going to spread Dad’s ashes? I can’t keep looking at them in that box on the mantelpiece. Shall we spread them down at the harbor? I think he would like to be in the sea.”