Paper Airplanes

by Dawn O'Porter

  I get to Gem’s house at about 8 P.M. The driveway is glowing with fairy lights and Christmas decorations. It’s a winter wonderland. I try to imagine what it might be like to come home to a house like this every day after school in the runup to Christmas, to walk in the door and for the house to smell like pinecones and the fridge to be full of food, everyone smiling and Christmas music playing. Carla’s house is just the same. They both think this is normal.

  “Helloooooo,” I shout as I walk in the door.

  “Renée! So good to see you. Happy Christmas and welcome.” Gem’s dad leads me into the kitchen, where everyone else is.

  “Renée, YAAAAAY!” say Carla and Gem at the same time.

  There’s Carla and Gem, their boyfriends, Mark and Adam, and Gem’s mum. I hadn’t expected their boyfriends to be here, so I instantly feel like a gooseberry, and my mood crashes. Almost as soon as I walk in, I want to get out.

  “Renée has been AWOL. We think she’s got a new boyfriend,” says Gem suggestively.

  A chorus of “Oooooooo” fills the room.

  “No, honestly, I’ve just been concentrating on schoolwork,” I tell them, hoping to end that conversation.

  “PAHAHA, good one,” says Carla. “You never concentrate on schoolwork. It’s a boooooyyyy.”

  “No. Honestly, I haven’t got a new boyfriend.” I turn to Gem’s mum. “The house looks lovely, Mrs. Gardner.”

  “Well, you have to make an effort at Christmas, don’t you? I am sure your grandparents have the place looking super too,” says Gem’s mum. There’s an awkward silence. “Right, then. We’d better be off,” she continues. “Have fun, all of you. ONE glass of wine each, OK? Oh, and Renée, I keep meaning to call your grandmother to ask her, but can you bring Gem’s white jeans with you next time? You’ve had them for a while.” She says it nicely, but she gives me a weird look.

  “OK, Mum,” says Gem. “GO. God, why are parents SO embarrassing? Go. GO!” Gem ushers them out the door.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gardner think this is hilarious. They leave.

  “So is it just us then?” I ask.

  “Yup, just us and loads of wine,” says Gem as she pours herself a huge glass and then gives Adam the kind of Frenchie I thought only happened in films. Carla is sitting with her legs wrapped around Mark, and I feel like the world’s biggest lemon sitting on my own on a kitchen chair. This used to happen all the time and it didn’t bother me, but it’s different now.

  “So seriously, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. You disappear after school every day, and we never see you on the weekends. Who is your secret?” Gem takes a huge swig of wine, then hands it to Adam for some totally unnecessary glass sharing.

  “No one. Things have just been really tough at home. Things are hard, that’s all.”

  I know this is a slight fabrication, but I have promised Flo I’d keep quiet about us, and besides, I want to test them. I have been the third wheel in this friendship for around ten years. They have no idea who I really am. It’s the exact opposite of my friendship with Flo. All these years I’ve passed off their lack of interest in me as an innocent vacancy, but it’s now feeling more like selfishness. I don’t belong here.

  “Yeah,” I continue. “Nell is really sick. She’s bulimic. Pop is getting angrier and angrier. Nana is showing signs of madness, I’m sure of it. I share a room with a person who hates my guts, I’m not allowed to watch the TV shows I want to watch, and the food I get is generally burnt or out-of-date. All in all, being at home is really shit, and I hate my life.”

  Silence.

  More silence. Except for an awkward laugh from one of the boys.

  “Right . . .” says Carla. “Um, well, at least it’s Christmas, right? You can all have a really nice time and then 1995 will be a whole new year, and you guys can make everything better.”

  “Yes, I’m sure your grandpa is just upset because it’s so cold,” Gem says dimly.

  “No, Gem, he isn’t upset because it’s cold. He is upset because my mum died of cancer and lumbered him with me and Nell, who is starving herself because she hates herself so much. I wake up every day in the room that my mum died in after spending the night dreaming about her in various stages of her illness. Considering all that, I really don’t think anything is going to improve when the sun comes out, do you?” I say with an intense stare.

  They look at each other for support, neither of them even thinking to support me. There is more silence.

  “Well, this has all got a bit depressing, hasn’t it?” says Adam finally, in his big, dumb, posh voice. “Shall we all get pissed and move on?”

  A round of wine is poured, and some crisps are emptied into a bowl. I am acting out of character, and I’m not quite sure where it’s coming from. I didn’t plan this.

  “So what are you asking for for Christmas then?” asks Gem nervously, clearly unsure of how I will respond and equally as unsure of how she will cope if I carry on with more depressing stories about life outside of My Little Pony Land.

  “I don’t do a Christmas list. It feels a bit mean when Nana and Pop have so little money. Not everyone can have what they want,” I say, being deliberately snide.

  They all flinch at my snarky remark, and just for a moment I feel bad. They have asked me over for a fun Christmas party, and I am throwing this stuff at them out of nowhere. Spending time with people who only want one version of me is exhausting, though, and it’s making me angry.

  “Renée, babe, not being funny, but it’s Christmas and this is all a bit of a downer,” offers Carla. “We should all just have some fun. I’m sure everything with your family will work out in the end.”

  My friendship with them makes no sense. I get up.

  “I’m going to go. You guys don’t have the brain space for anyone else, and I am a bit tired of trying to get you to notice me.”

  “Bloody hell, someone’s ego thinks it should be the center of attention,” guffaws Adam.

  “Yeah, Renée. Carla and I are best friends. We don’t mean to leave you out, but we are best friends,” says Gem.

  “I know,” I say, “and you’re lucky to have each other, but I don’t want to be your tagalong anymore. It makes me feel like shit. I don’t want to ruin your Christmas, I just felt I had to be honest with you.”

  As I get to the door I hear Carla say, “She’s just in a bad mood. She’ll get over it.” Then they carry on talking about something else.

  I walk to Flo’s house. All the lights are on, so I brave her crazy mum and knock on the door, hoping she’s home.

  The door opens.

  It’s him.

  Every time I see him words become a challenge and my heart pounds with fear, or panic, or something.

  “Ahh, Little Miss Chocolate Fingers. Hello.”

  I want to push my finger into his mouth. Have him suck it while I gaze into his eyes. Be cool, Renée. Be cool.

  “Hello.”

  Trying to act cool isn’t easy when you feel like your heart is going to burst through your chest. “Is, um, Florence home?” I have no idea why I just called her Florence.

  He pauses. There is no need for it. He obviously knows the answer.

  “No. She went to the cinema with that Sally girl. Want to come in and wait for her? I’m up in my bedroom.”

  Did I hear him right? Is he joking?

  “I . . . in, your . . .”

  “I’m kidding, but she won’t be much longer. Come and wait with me. I’ll give you some Nutella. You like that, don’t you?”

  I follow him into the kitchen like a dog on a leash, past the Christmas tree in the hall, which is surprisingly impressive, and into the kitchen. At the table I take a seat. He puts a pot of Nutella in front of me with a teaspoon in it.

  “More licking, less sucking this time, don’t you think?”

  I can barely coordinate my hand to pick up the spoon. He sits next to me, watching me, smiling, his eyes squinting. I feel like a mouse again, so small a
nd squeaky, and he is big, like a bear. He could pick me up and ravish me with his mouth if he wanted to. I want him to. Why am I being so pathetic? He looks at my face like he wants to eat it.

  “You not hungry?”

  I realize I’m sitting still with a spoon full of Nutella in my hand, trying to take my eyes off his face.

  “I can’t swallow.”

  He takes the spoon out of my hand and puts it to my lips. My mouth pops open, and the spoon goes in.

  “Lick it,” he says.

  My tongue rigidly works the chocolate spread off the spoon, and I gulp to get it down.

  “That’s it,” he says. He moves forward until his face is so close to mine that I could touch it with my tongue. His breath smells like chocolate and beer, and the heat from his face makes my top lip wet. I worry he might hear my heart, it’s beating so fast.

  “You’re very pretty,” he says, his lips now so close to mine that I can feel them move.

  “Thanks,” I reply, breathy and shy.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asks, but starts before I have the chance to answer. It’s the softest, wettest kiss I’ve ever had. He pushes his tongue in past my lips and moves it perfectly around my mouth. I try to reciprocate, but my tongue won’t do what I want it to do, so I stop trying and just let him kiss me. I barely notice his hand moving up my leg and into my knickers. Even if I wanted him to get off me, I wouldn’t be able to make him. I feel like my muscles have stopped working, and there is no way I can speak. He is kissing my mouth and all around my mouth, but I’m unable to kiss him back. I just take it, my jaw dropped open, my tongue hanging uselessly. Then I feel my body clench, my feet leave the ground, and I fall forward like I’m wrapping myself around a ball. I know my cheeks are blushing, and my whole body is tingling. No one but me has ever made that happen before. I don’t know what I am supposed to say or do. I don’t want him to look at my face, so I keep looking down.

  He takes his hand away and pulls my skirt back over my legs.

  “My turn,” he says as he stands up and unzips himself.

  My mouth is so dry it’s hard to move my lips. Here? Now?

  His hands are on the back of my head as he gently moves backward and forward. I don’t have the confidence I’ve had when I’ve been drunk with other boys at parties. I’m sure that I’m doing it all wrong.

  His groans get louder and quicker. His hands hold my head firmer with every thrust and then he comes. I haven’t let anyone do that before, and I don’t like it. A small dollop trickles down my throat and makes me cough; another dollop smears across my cheek, and the rest goes splat on the floor because I start gagging. I feel so embarrassed. I don’t want him to look at my face.

  “And there was me thinking you would know what to do,” he says, laughing. I feel like a mouse again.

  “It took me a bit by surprise, that’s all,” I say, wanting to wipe my mouth but not knowing if I should or not.

  He puts himself away and zips up his jeans. I smear what hit the floor with my shoe and sit there. I feel unsexy and inexperienced.

  The front door opens. Flo is home. There isn’t time to do anything but sit up straight.

  “Renée, what are you doing here?” Flo asks as she comes into the kitchen.

  I can barely speak from the shame.

  “I, I thought you might be home.”

  “No, Sally made me go and watch some crap film, then talked the whole way through it about some guy who apparently keeps coming over to their house and telling her how sexy she is. I wish I hadn’t bothered,” Flo says, obviously annoyed.

  Julian is at the fridge, drinking out of a Sunny Delight bottle. He winks at me behind Flo’s back. I still haven’t processed what just happened.

  “What’s that on your cheek?” asks Flo, so close to me that she steps on the wet patch on the floor.

  I put my hand up to my face. It’s wet.

  “Yogurt,” I spurt. “It must have been there since Carla and Gem’s. When I was there I had a yogurt. Strawberry. A strawberry yogurt.”

  “Here you go, wipe it off with this.” She wets a piece of paper towel under the tap and passes it to me. “Shall we go to my room?”

  “Sure,” I say, feeling like I just swallowed a chair.

  As I follow her out of the kitchen, Julian grabs my arm. “Next time wear those white jeans.”

  Next time?

  FLO

  Christmas, I can tell you, is not something I have been looking forward to for so many reasons. Least of all because the twenty-fifth of December is also my birthday.

  I used to think the reason Mum hated me so much was because I ruined Christmas for her in 1978. She’s never held back on the details of my “horrendous” birth. Apparently getting me out was a military operation that took two midwives, a huge incision, and a pair of forceps. There are very few pictures of me as a baby because my head was so wonky that Mum didn’t want pictures taken until I resembled a human baby rather than an alien from outer space. Luckily Abi was a perfect bundle who just popped out so has been adored from the start. Makes you wonder how ugly I was, seeing that Mum loves me about as much as she loves cowpats.

  The Christmas holidays are even worse this year because Mum barely lets me out of the house. Abi enthusiastically told Mum about our little adventure down at Havelet, and although Mum doesn’t seem to care why we were there in the first place, she is fuming at me for letting Abi get up on the wall. I’ve spent the days playing with Abi and the evenings studying. Our mock exams are coming up in January, and I need to do well on them. I really, really miss Renée, though.

  On the morning of the twenty-fifth there is a dull ache inside me from the moment I wake up at 7:30. Dad always used to wake me up before anyone else got up, so that he could come into my room with a present before Christmas made everyone forget about my birthday completely. But there is obviously no chance of that this year. I lie in bed imagining him at the door.

  Happy Birthday to Flo, Happy Birthday to Flo, Happy Birthday to Flo, oh . . . Happy Birthday to Flo . . .

  He’d have a present in his hand. Sometimes it was huge, sometimes tiny. Last year it was a satchel I wanted for school with a really cool T-shirt in it. The present was always wrapped in birthday paper rather than Christmas paper, and the card was always just from him, saying something like, Stupid Christmas. I love your birthday the best.

  Today, when I go downstairs there is a single envelope on the kitchen table with my name on it. Inside it is a card saying, Dear Flo, Many Happy Returns, Mum, Fred, Julian, and Abi. Next to it is a present. It’s wrapped in Christmas paper but has a Happy Birthday rosette on it. It’s small and soft, obviously something to wear. For a few seconds I get excited about a cool new top, or some jeans, or maybe a new denim jacket. But it isn’t, it’s a pair of pink Marks & Spencer pajamas.

  I make myself a cup of tea and then go back to my room, put on my new pajamas, and get into bed. At 8:30, Abi comes in and jumps on me, and I take her downstairs to start opening her presents. The fact that it is my birthday isn’t mentioned again for the rest of the day. Fred cooks lunch.

  “I love a nice moist bird,” he says as he pulls the turkey out of the oven. Mum does a slutty laugh.

  He takes his seat at the head of the table, where Dad used to sit. Julian is at the other end, Mum and Abi on one side, me on the other. The middle of the table is covered in small bowls of different dishes. Brussels sprouts with bacon, cranberry sauce, roast potatoes, parsnips with Parmesan cheese—to be fair to Fred, he is a really good cook, but I still hate him.

  “So Flo, how is the revision going?”

  Being asked a direct question by Fred is uncomfortable for me, especially as I have an audience. The world’s most critical audience.

  “All right,” I reply.

  “And what subjects are you doing for GCSE?”

  The fact that this man is living in my house and doesn’t know what I’m studying for my GCSEs is everything I have a problem with. Who is h
e? Were he and Mum seeing each other while Dad was still alive? Is he the real reason Dad was so depressed? I hate that I’m expected to just accept him. Maybe the old Flo would have, but not me now. I’ve had enough of being the one who feels like crap all the time because of everyone else.

  “You know, just ’cause you’re screwing my mother doesn’t mean we need to be friends,” I say, staring him right in the eye.

  “NO.” Mum stands up, her face looking haggard. “Get out. GET OUT. I don’t want you at this table this Christmas. Your room. NOW.”

  I take a moment to load some more food onto my plate.

  “Abi, come up and watch Pingu with me in a bit, yeah?”

  “She will do no such thing,” Mum says, sitting down hard onto her chair.

  I take my plate and go upstairs. I spend the rest of my birthday alone, and for that reason I actually have quite a nice time.

  RENÉE

  I have thought about nothing but Julian since that night in Flo’s kitchen. Every door I open, I imagine him behind it; every street I walk down, I plan what I will say if he is on it. Nothing Pop, Nell, or Nana says is enough to take the smile off my face. I’m like a dog with a bone. My thoughts and fantasies are as far as my eyes can see. Even my appetite has completely gone. That is how I know I’m in love.

  It’s the way he touched me. I thought I knew about boys—how to touch and be touched—but I knew nothing of how good it could feel until him. Before him it was all for show. Experimenting just for practice really. Julian knew exactly what to do—there was no showing off. I just need to do it again, this time to get it right. Next time I will do it better and show him that I can be perfect too.