Paper Airplanes

by Dawn O'Porter

  “Eat your turkey,” orders Pop when he catches me gazing out the window. If he had any idea of what I am imagining in my head, he would throw me out of the house and never let me come back. I cut a small piece of turkey, squash it onto a fork with a soft Brussels sprout, and swallow it with a big gulp of water. The only thing I can taste is salt.

  Nell is now openly not eating food. Nana and Pop must be realizing the seriousness of her situation, because they never tell her to eat up. They know that whatever it is she’s going through is well beyond anything they can cope with, so they just watch her as she becomes thinner and thinner, none of us knowing where it will all end up, all of us hoping that one day she’ll pick up a piece of toast and eat it without cutting it into twenty pieces and making it last half an hour. I think Nell needs to see a doctor, but that would involve someone in our family admitting that there is a problem, and I have no hope for that happening anytime soon. Sometimes I want to tell Nana and Pop to make her eat, but if I have learned anything living in this house, it’s that I should just stay quiet.

  “Shall we do presents now?” asks Nana when we finish our Marks & Spencer Christmas pudding. Her enthusiasm, at least, makes us all smile.

  After we all watch Nell open hers—a pair of hair crimpers—it’s my turn. “This is for you, Renée. We know you wanted it last year, but here it is now.”

  Oh my goodness. Is this the bomber jacket that I had admired in town with Nana last year when we were uniform shopping? I had picked it up off a rack in Pandora and told her that I liked it, but it was £30. I hoped that she would go back and get it, and that she would give it to me for Christmas, but on the day I was given a checked flannel shirt instead. Can she possibly have saved up all year for the jacket? Is this about to be the best present ever? I unwrap it like Charlie unwrapped the Wonka Bar that had the golden ticket inside. Everyone’s eyes are ready to capture my reaction.

  Long pause.

  “Well, what do you think?” urges Nana.

  “It’s a shellsuit,” I say slowly.

  Nell laughs for the first time in weeks.

  “Yes, I remember when all the girls were wearing them and we couldn’t afford one for you. Well, as it is your GCSEs this year, Pop and I thought you deserved something a bit special.” Nana smiles at me.

  I hold the top between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and raise it in front of me. It’s purple with white and neon yellow stripes on the arms. It’s disgusting.

  She is right, shellsuits had been all the rage—three years ago. I had cried because I wasn’t part of the phenomenon that lasted all of a month, because after everyone’s initial bout of madness, we all realized quite quickly that aside from being major fire hazards, they are one of the most repulsive items that the nineties ever created. Why did humans ever need to invent a shiny tracksuit? Not only are they shiny, but if you exercise in one, as I am sure you are supposed to, then you can blow up from your own body heat because the fabric doesn’t breathe. They are, in their entirety, awful. Shellsuits are now only mentioned in sentences like “She is so sad, I bet she wears shellsuits.” And here I am with a brand-new one.

  “Go on, Renée, put it on for us all to see,” smirks Nell.

  “Yes. Put it on to show your nana,” says Pop, not taking his eyes off the TV.

  I walk out of the room and go up to the bathroom. How am I going to pretend to like this?

  I stand looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Even with mascara and lip gloss, it is impossible to make a shellsuit look attractive. Aside from the fact that it is undeniably comfortable and its lightweight fabric makes me feel like I’m floating, it is hideous. If anyone beyond these four walls ever sees me wear it, any street cred I’ve managed to establish over the last fifteen years will be crushed. This. Is. Awful.

  I go back downstairs and push open the door to the living room. I think my eyes might be closed.

  “It’s perfect,” gushes Nana. “It fits you perfectly. I am so pleased.”

  “Yup, that’s a good solid outfit there, Renée. Will last you years,” adds Pop.

  “That is one hand-me-down I can’t WAIT for,” gleams Nell sarcastically.

  “It’s perfect for around the house,” I say. It’s the only positive sentence I can muster.

  I sit myself on the sofa and peel an orange. I can’t wait for the new term to start.

  RENÉE

  On the coldest, darkest morning of the winter so far, I am up and out of the house so fast the rain hardly touches me. We are back to school, and I can’t wait to see Flo. I’ve missed everything about our friendship. Our conversations, our notes, our after-school chips, and, of course, her brother. I wonder if he has mentioned me at all, if he’s told her over the holidays that he is in love with me and that he is planning on asking me to be his girlfriend. How amazing would that be? Flo as my best friend and her cool, sexy, gorgeous older brother as my boyfriend. At some point Julian will tell Flo everything, and he will tell her not to be mad with me for loving him, and she will be happy for me and everything will be fine.

  When Sally isn’t looking, I grab her fountain pen and throw it under Miss Anthony’s desk. As she scrambles around for it I launch a note at Flo.

  AHGAH, I missed you so much. Soosososooso sosososo much! How was Christmas? Mine was SHIT. So glad to be back at school. I didn’t do any revision for the mocks though, did you? I’ll do some last-minute cramming this week. How are yyooouuuuu?? Shall I come to your house after school? R x

  She manages to reply before Sally gets back to her seat.

  I missed you toooo!!! Christmas was rubbish, but I did revise loads so I guess that’s good. YES, let’s meet up after school, but not at my house. We can get the bus to Vazon Bay and sit in the cafe? Anywhere but home! See you at the end of the lane. x x

  OK, so he obviously hasn’t told her yet.

  We arrive at Vazon, a long sandy beach on the west coast of the island, at 4 P.M. The sky is getting dark, but the rain is holding off. Even I have given into the warmth of a duffel coat now. It’s really cold. We run from the bus stop to the seaside café but forget to slow down when we get to the door. We burst in and skid on our wet feet, then fall over and land in a heap on the floor. Flo takes a stand full of postcards down with her and lies there giggling so much she can’t get up. She reaches out for me to help her up, but I’m too floppy from laughing and can’t help her. This makes her laugh even more, so she has to hold herself between the legs to stop herself from weeing. But then she stops laughing and her face turns pure white, a look of fear moving over it.

  “What? Did you actually wee?” I ask.

  She shakes her head slowly. I realize there is someone standing behind me.

  “Wow, now you look cool,” says a voice I recognize. “Last time I saw you, you were lying down bleeding all over the ground, now you are lying down trying not to wet yourself. What a lady!”

  It’s Samuel Franklin, sitting at a table with some other surfer boys. They’re all laughing at Flo on the floor. They all obviously know about the period-under-the-bush incident.

  “What’s your problem, Samuel?” I say, turning to him and his ugly friends.

  “Oooooooooo,” they smirk, like five-year-olds.

  “Seriously, what is your problem? You think a girl having a period is hysterical, do you? Well, do you know what I think? I think you are the worst kisser I’ve ever kissed. You lick teeth like a little lizard. If I had to choose between kissing you and being covered in Flo’s period, I’d take the period any day.”

  All his mates laugh. Samuel shifts uncomfortably. Flo gets up and stands behind me.

  “What are you, like, lesbians or something?” he says, trying to look cool.

  “With boys like you around, it’s a surprise we’re not all lesbians. And anyway, everyone at Tudor Falls thinks you’re gay,” I say proudly. What’s a little white lie when you have a friend to protect?

  As the lady who works in the café gets down onto her ha
nds and knees to pick up all the beach balls and postcards that Flo took with her when she fell, I shove three packets of Wotsits and a £5.99 picnic blanket under my coat.

  “I’m not gay,” says Samuel to his friends.

  “You’re so gay,” they repeat back to him.

  I pull Flo outside.

  Down on the beach we huddle into a dug-out section of the huge gray wall, wrap the blanket around us, and open all the crisps.

  “No one has ever stuck up for me like that before. Ever,” says Flo with her hand inside a crisp packet.

  “Well, Samuel is a prick, and you are my best friend. There is no way I’m letting a boy humiliate you like that. No way.”

  “Sally would have given him a round of applause,” Flo says under her breath.

  “Yeah, well, like I’ve said a million times, Sally is an idiot. And as soon as you pluck up the courage to tell her about us, then the sooner you can realize that friends are not supposed to treat each other that way.” I stuff six Wotsits into my mouth so I don’t have to keep talking.

  “I’ve never trusted anyone the way I trust you,” Flo says. “Well, apart from Dad, obviously. You act like you care about me as much as you care about yourself sometimes. I can’t get used to it.”

  “Well, it’s true.” I want to tell her about Julian, but not now. This isn’t the right moment. We look out to sea as we eat our Wotsits.

  “Shall we be blood sisters?” I say, our bodies huddled close under the blanket, our breath frozen.

  “Huh? You can’t just become someone’s sister. Well, not unless you marry their brother, and if you ever do that I’d kill you,” Flo laughs.

  I try not to react.

  “No, blood sisters,” I tell her. “I read it in a book once. Two best friends pricked the ends of their fingers and then pressed them together so their blood combined, and that made them blood sisters. Then they made a promise to be best friends forever, and there was no going back after that—they were bound.”

  “What will we cut our fingers with?” she asks nervously.

  I dig beneath my duffel coat and pull a safety pin from the hem of my school skirt. “This?”

  Flo’s not convinced.

  “Come on,” I say. “It won’t hurt. Much.”

  I burn the end of the pin with my lighter.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  “I am sterilizing it. It’ll stop us from getting infections.” I press the needle into the soft cushiony bit of my forefinger, and a small dot of blood blobs out. It hurts, but not much. My finger is pretty numb from the cold. “OK, your turn.”

  “Renée, I don’t think I want to do this. What about AIDS?” Flo says, looking very worried.

  “You think I have AIDS?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Do you know you haven’t got it?”

  “Flo, only gay people get AIDS,” I say, unsure of whether that is true or not.

  “No, anyone can get it. There was a girl in Guernsey last year who was caught dripping her blood into all the men’s pints in a pub. Someone caught her, and it turned out she had AIDS and was getting back at men. Anyone who has sex can have AIDS.”

  I suck my finger. I vaguely remember that story.

  “Well, I’ve never had sex, and I’m pretty sure you can’t get it from blow jobs.” I feel disappointed. Not just because I’m sitting here in the freezing cold with a hole in my finger, but because Flo thinks I might have AIDS.

  “Don’t be offended, Renée. I just don’t think sharing blood is a good idea these days. Can we be spit sisters instead?” She puts her arms around me and presses her face up toward mine. “Come on. Let’s do it. Spit sisters.” She spits on her finger and holds it in front of me. “Come on. Same thing, just spit. It’s still from inside us.”

  I reluctantly spit on the index finger that isn’t bleeding and hold it up to hers. We press them together and close our eyes.

  “I promise to be honest, and kind, and never let you down,” says Flo, her finger pressing hard on mine.

  “I promise to look after you, and stick up for you, and not let anybody laugh at you,” I say, opening my eyes a little to check that she has hers shut.

  “I promise to be honest,” she says.

  “I promise to be honest,” I repeat.

  I wonder why I suggested such a pact when I know that I’ve already blown it.

  FLO

  The best thing about taking our mock exams is that in between them we have free periods where we can study whatever we need to study. Some people stay in Room Six, some go into the dining room, but Renée and I sneak into the library whenever we can because we can hide in one of the little alcoves and be together.

  “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to write in the books!”

  “I am not writing in it. I am circling letters to make a code,” she says defensively.

  “What code?”

  “Well, it isn’t really a code. I’m circling the letters to spell swearwords. Look.”

  She turns the copy of Great Expectations toward me.

  We (a)te the whole of the toast, and d(r)ank tea in preparation, and it is delightful to (s)(e)e (h)(o)w warm and greasy we al(l) g(e)t after it.

  “See? ‘Arsehole.’ Shame there isn’t an ‘s’ to make it ‘arseholes.’ Bummer. Ha-ha, ‘bummer.’ Didn’t mean to do that.” She laughs.

  “Renée, do you ever do any actual work?” I ask, genuinely worried about her.

  “These are just the mocks. I’ll do some before our proper GCSEs, obviously.”

  “You’d better. You need at least five to stay at Tudor Falls. If you get under five you have to either get a job or go to the grammar school. You can’t stay here if you don’t do well enough. Doesn’t that worry you?” I say.

  “Of course it worries me. I’m not stupid. I’ve listened in class, I know the basics, and anyway, no one ever gets less than five. You have to really mess up to get less than five. I’ll be fine.”

  She takes Great Expectations back and starts circling letters again.

  “Boobies. Ha-ha, brilliant!”

  I can’t not laugh.

  “So, I was thinking maybe I could come over after school one day this week?” Renée says. “I haven’t seen Abi in ages, and I miss your chocolate-spread sandwiches. Nana doesn’t buy stuff like that.”

  “Really? You want to come to my house? I spend my life wanting to get out of it. Why don’t we go to yours?” I suggest, realizing that I have never actually been there.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to come to mine. It’s just so cold and my uniform never dries properly by the morning because Pop is so tight with the central heating. At least it’s warm at yours, and I can come on a day when your mum is out.” She closes Great Expectations and crosses her arms. Is she really that desperate for a Nutella sandwich?

  “OK, fine. Come to my house. If you come Friday then Mum and Fred won’t be there.”

  “Cool, I’ll go home first to get changed and meet you there,” she says, opening up the book again and circling more letters.

  I’m not sure why she thinks she needs to go home first, but before I get the chance to question it, the library fills with the sound of Sally’s voice.

  “Shit, shit shit shit shit shit,” I say as I duck down.

  “NO, get out from under the table,” barks Renée. “Lets face up to her now. Get out from under there.”

  “Renée, I can’t. Shit shit shit, I can’t.”

  “Well, if she sees you, I’m telling her about us. And just so you know, your bum is sticking out and she is—”

  “Flo, what are you doing under that table?” It’s Sally.

  I crawl out. Climbing up the chair like a child making its way to the naughty step.

  “Why are you in here? With her?” Sally’s face is red and veiny.

  Renée sits up straight and crosses her arms. Her face looks proud as punch. She’s been looking forward to this moment. “We came in here to do revision together. Do you
have a problem with that?” she says.

  Come on, Flo. Be tough, be strong.

  “Yes, of course I have a problem with that.” Sally looks at me. “Renée Sargent is a twat, and I don’t want you hanging around with her. So why are you in here with her?”

  “You’re the twat, Sally,” blurts Renée, determined to win this battle.

  “Shhhhhhhhhhh. Silence in the library,” echoes Miss Le Hurray’s voice. If this is going to happen, it is going to have to happen quietly.

  “Sally,” says Renée, “Flo is allowed to talk to whoever she wants. You know that, don’t you? You don’t own her.”

  I am now sitting rigidly on the chair. My eyes may well be shut, I can’t be sure. I prepare myself for flying pencil cases and equally as dangerous words.

  “So, wait, are you guys friends now or something? Is that why you’ve been so full of yourself lately, Flo? Don’t make me laugh. Flo, come with me. We need to revise French. You can stay with Renée if you like, but you will fail everything and get a reputation for being a slut.”

  “Don’t go with her, Flo,” says Renée. “Stay here. We have science prep to do.”

  “I’ll do the science prep with you, Flo. I am the set above you, so I know all your stuff by heart. Get your stuff together and come with me now.”

  “No, Flo. Stay here. You don’t have to do what she says,” says Renée firmly.

  “Come.”

  “Stay.”

  “Come.”

  “Stay.”

  “OH, SHUT UP. SHUT UP, both of you. You’re arguing over me like I’m a dog.”

  “SILENCE IN THE LIBRARY! Who is that making that racket?” Miss Le Hurray appears like a little gremlin dressed in brown tweed. “Renée Sargent, I should have known it would be you, but Sally and Florence, I thought better of you. Will anyone care to tell me what all this noise is about?”

  “Nothing, miss. Flo is just saying how hard she has found science this year. I am about to take her off for an intense lesson so I can help her with the exam tomorrow,” says Sally in her best lick-arse voice.