“Phil.”
“Who’s Phil?” asks Renée, getting annoyed.
“Oh my God, the twenty-seven-year-old from your dad’s work?” I say, horrified. “You actually had sex with him? Did your dad beat him up as well?”
“My husband deeply regrets what he did to your brother, Flo. He isn’t one for controlling himself when he gets upset,” said Mrs. Du Putron.
“Please forgive me, Flo. The school said that I can come back next term and study from home when the baby comes. We can still be best friends, and we can sit next to each other when I come in, can’t we?” begs Sally.
I take a moment to examine her face. A face that has instilled such fear into me for so long. A face that has disempowered me, put me down, hurt my feelings, and demoralized me over and over again. I have no pity for her at all. I could quite happily never see her ever again.
“Actually, no,” I say. “I won’t be at Tudor Falls next year. I’m going to the grammar school.”
“You’re what?” asks Renée, looking stunned.
“Yup. Mum has kindly refused to fork out for my Tudor Falls school fees anymore, so I’m coming to the grammar school too,” I say, offering Renée a forgiving smile.
“What do you mean, ‘too’?” asks Sally as her tears dry up and she starts to resemble the Sally we all know and hate.
“Me and Renée. We’re going together. Isn’t that right, Renée?”
“That’s right,” she says, still confused but smiling too.
I walk closer to Sally. I take a good look at her face. I hope it’s the last time I ever see it. “Because we are best friends,” I say, looking her right in the eye. “Good luck with motherhood. I’m off to live my life.”
As Sally watches us, speechless, her face pulsing from the shock, I link my arm through Renée’s and we walk away. Leaving a lifetime of memories behind us, my best friend and I leave Tudor Falls for the very last time.
RENÉE
“I’M COMING!” I shout out the window as Aunty Jo beeps her horn for the fifth time.
I shove the last of my books into my bag, zip it up, and run down the stairs. After slamming the front door behind me I mouth “Sorry” at Aunty Jo as the house rattles from the force of it.
“Honestly, Renée. If you are ever on time for school it will be a miracle,” she says, driving away from the house.
I turn the radio on and we sing along to “Country House” by Blur. We make each other laugh by doing silly voices on the word “countrrryyyyyy.”
“OK, quickly this morning,” she tells me as we pull up to Flo’s house. I get out of the car and run up the drive. I knock once and then go in.
“MORNING!” I shout through the hallway.
“Bloody hell, Renée, do you have to shout?” says Flo’s mum as she comes out of the kitchen.
“Sorry, Mrs. Parrot. Morning,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes.
“Hey,” says Flo as she comes down the stairs. She looks cool in a tightish blue cardigan and a navy checked skirt, thick tights, and black shoes. I still can’t get over how good it is not having to wear uniforms. Just one of the perks of being a sixth-former at the grammar school. That, and boys.
“Here you go, girls. One of these each,” says Flo’s mum, offering us a plate with two slices of toast and Nutella on it.
“Bye, Mum,” says Flo. “Are you still OK to pick me up after hockey tonight?”
“Yes, but don’t take ages in the changing room this time. I get stuck talking to the other mums when you do that, and I have about as much in common with them as I do interest in hockey.”
“I won’t.”
HONK HONK.
“Bye, Mrs. Parrot,” I say, getting Aunty Jo’s hint loud and clear.
From the backseat I ask Flo to turn up the music. It’s “Without You” by Mariah Carey. The three of us sing it (badly) at the top of our lungs. As we pull up to the school entrance, other pupils look at us like we are idiots, but we don’t care.
“I think Marcus Holmes is going to ask you out today,” I say to Flo as we get out of the car.
“No way! He fancies Vanessa Finton. It’s so obvious,” she says, brushing it off like she always does when I say things like this.
“When are you ever going to get a bloody boyfriend?” I tease, pinching her on the arm.
“When are you going to think about anything other than food or boys?” she jokes back.
“Come on, I’ll race you to the common room,” I say. “Last one there buys chips at lunch.”
We both start to run.
“BYE THEN?” shouts Aunty Jo after us. We hear her, but the stakes are too high to turn back. Along the corridor our new headmaster, Mr. Bailey, shouts at us to stop running. Our feet stop before our bodies, so we land in a giggling heap on the floor.
“Renée and Flo, how many times do I have to tell you that the school corridors are not a running track?” he says, standing over us.
We pick ourselves up and try to stop laughing.
“Sorry, Mr. Bailey,” we proclaim in unison.
“I think he fancies you,” I say as he disappears around the corner.
“OH, SHUT UP!” Flo yells, thumping me on the arm.
We walk calmly to the common room, giggling all the way.
Thank you to Susan Van Metre and all at Abrams for falling in love with Renée and Flo and believing in Paper Airplanes enough to launch it into America.
Thank you, Emily Thomas, for calling me out of the blue and making my lifelong dream of writing fiction a reality. And for being the kind of editor who says, “It’s a bit far, I love it,” rather than pulling me back. And for making me feel constantly encouraged and confident and like I could actually do this. I’m looking forward to doing it all over again.
Thank you to Georgia Murray for the meticulous line editing, and all at Hot Key Books for making being published an exciting, inspiring, and fun experience. A brilliant team from marketing to editing. I’m very proud to be in the lineup with such a hot new publisher.
Adrian Sington, my literary agent, who has been there from the first time I said “I want to write books” and thus seen me through to now. What fun the future holds.
Laura Hill, Alex Crump, and Claire Morgan at Independent for being in control of my life and just being generally awesome. Alex, I miss you.
Laura Symons and Laura Hopps at Premier for pulling out the stops on the PR. I think people got the message!
John de Garis for my fabulous cover photo and my cousin Elise Rix and her lovely friend Kerry Bowden for being Renée and Flo. Thanks to Jet Purdie at Hot Key Books for being patient and working with the image to create a fabulous jacket for Paper Aeroplanes. I love it.
Thank you to Eleanor Bergstein, my oracle on love and very dear friend. I listen to everything you say, and you are always right.
Thank you to Andrew Anthonio and all at Mayfair Associates for making me feel endlessly secure and supported. We got through the bad times, now let the good times roll.
All the girls of Ladies College in the ’90s. Most of you inspired this in some way. Special shout-out to Janet Unit, Lucy Guilbert, and Diana Kennedy for the stories and trips down memory lane. I hope this makes you smile.
Thanks to Lilu . . . my cat, my muse. (That’s right, I thanked my cat.) Who disappeared and devastated me, then came home the day I finished the last word of this book. Oddly found on the doorstep of one of my favorite authors, Lionel Shriver, which I translate as her giving me a sign that this whole writing-a-book thing was a good idea. Better also give a shout-out to our dog, Potato. Because he is just the best little guy, and those extra heartbeats when I write make all the difference to me. (Yup, I thanked my dog as well.)
My most amazing friends Louise and Carrie for being the inspiration to this story. It is the way you guys make me feel that gave me the inspiration to write a book about friendship.
And my wonderful husband, who high-fived me every time I finished a chapter.
Those little moments of support are what get you through a daunting task like writing a book. Thank you for the mini celebrations every time I achieved something tiny, and thank you for letting me bang on about two teenage girls who I hope you now understand. You’re nice, and I like what happened.
My family, past and present.
And then I am going to thank Twitter, because I am modern. Without Twitter all those hours alone would have been spent ACTUALLY working, and this book would have been finished a year ago. So thanks a lot, Twitter, thanks a lot!
DAWN O’PORTER is a novelist and journalist known for her frank, witty, and poignant investigations of women’s issues, including polygamy, childbirth, geishas, body image, breast cancer, and even the movie Dirty Dancing. Dawn is currently a columnist for Glamour magazine in the UK and writes regularly for many other publications. Dawn is obsessed with vintage clothing and can be seen in This Old Thing, a British TV show. She also has her own clothing label, called BOB. (She also has a bob.) She lives in Los Angeles with her husband Chris, cat Lilu, and dog Potato. Paper Airplanes is her first novel.
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