Paper Aeroplanes (16 page)

‘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 rub in 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. Some tiny flakes come away in my hand.

‘Yoghurt,’ I spurt. ‘It must have been there since Carla and Gem’s. When I was there I had a yoghurt. Strawberry. A strawberry yoghurt.’

‘Here you go, wipe it off with this.’ She wets a piece of kitchen roll 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?

Christmas, I can tell you, is not something I have been looking forward to for so many reasons. Least of all because the 25th 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 cow pats.

The Christmas holidays are even worse this year because I’m grounded. 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 with 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 in them. I really, really miss Renée though.

On the morning of the 25th there is a dull ache inside me from the moment I wake up at seven thirty. 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.

Flo, Flo, 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 and Spencer’s pyjamas.

I make myself a cup of tea and then go back to my room, put on my new pyjamas and get into bed. At eight thirty 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 he? 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 done, but not any more. I’ve had enough of being the one who feels like crap all the time because of everyone else.

‘You know, just cos you are 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.

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.

‘Eat your turkey,’ orders Pop when he catches me gazing out of 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 realising 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 admitting that there was 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 have finished our Marks and Spencer’s 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 rail 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 up in front of me. It’s purple with white and neon 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 realised quite quickly that aside from being major fire hazards, they are one of the most repulsive items that the 90s ever created. 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 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 then 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 lounge. 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 a satsuma. I can’t wait for the new term to start.

On the coldest, darkest morning of the winter so far I am up and out 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 then 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. Soossososooso 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, lets 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 cafe 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 cafe 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 weeing. But then she stops laughing, her face turns pure white, and a look of fear moves over her face.

‘What? Did you actually wee?’ I ask.

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

‘Wow, now you look cool,’ says a voice I recognise. ‘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.