Paper Airplanes Read online

  I don’t bother saying anything. It won’t make me feel any less humiliated to stand up for myself. I just roll over. She turns off the light and says, “You should always be alone, Renée.”

  I fall asleep, my brain finally realizing that being awake isn’t worth the hassle.

  The next morning I wake up to hysteria. Nana is next to Nell’s bed with a bowl of water and a cloth. Nell is lying on her back with a tea towel stuffed up her nose. This has become normal. Nell’s nosebleeds are an everyday occurrence since she decided to torture herself by not digesting any food. I go to get out of bed, knowing that offering my help will only get me told to GO AWAY, but as I move I feel a wetness between my legs that worries me. Is it already that time? I lift the covers and see that my pajamas have a huge red stain creeping across them. I move myself to see if it has spread to the sheets, but I’ve woken up just in time. Any wrong move will change that, so I have to be careful. I roll onto my side and run to the bathroom. Pulling my pj’s down as I go, I just about make it to the toilet, but a dollop of blood falls onto the mat.

  Why do periods have to start that way? This will be my fifteenth, and I’m still not used to them. I can’t believe I have to have them until I’m fifty-something. How many pairs of pajamas will I have ruined by then?

  I clean myself up and stick a big wedge of loo roll between my legs. Holding it in place with my thighs, I scrub the toilet mat until the stain comes off. After a shower I hold my pajama bottoms between my thighs, wrap a towel around myself, and waddle into the bedroom. Luckily I have one more sanitary towel in my gym bag, so I stick that in my pants, get dressed, hide the pajamas in my bag, and leave for school. Just at the end of our road there’s a row of trash bins. I throw my pajama bottoms into the emptiest one and carry on along my way. As I walk, I think how weird it is that Nana has never even asked me if my periods have started. Maybe when you get that old you just forget about them.

  At school, hell strikes. My tummy throbs like a wild animal trapped inside a cage. I sit on the toilet as I try to push out the pain. When the bell rings, I crawl back to the classroom. My face can’t hide what I’m going through.

  “Get on your knees and put your head on the floor,” insists Margaret, who is the self-confessed Queen of Periods, seeing as she started so long ago.

  “NO, don’t scrunch up. You lie on your back with your knees apart and feet together,” says Charlotte as she tries to get me into that position.

  “I am not lying on the floor in my school skirt with my legs open,” I say, jamming my thighs shut.

  I assume Margaret’s position and continue to drop beads of sweat into the carpet tiles. Last month I didn’t get any pain at all—why now? I feel so faint. The dull ache is weakening me. With my forehead on the floor I shout, “Why did Mother Nature do this to us?” I take long, deep breaths.

  “Ahhh, babe. You’ll be OK. It’s OK,” repeat Carla and Gem. The urge to scream “DO I LOOK OK, YOU PAIR OF PERFECTS?” at them is almost impossible to control. I pant the pain out, by instruction of Charlotte. Then I feel a threatening presence hovering over me.

  “Why are you always trying to get attention? Periods aren’t that painful.” It’s Sally, her feet close to my head. “Attention is all you care about, isn’t it? Maybe if you cared about school and did some work then you’d get attention for being clever rather than a thick show-off.”

  I try to ignore her, but I’m not in the most pleasant of moods.

  “A school full of girls, and I’ve never seen anyone else with her head on the floor at the back of a classroom because of a little period pain. Only you, Renée.”

  Focus on the breath, focus on the breath.

  I look up. Her smirking face is looking down at me. Flo is sitting at her desk, pretending to read a book. It’s upside down. Being beneath Sally, no matter what the reason, is not something I’m comfortable with. She steps closer to me and kneels.

  “Poor Renée,” she whispers. “No friends, a mad family. It’s hardly a wonder, really.”

  I feel a power surge in my belly. My muscles are tightening around the pain. One swift thrust with my head and I’ll probably remove one of her teeth. I inhale deeply, ready to throw my head back and remove the smirk right from her face. One, two, thr—

  “Good morning, ladies. What is all this?”

  Sally jumps up. Miss Anthony is now standing over me.

  “Renée, is there any particular reason you are on the floor?” Miss Anthony asks.

  “Period pain, miss,” offers Margaret.

  “Oh dear. Well, you shouldn’t be on the floor. Come on, Renée, up to your feet. Do you think you can make it to the sickroom to lie down? There’s a hot-water bottle there. It will pass in a little while if you just lie still,” Miss Anthony says, helping me up.

  “WITH YOUR LEGS OPEN,” shouts Charlotte from across the room.

  “Just a water bottle will do fine, thank you, Charlotte. Do you think you can make it downstairs on your own, or would you like someone to go with you?”

  I nod, embarrassed that everyone in my class now knows I have my period. I hold on to the wall the whole way.

  In the sickroom, both bunk beds are empty. Good. There’s nothing worse than having to share the sickroom. I always regret skiving when I have to lie there pretending to be ill with someone puking into a bowl underneath me. I lie down on the bottom bunk and wait for whichever member of staff is on duty to come and make me a hot-water bottle. My tummy is already feeling a little better.

  After ten minutes no one has come, and I start to feel anxious. I need to change my pad. Knowing that the middle drawer in the office just off the sickroom is full of them, I get up and creep in. This is where I’ve been getting them ever since I got my first period more than a year ago. As I stuff as many as I can into my waistband, my bra, and even a couple in my socks, I hear the door open.

  Oh, SHIT!

  “What on earth are you doing stuffing sanitary towels into your bra, Miss Sargent?”

  It’s Miss Trunks. She is taking up the entire doorframe. Even if I had wanted to escape, I couldn’t have. She looks angry, but equally as pleased to have caught me. Catching people break school rules is why I think Miss Trunks became a teacher.

  “Stealing school property is a serious crime. Put those back. NOW,” Miss Trunks says, spitting all over the place.

  I start to unload my bra and waistband. Of all the things to get caught stealing.

  “So what is this about? I suppose you sell these for money to buy cigarettes, don’t you?”

  “No, Miss Trunks. I just needed some.”

  “Don’t you lie to me, Renée Sargent. A girl of your age can buy her own protection. No one steals sanitary towels unless it is to sell them to buy things like cigarettes or alcohol. Is that why you never come to hockey practice? Drink? Hurry up and put those back. We’re going to see Miss Grut,” she screams, winding herself up into a melodramatic frenzy.

  She leads me down the corridor, pushing my elbow like a gear stick. I sit outside the office and wait for half an hour. Then the unthinkable happens. Pop walks in.

  We sit in silence in Miss Grut’s office. Miss Grut, Miss Trunks, Miss Anthony, Pop, and me. Pop and I sit on separate chairs in front of Miss Grut’s massive desk. Miss Trunks, who is wearing overstretched sports gear, and Miss Anthony, who is in a pretty high-necked flowery dress, share a two-seater sofa to the right of us. Miss Anthony looks a bit squashed.

  “Renée has been caught stealing school property. Sanitary towels. The school’s sanitary towels,” says Miss Trunks to break the silence.

  “Yes, Miss Trunks,” says Miss Grut, “we all know why we are here, thank you. And thank you for coming in so promptly, Mr. Fletcher. Renée, have you been stealing from the school?”

  It feels strange being asked a question directly by the headmistress. She doesn’t have much to do with us on a one-to-one level. She’s a bit like the Queen. Everyone stands up when she walks in or leaves a room, and if you s
ee her walking toward you in the corridor the natural reaction is to stand still until she has passed. Being asked a question by her feels part privilege, part the scariest thing I have ever experienced. Pop is sitting next to me, breathing really loudly. There’s a giant pile of pads on her desk, deliberately positioned by Miss Trunks to remind us why we are all here.

  “Not stealing, miss, borrowing.” I don’t know why I say this. I obviously was stealing them.

  “Why were you in the sickroom?” asks Miss Grut, trying to piece the story together.

  “I sent her down there,” says Miss Anthony. “Renée had terrible cramps this morning.”

  Pop shuffles uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I sent her to the sickroom to lie down with a hot-water bottle,” Miss Anthony continues.

  “And THAT is when I found her stuffing her bra with the SCHOOL’S Always Ultra,” barks Miss Trunks.

  “That is quite enough, Miss Trunks. We can take this from here. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Miss Grut’s eyes fix hard on the door. The horrible fat cow leaves.

  “Mr. Fletcher,” continues Miss Grut, “do you know why Renée might feel the need to steal sanitary equipment from the school?”

  Sanitary equipment? Adults are so weird sometimes. A minute’s silence nearly deafens me. I stare at the pen pot on Miss Grut’s desk to distract myself from how hideously mortified I am.

  “Well, Renée is a girl, isn’t she?” Pop rubs his nose and does a fake cough.

  “She is, yes,” agrees Miss Anthony.

  “Well, then. Girls need them things for stuff I don’t know about. You know more than me, I’m sure.”

  Never have I wanted the earth to swallow me up so much. Pop trying to explain what I might use a panty pad for is as bad as the time I farted when I sneezed during prayers in assembly. At least that was funny. There is nothing funny about this. Through pure fear of him being asked to elaborate, I start to speak.

  “I know it sounds stupid, but I’m too embarrassed to buy them in shops, Miss Grut. So every few months I go into the sickroom and take what I need because,” I mumble, “I don’t like strangers knowing I have my . . .”

  “Period,” offers Miss Anthony.

  “Yes, that.” I nod.

  “Periods are nothing to be ashamed of, Renée. You are a woman,” says Miss Grut.

  If one more person says the words “period” or “panty pad” in front of Pop, I am going to have to jump out the window, run to the sea, and swim to France.

  “Look, I don’t steal stuff usually, it’s just those.” I point at the pile of pads on her desk. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  “Well, your regret seems genuine, so we’re done here,” says Miss Grut. “Mr. Fletcher, maybe Mrs. Fletcher can help Renée in the shop next time she has her period?” I wince, but Miss Grut continues. “I’m sure your situation makes all sorts of conversations very hard, but as Renée turns into a woman, she’ll need your help on matters like this. Renée, I will let it go this time, but please don’t let us catch you doing this again. Thank you, everybody.”

  Pop and I are up and out the door as quickly as we can go. I walk him to the foyer.

  “Pop, I’m really sorry,” I say, so embarrassed I can barely get my words out.

  “I will speak to your grandmother, and she will take this from here. Don’t be late for dinner.” Pop makes it very clear that the subject is closed. As I watch him walk away, I feel like I don’t know him at all. He’s just a stranger who knows I am on my period.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Renée?” It’s Miss Anthony. “I used to be the same when I was your age. Here.” She hands me a cotton pouch. “Have these. Do try to build the confidence to buy your own, but this should get you through this month.” She smiles. “Now take a minute to pull yourself together and then get to class. You can still make the last half hour of drama, and I’ll make sure you don’t get an order mark.”

  “Thank you. That’s really nice of you.” I start to walk away, but Miss Anthony puts a hand on my arm.

  “Renée, I lost my mother when I was young too. I know how lonely it can feel.”

  “I’m not lonely, Miss Anthony. I have lots of friends,” I answer defensively.

  “Are they good friends? People you can talk to? It’s really important to talk about how you feel.”

  “Of course.” I nod. “Best friends. We talk about it all the time.”

  “Good, good. I am glad,” she says, looking pleased.

  Later, in the afternoon, Miss Grut comes into our French class unexpectedly. Everyone stands up, but she tells us to sit straight down. Assuming she has changed her mind and is here to punish me for theft, I start to pack up my pencil case, but instead she walks over to Flo Parrot and asks her to follow her downstairs.

  That has only ever happened at school once before. When I was seven years old.

  RENÉE

  I wake up feeling strange. This November has been particularly glum. I’ve gotten soaked on the way to school most mornings, but still I choose to walk instead of getting a lift with Pop and Nell. I often wonder, are things so uncomfortable between us that I should really have to deal with wet socks for most of the day at school? And I always conclude yes. Besides, despite watching me take the sandwiches I have made out of the fridge every morning (I’ve made my own lunch ever since I opened my lunch box one day to discover Nana had made me baked bean sandwiches), no one ever suggests I should get in the car. I am independent from this home. I live here and get involved in the necessary elements of cohabitation—eating, using the bathroom, watching the occasional TV show—but apart from that it is them, and me. I can never be quite sure how or why this happened. I certainly didn’t mean it to. I am so pleased I have Mum’s drawer to keep me going, but today I find myself struggling more than usual to close it.

  I don’t believe in God, and I don’t believe in heaven, but I can’t believe that she is gone. It would be easier if when people die we are able to forget about them, but it doesn’t seem to work that way. What I find hardest is that my memories are getting fuzzier but not so distant that I can let them go. I’m sure I used to remember the sound of her voice, but now I can’t. I see her in my head, but there’s no sound anymore when I close my eyes. My dreams have become unreliable too.

  I’ve been having a recurring dream. In it I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching Pop eat a raw steak with his hands. Nana is standing in the hallway, hiding behind the kitchen door. Something calls me out to the garden. I don’t know what it is—a noise, a light—it’s never very clear. When I enter the garden there’s a navy blue stroller and the sun is beaming directly into it. I walk over, but I’m too little to see in, so I have to pull myself up and get on tiptoes to peep over the side. Lying in the stroller is a baby, but the baby has my mum’s face. She smiles at me but can’t reach out to me because she has little baby arms. I can’t pick her up because I’m so small myself. So I just watch her face smiling at me with her baby’s body wriggling around. I rarely wake up from this dream without feeling strange. I guess that’s understandable.

  I run Mum’s blusher brush over my face, and then, with a small spring in my step at the thought of not spending the day with water in my shoes because for once it isn’t raining, I leave for school.

  Late as usual, I arrive minutes before Miss Anthony. There’s an unusual silence coming from Room Six. When I walk in, no one is at their desk. They are all huddled around like children listening to a story. In the middle is Sally Du Putron, standing on her desk.

  “They say it was a heart attack. I saw him last week. He was so fat and he looked drunk. I called Flo last night and her brother answered the phone. He told me everything.”

  “What exactly did he tell you?” asks Margaret.

  “He told me their dad had died of a heart attack, dipshit!” Sally says, sounding proud of her knowledge.

  “Did you speak to Flo?” asks Charlotte.

>   “Of course I spoke to Flo, I’m her best friend! She couldn’t stop crying, so it was hard to make out what she was saying. That got a bit annoying, so I didn’t stay on the phone long, but what I did get out of her is that he was found dead in his front garden and he was wearing his slippers. How weird is that?”

  I stand at the door, listening to Sally. Poor Flo. Poor, poor Flo. Her poor dad. It’s so sad. What happened after Miss Grut took her out of the room? Where had she first heard that her dad had died? Who was with her? I know very little about Flo Parrot, but I know that she loves her dad. I only knew Mum for seven years, and I still think about her every day. Flo has known her dad for fifteen years—how could you ever forget someone you have known for fifteen years? Maybe I’m lucky.

  “What the hell are YOU crying for?” Sally says, looking over to where I am standing.

  All eyes are on me. I didn’t realize I was crying.

  “Ahhh, poor Renée, not getting all the attention this morning so she stands in the doorway and cries. BOOHOO.”

  “Shut up, Sally. What happened to Flo’s dad is really sad,” I say, wiping my cheeks.

  “Of course it is SAD, you idiot. Flo was crying like a baby on the phone last night. She was doing that weird thing where she couldn’t get her words out properly, all sniffing and hiccuping and stuff. I should know if it is sad or not. I’m her best friend, not YOU.” She glares at me and then turns back to her crowd. “So yeah, he was wearing his slippers. Outside. Don’t you think that just sounds like he had totally given up? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we find out he—” She puts her hands on either side of her mouth and whispers, “Killed himself.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Sally. Have some RESPECT, will you?” I shout as I move toward her.

  Her head turns slowly to look at me. The crowd disperses awkwardly. There is a general hum, suggesting that I have overstepped the mark. I swallow hard.

  “Some respect. Me? With RESPECT, Renée, are YOU a likely candidate for head girl? Have YOU had a tidiness sash for three years straight? Have YOU ever had an A-plus or never even had a single order mark? Have you got any respect for anyone, when you piss around in class distracting us all from lessons? With NO due respect, Renée, the only thing you have any respect for is thinking you are IT.”