Paper Aeroplanes (8 page)

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, at least good stationery has some level of kudos.

‘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 make money to spend on things like cigarettes or alcohol. Is that why you never come to hockey training? 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 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 two separate chairs in front of Miss Grut’s massive desk. Miss Trunks, who is wearing over-stretched 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 see her walking towards 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, and there’s a giant pile of panty pads on her desk, deliberately positioned by Miss Trunks to remind us why we are all there.

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

‘Why were you in the sick room?’ 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 sick room 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, but 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 sick room 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 word period or panty pad in front of Pop I am going to have to jump out of 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 a 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 this 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. 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 get 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.

I have only ever seen that happen once at school before. When I was seven years old.

I wake up feeling strange. This November has been particularly glum. I’ve got 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 cohabiting – 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 has 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 just see her in my head, but there’s no sound any more when I close my eyes. My dreams have become unreliable too.

I’ve been having a reoccurring 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 get into the garden there’s a navy-blue pram 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 pram 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, in the pram, with her baby’s body wriggling around. I rarely wake up from this dream without feeling strange. I guess that’s understandable.

I run her 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 it isn’t raining, I leave for school.

Late as usual, I arrive minutes before Miss Anthony comes in for registration. There’s an unusual silence coming from Room Six. When I walk in no one is at their desks. 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?’ asked Margaret.

‘He told me their dad had died of a heart attack, dip shit!’ 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 realise I was crying.

‘Ahhh, poor Renée, not getting all the attention this morning so she stands in the doorway and cries. BOO HOO.’

‘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 hiccupping and stuff. I should know if it is sad or not. I’m her best friend, not YOU.’ She glares at me 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 on himself? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we find out he . . .’ she puts her hands either side of her mouth and whispers, ‘
killed himself
.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Sally. Have some respect, will you?’ I shout as I move towards 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* 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.’

Limbs fly everywhere as I drag her to the floor. At first I am on top, pulling at her uniform, trying to win the fight without actually hitting her because despite my brazen move I can’t bear the idea of whacking another human in the face. I wrestle like a dog playing, all teeth and thumping paws but no claws. And then she punches me. Right in the eye. It really hurts.

‘Sally Du Putron, what on earth are you doing?’

Miss Anthony is standing over us. Her timing is impeccable.

‘She attacked me, miss. I was defending myself,’ says Sally, nursing her sore fist.

‘Well, that isn’t exactly what I saw,’ Miss Anthony suggests.

Almost everyone in the classroom nods.

‘But miss,’ continues Sally, ‘she pulled me off the desk and started attacking me. I had to punch her to get her off.’

‘Punching someone in the face is unacceptable, no matter what the circumstances. If Renée was attacking you so badly why didn’t one of the other girls try to get her off you? I’m going to issue you with a detention, Sally. Fighting is unacceptable at Tudor Falls.’

‘But miss, I have never had a detention. I would never start a fight,’ Sally begs.

‘You did start it,’ I hiss. ‘You and your big, nasty mouth.’

‘OK, Renée, that is quite enough. You have a detention too. Both of you stay behind after school next Wednesday. I will be writing to both of your parents – guardians, that is,’ she says, looking at me, ‘to tell them why.’ Miss Anthony walks towards the front of the class. ‘Right, now, please can everyone take their seats. I have some very sad news and I need your full attention.’

Sally and I head for our desks. The temptation to pull her chair out from under her is hard to resist.