Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  I know Jodie’s only trying to be nice, but things just aren’t that simple. I decided a long time ago that I couldn’t risk getting close to anyone – the stakes are just too high. And even if I did change my mind, it’s too late now. Everyone is taken.

  After my shift, I dump my trolley back at the office before heading home, stopping off at the corner shop for an ice pop.

  I’m at the bottom of our driveway when I realize it’s leaking; sticky red liquid trickling on the pavement. I tip my head back, pouring what’s left into my mouth, the slushy ice sliding down my throat.

  ‘Hi.’

  My head snaps back into position.

  It’s him.

  Noah Hornby.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  He’s standing about two metres away from me, wearing a pair of baggy black shorts and a faded black T-shirt. Up close I can make out details I’ve only been able to imagine up to this point – the sooty black lashes, the colour of his eyes (treacly brown), the little nick on his left eyebrow, the faint acne scars on his cheeks, the way I can perfectly imagine what his skull might look like if you were to peel all the skin away.

  ‘You’ve got some on your top,’ Noah says, pointing.

  I look down. There are three dots of red on my grey T-shirt. It looks like blood.

  ‘Oh, right. Thanks,’ I say, rubbing the material together and making the stain at least three times worse.

  I was a lot more articulate in the scripted version of this exchange.

  ‘You live here, don’t you?’ Noah adds, nodding up at the house.

  I want the pavement to swallow me up. I’m desperate to deny it, but how can I? I’m standing right outside the place.

  ‘I’ve seen you coming and going,’ Noah adds, removing the possibility anyway.

  ‘Right,’ I murmur.

  On the one hand, I’m mortified that my efforts to slink in and out of the house without Noah seeing me have failed. On the other, I’m weirdly exhilarated to learn he’s been interested enough to note my comings and goings.

  ‘I live there with my mum,’ I say, looking at my feet. ‘What I mean is, it’s her house.’

  I want to expand, to make it absolutely clear I have nothing to do with the state of the place, but I don’t know how to put it, or if he’ll even believe me if I did.

  ‘Do you have the bedroom at the back?’ he asks.

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  ‘Me too.’

  He opens his mouth to say something else but is cut off by an angry voice from inside the house calling his name.

  ‘My dad,’ he says, his face flushing. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m Noah, by the way,’ he says as he backs away, the laces of his hi-tops trailing on the ground.

  I know, I say silently.

  ‘I’m Ro,’ I say out loud.

  ‘Ro,’ Noah repeats, as if trying it out for size. ‘Is that short for something? Rowan or Rowena?’

  ‘Rosie,’ I admit.

  He cocks his head to one side. ‘You don’t look like a Rosie.’

  I lift my chin slightly, pleased with his observation. ‘I know.’

  ‘Noah!’ the voice rings out again.

  Noah winces apologetically and swivels on his heels before jogging up his driveway and disappearing through the open front door, leaving me standing, slightly stunned on the pavement, sticky ice pop juice running down my wrists.

  9

  The Saturday before the new term starts, I return home from work to discover Noah standing outside number 46 wearing a T-shirt, lounge shorts and a pair of really quite ridiculous Gruffalo slippers.

  It’s been raining steadily all day, and even with my umbrella up my trainers and jeans are damp. From several metres away, I can tell that Noah is soaked to the skin.

  Our eyes met and he raises his hand in greeting, his mouth stretching out into a grim version of a smile. I hesitate before heading up the driveway towards him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘Hey,’ I reply.

  His hair is stuck to his forehead in clumps. Wet, it looks even darker than usual.

  There are a few seconds of awkward silence.

  ‘Nice slippers,’ I blurt eventually.

  Nice, Ro. Smooth.

  ‘That wasn’t a diss by the way,’ I add quickly. ‘I know it sounded like one, but it honestly wasn’t. They’re great slippers. I mean, who doesn’t love The Gruffalo? I just had no idea they made them in adult sizes.’

  Oh God, shut up, Ro.

  ‘They were a present,’ Noah says. ‘From my gran.’

  ‘Great present. Your gran clearly has amazing taste.’

  There’s another horrendously awkward pause.

  ‘I’m locked out by the way,’ Noah says. ‘In case you thought I was just hanging out in the rain in my slippers for a laugh.’

  ‘How come?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you have keys?’

  ‘I was taking the rubbish out and the door slammed shut behind me. It’s the kind that locks automatically. I didn’t know …’

  His T-shirt has Luke Skywalker from Star Wars on it. The image is faded, Luke’s features ghostly pale. It clings to Noah’s skinny body, the white cotton almost translucent. Through it, I can make out his nipples and belly button and the outline of his ribs.

  Oh God.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask, dragging my gaze upwards.

  ‘At the cinema with my little brother.’

  ‘Do you know when they’ll be back?’

  ‘They left about hour ago, so at least another hour, maybe more if they stop somewhere for food afterwards …’

  He shivers. The hairs on his arms are standing up on end, like rows of magnetized iron filings.

  ‘Look,’ he says. ‘I feel really weird asking this but I don’t suppose I could hang out at your house until they get back? I tried the people at number forty-four but there was no one home.’

  His proposal makes me dizzy with panic. It’s one thing acknowledging where I live, quite another actually inviting someone in. And not just anyone. Noah. Since Dad left, the only other person to cross the threshold apart from me and Bonnie was the plumber who came to fix the boiler a few years ago, and that had been quite traumatic enough, for all involved.

  ‘I don’t need entertaining or anything,’ Noah adds. ‘I mean, if you’ve got stuff to do. Excuse me a second.’ He turns away and sneezes into the crook of his arm.

  ‘Bless you,’ I murmur.

  He turns back to face me and sniffs apologetically. There’s a perfect raindrop hanging off the tip of his nose.

  I have no idea what to do. If I say no, he’ll think I’m rude and heartless. But I can’t possibly say yes. The idea of leading Noah through the house of horrors I call home is unthinkable. What if he tells his dad? And his dad brings it on himself to call Social Services …

  Think, Ro, think.

  An idea begins to formulate in my brain.

  ‘OK,’ I say unsteadily.

  ‘Really?’ he says eagerly. ‘I mean, are you sure that’s OK?’

  ‘Sure. I mean, why not?’

  ‘Wow, thank you.’

  We walk round the side of the house in single file, the concrete paving slabs slick and shiny from the rain. I’m trembling. I really, really hope he can’t tell.

  I rest my backpack on the doorstep and open the front pocket, my quaking fingers brushing my keys as I pretend to search for them.

  Here goes.

  ‘Oh my God, you’re not going to believe this,’ I say. ‘I haven’t got my keys either!’

  I cringe. I sound like I’m rehearsing a bit part in a very bad school play.

  Luckily, my performance is upstaged by a flash of lightning slicing the sky in half, followed by an angry growl of thunder.

  ‘Whoa,’ Noah murmurs.

  A gunmetal grey cloud swoops over our heads, shrouding the back garden in shadow, and within seconds hail begins to pelt down, clattering against the pa
tio.

  Time for phase two.

  ‘The shed!’ I yell. ‘Quick!’

  I lead the way across the overgrown lawn, hail bouncing off my umbrella and backpack.

  The shed door is rusted shut and it takes two attempts for me to yank it open.

  ‘In here,’ I say.

  Once upon a time, the shed was Dad’s domain. It wasn’t kitted out with anything particularly fancy – just a wooden workbench, an old armchair, a few books, a portable heater and a battery-operated light.

  I slam the door shut behind us. We peer out through the misty Perspex window. The lawn is snowy with hail and the rain is coming down in sheets.

  ‘End of the world weather,’ Noah says, his left shoulder grazing my right one.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agree, the skin on my shoulder on fire.

  As we continue to look out the window, I keep waiting for him to make a comment about the house but he doesn’t. He must be thinking it though. How can be not be? It’s right there in front of him.

  ‘Um, sorry there’s nowhere to sit,’ I say, collapsing my umbrella and propping it in the corner. Dad took his chair and stuff when he left.

  ‘The floor’s fine,’ Noah says, plopping down cross-legged on the knotty wooden boards. ‘I’m just happy to be out of the rain.’

  I sit down opposite him, my back against the wall, knees drawn up under my chin. I wondered if the shed might still smell of Dad, but all I’m getting is the heady scent of timber.

  There’s a long silence. Noah is looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘What have they gone to see?’ I ask.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your dad and F—’ (I stop myself from using Finn’s name just in time). ‘Your dad and brother. At the cinema.’

  ‘Oh. That new Pixar film. You know, the one about the mouse?’

  I don’t, but I nod anyway.

  ‘You didn’t want to go with them?’ I ask.

  Noah shakes his head hard, spraying droplets of water like a dog attempting to dry off. ‘Er, do you mind if I take these off?’ he asks, pointing at his sodden slippers.

  ‘Oh, no, go for it.’

  He smiles gratefully and removes them. His feet are skinny with long, bony toes and tan marks from where he’s been wearing flip-flops.

  ‘I’ve been in France,’ he says, noticing me looking.

  Great. Now he probably thinks I’m some kind of weird foot fetishist.

  ‘Who with?’ I ask, forcing my eyes upwards.

  ‘My mum, my brother and one of my mum’s mates,’ Noah adds.

  ‘Was it nice?’

  ‘It was OK. I didn’t really do much, just lazed around next to the pool while my mum and her friend drank half the wine in the Côte D’Azur.’ He smiles a sad sort of smile.

  Another silence descends. They’re quickly becoming our speciality.

  ‘Have you been away anywhere?’ Noah asks after a few seconds, pulling his damp T-shirt away from his skin, distorting Luke Skywalker’s face.

  I shake my head.

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We just … didn’t.’

  Bonnie and I haven’t been on a summer holiday since Dad lived with us. With no photos to help jog my memories, our trips to the seaside are vague and hazy, like I dreamed them.

  ‘I’ve heard her singing,’ Noah says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your mum.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, my fingernails digging into my thighs.

  ‘She’s good.’

  I nod. Because Bonnie is good. It’s easy to forget sometimes, to let my anger overshadow her talent.

  ‘She should do it professionally,’ Noah adds.

  ‘She already does.’

  ‘Really?’ he says, his eyes full of wonder. ‘That’s so cool.’

  ‘I guess.’

  As long as I can remember, Bonnie has spent her weekends gigging. After Dad left, every Friday and Saturday night she dropped me off with a steady rotation of women she’d met on the gigging circuit – women called things like Mandy and Tanya and Shona, who parked me in front of the TV and fed me fizzy drinks and bags of violently potent salt and vinegar crisps. A few times, she couldn’t find anyone and had to take me with her, smuggling me backstage where I’d sit in the wings, watching through the tatty velvet curtains as she belted out power ballads like her life depended on it. When I turned 11, Bonnie started leaving me home alone, ringing to check in between sets, but ultimately trusting me to put myself to bed.

  ‘My mum’s a tax accountant,’ Noah says, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He’s … between jobs at the moment.’

  Based on Mr Hornby’s irregular comings and goings, this makes perfect sense.

  There’s another long pause.

  Outside the hail has stopped and the rain has slowed, pattering gently against the felt roof now.

  Noah pulls at a loose thread on his T-shirt.

  Now what?

  My eyes roam the shed for possible conversation topics. They fall on the crate. I stand up and walk over to it, peering in. It contains a plastic watering can, a couple of pairs of battered gardening gloves, a tin of white paint and, at the very bottom, a rectangular box.

  ‘Do you know how to play chess?’ I ask, pulling it out and peeking inside the box. It’s just a cheap, flimsy thing – cardboard and plastic – but all the pieces appear to be there.

  Noah shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t suppose you fancy learning?’

  I kneel down and unfold the board. Noah shifts towards me on his bottom. His hair has dried oddly, sticking up in two tufts making it look like he’s sprouted a pair of horns. It suits him.

  ‘Who taught you to play?’ Noah asks as I line up the pieces.

  ‘My dad,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit rusty though.’

  Noah is a complete natural, picking up the rules quickly. As we play, we gradually loosen up, our chat finally beginning to flow as we debate our favourite music, the places in the world we most want to see, the best flavour of Krispy Kreme doughnut, whether we’d prefer to fight one hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck.

  And it’s fun.

  Actual real-life fun.

  We’re on our third game when we hear yelling. I scramble to my feet and open the door. It’s stopped raining and the sun is peeping through the clouds.

  ‘Noah!’ Mr Hornby is shouting. ‘Noah!’

  I look down at Noah. His mouth is set in a grim straight line.

  ‘My dad,’ he says, his voice flat.

  He stands up and just like that – poof! – the cosy spell is broken.

  Deflated, I crouch down and begin to dismantle the game.

  ‘Wait,’ Noah says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Couldn’t we leave the board as it is? That way we can pick up from where we left off, next time.’

  Next time.

  He wants there to be a next time.

  Tingles shoot down my arms and legs.

  ‘OK, sure,’ I say, fighting to keep my tone casual. ‘When were you thinking?’

  ‘The thing is, I’m going back to school tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘I go to boarding school.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment cuts through me like a knife.

  ‘When will you be back?’ I ask.

  ‘Half term maybe?’ Noah says.

  Half term is at the end of October. Week and weeks away.

  ‘Maybe we could swap numbers?’ Noah suggests. ‘So we can arrange it properly.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, trying not to look too excited and handing him my battered old phone so he can tap in his number.

  ‘Noah!’ Mr Hornby’s voice is full-on angry now.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Noah says, giving me my phone back and slipping his feet back into his soggy slippers.

  We step out into the garden.

  ‘Look,’ Noah says, pointing up at the sky.

 
A faint outline of a rainbow is peeking out from behind the clouds. We watch in silence as it dissolves from sight.

  We’re standing on the patio now. Noah still hasn’t mentioned the state of the house. I know it’s impossible but it’s almost as if he can’t even see it.

  ‘Thanks again for taking me in,’ he says.

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘October, then?’

  ‘October,’ I echo.

  ‘Noah!’ Mr Hornby’s furious voice sails over the fence, making us both flinch.

  ‘My cue to leave,’ Noah says.

  And just like that, he’s gone.

  AUTUMN

  10

  The corridors are packed with students hugging and squealing like they’re re-enacting footage from when the Berlin Wall was torn down.

  ‘Oh my God, I missed you so much!’ a Year Nine girl shrieks as I make my way to morning registration, lifting up her friend and swinging her round in a circle.

  I manage to flatten myself against the wall just in time to avoid being whacked in the shins by her flailing legs.

  My form tutor for Year Ten is Ms Cameron. She’s there hunched over a stack of paperwork, her glasses perched on the very end of her nose. The rest of the classroom is empty so I have my pick of desks. If I’m lucky, there’ll be an uneven number of students and I’ll get one to myself again. I quickly scan the room and settle on a desk at the front by the window. I’m about to sit down when Ms Cameron glances up.

  ‘No, no, not there,’ she says in her trademark rasp.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say.

  She lets out an impatient sigh. ‘Did you not see the name cards?’

  That’s when I notice the pieces of card propped on each of the desks, like place cards at a wedding breakfast.

  ‘They’re in alphabetical order,’ Ms Cameron adds impatiently. ‘Starting with A at the front.’

  I retrace my steps and try to think of any other students in my form with a surname beginning with S.

  S, S, S.

  Then it hits me.

  Emerson Saxby.

  My heart sinks.

  I’ve known Emerson since primary school. He’s loud and hyperactive, always bouncing up and down in his seat, telling stupid jokes and doing comedy farts. He means well, I suppose, but the prospect of sitting next to him for an entire academic year fills me with intense dread.