Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  I locate my name card on a desk at the very back of the room.

  Ro Snow, it says in Ms Cameron’s old-fashioned swirly handwriting. I brace myself for Emerson’s name on the card next to it but when I look closer I see it’s an entirely different name altogether – Tanvi Shah.

  I frown.

  Tanvi Shah?

  Confused, I lower myself into my seat as the rest of my classmates trickle into the room, every single one of them grumbling over the seating arrangements.

  ‘Miss, are you joking!’ Ryan Attah exclaims.

  ‘I don’t joke,’ Ms Cameron replies in a bored tone of voice, not even bothering to look up.

  By the time the bell rings, there’s still no sign of Tanvi Shah. Maybe she’s not coming. Maybe Ms Cameron got confused and wrote Tanvi’s name on the card by mistake and I’ll have a desk all to myself after all. I allow myself to relax a little, moving Tanvi’s name card aside and spreading out my things.

  Ms Cameron is halfway through the register when the door bursts open and a needle-thin girl with wispy black hair and a pair of lively chocolate brown eyes slightly too large for her face tumbles into the classroom, almost head-butting Ryan who is sitting in the front row.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, miss!’ the girl gasps. ‘I got so lost!’

  Ms Cameron’s usually stern face visibly softens. ‘Not to worry, Tanvi,’ she says gently. ‘Welcome back.’

  Welcome back?

  ‘Take a seat next to Ro,’ she adds, pointing in my direction.

  It’s only as Tanvi careers down the aisle towards me, her too-large backpack bouncing against her back, I twig why I recognized her name earlier, and from the whispers and nudging elbows around me, everyone else has figured it out too.

  Of course.

  It’s Tanvi Shah.

  Back from the dead.

  *

  One frosty December morning two and a half years ago, the whole of Year Seven was summoned to the hall for an impromptu assembly. I remember what the weather was like that day because someone had drawn a massive willy and balls on one of the frosted-up windows and people were pointing and giggling. Then Mrs Hibbert, the head teacher, and Mr Liu, the head of Year Seven walked onto the stage looking sad and serious, and everyone quickly shut up. They exchanged grave looks before announcing they had some bad news, and that following a series of tests, Tanvi Shah of form 7D had been diagnosed with cancer.

  Lots of people cried. I didn’t though. Not that it wasn’t sad, or that Tanvi didn’t deserve our tears; it just weirded me out to watch all these kids who I was pretty sure didn’t even hang around with Tanvi break down in mass hysterics like they were the best of friends.

  For a few days, Tanvi’s illness was the main topic of conversation in the playground and lunch queue. There was a suggestion of doing a fundraiser for her family, but it never quite got off the ground, and Tanvi quickly faded from everyone’s minds. I thought of her sometimes, on cold frosty days usually, briefly wondering what had happened to her, whether she’d pulled through or not. All I knew was that there were no follow-up assemblies and Tanvi never returned to school.

  She was in limbo.

  That is, until now.

  A very much alive Tanvi throws herself into the seat next to me. Everything about her is small and delicate-looking, from her sloping shoulders to her slender wrists, so tiny I reckon I could wrap my thumb and index finger around one with ease. Tanvi’s blazer is stiff and new and far too big for her, only the very tips of her fingers poking out from the sleeves. Combined with her calf-length skirt and baggy blouse, she looks more like a Year Seven pupil than someone entering Year Ten.

  ‘I got completely lost,’ she whispers as Ms Cameron continues down the register. ‘Nothing is where it where it used to be!’

  Of course. Tanvi left before the school was fully renovated the summer between Year Eight and Year Nine.

  I search her face for any signs of illness, but her eyes are bright and her cheeks lightly flushed. The only clue is her small size but I don’t know whether that’s down to the cancer or just plain old genetics.

  Tanvi picks up my name card and studies it. ‘I remember you though,’ she says, putting the card back down and pulling out from her overstuffed backpack a red plastic pencil case with a Hello Kitty charm attached to the zip and plonking it on the desk next to my plain metal one.

  I blink. She must be mistaken.

  ‘No you don’t,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tanvi asks, tilting her head to one side, her mouth quivering into an amused smile.

  ‘You must be mixing me up with someone else,’ I say.

  ‘Nope.’

  I frown.

  Tanvi throws back her head and laughs, gripping my arm with a child-sized hand. ‘There’s no need to look so upset about it!’ she says. ‘I remember everyone pretty much.’

  I carefully remove Tanvi’s hand.

  ‘I’ll prove it to you,’ she continues. ‘Pick anyone in this classroom, anyone at all, and I’ll tell you all the stuff I remember about them.’

  ‘No, you’re all right, thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Quiet, please!’ Ms Cameron barks.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Tanvi says, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Please.’

  ‘I said no,’ I hiss back.

  ‘Fine, I’ll choose someone then,’ Tanvi replies, her eyes roaming the classroom for a suitable candidate.

  ‘OK, her,’ she says, pointing at Sienna Blake. ‘Sienna Blake. She’s got a mouth the size of the Channel Tunnel, is allergic to peanuts and in Year Seven she dressed up as Kim Kardashian for Children in Need. She shoved a cushion down the back of her pants and paid Tre Morgan a fiver to come as Kanye.’ She turns to me and beams triumphantly.

  ‘So? Everyone knows who Sienna is,’ I point out.

  ‘Pick someone else then,’ Tanvi says. ‘Someone harder.’

  ‘Look, I really don’t care.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ Tanvi says.

  ‘I mean it, I’m really not interested.’

  ‘How about Justin Nowak,’ Tanvi says, ignoring me. ‘OK, let’s see. He once had a nosebleed in assembly and fainted, he’s really amazing at art and he always wears odd socks. Look.’

  Sure enough, Justin is wearing a plain red sock on one foot, a Homer Simpson one on the other.

  ‘I’ll do you now,’ Tanvi says. ‘You’re Ro Snow and—’

  I cut her off. ‘Please stop.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I told you, I’m not interested.’

  But it’s too late – Tanvi’s already talking over me.

  ‘You’re Ro Snow,’ she recites, undeterred. ‘You like to wear your hair in a plait, there’s always a Baby Bel in your packed lunch and in netball you play wing defence. Oh, and your mum is really pretty. So are you, by the way. Just in a different way to your mum.’

  ‘How do you know my mum?’ I ask sharply.

  ‘Oh, I don’t. Well, not really. I just remember her coming to parents’ evening one time and thinking how fun and glamorous she looked.’

  I shudder as I remember that night. Bonnie was en route to a 1960s themed gig and turned up in a purple mini dress, thigh-high boots, full stage make-up and her hair teased into a massive beehive. Another parent asked her if she was on her way to a fancy dress party and Bonnie laughed like a hyena and everyone stared. I hate that Tanvi remembers it too.

  Tanvi drags her backpack onto her lap. ‘Mint?’ she asks, unzipping the front pocket.

  I peer in. The pocket’s full of loose mint imperials.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  Tanvi shrugs and pops two in her mouth at once.

  The second Ms Cameron completes the register, Emerson – who is sitting directly in front of us – turns all the way round in his chair and rests his elbows on our desk.

  ‘All right, Tansy?’ he says.

  ‘It’s Tanvi actually,’ Tanvi replies. ‘T. A. N. V. I. Tanvi. And I’m fine, Emerson, thanks for asking. Mint
?’

  Emerson takes a greedy handful, shoving them in his mouth all at once so his cheeks look like they’ve been stuffed with marbles. ‘I’m not gonna lie,’ he says, chomping away. ‘But I kind of assumed that you’d, you know.’ He grimaces.

  Abi Rix, the girl sitting next to Emerson, clasps her hand over her mouth to mask her shocked giggles. I roll my eyes at the ceiling on Tanvi’s behalf. Emerson really is a tool sometimes.

  ‘I don’t think I follow you,’ Tanvi says, fiddling with the Hello Kitty charm on her pencil case. It boasts a tiny pink light that flashes on and off when she touches it.

  ‘Yeah, you do,’ Emerson says, shifting in his seat. ‘I mean, it’s been ages, what were we supposed to think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?’

  I sneak a sideways glance at Tanvi. Her face is entirely neutral. Emerson’s, on the other hand, is rapidly crumpling at the realization Tanvi is going to make him spell it out.

  ‘You know,’ he says quietly, his eye line hovering about three inches above Tanvi’s eyebrows.

  She bites her lip and performs an exaggerated shrug.

  Emerson’s Adam’s apple contracts as he takes a nervous swallow. ‘We thought you’d died,’ he whispers, his face practically purple.

  ‘Oh!’ Tanvi says, clapping her palm to her forehead. ‘You thought I’d croaked it, was six feet under, dead and buried, kicked the bucket. You’d basically killed me off, yeah?’

  There’s an awkward silence. Kids at the surrounding desks have stopped what they’re doing to listen in on the exchange, their eyes flicking between Emerson and Tanvi like they’re spectators at a Wimbledon final.

  There’s a beat before Tanvi bursts out laughing. She leans across the desk and punches Emerson on his arm. He blinks rapidly.

  ‘Duh! I’m pulling your leg!’ she says.

  ‘Oh, right. Ha ha ha …’ Emerson’s unconvincing laughter trails off. His mouth is still half-full of soggy mint imperials.

  ‘God, your face,’ Tanvi continues, slapping the desk with her hand. ‘You looked like you were about to cry!’

  ‘Everything all right over there?’ Ms Cameron barks.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ Emerson squeaks.

  Ms Cameron narrows her eyes and summons him to the front of the room.

  I take out my pack of fluorescent highlighter pens and start to annotate the timetable Emerson drops on the desk in front of me a few minutes later.

  ‘Oh, boo,’ Tanvi says, prodding at it with her skinny index finger. ‘We’re in none of the same classes. Just PE.’

  I glance at her timetable. She’s in top set for everything.

  ‘I’m so happy to be back,’ Tanvi continues. ‘I can’t even tell you! I’ve been going mad at home. I got the all-clear seven whole months ago, you see, but my parents didn’t think I was ready to come back to school full-time until now.’

  She says all of this with remarkable cheer, like having cancer for three years was a mere inconvenience to her academic career.

  ‘Hey, do you mind if I borrow these?’ she asks, pointing at my highlighters.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Just make sure you put the lids back on.’

  As Tanvi makes a proper meal out of selecting which pen to use first, I try to remember who she was friendly with before she got ill. I have a vague recollection of her hanging around with a blonde girl whose family emigrated to Australia midway through Year Eight but I’m not absolutely sure.

  The bell rings for first period. I gather up my pens. As I feared, Tanvi has mixed up the lids, the pink on the yellow, the yellow on the green and so on. I sigh and shove them into my bag to sort out later.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where room sixteen-one is?’ Tanvi asks, thrusting her timetable under my nose as we stand up. ‘I’ve got design and technology there.’

  ‘It’s in the art and design block. There are signs.’

  ‘Well, where are you going?’ Tanvi asks, plucking the timetable from my hands before I have the chance to stop her. ‘Hey, you’ve got art in sixteen-two,’ she says. ‘Perfect! I’ll just follow you.’

  Great. Just great.

  The corridors seem even busier than usual. The teachers, with their holiday suntans and slightly too short haircuts, bark at everyone to keep moving, their eyes on fresh alert for untucked shirts and non-regulation footwear. Tanvi scampers along at my side, her eyes barely level with my shoulder. She chats the whole time, mostly about how hungry she is despite the fact she had ‘four Weetabix, a banana, and a strawberry Nesquik’ for breakfast.

  ‘Mr Bagshot,’ Tanvi says, peering at her timetable. ‘What’s the verdict? Still as scary as he was three years ago?’

  After Ms Cameron, Mr Bagshot is the longest-serving member of staff in the school and, like her, possesses a distinctly old-fashioned approach to discipline. His shouts can be heard several classrooms away and he makes no secret of his sadness that corporal punishment is no longer an accepted practice.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve never had him for anything,’ I say.

  ‘Lucky,’ Tanvi says. ‘He once told me off for talking in one of his lessons and I swear I did a bit of a wee, I was that terrified.’

  Wow, this girl really has no filter.

  ‘Tell me to shut up if I’m getting on your nerves,’ Tanvi adds merrily, as we head down a flight of stairs and through a set of double doors. ‘I’m just a bit over-excited to be making conversation with someone who isn’t either my tutor, a member of my family, or a medical professional.’

  I stop abruptly outside room 16.1 and point to the sign above the door.

  ‘Oh my God, thank you so much,’ Tanvi says. ‘I’d have never found my own way here.’

  ‘I’m sure you would have figured it out eventually,’ I say, turning on my heel and walking away before Tanvi can ask me anything else.

  I’m sitting on a bench at lunch trying to decide whether it’s too soon to text Noah or not when I hear someone calling my name.

  I look up. Tanvi is weaving her way towards me, a huge grin on her face.

  ‘There you are!’ she says. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, not even bothering to hide my confusion.

  She just giggles and shoves a paper plate with a slab of flapjack on it into my hand.

  ‘But I didn’t ask you for anything,’ I say, trying to give it back.

  ‘I know that, silly. Consider it a thank you, for being my tour guide earlier.’

  ‘But I don’t want it. Seriously, take it back.’

  ‘Oh, relax,’ Tanvi says, batting me away. ‘It’s a piece of flapjack, not a trip to Disneyland.’ She bites into her own slice and lets out a gasp, clutching my arm with her spare hand. ‘Oh my God, Ro,’ she cries. ‘I’ve been dreaming of this stuff. Literally! Like full-on sex dreams!’

  Admittedly, the flapjack at Ostborough Academy is legendary – gooey and floppy and at least fifty per cent golden syrup. My slice has already soaked through the paper plate, leaving a sticky residue on my fingers.

  ‘Napkins in there,’ Tanvi says, nodding down at the breast pocket of her blazer. ‘Now, budge up.’

  With little choice in the matter, I scoot along the bench and give in to the flapjacky goodness.

  ‘This place is blowing my mind,’ Tanvi says with her mouth full. ‘I knew they’d modernized it, but I didn’t know how much. Nothing is where it used to be. Hey, want to hear something a bit weird?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ I venture.

  ‘You’re funny,’ Tanvi says, punching me gently on the arm.

  ‘It wasn’t a joke.’

  She doesn’t seem to hear, angling her body towards me, her knees brushing my thigh. I try to shift away but I’m already perched on the very edge of the bench.

  ‘OK, so here’s the thing,’ Tanvi says. ‘I always assumed I’d come back to school at some point, like even when I was really, really ill and my mum and dad were crying all the time and clearly thought I w
as a goner, at the back of my mind I just had a feeling it wasn’t over, you know?’

  But of course I don’t. How can I?

  ‘But every time I imagined being back here,’ Tanvi continues, jabbing the bench with her non-flapjack-holding index finger, ‘it was the old school I pictured, not this one. So now I’m actually here, it’s kind of thrown me a bit, like I’m living in an alternate reality or something. Does that make me sound like a loon?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Cheeky!’ Tanvi says, elbowing me in the ribs.

  We’re interrupted by Marissa Rossdale, appearing out of what seems like nowhere and flinging herself at Tanvi, almost catapulting the plate of flapjack out of her hand and into the bushes behind us.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s true!’ she cries, pulling Tanvi to her feet and clutching her skinny body to her wobbling chest. ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘Yep,’ Tanvi says, patting Marissa on the back and mouthing ‘Help!’ over her shoulder. ‘How have you been, Marissa?’

  ‘Never mind me,’ Marissa gasps, releasing Tanvi from the embrace but continuing to grip her by both shoulders, shaking her for extra emphasis. ‘How are you?’

  I spy an opportunity to escape.

  ‘I think I’m gonna leave you guys to catch up,’ I say, rising to my feet.

  Tanvi widens her eyes, as if to say ‘please don’t leave me!’

  I pretend not to notice. If it’s a friend Tanvi Shah is after, Marissa Rossdale is surely a much better fit than me.

  11

  After school, Tanvi intercepts me at the school gates and tries to offer me a lift. Even though she eventually accepts my refusal, I still feel uneasy as I walk home, glancing over my shoulder every few steps.

  I’m turning into Arcadia Avenue, when my phone buzzes. My heart does a little lift when I see Noah’s name on the screen. It’s only a short message – hello and how was school – but I don’t care, quickly tapping out a reply. We message back and forth for the next few minutes. Our conversation is nothing special – notes on our respective days – but it feels significant somehow, like the beginning of something real.