Paper Avalanche

by Lisa Williamson

  I let out an animalistic howl of frustration that shocks us both.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Bonnie asks.

  ‘I left my purse in the restaurant.’

  ‘Was there any ID in there?’ Bonnie asks, genuine worry passing across her face for the first time that day.

  ‘You’re unbelievable,’ I cry, pulling out my phone to check the time. It’s nearly three o’clock and we’re still over a mile away from the audition venue. ‘I’m going to be late,’ I say, tears of desperation brimming in my eyes.

  All I want right now is for Bonnie to step up and take control of the situation; to make everything better, the way parents are supposed to.

  But of course she doesn’t.

  She couldn’t even if she wanted to.

  A packed bus rushes past.

  ‘Can you at least get to the bus stop?’ I ask, pointing at the bus stop in the distance.

  Bonnie takes an experimental step and yelps with pain.

  ‘I’m going to have to go on my own,’ I say.

  ‘But I thought I had to be there?’

  ‘I’ll have to think of something, won’t I? You wait here.’

  I turn my back on Bonnie and break into a sprint.

  By the time I reach the Royal Academy of Music, my calves and lungs are on fire and sweat mingled with tears is pouring down my face. I pound up the steps and into the foyer, flinging myself at the first official-looking person I see, a short woman with cropped blonde hair.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks, frowning at my dishevelled appearance.

  ‘I’ve got an audition,’ I say, panting. ‘But I’m late.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ro. Ro Snow.’

  She consults her clipboard. ‘I’m afraid the time slots are very strict,’ she says. ‘That’s why we recommend you aim to arrive at least half an hour early.’

  Do you think I don’t know that? If it wasn’t for my disaster of a mother I’d have been here with an hour to spare.

  ‘Please,’ I gasp. ‘You don’t understand what I’ve had to do to get here.’

  She sighs. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  I’m far too anxious to take in my impressive surroundings, shifting from foot to foot as I wait for the woman to come back. When she does, she has another woman with her, also holding a clipboard. She introduces herself as Gina, the choir’s senior administrator.

  ‘We’re chock-a-block today,’ Gina explains. ‘But the panel have agreed to see you during their tea break. We’ll have to be quick though. If you’ll follow me.’

  ‘You mean, now?’ I say. ‘But I haven’t warmed up properly or anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gina says with an apologetic tilt of the head. ‘But, like I said, they’re already giving up their tea break to squeeze you in.’

  I follow Gina up a grand staircase and down a long corridor, our footsteps echoing off the tiled walls. I’m out of breath and I can feel the hair sticking to the back of my neck, the shirt clinging to my sweaty back. I try to block it all out, to ignore the voice inside my head telling me I’m not ready, but it’s impossible: it’s too loud, too insistent.

  ‘Wait here one moment,’ Gina says, coming to a sudden stop outside an anonymous white door.

  She slips inside, leaving me alone for a moment. I pull out my hairbrush, inspecting my reflection in the tiny mirror embedded into its handle. I look even worse than I feared – pale and tired and stressed and afraid. I pinch my cheeks in an attempt to look a little healthier but it does nothing to detract from the lavender semicircles under my eyes and the deep worry lines that look like they’ve been etched into my forehead with a scalpel.

  I look like the oldest 14-year-old on the planet.

  Gina reappears. ‘Right, in you go.’

  Before I have the chance to collect myself, I’m being ushered into the room, the door closing with a soft click behind me.

  Despite the grandness of the building, the audition room is beige and unremarkable. I make my way to the centre of the room and face the panel – the same four people I met in Birmingham. Every muscle in my body feels tense and brittle.

  ‘Ro, it’s good to see you again,’ the thin man says warmly.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ I blurt.

  The panel wave away my apologies and direct me towards the pianist. He’s different to the guy I met in Birmingham. This one has floppy blond hair and looks grumpy and tired, not meeting my eye as I hand over my music.

  ‘Seeing as we’re pushed for time, we’ll skip the sight-reading and go straight to the pieces, shall we?’ one of the women says.

  I swallow. I’d hoped I could use the sight-singing portion of the audition to warm up my voice and calm down a little.

  The pianist starts the introduction before I’ve even had the chance to make my way to the centre of the room.

  ‘I’m not ready!’ I want to yelp, but I know I can’t.

  My first few notes are wafer thin. It’s like someone is squeezing me round the middle, forcing out the sound. I try to compensate with the next few notes but I push too hard, my voice cracking painfully. What is happening? I usually feel so in control when I sing, like I’m a braver, better version of myself. Today, I feel like the palest of copies – weak and wobbly and totally out of place. I try to disappear into the song, to lose myself in the lyrics, the way I usually do with so little effort, but I can’t escape the stress of the last few hours – Jodie pulling out of coming, the coffee stain on my jeans, being forced to do a runner from the restaurant, Bonnie’s stupid boots, my lost purse, and now, the knowledge I’m making a complete mess of this opportunity with every single breath. I was right all along. This choir isn’t for me. Mr Milford got it wrong. Just look at me, I’m falling apart.

  My voice cracks on another of the big notes, then another. I can feel tears building.

  You cannot cry in front of them, Ro. No matter what happens, you cannot cry.

  But at the same time, I can’t ignore their disappointed faces, and a lone tear manages to escape, rolling determinedly down my cheek. I only hope they can’t see it from where they’re sitting.

  The rest of the song is a blur of mangled lyrics and bumpy vibrato, the notes falling clumsily from my mouth. When it comes to the end, there’s an uncomfortable silence. I want to die. I want to shrivel to the ground, like the Wicked Witch at the end of The Wizard of Oz.

  ‘Thank you, Ro,’ the woman sitting closest to the door says. ‘Just one moment.’

  She bows her head towards the others. They lean in. While they aren’t looking, I wipe away the path my tear has left on my cheek. In the corner, the pianist is yawning and checking his phone.

  The panel looks up in unison, identical smiles of pity on their faces.

  ‘Thanks for coming back to see us, Ro,’ the woman says. ‘We’ll be letting everyone know in the next few weeks.’

  ‘But I have another piece,’ I say.

  I hate how desperate I sound. I may as well just throw myself at their feet and beg.

  The woman hesitates, clearly selecting her next few words with care. ‘I think we’ve heard everything we need for now. But thank you, Ro.’

  She says it nicely but you’d have to be an idiot not to understand the meaning. I’ve blown it and there’s no need to prolong the agony, on either side. It’s too late – their minds are made up. I, Ro Snow, am not good enough. That first audition was a blip; an anomaly; a one-off. The disappointment is so acute it takes all the strength I have to keep myself upright.

  ‘Well, thank you for taking the time to see me,’ I manage in a small voice, my eyes filling with tears.

  They continue to smile their kind, bland smiles as I slip out of the room, my head down.

  Gina is leaning against the clunky old-fashioned radiator. ‘Everything all right?’ she asks brightly.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m so glad they were able to squeeze you in,’ Gina says. ‘It would have
been such a shame to come all this way for nothing.’

  29

  It’s only as the cold hits my cheeks on the steps outside that I realize no one ever asked where my parent or guardian was. I could have got away with coming alone, after all. I imagine an alternative version of the day, one where I arrived an hour early and had lots of time to warm up and the panel’s smiles were warm and real. I walk for a few metres before sinking down on the pavement and bursting into hot fat tears of regret and frustration. People stare as they pass but I don’t care any more.

  After ten minutes, I get up and walk back to the fried chicken shop slowly, my feet dragging on the pavement, every step an effort. When I arrive, the doorway is empty. I look inside, but there are just a couple of teenage boys at the counter.

  I check my phone.

  In the café across the road! Bxx

  The café is old-fashioned with wood panelling and big glass cases containing elaborate cakes on polished wooden plinths.

  Bonnie is sitting at a table at the back, a pair of bright pink crocs on her feet.

  ‘Where did you get those?’ I ask in a flat voice.

  ‘The lovely lady who owns this place took pity on me and insisted I have them,’ Bonnie says, extending her leg to show them off. ‘Have you ever tried a pair? So comfy!’

  My eyes fall on the empty mug and plate in front of her. The plate has cake crumbs on it. ‘How did you pay for that?’ I ask.

  ‘I found a twenty in my coat pocket,’ Bonnie says cheerfully.

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  ‘So, how was the audition?’ Bonnie adds. ‘You were very quick. Any good?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Oh well, that’s show business for you – you win some you lose some,’ Bonnie says. ‘Now, what time is the train back? Do we have time for another bit of cake before we pop to Harrods? The Black Forest gâteau was delicious.’

  She licks her lips. I just stare at her. After a few seconds, her brow furrows as she finally appears to clock the upset carved into my face.

  ‘Oh, no need to be glum,’ she says, reaching over and waggling my hand. ‘A piece of cake will make everything better. Now where did I put my change …’ She begins rifling in her bag.

  ‘It all worked out just the way you wanted, didn’t it?’ I say.

  Bonnie glances up and tuts. ‘Will you sit down, Ro. It’s not very relaxing, you hovering over me like that.’

  I stay where I am.

  ‘You did it on purpose, didn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bonnie asks with a nervous laugh.

  ‘All of this. Being slow this morning, and making us go for pasta, and wearing those stupid boots. I think you wanted to mess today up for me. You made up your mind the second I told you about it and made it clear it was important to me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Bonnie says, emptying her change out of her purse, coins rolling everywhere.

  ‘I never ask you for anything, Bonnie,’ I continue, brand-new tears streaming silently down my cheeks. ‘And when I finally do, you do everything you can to ruin it.’

  ‘Ro, please …’

  I keep going, drowning her out. ‘Because if it’s not’s about you, you’re not interested. This mattered to me, Bonnie,’ I say, stabbing my chest with my index finger, my voice shaking with anger. ‘And you stamped all over it. And the worst bit is, I don’t think you even realize how selfish you’ve been today. You’re so used to playing the part of “Poor Bonnie”, I don’t think it even crosses your mind what it might be like to be her daughter. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the worst thing on earth and I’ve had enough of it.’

  I open up my bag and unzip the side pocket to retrieve our return train tickets. And there it is. My purse. I had it with me this entire time. My hands trembling with fresh fury, I slap one of the tickets down on the table and walk out of the café.

  I don’t sit in my reserved seat on the train home. It means I have to stand the whole way but I can’t bear the thought of sitting next to Bonnie for two minutes, never mind two hours.

  I try to read, but it’s hard to turn the pages when I have to use my spare hand to hold onto the rail. I can’t concentrate anyway, reading the same few paragraphs over and over. Every ten minutes or so, my phone buzzes in my pocket with a call from Bonnie. I cancel every one. There’s nothing she can do or say to put this right.

  Not this time.

  30

  Bonnie leaves the house while I’m still in bed, the back door banging shut to herald her departure.

  Good.

  When we got back to Ostborough last night, I refused to get in the car with her, catching the bus home instead. By the time I got home, she was already holed up in the living room with the TV on, and made no attempts to intercept me as I made my way through the house and up the stairs to bed.

  I wonder how long we can go living in the same house without actually seeing each other? I’m fully prepared to find out.

  I stay in bed most of the day, dozing and watching nature documentaries on my laptop. It’s getting dark when I wake up from my latest nap. I reach for my phone. The screen is filled with text messages from Tanvi.

  I told her last night that the audition didn’t go very well (understatement of the year) but she refused to believe me, clearly under the impression I’m just being modest. I wish. Every time I think about it, I’m overcome with waves of nausea so strong I’m scared I might puke for real.

  I skim the messages. They’re all about the party tonight. My phone buzzes with yet another. I open it.

  Tanvi: Where are you??? I thought you were coming over to get ready for the party? I have snacks!!! Xxx

  Ro: Sorry, I fell asleep.

  Tanvi: No worries! I’m just glad you’re OK (I was starting to worry!). What time are you coming over?

  I look at the time. The original plan was to go over to Tanvi’s around five but I’m not sure I can handle all the inevitable questions about the audition and having to pretend I’m excited about the party. All I want to do is climb back under my duvet and forget yesterday ever happened.

  R: I’ve kind of got some stuff I need to do first. How about I meet you there?

  T: WHAAAAAAAAT? I can’t turn up alone!

  R: I’ll meet you outside then.

  T: SAD TIMES :( :(. But I thought we were going to get ready together? I made a special playlist and everything!

  R: Sorry, dude. Mum stuff, you know …

  I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look awful, my face blotchy and creased from a day under the duvet.

  T: OMG, are you OK? Can I do anything to help? Can we pick you up at least?

  R: No. I’ll see you there at 7. Gotta go …

  I toss my phone on my bedside table and get back into bed.

  *

  Tanvi’s dad’s car is parked outside Jack’s house when I arrive shortly after 7 p.m. The second Tanvi spots me, she leaps out and chucks her arms around me.

  ‘OMG, I missed you so much!’ she cries.

  I know this is my cue to say I missed her too, but even though it’s true (or at least it was), I can’t quite bring myself to say it out loud.

  ‘I like your make-up,’ I say instead. ‘Did Prisha do it?’

  Tanvi looks exactly like she’s from the musical Cats.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If you’d come over, she would have probably done yours too.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that.’

  ‘Is everything OK? With your mum, I mean.’ Her eyes are wide with concern.

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I say, shifting from foot to foot. ‘It was just hard for me to get away. Look, shall we go in. I’m freezing.’

  Tanvi’s dad honks his horn. ‘I’ll be back in this exact spot at ten thirty on the dot,’ he says, poking his head out of the open window.

  ‘But that’s so early,’ Tanvi whines. ‘By the time we’ve gone in and taken our coats off, it’ll be time to put them back on and come h
ome again.’

  ‘Ten thirty, bachcha, take it or leave it.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tanvi grumbles, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I still can’t get over the fact my dad rang Jack’s mum up and asked how many adults would be “on duty”,’ she says as we make our way up the pumpkin-lined driveway. ‘So embarrassing.’

  Neither Bonnie nor Dad has a clue where I am tonight. Bonnie was getting ready to go out when I left and Dad is still in France. Until I met Tanvi and her parents, it didn’t bother me so much.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Tanvi asks. ‘You don’t quite seem yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is it the audition?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure it didn’t go well?’ Tanvi asks.

  I sigh. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘How do you know? What did they say?’

  ‘I just know, OK?’ I snap, irritation bubbling.

  ‘Well, you don’t know anything for sure until you get the results letter,’ Tanvi says cheerfully.

  Tonight, Tanvi’s unfailing optimism feels almost unbearable. She’s about to say something else but her words are swallowed by a sneeze.

  ‘Bless you,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tanvi replies, wiggling her nose. ‘I haven’t messed up my make-up, have I? Prisha spent ages on it.’

  ‘No. It’s perfect,’ I say truthfully.

  Jack’s front door is ajar. Inside, it’s fully decked out for Halloween with black and orange balloons and streamers, cardboard skeletons dangling from the ceilings and fake cobwebs masking the doorways and winding up the bannister. A large doll dressed up as a witch is slumped at the top of the stairs. As we pass, it lets out a tinny cackle.

  Tanvi shrieks in delight. ‘This is so cool!’ she squeals, clutching my arm.

  We remove our coats and dump them on the bed in Jack’s parents’ bedroom.

  ‘Ta-da!’ Tanvi says, showing off her cat costume in full. With her fluffy tail and felt ears, she looks ridiculously cute.

  ‘Where’s your costume?’ she asks.

  ‘This is it,’ I reply, gesturing down at my outfit. I’m dressed head to toe in black.