Paper Aeroplanes by Dawn O'Porter Page A

anybody, apart from her cats, which we all know she has because she is always covered in cat hair. How did my mother think it was OK that she was the one who told me my dad died?
    ‘Sing, will you? The teachers keep looking at us,’ whispers Sally and she elbows me in the ribs.
    I manage to croak out a few lines of ‘O Come, O Come, Emmanuel’ but my tongue ties at the word ‘rejoice’. I close my mouth and shut my eyes. I can feel the tears building up again. I beg myself not to cry, not here, not in assembly with Sally right next to me so desperate for me to crumble. I feel a finger tap on my left shoulder. Sally, to my right, doesn’t notice. I look back. It’s Renée.
    ‘Welcome back,’ she mouths. Apparently not bothered that a teacher might see.
    I smile for the first time in nine days.
Renée
    ‘Renée, can I have a word?’
    When teachers pull you aside after assembly it’s hardly ever good news, but Miss Anthony looks surprisingly happy.
    ‘I read your detention essay. It’s really beautifully done,’ she says, smiling at me.
    ‘Thank you.’ I wait for the ‘But’.
    ‘Renée,’ she goes on, ‘is everything OK at home? You told me a while ago that you have people to talk to, but I get the impression from your piece that might not be true. Is it true?’
    ‘Sure, of course it is true. I mean, my grandparents aren’t exactly the most expressive of people, but we get on OK. And I have friends. Loads of friends. I was just practising my creative writing a bit. In real life I’ve got loads of friends,’ I say quickly.
    If ever there was an ‘I don’t believe you’ face, then Miss Anthony is pulling it.
    ‘OK, Renée. Well, I’m always here should you need to talk. And if that is a bit much for you then I think you could use writing a bit more, to get things off your chest.’ She stops. There’s a little furrow on her brow. ‘When my mother died I was so angry but I couldn’t talk about it, so I wrote it all down. I wrote letters to all the people that I felt had let me down. I never intended to give the letters to them, but getting everything on to paper really helped me make sense of it all. You write really nicely about your feelings. Maybe you could try it?’
    It is really nice to be told I am good at something. Even if it isn’t something I can get a GCSE for.
    ‘Thanks, Miss Anthony. I’ll give it ago. Can I ask you something?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Do you still miss your mum?’
    ‘I’m not sure I miss her, but I think about her every day,’ Miss Anthony says slowly. ‘It’s just a part of who I am. Does that makes any sense?’
    I nod. That makes sense to me. That is how I am starting to feel. I miss missing her a bit at the moment though. It makes me feel bad.
    The bell rings.
    ‘Thanks, Miss Anthony.’ I walk away.
    ‘Oh, and Renée,’ Miss Anthony calls back. ‘I imagine you make a fine friend to other people too. Flo is lucky to have you.’
    ‘I’m lucky to have Flo,’ I say, feeling like a total fraud.
    I take my place on the front bench of the science lab. A few weeks ago we had been dissecting pigs’ trotters and all the vegetarians were huddled in a corner trying not to look. I thought it would be funny to flick a bit of trotter at them from the end of my ruler. As it turned out, it wasn’t very funny. I only meant it as a joke but it landed inside Kerry Bowden’s pencil case and she screamed like someone had run over her foot.
    Vegetarians are so dramatic. What’s it all about anyway? I mean, I respect animals, but I also respect the food chain, and one of the few pleasures I have living with Nana and Pop is that once a week I’m allowed to have a tin of Chicken in White Wine Sauce with a pouch of Uncle Ben’s rice. I have the whole tin, in a bowl, poured on top of the rice and I sprinkle so much salt on it that not all of it dissolves. The reason I love the Chicken in White Wine Sauce so much is because Nana gives it to me while Pop is at the