Williamson - Paper Avalanche

Umami.

I look up from my phone. Jamie Cannon, a boy from my year, is standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets. My heart, until now beating in a perfectly normal, healthy fashion, quickly morphs into a big fat thumping monster.

Sorry, were you talking to me just then? I ask, nervously tucking an invisible strand of hair behind my ear.

Who else? Jamie replies, smirking and pouring himself a cup of orange squash.

Annoyingly, he makes a valid point. Were the only two people at this end of the drama studio. Everyone else is gathered at the opposite end, caterwauling along to the Hamilton original cast recording. Ive been camped out by the buffet table for the past twenty minutes now, filling the time by filling my face.

The drama clubs production of Grease finished half an hour earlier and this is the official after-show party. The members of the cast, with their quiffs and perky ponytails, faces waxy with stage make-up, easily outnumber the blackclad backstage crew, of which I am one. I would have headed home straight after the curtain call, given the choice, but my backpack and jacket are locked in Ms Chettys office and Ms Chetty has mislaid her keys, leaving me stranded until the caretaker turns up with the master.

Umami, Jamie repeats, nodding at the bowl of chilli heatwave flavour tortilla chips Ive been ploughing my way through. Thats what they call any addictive savoury flavour. Its why youve eaten forty-two Doritos in the past five minutes theyre covered in the stuff.

Youve been watching me? I ask, heat creeping up my neck.

Maybe, Jamie replies, a completely unself-conscious grin spreading across his face.

I swallow. Jamie and I are in the same year but have never really spoken before. This is unremarkable. Ostborough Academy is a big school, and Im not exactly what youd call a social butterfly. Plus Jamie is part of the popular crew who hog the beanbags in the social area and say everything in loud booming voices, like they assume everyone in listening distance is automatically interested in what they have to say. This must be a dare. I glance over at the crowd gathered around the speakers, but no one is looking in our direction.

Jamie pours himself a second cup of squash and perches on the edge of the table like hes here to stay.

Out of the corner of my eye, I note hes about three inches taller than me and muscular, the fabric of his close-fitting white T-shirt straining across his chest and biceps. I can tell from the way hes folded his arms high across his chest so his muscles bulge like inflated water balloons that hes ridiculously proud of them.

He drains his cup of squash, immediately pouring himself another one. You were on lights tonight, right? he asks, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. His upper lip is stained pale orange.

I nod.

You into all that, then? Lighting and things?

I suppose.

At Ostborough Academy, every student is required to participate in at least one extra-curricular activity. Operating the lights for school productions is both the least time-consuming and least socially demanding option available, and Ive clung onto the role since Year Seven.

You dont fancy being on stage? Jamie asks, tossing an M&M in the air and catching it in his mouth.

I shake my head so hard my plait smacks me across the face.

Jamie starts to say something else, but my attention is stolen by the arrival of the caretaker.

Excuse me, I say, cutting off Jamies sentence and heading for Ms Chettys office.

Wait, youre not going, are you? Jamie asks, following me.

Its weird, but he almost sounds disappointed.

Yep, I reply, ducking under the caretakers arm and scooping up my backpack and denim jacket.

Are you getting a lift?

No, walking.

Ill walk with you, Jamie says, reaching for his hoodie from the heap on the floor and tying it round his waist.

Dont be mad, its still really early, I say, panic fizzing in my belly.

Hamilton has been replaced with the Grease soundtrack and the cast are re-enacting bits of the show theyve literally just performed, hyper from Haribo and syrupy squash.

I was going to go soon anyway, Jamie says. Ive got to be up at six. Paper round. Plus, Id be a proper dickhead if I didnt. Its dark out.

I try to argue, but its no good. Jamies mind is made up.

We walk down the corridor in silence, our trainers squeaking against the rubber floor. Were both wearing Converse. Jamies are charcoal grey and obviously new, the laces brilliant white. Mine are ancient, the canary-yellow canvas faded and streaked with dirt. Despite my efforts not to, we keep falling into step with each other. Its all very discombobulating, like my universe has been shaken up like a snow globe and everything has landed back in slightly the wrong place and no one has noticed but me.

So, where do you live, Ro Snow? Jamie asks as we step out into the muggy July night.

Hearing him say my name out loud sounds weird. More than weird. Until tonight, Jamie has never even registered my existence, never mind indicated he knows my full name.

Quite far, I answer, leaping on my chance for an out. Right over the other side of town. Probably totally out of your way, actually.

Try me, he says, folding his chunky arms across his chest.

Er, Arcadia Avenue, I say, mentally crossing my fingers. You wont know it. Like I said, its a proper trek.

Jamie takes out his phone and jabs at the screen a few times before holding it up so I can see. Its not that far, he says. You were making it sound like you live in Timbuktu.

I smile weakly.

I cant believe Year Nine is nearly over, Jamie comments as we cross the road. This terms gone well fast, dont you think?

I suppose so.

Got any plans for summer?

Nothing special.

Ill be in Florida for most of it. My grandparents live out there. You going away anywhere?

Not this summer.

As if this summer is the exception and not the rule.

The journey veers between awkward silences and equally awkward small talk and Im weak with relief by the time we turn into Arcadia Avenue.

Well, bye then, I say, hovering by the street sign. You can just leave me here.

Dont be mental, Jamie says. I said I was walking you to your door and Im gonna. What number are you again?

Er, fifty-six.

I increase my pace, hoping Jamie will follow my lead but he does the opposite, slowing down, his head swivelled in the direction of the houses on his right. Reluctantly, I reduce my pace to match, all the while hoping the crazy hammering in my chest doesnt sound as stupidly loud as it feels.

Do you know who lives here? Jamie asks, stopping in front of number 48.

No, not really. Why? I say, fiddling with the hem of my jacket and looking in the opposite direction.

I just thought you would, being neighbours and everything.

Well, were not exactly neighbours, I say. Its not like I live next door or anything.

Lucky you. I bet they have rats and all sorts.

I keep walking, hoping Jamie will notice and follow but he stays stubbornly where he is, gazing up at number 48 as if under some sort of spell.

The house is mostly hidden behind thick thorny bushes, old crisp packets and plastic bags impaled on the thorns, fluttering in the faint breeze. Rotting climbing ivy clings to the walls, obscuring almost all of the filthy windows, their frames scuffed and peeling. Although its leaves are brown and brittle, the ivy seems to multiply by the day, as if slowly choking the dirty, crumbling house to death.

I wonder what its like inside, Jamie ponders, screwing up his face. Well skeezy, I bet.