Paper Planes Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Foreword from Ed Oxenbould

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Illustrations

  Behind the Scenes

  Main Cast

  Note from the Paper Pilots

  Tips and Tricks

  How to Fold a Paper Plane

  Things You Might Not Know about Paper Planes

  Acknowledgements

  Imprint

  Steve Worland co-wrote the script for Paper Planes with the movie’s director Robert Connolly. Rob and Steve have known each other forever and are great mates, a bit like Dylan and Kevin.

  Steve has written a couple of novels and a few scripts. One movie you might have heard about is called Bootmen. If you haven’t, your mum may have seen it. It’s all about tap dancing. Another television show he worked on is called Farscape. It’s set in outer space and has heaps of aliens in it. Your dad might have watched a few episodes back in the day.

  Steve decided to turn the script for Paper Planes into a novel because he thought it would be cool if his daughter could see the movie then read the book and get a little extra info about the characters and story. He really hopes she likes it!

  You can connect with Steve at facebook.com/StevenWorland, twitter.com/StevenWorland and steveworland.com

  ALSO BY STEVE WORLAND

  Velocity

  Combustion

  Quick

  Everyone has made a paper plane. And everyone enjoys paper planes whether they’re nine or ninety. I love that the movie Paper Planes is about such a simple idea but it’s also a deep and meaningful story.

  When I was initially sent the script, I was instantly drawn to Dylan. He’s very relatable and I think you don’t see that in a lot of films. He isn’t very popular, he’s dealing with a big loss and he lives in the middle of nowhere and wants to get out. I loved the character of Grandpa, the competitions and the setting. It’s safe to say that I fell in love with everything about Paper Planes.

  During filming, I especially loved shooting the flying scene with Grandpa after he and Dylan break into the aviation museum. The museum where we filmed the scene was full of fascinating old war planes and lots of interesting information. Being able to sit in a real World War II fighter plane and pretend we were in a dogfight was really cool.

  It was an amazing experience and an incredible opportunity to play Dylan in this movie. I love the story because it shows that Dylan can do anything if he sets his mind to it and tries his hardest, which is an important life lesson. I also found the fact that he started in the middle of nowhere in a barren, dry desert and ended up in the futuristic, bright neon lights of Tokyo really beautiful. It represents his journey and his plane’s journey.

  This tale is unique and inspiring so I really hope you laugh, cry, relate to it and just enjoy this heartwarming story as much as I do.

  Dylan Webber in the film Paper Planes

  The house is a bit old. And a bit small. And the wrought-iron roof is a bit rusty. And the garden is a bit overgrown. And the front gate is a bit squeaky. But as Dylan Webber looks around he knows he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. Now that’s not to say he doesn’t want to travel the world and visit exotic places like Africa or Peru or China, it’s that he’s not keen on getting vaccinated before he does. Oh, and he’s not sure he wants to leave Clive for too long either.

  Dylan shivers at the thought of a long metal needle poking into his arm, shakes it off and finishes brushing his teeth. He grins at himself in the bathroom mirror to make sure his fangs are clean, straightens the collar on his school uniform because it’s a bit skew-whiff, then runs a hand through his floppy blond hair. Yep, he’s ready for another day at Waleup Primary School.

  The twelve-year-old grabs his backpack, swings it over his shoulder, trots into the living room and sees his dad. Now his dad’s name is Jack and he’s a big strong bloke in his thirties. He’s also sound asleep on the lounge and snoring like a warthog. Actually, that gives warthogs a bad wrap. The sound is even louder than the television that blares from the corner of the room. Dylan’s pretty sure it’s been on all night.

  ‘Come on, Dad. Wakey-wakey.’ Dylan grabs the remote, which is still gripped tightly in his father’s hand, and turns off the television.

  Jack mumbles something Dylan can’t understand, turns over, curls himself around a cushion and stays put.

  Dylan shakes his shoulder. ‘Up you get, big fella. COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!’

  Jack doesn’t move – so Dylan knees him in the bum. Not hard but hard enough.

  Jack lets out a muffled groan. ‘What was that?’

  Dylan speaks in a concerned voice. ‘I don’t know, Dad, but it came from the sky!’

  ‘Well, tell it to go away. It’s annoying.’

  ‘I can’t because – oh no, it’s coming back! Quick, Dad, you better get up! The annoying thing is coming back!’

  Jack doesn’t budge.

  ‘It’s here, Dad, it’s here!’ Dylan knees Jack in the bum again, a bit harder this time and takes on a footy commentator’s voice, ‘Oh, the humanity! That’s gotta bloody hurt!’

  Jack mumbles into the cushion. ‘Don’t swear.’

  Dylan freezes, caught out. ‘Sorry, Dad! Now please get up.’

  But Jack stays put.

  Dylan takes this in unhappily. ‘Really?’

  Yes, really. Jack is not budging.

  Disappointed, Dylan watches him snooze for a moment longer then moves to the stereo on the sideboard, cranks the sound knob and flicks a switch to turn on the radio. The speakers pump out a pop song by Dami Im. Dylan remembers watching her win The X Factor a few years ago.

  Jack shifts on the lounge and grumbles, ‘What’s going on?’

  Dylan ignores the question, runs into the kitchen, which is a bit of a mess, opens the fridge and pulls out a long rasher of bacon. He wraps it in a piece of paper towel, tucks it into his backpack then heads out the front door with the music still blaring.

  Jack finally rises off the lounge and looks around with sleepy eyes and bed hair, even though he slept on the lounge. ‘Dylan! Turn that racket off!’ But Dylan is already gone.

  Backpack on, Dylan rides his BMX bike along the empty, unpaved road. He pedals hard because he has something he wants to do before school, something that involves that rasher of bacon now in his backpack, and he doesn’t want to be late.

  Dylan lives in a little town in the middle of the Western Australian desert called Waleup. The thing about Waleup is that the only colour you ever really see is beige. Now beige is not the most exciting colour. In fact, it just might be the most boring, but it’s everywhere in Waleup because it doesn’t rain very much in summer, or for the rest of the year, for that matter, and Dylan knows you need rain to make the countryside green. So not only is the dusty road he rides along beige, but the spiky shrubs beside it are beige, the grass that surrounds the spiky shrubs is beige, even the leaves on the nearby trees are a strange kind of greeny-beige.

  Dylan cycles towards an old dead tree, which is kind of a greyish-beige, that sits in the middle of a beige field. He skids to a halt beside it, drops his bike and looks up into the clear blue sky in search of something.

  ‘Clive! Where are you, mate?’

  He doesn’t see what he’s looking for at first, then he does. High above, a huge bird of prey slowly glides in a wide circle. He shouts up at it, ‘What’s up, Clive?’ He pulls the rasher of bacon from his backpack and dangles it from his outs
tretched hand. ‘I have something for you!’

  The bird continues to circle around, completely uninterested in the boy’s porky offering.

  Dylan uses his best singsong voice. ‘Here, birdy-birdy-birdy! Here it is! You know you want it! Everyone loves bacon.’

  But the bird stays aloft. ‘Come on, mate!’

  Nuh. The bird circles around and around like he couldn’t care less.

  Wait a sec!

  Clive whistles a clear and beautiful sound then tilts into a swooping dive. He loops around, builds speed, quickly loses altitude – and heads straight towards Dylan.

  He continues to dangle the long strip of meat and grins. ‘Everyone loves bacon.’

  The bird of prey dips low and whistles again, skims the ground and thunders straight towards him. At the last second Clive trades speed for altitude, fans out his giant wings like he’s an Airbus A380 coming in for a landing, then touches down on the branch of the dead tree, right in front of Dylan.

  Dylan takes in the magnificent creature for a long moment, his feathers beige on his body and darker brown on his wings. He’s the most beautiful thing Dylan has ever seen.

  ‘Well, hello there, Clive. Nice of you to drop on by.’ Dylan throws the bacon high into the sky and the bird leaps off the branch, plucks the snack out of the air and swoops away.

  Thrilled, Dylan watches him go. He just loves that bloody bird. ‘See you later, alligator!’ Dylan knows Clive doesn’t mind being called an alligator.

  Clive whistles one more time then lifts high into the sky.

  Dylan breathes hard because he’s pedalling hard. He doesn’t want to be late for school. He races into the playground, skids to a stop as he reaches the bike racks, quickly parks his BMX then hotfoots it to his classroom. The school isn’t that big, like everything in Waleup, so it doesn’t take long to get there. Oh, and the main building is painted beige, if you were wondering.

  Dylan rushes into the classroom. His class’s work is tacked to the walls, along with a bunch of very old ‘educational’ posters that nobody has ever looked at. Ever. Thankfully his teacher hasn’t arrived yet so that’s an excellent result as far as Dylan is concerned. The place is silent except for the beep-boop-bleep of electronic devices. There’s twenty kids in there and every one is completely engrossed playing a game on a smart phone or tablet computer or gamepad, each of them with a big colour screen.

  Dylan threads his way between the desks, finds his seat and pulls out his phone. It’s not smart and must be at least fifteen years old, with a mono green screen the size of a postage stamp. It was his dad’s back at the dawn of mobile phones and Dylan is well aware it’s extremely daggy. Unfortunately, there’s no money for him to get anything better. Or cooler. Worse, it only has one game, called ‘snake’, which is not very exciting. You have to eat objects by running into them with the head of the snake, which doesn’t even look like a snake, just a row of very sad pixels.

  ‘Hey, Dylan, nice phone. Are you expecting a call from 1997?’

  The other kids laugh as Dylan pulls in a deep breath and turns to see who the comedian is. Of course. Kevin. The guy who sits behind Dylan. Kevin holds up a hand and receives a high five from the boy next to him, then grins, like he’s the funniest guy on the planet. Kevin is short with dark hair and is shaped, truth be told, quite a bit like a planet. He actually looks like an orange balanced on a pair of toothpicks, the toothpicks being his spindly legs. He’s always showing off and trying to be funny, sometimes at other people’s expense. It’s annoying. Dylan’s mum always told him the best way to deal with bullies was to turn the other cheek and ignore them so that’s what he does.

  Crrrrrrrrrrkkkkkkkkkkkk. Fingernails drag down the blackboard at the front of the classroom and create the nastiest, most unpleasant screeching noise in the history of classrooms. Instantly the kids clap their hands over their ears. Dylan looks to the front and sees Mr Hickenlooper, their teacher. He’s always trying to find ways to get his students’ attention and this terrible sound seems to work the best. He’s pretty cool and, as usual, wears a loud and funky shirt. Today’s version has crazy-looking palm trees and tropical flowers on it. He smiles and addresses the class, ‘Okay, you know the drill. It’s sombrero time.’

  The kids all groan. ‘Sombrero time’ happens at the beginning of every school day. Mr Hickenlooper pulls a Mexican sombrero from a large desk drawer then walks down the centre aisle of the classroom, holding the hat in front of him.

  ‘Come on, people. In they go. Give ’em up, Mary. You too, Ringo. Quick sticks. The sombrero waits for no one.’

  The kids unhappily drop their phones and tablets and gamepads into the big beige hat. Dylan places his phone inside and feels no sadness at all. It’s the worst mobile device ever.

  As usual Mr Hickenlooper’s last stop is Kevin. He gazes down at the young boy. ‘Your payload, please, Kevin.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Kevin reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a small Tamagochi game unit and drops it into the sombrero.

  Hickenlooper stares at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s it?’

  ‘Oh.’ It’s almost like Kevin is surprised to find he has an iPhone and a Game Boy in his pants’ pockets. He places them in the sombrero.

  Mr Hickenlooper studies the Game Boy, surprised. ‘How old school.’ He looks at Kevin again. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s more.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Kevin pulls out another phone as if the fact he owned it had completely slipped his mind. ‘I’ve always thought everyone needs two.’ He drops it into the sombrero.

  Mr Hickenlooper watches him do it. ‘Are we done?’

  Kevin smiles and nods.

  ‘Okay.’ Mr Hickenlooper notices a book on the desk in front of Kevin and taps the cover. ‘Nice to see you’re finally reading – oh, hold on.’ Confused, Mr Hickenlooper flips open the cover to reveal the pages have been hollowed out and there’s a tablet computer in their place. ‘Oh, Kevin.’

  The young boy shrugs innocently and Mr Hickenlooper is clearly impressed by his ingenuity. He pulls out the tablet, drops it in the sombrero and circles back to the front of the class.

  ‘Thank you very much. Okay, everyone, this morning we will start with a pop quiz.’

  The kids groan – and Hickenlooper grins. ‘Psych! We’re actually going to have a little fun today. We have a student teacher visiting from Melbourne. So pay attention and be nice or–’ He pushes his fingernails against the blackboard again. The kids instantly recoil.

  Mr Hickenlooper turns to a young, gangly, bespectacled university student in a shirt even funkier than his own. Sure, it might be beige but it has all kinds of dinosaurs on it. ‘Please, everyone, say hello to Jethro.’

  Jethro smiles and waves. ‘Hi, kids.’

  Mr Hickenlooper points to the door. ‘Okay, everyone, let’s move to the main hall. Make your way quietly, please.’

  Everyone makes their way but no one does it quietly.

  Thwump.

  Jethro drops a ream of A4 paper on the table and looks at the kids seated on chairs in front of him. ‘Today I’m going to teach you how to make the perfect paper plane.’

  ‘Ooohhh.’ The kids all say it at the same time, excited. Dylan can’t believe they actually get to do this kind of stuff at school. It’s very cool.

  Jethro rips open the ream of paper and passes a sheet to each kid. ‘Why don’t we start with you all just having a go? Make a plane however you like then I’ll show you a few tricks.’

  The kids don’t have to be asked twice. They each make a plane, folding and bending and twisting the crisp white paper into all kinds of shapes and sizes.

  Dylan works on his plane with great attention. It has a simple, classic design. He squeezes the paper between his fingernails and makes sharp, precise folds. As he does it he remembers the first time he folded a paper plane when he was younger. It made him feel happy.

  Jethro watches the kids construct their planes. ‘So how far do you think your plane will fly
? Five metres? Ten metres?’

  A guy with a brick-shaped head named Jeff Andrews pipes up, ‘Fifty!’

  Jethro glances over at the boy and smiles. ‘Fifty? You’re dreaming. The distance world record for a paper plane is 69.13 metres by an American bloke called Joe Ayoob. That’s a really long way. To even qualify for the Australian Junior Paper Plane Championships you’ll need to hit at least twenty-five metres.’ Jethro turns and points to the far end of the hall. ‘Which means your plane will have to go over that wall and halfway down the verandah.’

  A few kids laugh at the idea but Jethro doesn’t. Dylan realises Jethro wants to challenge them. ‘Does anyone think they can do that?’

  A blond kid named Digby Peters optimistically calls out, ‘Yes!’

  Jethro smiles at his confidence. ‘I guess we’ll find out very soon. If you’ve finished, hold up your plane.’

  The planes are all different – some long and thin, others short and wide, some a little bit of everything. Dylan is impressed. Even though they all look different they also look kind of amazing, like the coolest fighter squadron ever.

  Jethro surveys the collection. ‘Wow, there’s some pretty good ones here.’ He points at a couple. ‘Good, nice, interesting, nice, very nice.’

  Dylan’s a little disappointed Jethro didn’t point at his plane.

  ‘Okay, let’s get to it and see who can go the furthest.’ The kids stand and line up across the room as Jethro turns to them, ‘Okay, ready! On the count of three. One . . .’

  The kids join Jethro’s countdown as they draw back their arms and prepare to throw, ‘Two . . . three!’

  They launch the paper planes.

  Swoosh. Some twist into the ceiling while others spiral to the floor. Some collide in midair, while others crash into the windows. But one paper plane flies straight and fast and true.

  Dylan’s.

  It shoots towards the end of the hall like a rocket. It passes two other planes that bump wings and flutter to the ground then another that loops around and hits Mr Hickenlooper in the belly.