Paper Planes Page 2

  Dylan watches his plane, stunned. He can’t believe how well it flies. There’s just one problem. It’s flying too well. In three seconds it’s going to hit the door at the end of the hall and its journey will come to a very abrupt end–

  The door swings open and the young headmistress, Miss Prudence, enters the hall. Dylan’s plane sweeps past her, slices through the doorway and flies onto the verandah.

  Dylan hesitates for a moment, not sure what to do next – then realises he has to know how far it will fly. He sprints after it, and all the other kids follow. Mr Hickenlooper and Jethro are right behind them.

  Dylan makes it out the door first and searches for his plane. Surely it has landed. It couldn’t still be aloft. It couldn’t have flown twenty-five metres, could it?

  Yes, it could.

  The plane glides along the verandah, about two metres off the ground, easily passes the halfway mark and keeps on going. And going. It must have flown thirty metres already.

  Dylan runs as hard as he can, leading his classmates and teachers along the verandah. He tries to catch up, but the plane is too fast.

  They sprint by a classroom to the left as Mr Gale, a science teacher, works at the chalkboard. He hears the heavy rumble of feet on the verandah and with a stunned expression turns to watch the plane, then the group of kids, then two teachers stream past the open doorway.

  Dylan digs deep, runs as fast as he’s ever run. He closes in on the paper plane a little, then a breath of wind pushes it to the right. It flies off the verandah and over the playground. Eyes locked on the plane, Dylan bounds down the verandah’s steps, runs across the playground towards it – and laughs out loud. This is the most fun he’s had in ages. His laugh is infectious and the other kids laugh too.

  The plane is buffeted by another gust of air. It turns hard left and flies between two demountable classrooms, then swoops towards the football oval, which is a dusty beige colour like everything else in town. Dylan follows it as Jethro catches up to him. The student teacher seems to be more excited than anyone else.

  No!

  Dylan sees the plane lose height and swoop towards the chain-link fence that rings the football oval. It looks like its journey is finally about to come to an end.

  A breeze gently lifts the plane up and over the fence.

  Yes!

  Dylan vaults the chain link in one clean jump, then Jethro bounds over as well. A few more kids follow, but Kevin is too short even to try and Zoe Patrick gets stuck halfway over then flips onto the sandy ground with a startled squeal.

  Dylan sprints after his plane. He chases it across the football oval but can’t catch up to the thing. It only seems to increase in speed as it rises into the crystal blue sky. It lifts higher and higher as it reaches the other side of the oval, then soars over the forest of greeny-beige trees beside the school – and disappears from view.

  Dylan stops running, exhausted. He’s disappointed the adventure is over but exhilarated it happened in the first place. He turns and looks back at the school hall from where he stands in the middle of the football oval. His plane flew further than 69.13 metres.

  Much further.

  Did he just break the world record?

  Jethro walks over to him, totally astonished. ‘That was incredible. What’s your name, mate?’

  ‘Dylan Webber.’

  ‘Ever thought about making a career out of this?’

  Dylan looks at him like he’s crazy. ‘Out of what? Making paper aeroplanes?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jethro nods as if the idea makes absolute sense.

  Dylan takes it in. No, he’s never thought about it, but maybe he will now.

  On the bike ride home after school the possibilities swirl through Dylan’s mind.

  Can I make something out of this paper plane thing?

  After all, his plane had flown for what must have been at least a hundred metres. Easy. At lunchtime he looked for it, and found it buried deep within the forest. He was sure he’d broken the world record by a long way until Jethro explained that his throw didn’t count because the world record had to be set indoors, where there was no chance of ‘wind assistance’. Jethro put a pair of air quotes on the term as he said it.

  As Dylan pedals under the railway bridge, constructed from cement that is a very beige colour, he realises that makes sense. His plane had had lots of ‘wind assistance’. A gust of wind had pushed it off the verandah and sent it across the playground, then another had sent it between the classrooms, and a third had helped it over the chain-link fence and lifted it high above the football oval. Of course he also knew that for his plane to be in a situation where the wind could assist it to fly that far meant it must have been a pretty good design in the first place.

  Dylan passes the rusted-out Toyota that sits under a tree in the front garden and rolls up to his house. He can see his dad is back from work because his old Holden ute is parked outside the shed. Cool. He’s excited to tell Jack about his day and the adventure with the paper plane. And yes, the ute is painted beige.

  Dylan quickly parks his BMX and sprints inside. ‘Hey, Dad. Dad! You’ll never guess what!’ Dylan enters the living room, drops his backpack on the table and sees Jack lying on the lounge, just like he was this morning, though at least he’s awake now. Actually make that half-awake. With great effort, Jack pulls himself up to a sitting position. Dylan can’t help but think it’s like he’s operating in slow motion.

  Jack looks at his son. ‘What’s up?’

  Dylan blurts out an enthusiastic recap of the day’s events in one long sentence. ‘So if I can make a paper plane fly twenty-five metres at the state competition on Sunday, then I’ll get a chance to compete in the Aussie championships in Sydney! I think it’ll be a lot of fun. We can practise after school and I already have a pretty good–’

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ Jack is confused and bleary-eyed.

  Dylan studies his father for a long moment. He’s wearing the same clothes as this morning. ‘Did you go to work today?’

  Jack turns back and looks at the TV, doesn’t answer.

  Dylan steps closer, blocks Jack’s view, stares him in the face. ‘Did. You. Go. To. Work?’

  ‘I just wasn’t feeling, you know . . .’ Jack trails off, doesn’t meet his eyes.

  Dylan mimics him. ‘I just wasn’t feeling, you know. Really? Come on, Dad. You need to work.’

  Jack nods grimly. ‘I know, mate. I know.’

  Dylan gently takes his father’s face in his hands, stares into his eyes and lightly slaps his cheeks. ‘You gotta lift.’

  Jack grins. He always finds it funny when Dylan is cheeky. He rocks forwards on to his heels, drags himself off the lounge and stands up. ‘Lifted.’

  It’s the first time Dylan’s seen his father smile in a while and it definitely makes him feel better. ‘Well, okay.’

  Jack leans against the lounge. ‘Now, tell me about your paper plane and the twenty-five metres.’

  ‘Okay.’ Excited, Dylan unzips his backpack. ‘So if I can make a plane fly twenty-five metres–’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Dylan pulls his plane out of the backpack with a flourish. It’s wrinkled and bent and looks like a dog has been chewing on it. ‘I might get a chance to compete in the Aussie junior finals.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jack stares at the crinkled plane. ‘Will it?’

  Dylan holds it up. ‘It already did, but it was “wind assisted” and you can’t have that apparently.’ He puts air quotes on ‘wind assisted’. ‘So I’ve gotta do it inside.’

  Jack takes the plane in hand, studies it.

  ‘It looked better before the landing. And it flew further than all the others. Much further.’ Dylan’s surprised by how proud he feels about it.

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Personally, I think it’s the way I fold the paper. You really gotta pinch your fingers together to make a sharp crease.’ He shows his father how to do it as he drags his fingernails down one of the plane’s folds. �
��Whoosh. Like that.’

  ‘How do you know this? The creases and the folding and everything?’

  Dylan looks at Jack and hesitates before he speaks, knows how it might affect his dad. He realises this is one of those moments when he could lie or he could tell the truth. Everyone’s always saying you should tell the truth, but what if the truth makes someone feel bad? Should you tell the truth then? Dylan takes a breath and makes a decision. Surely his father wouldn’t want him to lie, would he?

  ‘Mum taught me.’

  As soon as he says it Dylan sees Jack’s happiness at hearing about his paper plane exploits vanish. It is replaced by a sadness that falls across his face like a dark shadow.

  Straightaway Dylan wishes he had lied, even though he remembers the moment his mother taught him how to make a paper plane like it was yesterday. It was eight years ago and he was sitting under the apple tree in the backyard with her, enjoying the sunny afternoon.

  He remembers his beautiful mother as she folded a sheet of paper while he watched, mesmerised. She made each move with precision, pinching her fingernails together along the crease. ‘The sharper the crease the better it cuts through the air.’

  She then handed the half-made plane to Dylan. It seemed huge in his four-year-old hands. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’

  Dylan tried to crease the paper with his little fingers but couldn’t get it right.

  Cindy gently directed him. ‘Okay, now take this corner and fold it back towards the other. To make sure it’s a crisp fold, pinch your fingers together like this.’

  Dylan watched intently then copied her exactly.

  ‘Then drag your fingernails along the paper.’

  Dylan followed her instructions – and made a perfect fold.

  He could see his mum was impressed. ‘Fantastic. Okay, for the next fold take this corner and pull it back like this.’

  Dylan remembers how Jack watered the garden nearby and watched them with a smile.

  But now Dylan can see the memory has overwhelmed his father. Jack looks into the distance, lost in thought. Mr Hickenlooper calls it the thousand-yard stare when someone does it at school, usually if the class is particularly boring.

  Dylan really wants to make his dad feel better, to cheer him up, to snap him out of his funk, but he doesn’t know how. So instead he changes the subject. ‘What are we having for dinner?’ He moves into the kitchen.

  Jack takes a deep breath and pulls himself together. ‘Dunno. What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t mind.’ Dylan opens a cupboard and looks inside. ‘Ooh, how does this sound for a plan?’ He pulls out a can of spaghetti and holds it up. ‘Your favourite.’

  Jack pulls his mouth into the shape of a grin then kisses his fingers like an Italian chef. ‘Perfecto.’

  It’s lunchtime at Waleup Primary and the kids are going nuts and bananas in the playground.

  Except for Dylan. He’s with Mr Hickenlooper in the main hall. It has been cleared of all furniture except for one table at the far end.

  Mr Hickenlooper takes big steps as he paces out distances on the floor. ‘Nine, eight, we can’t wait.’ He drops a marker to indicate eight metres. ‘Seven, six, Dylan has tricks.’ He drops another marker to indicate six metres. ‘Five, four, fly through the door.’ He drops another marker to indicate four metres. The markers are lined up all the way to the open door, which is twenty-five metres away from where Dylan stands.

  Dylan studies the door, daunted but confident. That is the distance he needs to reach at the qualifying round. If he can make it, he’ll go to the national junior championships. Beside him on the table is a fresh ream of paper. He rips it open and folds his first plane exactly the same way as he did yesterday.

  Mr Hickenlooper rubs his hands together. ‘Okay, let’s get this party started.’ He turns to Dylan. ‘Ready to rock?’

  Dylan is totally focused as he folds the plane. ‘Rocking is about to commence.’ He turns and steps up to the start line, the folded paper plane in hand. He pulls his arm back then drives it forwards. The plane leaves his fingers, soars into the air and glides across the hall – then drops like a rock and crashes to the carpet.

  It flew a total of four metres.

  Mr Hickenlooper winces. ‘Well, that was kind of embarrassing.’

  Dylan is disappointed but unbowed. ‘Again.’

  He folds a new plane then throws it. It’s even worse than the last one. ‘Again.’

  He folds another plane and throws it. It’s the worst so far. ‘Again.’

  He folds yet another plane. It’s even worse. ‘Again.’

  Mr Hickenlooper grimaces. ‘I can’t tell you how aggravating the “again” thing is–’

  ‘Again.’ Dylan throws another plane. It clangs off the ceiling fan. Then another. It loops back and thumps into Mr Hickenlooper’s belly. Most don’t even fly ten metres, let alone the twenty-five he needs to qualify. He tries throwing two planes at once. He makes different kinds of planes – thin and long, short and fat. He tries again and again and again. He bounces around the hall like a frog in a sock as he tries to get one of the planes to fly twenty-five metres. He even tries a spin launch, like the plane is a discus.

  Nothing works.

  During the practice he notices Kevin watches through the window, but he’s too focused on what he’s doing, which isn’t working out the way he hoped, to give him a second thought.

  The bell rings for end of lunch. Dylan rubs his face, not so much disappointed as stunned by the incompetent display. ‘That totally blew chunks. I mean – totally. I may as well have been throwing bricks.’ He turns to Mr Hickenlooper. ‘Did you see how bad that was? Did you see?’

  ‘I saw. Frightful is the word that springs to mind.’

  Dylan’s head drops to his chest, defeated. ‘How is it possible that I was so good yesterday and so awful today?’

  ‘Hey, kid, chin up.’

  Dylan looks at him. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You figure it out.’

  Dylan waits for him to say something else but it’s not forthcoming. ‘Figure it out? That’s it? That’s your advice? Shouldn’t you tell me what to do? You’re my teacher.’

  ‘And what I’m teaching you is to use your brain and figure it out.’

  Dylan takes this in with an unhappy nod. He was hoping for a little more than that. He has no idea about what to do next, or even where to start.

  Back in class Mr Hickenlooper stands at the chalkboard. ‘I’m about to rub out section three. Have you all finished it?’

  As one the class calls out, ‘Yes!’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Mr Hickenlooper continues, as Dylan sketches a plane design in the margin of his exercise book, lost in thought. He’s trying his best to figure out what his plane should look like and, as with most things, he finds that if he writes it down, or in this case draws it, it helps to arrange his thoughts.

  Behind him a chair squeaks on the floor as it’s pushed backwards. Dylan hears a thump, and then another thump. He turns to see what’s going on, though his best bet is that Kevin is about to do something annoying, as he normally does halfway through class, because he’s bored and wants some attention. Dylan can only wonder what it’ll be this time.

  He’s not surprised to see that cheeky monkey Kevin standing on his desk and rolling a piece of paper into a ball. ‘Here’s how I make a piece of paper travel twenty-five metres!’ He leans back and throws the ball straight at Dylan.

  Quick as lightning, Dylan’s hand flies out and catches it. He instantly throws it back. Kevin tries his best to catch it but he’s a bit uncoordinated and ends up batting it away instead. As he does it he overbalances and falls backwards.

  Thwump.

  He thumps to the ground.

  Dylan kind of feels bad but only kind of because Kevin is being both a bully and a pain in the arse.

  The class laughs and Hickenlooper turns from the blackboard, clearly unamused by Kevin’s disruption. ‘Get off the floor, Kevin, and try not t
o be annoying your whole life. Back on your chair, mate.’

  Dylan watches Kevin sit back at his desk. He seems surprised and annoyed that someone actually stood up to him. Dylan wonders if anyone’s ever done that before.

  Dylan’s bike skids to a halt outside Waleup Nursing Home. And, yes, the old building is painted beige. Now the place might be old, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the positively ancient people shuffling around inside.

  Dylan parks his bike near what must be the oldest ambulance on the planet and runs inside to find his grandpa. The old boy might be ninety but he’s as sharp as a tack and has plenty of energy. Grandpa is always busy doing something so Dylan isn’t surprised to find he isn’t in his room. Dylan keeps his eyes peeled as he makes his way through the retirement community. The cheeky bugger could be in the pool, the spa or the games room. He’s always partial to a game of ping-pong.

  Of course he’s in none of those places. Dylan finds him emerging from a resident’s room, being bid farewell by an attractive elderly lady. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Grandpa nods. ‘It was my pleasure.’

  The lady gives him a kiss on the cheek and Grandpa turns to leave – and is delighted to see his grandson approach along the corridor. ‘Dylan, my boy!’

  ‘Grandpa!’ Dylan runs to him excitedly. ‘Who’s that lady, Grandpa?’

  Grandpa plays it off. ‘Oh, she’s an old friend. I was just helping her out.’

  Dylan takes this in. ‘You must have done a great job, ’cause she looks very happy.’

  Grandpa grins. ‘Well, it’s important to have pride in your work.’

  Together they set off down the corridor and Dylan explains his predicament. ‘So my plane flew over fifty metres the first time but then it didn’t get anywhere close to that the next time.’

  Grandpa listens. ‘Now what is this for exactly?’

  ‘I need to hit twenty-five metres if I want to qualify for the finals in Sydney. You were a pilot. Do you have any ideas?’