Paper Planes Page 9

  ‘Do you really want your wrist to get better?’

  He nods excitedly. ‘Yes, I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’

  A long acupuncture needle glistens in the light.

  ‘But – I – hate – needles.’ Dylan watches in horror as the doctor pushes the needle into his wrist. Dylan tries his best to be brave, but it doesn’t work very well. ‘Aaahhh!’ His shout reverberates through the hotel – then across the city. It’s actually louder than when he sprained his wrist in the first place.

  The doctor smiles, holds up another needle and speaks in stilted English, ‘Not to worry, only twelve more.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ Maureen sits on the other side of the room, her whole face covered in acupuncture needles.

  ‘Yeah, they don’t really hurt at all.’ Both of Kimi’s ears are covered in needles too.

  Dylan and Kimi walk into the open-air garden at the centre of the hotel. It’s night-time and no one is around. They take a seat and Dylan removes the icepack from his wrist. ‘Thanks for coming up with the acupuncture idea.’ He gingerly flexes his fingers. ‘It does feel a bit better.’

  Kimi smiles. ‘What are friends for?’

  He rips a piece of paper out of his notebook and folds a plane. Or attempts to. With his injured wrist it’s slow, difficult and painful. He shakes his head, he can’t believe this has happened today, of all days.

  Kimi motions to his notebook. ‘May I have a look?’

  He’s reluctant. ‘Oh, ummm . . . well . . . I . . .’

  She sees it. ‘Friends don’t keep secrets.’

  She’s right. They don’t. But the problem is that apart from all of his ideas and rules about making paper planes, the notebook also contains a bit of Dylan’s personal stuff. So he does a quick mental check of what’s actually in the thing, to make sure none of it is about Kimi, like a drawing of her face or declaration of his feelings, then passes it over when he’s satisfied there is nothing too embarrassing inside.

  Kimi opens it and he’s a bit nervous about what she will think. Then he sees her smile and the nerves disappear. She studies the notebook, takes in the sketches, the notes and the pictures, some cut from newspapers and magazines, others printed from the internet. There’s even a few pics of Dylan with his favourite barrel-o’-fun Kevin. Then she sees a series of drawings of her paper plane. She studies one particularly beautiful illustration of her ‘whale’ and seems to be very taken by it.

  Dylan leans over, carefully tears out the page and passes it to her. She accepts it, clearly touched. ‘Thank you.’ She continues to page through the notebook until she comes across an In Memoriam card stuck inside. There’s a picture of Cindy on the front. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘My mum.’ Just saying the words is difficult. It takes the wind out of him every time.

  ‘Oh. She’s beautiful.’ She looks at Dylan. ‘What happened?’

  He takes a moment, then tells her. ‘She died – five months ago. She was a piano teacher.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Car accident. So. Yeah . . .’ He trails off, tries his hardest not to get upset in front of her.

  She nods. ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘So your dad didn’t come because of work?’

  Dylan half-smiles at this.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My dad hasn’t really worked since the accident. Hasn’t done much of anything actually.’

  Kimi takes this in, closes the notebook and hands it back. ‘Thank you. It’s amazing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He shoots her a smile and works his wrist again. It really hurts. He studies it for a second. ‘I should have let it be. I shouldn’t have said anything to Jason.’

  ‘The guy’s a bully. You did the right thing.’

  He holds up his injured wrist. ‘But is it worth losing for?’

  ‘Winning or losing doesn’t matter.’

  Dylan’s heard this kind of thing from Kimi before. ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s really about . . . making something beautiful, or surprising.’ She gestures to his notebook. ‘Like your book.’

  Dylan nods but isn’t convinced. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re saying but still, you want to win, right?’

  She looks at him and the mood suddenly changes. ‘If you have to ask me that again, then you haven’t been listening – and don’t understand me at all.’ Disappointed, she stands and walks out of the garden. ‘I’ll see you.’

  Dylan is surprised. ‘Oh, okay. You’re going?’ He watches her leave, his surprise turning to bewilderment by the sudden turn of events. ‘What happened? Hello? I thought we were having a good time.’

  But there’s no answer because she’s gone.

  ‘Well, that didn’t go very well.’ Shocked, he thinks about what she said, about how she doesn’t care if she wins or not. Maybe she really means it. Maybe it isn’t that important to her.

  He takes a breath then works his right wrist again. Gee, it hurts. A lot. He stares at the plane he just made and thinks he should test it, to see if it’ll actually do what it needs to do tomorrow. He glances round for a place to throw it then looks up at the hotel, which rips into the night sky above. That’ll do perfectly.

  Dylan hears a sharp tink sound as he walks out onto the hotel’s roof and sees Patrick, Jason’s father, practising his putting on a long strip of synthetic grass. He strikes the golf ball cleanly. It rolls in a dead-straight line for a good ten metres, then drops into a cup. He grins, clearly happy with the shot.

  Dylan doesn’t want to disturb him, firstly because it always seems like someone is asking him for something, either an autograph or a photo, and secondly because he doesn’t know what Jason’s said to him about their run-in. Patrick may not have taken kindly to Dylan getting stuck into his son. So with that in mind, Dylan keeps his head down, doesn’t say anything, circumnavigates the putting green and heads for the side of the building where he’ll throw his plane–

  ‘Hey there.’

  Dylan stops dead. That’s Patrick voice. What’s he going to say? Dylan decides to play it cool, like there’s no problem with Jason. He turns to Patrick and smiles. ‘Hey there, Mr Jones.’

  ‘It’s Dylan, right?’

  ‘Yep.’ Dylan looks around furtively. ‘So where’s Jason?’ Dylan realises he’s not being very cool but then he doesn’t want to be blindsided by that guy again.

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t . . . he’s not a big fan of golf. Or any of the regular sports, really.’ He brightens and holds the putter out to Dylan. ‘Want to give it a go?’

  That’s a surprise. Maybe Mr Jones doesn’t know about his issues with Jason, after all. ‘Oh, umm, sure.’ Dylan nods. ‘I’ve never actually done it before.’ Dylan pockets the paper plane then takes the putter in hand as Patrick places the golf ball two metres away from the cup. Dylan approaches it. His wrist hurts but he muscles through the pain and takes a shot. It spins off to one side. ‘Oh man! That was awful! Sorry!’

  ‘No worries.’ Patrick retrieves the ball and places it in the same position again. ‘Now this time don’t hit it quite so hard. Try to keep the swing smooth and stay relaxed, like this.’ Patrick shows him with the putter, then hands it back.

  Dylan tries again and it’s a pretty good putt. The ball touches the lip – and drops in.

  Patrick nods his approval. ‘Much better.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dylan is delighted. He pauses then turns to Patrick. ‘Mr Jones, what’s it like? To win, you know, like, the US Open? What’s the best part?’ Dylan’s been thinking about winning since his recent disastrous conversation with Kimi and realises Patrick might be a good person to ask.

  Patrick takes a moment. ‘It’s all pretty good, don’t let any one tell you different, but the best part? I guess it’s the blokes I played against on the tour. A lot of people think golf’s a solo sport but you actually play with people all the time so I ended up making a lot of gre
at friends, guys who are still mates. So that’s the bit that stays with you. That’s the best part.’

  Dylan takes this in as he retrieves the golf ball.

  ‘So you think you can win tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I really want to.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  Dylan thinks about it. ‘Everyone loves a winner, don’t they? I mean, you know that better than anyone. I thought that if I win then, well, maybe my dad might want to hang out with me more.’

  Patrick thinks about this. ‘You know what? He’s family. Sometimes it takes awhile for them to . . . come good. But they will. Eventually. You just gotta stick with them.’

  He could be wrong but as Dylan hears this he can’t help but think that Patrick’s not only talking about Jack, but also about Jason, and that Patrick might not be that thrilled with the way his son acts sometimes. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. And thanks, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Any time, mate.’

  Flexing his wrist, Dylan walks over to the waist-high cement wall that rings the edge of the roof. He takes up a position, makes a final tweak to the plane’s wings then throws it into the night sky.

  The good news is that it isn’t that painful to actually throw the plane so, happy days, that’s not going to make things too difficult tomorrow. The bad news is that even tweaking the wings that little bit hurt his wrist quite a lot. He watches the plane gently float away. It doesn’t head straight to the roadway sixty storeys below but catches a breeze and lifts higher.

  He remembers the first time he threw a paper plane. It was the same day his mother taught him how to fold one. He sure has come a long way from that backyard in the middle of that empty beige landscape, to this multicoloured glass and steel metropolis with skyscrapers stacked side by side for as far as the eye can see.

  His plane flies on, then he loses sight of it behind one of those skyscrapers. It’s funny. Dylan is in the middle of this huge city, surrounded by millions and millions of people, and yet he feels very alone, more alone than he ever felt when he was in that empty beige landscape back home.

  Back in his room, Dylan picks up the hotel phone and dials Australia. It rings and rings – and then the answering machine picks up the call. He leaves a message. ‘Hi, Dad. How’s everything going? Hopefully good. Ummm, well, Tokyo’s great – in fact, it’s amazing. Today I learnt all about making paper in an ancient temple, which was pretty cool.’ He doesn’t say anything about his run-in with Jason because he doesn’t want his dad to worry.

  ‘So the finals are on tomorrow. I’m pretty nervous, been working on my planes. I haven’t found my winged keel yet but, well, apart from that everything’s great. Oh, I did sprain my wrist, which is a bit of a bummer, but it’s feeling better thanks to the help of acupuncture, which was a bit scary with all the needles and everything, but still pretty good. Yeah, I’ve been having the most amazing time. It’s really fun so I hope we can come back here one day.’

  Dylan pauses. For a long time he’s been wondering about how he can help Jack get out of his funk. Well, now he thinks he might have the answer, thanks to Jason’s father, Patrick. Dylan takes a breath and continues speaking into the handset, ‘So I just wanted to say to you that I’m going to stick with you for as long as it takes.

  ‘Well, I hope you get this message. Anyway, I’ll see you soon. Wish me luck. I love you, Dad.’ He hangs up the phone and stares out the window at the twinkling skyline beyond. He hopes his dad is okay.

  At home, eyes wet with tears, Jack leans his head against the cupboard and looks down at the answering machine. He should have picked up the phone, he should have but he didn’t because he had no idea what to say. It feels like he’s let the little guy down so many times since Cindy passed away that he never knows what to say to him.

  The answering machine clicks off. Jack buries his head in his hands and cries, like he hasn’t cried before. Strangely, after trying to keep it in for so long, it’s a relief to let it out. It’s like a weight has been lifted from his heart.

  A moment passes and he dries his eyes. It’s like a switch has been flicked within him. All he can think about is how to make it up to Dylan. The sadness he has been feeling is still there but now he can see through the fog for the first time in a long time and realises something important. Yes, he has lost his wife, but if he doesn’t change, if he doesn’t get his act together, then he will lose his son too.

  He marches through the house, out the front door and over to the shed. He has a sense of purpose he hasn’t felt for a long time. He flicks the shed’s light switch, moves to the piano and picks up the business card the sweaty man left during the garage sale. Jack studies it for a minute, then slaps the top of the piano. He knows what he must do now.

  It’s competition day.

  The venue of the World Junior Paper Plane Championships is a short walk from the hotel. The modern stadium is huge, much bigger than Dylan expected. As he walks towards it with the other kids he’s surprised by the number of people filing inside to watch the competition. There must be a crowd of five thousand, easy.

  Dylan realises he should be excited by what lies ahead but instead he’s concerned. He flexes his aching bandaged wrist, worried he won’t be able to fold his plane properly.

  He’s about to enter the venue when he looks up and notices a large bird swoop across the sky and land gently on the roof. It immediately makes him think of Clive. He wonders if his bird of prey misses him. He hopes so, though he reckons Clive probably misses the bacon more.

  The competitors enter the cavernous hall and Dylan takes in the expectant crowd. Forty kids from all over the world are practising throwing their planes. It’s chaos but there’s a buzz of excitement in the air.

  A digital scoreboard shows the crowd that round one of the competition is about to begin. As a sheet of white A4 paper is handed to each competitor, a Japanese official speaks into a microphone and his voice reverberates across the venue, ‘The top two finishers from each of the four heats will qualify for the final, but first all competitors must make their planes.’ He turns to the kids. ‘Competitors, you have ninety seconds.’

  The kids take their positions, spread out across the venue. The official raises a starter pistol and pulls the trigger.

  Bang. The crowd roars as the official triggers a stopwatch and the competitors make their first plane of the day, though for many it will be their last.

  Dylan winces as he makes each fold in his paper and tries to ignore the pain in his wrist. He uses everything he has learnt so far. He pinches his nails along the folds to make the creases sharp and aerodynamic like his mum taught him, then carefully folds a tail into the back of the plane to give it the stability he found out about when he and Kevin escaped the runaway rocket and became mates, then builds flaps into the wings like the ones on the war plane that saved him and Grandpa from the enemy fighters. He even works some of Kimi’s whale dimples into the wings. Making the plane hurts like hell, and it looks like a bit of a pig’s breakfast, but he powers through and finishes it. He has yet to find his winged keel so it’s the best he can do. He hopes his plane is good enough without it.

  The official watches his stopwatch. ‘Stop!’ The kids all comply. Dylan is in the fourth heat. The first three happen very quickly. Kimi wins the first heat by ten metres. Jason does the same thing in the third heat.

  Finally, it’s Dylan’s turn. The official speaks into his microphone. ‘Please take your positions.’ The kids move back from the start line to give themselves a run-up as the official raises the starter pistol. ‘Three . . . two . . . one.’ He pulls the trigger.

  Bang. Dylan runs forwards, reaches the start line, draws his arm back and launches his plane. It explodes out of his hand and lifts into the still air. The roar of the crowd is deafening.

  In a straight line across the hall the planes gain altitude. The lowest plane is Dylan’s. ‘Come on!’

  The ten-metre mark comes and goes as two planes to the left of Dylan’
s spiral to the ground. Then a third plane veers off course and loses height, crashes to the ground, the anguished cry of the failed competitor lost under the wall of noise from the screaming crowd. These people are really getting into it.

  Five planes are still airborne. The twenty-metre mark is left behind. Another two planes lose momentum and drop to the polished floor.

  Three planes fly on.

  Dylan’s is still the lowest and trails the other two by about three metres. The second-place plane crosses the thirty-metre mark then suddenly loses altitude and Dylan’s confidence spikes. He might be able to pull this off. ‘Please-baby-baby-please–’

  Then Dylan’s plane loses altitude too. ‘No!’ He holds his breath and wills it onwards but it stalls. It’s not going to work out. The dream is over.

  Then the plane in third position drops faster than Dylan’s, which now flies straight towards it–

  Bam. Side by side they hit the polished floor and slide to a stop.

  Dylan glances at the other competitor. It’s the short British kid he helped out when Jason was chucking ninja stars at him yesterday. They share a nod then turn to the official who inspects the spot where both planes touched down.

  Everyone in the stadium holds their breath and waits for the decision. You could hear a pin drop. Who will place second and make it through to the final and who will bow out and go home? The official studies the spot for a long moment, then holds up the second-place flag – and points at Dylan!

  He’s through to the final!

  ‘Yes!’ Dylan is as surprised as he is relieved. He shakes hands with the disappointed British kid then looks over at Kimi with a wide grin. She nods politely but is clearly still upset after last night’s conversation. Dylan’s thrilled he made it through to the final but wishes he could share it with someone.

  On the digital scoreboard the names of the eight competitors who qualify for the final are listed in order of distance. Jason and Kimi made it through with the top two distances respectively, both in the high fifty-metre range. Dylan is the last qualifier at just over forty-five metres. He studies the list and realises he has a whole lot of work to do if he’s going to have any chance of being in the top three, let alone winning. He needs to find his winged keel, and find it now.