Trouble (8 page)

But is it
alive
? Would I be
killing
it?

You hear about people changing their mind outside clinics because they find out that their foetus has already got fingernails or genitals or a tattoo saying “Mum” on its arse or whatever. But it’s not like fingernails = soul. They don’t qualify you for anything other than a manicure.

I’m all for choice, but what happens when you
really
don’t want to choose?

AARON

Mum has taken the day off work to go shopping with me for some new clothes. She finally noticed that each of my five T-shirts is on the cusp of disintegrating, although I think the last straw was discovering a hole in the crotch of my only jeans.

After three shops Mum decides that it’s time for lunch. There’s a brief squabble when she tries to make me decide where to eat. I don’t care where we eat so long as it’s not sushi, but Mum seems to take it personally when I say this. It’s like I have to care about
everything
these days and today there’s a lot of things to care about. Grey socks or black? Baggy, skinny or straight leg? For some reason she wanted my opinion on where to park the car. When she pushed me on the lunch issue, I snapped that it was up to her.

We aren’t on the best of terms when our food arrives.

“They’ve given you a baked potato when you asked for chips,” she says and turns to call back the waitress.

“Mum, don’t – it’s fine,” I hiss and she turns back to me.

“I knew that girl wasn’t listening.” She starts trying to shuffle some of her chips onto my plate.

“What are you doing?” I move my plate away and some chips tumble to the floor. “Stop it. I’m fine with a baked potato.”

“Fine, Aaron.” She slams down her plate so some more chips escape. “I’m just trying to have a nice day with my son. Is it too much to ask that our waitress gets the order right?”

This isn’t about chips.

“Mum, we
are
having a nice day.” She looks at me dubiously. “You know I don’t have to have everything my own way to enjoy myself.”

“You should have your order your own way,” she says, but she’s smiling and I smile back.

“Whatever, I just mean stop trying to please me all the time. If I say I don’t care about something, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about
anything
. It just means I want you to choose.”

“OK.” Mum nods, then adds, “But, Aaron, you’re my son, and what I want is to make sure you’re happy, so don’t bite my head off for trying.”

“No, Mum,” I say. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She never used to worry about making me happy.

But they found a new school, new jobs, new house – new life.

My happiness means more than it should to my parents.

HANNAH

It’s late but Mum’s in the sitting room finishing a coffee – I don’t see another mug, which means Robert’s having his in his study. Now is the perfect time. I psych myself up in the doorway: just do it, just do it, just do it—

“What is it, Hannah?” Mum hasn’t even looked up from her magazine. All I can see from here are upside-down pictures of soap stars in bikinis. I walk round until they’re the right way up and sit on the arm of the chair.

“She’s put on a lot of weight,” I say, pointing to one of them.

“She’s skinnier than me,” Mum says, pursing her lips.

“Not really.” I’m lying because I want to get into her good books.

Mum gives me a sideways glance and an eyebrow-raise. “Smaller than a size-six midget, am I?” She shakes her head. “Whatever it is you want, the answer’s no. You’ve been out ever since school broke up and I’ve not seen you so much as look at that fancy new computer you made such a fuss about getting to help you with school work.”

The words stall between my brain and my mouth.

Mum turns the page and the banner reads, “Grandmother at thirty – and pregnant!” There’s a picture of an impossibly-young-looking woman and her daughter both posing with their giant bellies touching so it looks like a Maths diagram.

Mum tuts and turns the page. “I get enough of that at work.”

This is not the right time.

WEDNESDAY 28
^TH
OCTOBER
HALF-TERM

HANNAH

I have failed to tell my best friend.

I have failed to tell my mother.

Who else is there?

My thumb shakes as I scroll through my phone looking for an answer. I make it to the bottom before I scroll back up, mentally crossing out each entry as I go. For a moment I pause when I get to his number and before I know what I’m doing I’m holding the phone up to my ear, not sure whether I actually want him to answer.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” My voice is so quiet that I clear my throat ready for whatever I’m going to say next.

“Of course it is.”

Is that a sigh in his voice? I can’t help but react to it. “You didn’t have to answer if you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“What? Where’s that coming from?” He’s annoyed now.

“It’s not like you’ve made an effort…”

“We talked about this.”

“No, actually, we didn’t. We texted about this. Texting isn’t talking.”

“Whatever, Han, this isn’t a good time.”

“It’s never a good time!” I snap, thinking about all the times I have tried to tell the people that matter that I’m pregnant.

“Was there a reason you called? Or did you just want a fight?”

I close my eyes and think about him, the way he looked at me that night, the way he touched me – as if he wanted me more than anything in the world. There’s a murmur in the background and I wonder what he was doing before he saw my number flash up on his phone. The possibilities that come to mind make me sick with jealousy.

“You still there?” he says, but I end the call before he can hear that I’m crying as hard as I did the day after I got pregnant.

I have failed to tell the father.

My phone rings, but I let it go to voicemail, knowing he won’t leave a message. He doesn’t try again. Through my tears I carry on scrolling up until I reach Anj. Once upon a time she’d be the first person I’d call – now she’s just the first person in my phone book.

I throw my phone across the room and press my face into my pillows and cry so much that it feels like I’m turning inside out.

This is it. Decision time. I know what all the people I’ve tried to tell would say. Who, out of my mum, my best friend and the absent father-to-be, would tell me to keep it?

Maybe that’s what’s stopping me: I don’t know what I want, except that I want to be the one who decides.

THURSDAY 29
^TH
OCTOBER
HALF-TERM

HANNAH

I went to see Gran today. She managed to get me a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning – I was too upset to book it myself. She held me tightly and let me sob on her, stroked my hair and told me she understood when I explained why I couldn’t tell Mum.

When I left, she kissed my cheek.

“Paula will love you no matter what you decide. Just like I will.”

Neither of us mentioned my dad. Her son.

FRIDAY 30
^TH
OCTOBER
HALF-TERM

HANNAH

I had my answer planned, but the doctor asked the wrong question. She didn’t ask what I was going to do next. She asked me what I wanted. And that question had a different answer.

And I told the truth. I want to keep it.

Shit
.

What now?

MONDAY 2
^ND
NOVEMBER

HANNAH

Katie and I are pulling a sickie for PE. She’s forged a doctor’s note saying that she’s got back problems and I told Prendergast that I’m on my period – something that couldn’t be further from the truth. He’d taken some convincing because he’s learned to be suspicious whenever me and Katie back out of team sports, but I played a blinder and cried at him. Works every time.

There’s only two of us on the sick bench, which is exactly how we like it. Our books are open on our laps and from across the other side of the hall it looks like we might be working. I’m sure Prendergast isn’t so stupid as to fall for it, although he
does
teach PE…

After a week of sulking, it seems Katie’s finally forgiven me for Friday. Whilst I’d simply like to write a note in the margin of her Physics worksheet telling her that I’m preggers, I choose an easier starter for ten, planning on working my way up to the harder category of Life-Changing News.

“So,” I say, glancing sideways at Katie. “Rex, huh?”

“What about him?” She does a better blank face than me, I’ll give her that.

“Spoken to him since his party?”

“No.”

“Text?”

“No.”

I roll my eyes. “Guys are such dicks.”

But Katie’s looking at me strangely. “What do you mean?”

“The whole avoiding you after he’s got what he wanted. Lame.”

“Who said he’s avoiding me?” Katie says, scowling. “For that matter, who says he got what he wanted?”

“I just th—” This is not going according to plan.

“What? That I’d shagged him?” Katie’s doodling some angry circles in the corner of her worksheet – one of them has teeth and a little frowny face.

“Sorry, Katie. I didn’t realize…” Because this is something that
never
happens. When Katie wants a guy, she gets him. Immediately. I know she wants Rex – and he’s
desperate
for her – so what’s she playing at?

“No. Well. Unlike some of us, I’d tell you if that was what happened.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Is this about Aaron?”

Katie draws another circle – this time she gives it a pair of horns and a pointy tail. “First you’re all mopey about it and then you’re all pally with him. I heard he took you home after the party.”

I look away guiltily. I hadn’t told her about that.

“What are you doing, Han? The boy’s bad news.”

“Oh, really?” I say, sharply. “And you know because…?”

“He just is.”

“You’re wrong. And it doesn’t matter anyway because there’s nothing going on there.”

She snorts her disbelief.

“Charming. Now you’re showing a little willpower around Rex you think you can judge me?” I’m pissed off that she won’t believe me. “Let’s see how long
that
lasts. I give it a week, tops, before you do the dirty and you never speak to him again.”

Katie looks at me face-on so that I get the full effect of her lip curl. “You think that’s all I’m good for? One shag and he’ll fuck off?”

I frown. That isn’t actually what I think at all – I think it’s the other way round – but everything I’m saying is coming out wrong and I decide to shut up before I do some lasting damage. We sit there in silence, Katie drawing increasingly disturbing faces in her circles and me watching as Rex and Aaron stand in the corner of the hall together, laughing about something.

Katie and Rex and me and Aaron. Worst. Double-date. Ever.

AARON

“How was your first day back?”

“Fine,” I say, twisting round to throw my bag on the back seat as Dad pulls out of the car park to join the queue of traffic edging up the hill. A few seconds pass before I realize he’s waiting for more information. “It was fine, Dad. Really.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fine as in OK, as in all right, as in satisfactory.”

“When I write ‘fine’ in an assessment I mean ‘fine as in could be better’.”

“When I say ‘fine’, I mean fine as in…” I think about lying and decide against it. “As in nothing special.”

“But not…?”

“No. Nothing awful, either.” Because for that to happen I’d have to care about something, and I don’t. I lean to turn the stereo on, but Dad turns it back off using the remote on the steering column. I switch it on again. He turns it off. On. Off.

“For God’s sake, Aaron!” he snaps and I sit back in my seat, Dad looking over at me, huffing. He’s angry and sad and frustrated. Everything my father feels shows on his face – it’s what makes him a good teacher. He loves his job, loves his subject and his passion is infectious. The flipside is that he can’t hide anything, even the things he’d rather no one could see.

“Dad—”

“You’re not trying.”

I say nothing.

“You can fool your mother, but I can see that all this park business is a charade. Tyrone, Rex, Mark Grey … they’re not your type.”

“And who is?” I say, but there’s no substance to my sarcasm.

“Let’s not get into this again. I know it’s not my place to choose your friends.” Dad looks over at me. “Which leaves it up to you.”

I was worried he might say that.

THURSDAY 5
^TH
NOVEMBER
BONFIRE NIGHT

AARON

Dad does not like this time of year. He does not like Diwali; he does not like Bonfire Night. We should keep him indoors with The Kaiser, although I reckon the cat has fewer issues with fireworks than my father. I’ve already lost count of the number of times he’s used the words “pyromaniac” and “explosives” as he catalogues how many pupils he’s caught trying to bring fireworks in today. I’m relieved it’s only a short journey to Cedarfields. The staff asked if I’d help out tonight instead of tomorrow. I get a sparkler, a jacket potato and an excuse not to listen to Dad.

“I’m cold,” Neville complains once we’re out on the balcony.

“Here,” I say, handing him a second coat. He eyes it suspiciously, but cold trumps taste and he puts it on. It’s my mum’s and he wrinkles his nose at the smell of her perfume. Some of the residents are in wheelchairs, covered up with fleecey blankets and for a moment I’m hit with a nightmare image of the lot of them bursting into flames from a stray spark. But the wind’s blowing the other way and we’re miles from anything even faintly flame-like. I can see Neville’s got the same idea because he makes a joke about fire extinguishers and glares at his nemesis, Donald Morton, who ignores him but makes a comment about how nice it is to smell an expensive scent these days. It’s all I can do to stop Neville shedding Mum’s coat and bolting back inside.