Non Pratt - Trouble

Today is the first time that Hannah acknowledges me since she ran off last week.

“Can we borrow your copy of Jane Eyre?”

“Of course.” I hurry to hand it over, but I don’t let go when she takes hold of it. I want to at least try and clear the air. I’m frustrated that I’ve ended up involved in something that didn’t even happen. There’s been a seismic shift in Tyrone’s love for my jokes and I’m certain it’s linked to Hannah in some way. “Hannah, about last Friday…”

“Huh?” For a moment it looks like she’s forgotten she even knows my name.

“What happened with me and you…?” I prompt.

“Yeah. Let’s just leave it there, shall we, Ty?”

I wish she wouldn’t call me that.

“I just wanted to say—”

“Leave it, Emo Boy. She doesn’t want to talk to you, yeah?” Katie leans round her friend and snatches the book — doesn’t even say thank you as she cracks the spine open, and gives Hannah’s arm a squeeze.

Did Katie just call me “Emo Boy”?

No one here has a clue who I am. Maybe that’s for the best.

Katie’s sympathy isn’t fooling me. What she really wants is for me to tell her more about what happened. As far as she’s concerned it was a really disappointing shag, but she’s annoyed that I’ve gone light on the details. Katie overshares to the point that I could play pick-the-ex by looking at nothing more than snapshots of their penises. Thing is, there’s a lot I’ve not been sharing with her. Whatever I haven’t told her about Aaron, or the on/off thing with Tyrone is nothing compared to what she doesn’t know about Jay’s party.

Neville chews on the inside of his cheek, reaches for a card, then changes his mind. It’s like playing whist with a tortoise — right down to the sagging skin at his neck and the shell of a cardigan he’s wearing. I can’t see a clock — Cedarfields isn’t fond of showing its residents how slowly time moves round here — and I gently twist my wrist to look at my watch.

“Getting bored, sonny?” Neville’s voice croaks out amidst his too-loud breathing.

I am, but I don’t say anything.

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know. I’ve got plenty to entertain myself. Countdown is on in a moment.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve missed it, Mr Robson,” I say.

Neville works his jaw so I can hear his teeth clicking together. Looking down at my cards, I wonder why I’m going to the park at all. After a week of being out of favour I’m certain no one will miss me. And if I “forgot” my sacrificial offering of alcohol, I could get myself frozen out entirely.

“Well, I’m bored.” Neville takes the cards out of my hand and works them effortlessly back into the pack. “Every Friday, you come, you spend some time with the loneliest oldies and then you leave. Not staff, not family…” His voice might be timorous, but I can feel his gaze, straight and steady, pinning me down. “What’s your business about?”

“No business, Mr Robson, just volunteer work,” I reply, standing up to turn on the light.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a Good Samaritan.” I try to sound like I’m joking but it comes out a little bitter. I’m not bitter, I just don’t want to talk about it.

“Suit yourself,” he says, wincing as he stands. I think about helping him, but I’m not sure he’d appreciate it, then I hear him mutter, “Don’t mind me,” and I hurry to offer him a hand, only to be ignored.

I look at my watch and figure I could leave now. There’s a McDonald’s on the way to the park and I’ve got my book with me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve got one arm inside my coat and I’m turning to say goodbye.

“Have a g—” I stop.

Neville is standing over the waste paper bin unzipping his flies. I bound across the floor and put a hand on his arm.

“Hey!” Neville shrugs me off, spraying a trail of urine over his bedside table. “Do you mind?” And he swings back over the bin.

I turn away and stifle a laugh as I hear a wet patter on the contents of the bin. Neville zips up and turns to face me.

“Poofter.”

I don’t bother correcting him — what good did it do with Hannah? — I just say goodbye and leave, stopping to warn someone about the contents of Neville’s bin.

“He likes you, you know,” the manager says, as she hunts around reception for a set of keys to the cleaning cupboard.

“Really?” I’m not sure Neville likes anyone.

“He does. He asks about you when you’re with one of the others. Wants to know whether you’ll be popping in on him.”

I feel a pang of guilt.

“There you are!” She snatches the keys from under a folder, then turns to me. “Same time next week?”

Somehow I hear myself offering to take care of it. As I head to the cleaning cupboard to fetch rubber gloves and a bin liner, it occurs to me that I find the prospect of cleaning up Neville’s urine-soaked bin more appealing than a night in the park. Not something to tell my mum.

Shit. Not any old shit. The real kind that’s about to hit the fan. I found two tampons at the bottom of my school bag whilst I was looking for my favourite pen this evening. Forget the pen, now I’m standing looking at the kitchen calendar trying to remember when my last period was.

I can’t remember.

In films everyone seems to know when their periods are due — they have them marked in red in their diaries or whatever.

I don’t have a diary.

I stand there for a moment longer and try to think. The tampons in my school bag came from the machine in the toilets by the science labs. It’s the only one that still works and has “Mr Dhupam is a rabbit shagger” written in marker pen on the side. I had to make an emergency purchase after Year 11 assembly, which was the first one after term started…

I count forward past Jay’s party, Mum’s birthday, Lola’s dentist appointment. Four weeks — it should have been then, right? — but I count another week then one, two, three, four, five, six days.

My finger rests on today’s box:

Mum book club 7 p.m. — Life of Pi

That can’t be right. About the date, not the book club… although really it should be called film club, since Mum only ever reads the first few chapters before streaming the movie on Robert’s laptop.

Focus, Hannah.

I count again. I’m nearly two weeks late — or is my period standing me up? Is it a no-show rather than a late show?

It can’t be like that. In the movies everyone’s always sick for a few days before they take the test. They think it’s those dodgy prawns or a bad hangover, but no: baby.

But no: it can’t be like that.

Really. It can’t.

Robert’s coming down the hall and I leave the kitchen, dodging past him on my way towards the stairs, then I’m in my room and at the computer. It’s a very shiny new one, a present from Mum and Robert for my birthday in July. They hope it’ll help with school work, but I like to think of it as an extension of my phone — email, iTunes, Facebook… I wonder if anyone’s commented on my status…

Focus, Hannah.

I type so quickly that it takes a second attempt before Google asks me if I mean “pregnancy symptoms”.

I suppose I do.

It’s the last day before half-term and it’s raining when I walk out of the school gates and up the road. Katie is steaming because I’ve told her she can’t come round to mine straight from school, that I’ll come over to hers later. I’ve told her there’s somewhere else I’ve got to be.

I hurry past the cemetery and try to forget it’s where I pulled Mark Grey. He trod on my foot so hard as he grappled with my bra that I thought he’d broken it (my foot, not the bra). It kind of brought home to me that maybe he wasn’t my type. Too chunky. And sweaty. You should see him during PE — gross. I wasn’t joking when I said I can’t forgive Katie for her bad taste.

By the time I get to Cedarfields and sign the visitors’ book, water is running off my chin and it blurs my signature. I head to the end of the corridor, where I knock on the door and wait, listening to the shuffling and kerfuffling on the other side. Then the door opens.

“Hannah?”

“Gran.” I step in and give her a hug, resting my nose on her tiny, bony shoulder and smelling her lily-of-the-valley perfume. I close my eyes, trying to remember what it was like when I was smaller than her and she was the one who had to be careful not to squeeze too tight. Tiny, bird-like body or not, she’s the strongest person I know. The steadiest. The least judgmental.

“You’re soaked.” She steps back and eyes me suspiciously. “Don’t sit down until you’ve dried yourself — there’s clean towels in the bathroom. This place ain’t no hotel, but they do have plenty of fresh linen.”

I like the way she says “hotel” — as if there’s no “o” in it. I spend a long time in the bathroom, towelling my hair dry, looking at my reflection, going to the loo just in case…

Gran watches me carefully when I come out and sit in the chair opposite. “What’s up, pet?”

That’s when the tears come and I reach out, knotting her fingers with mine. When my eyes clear I see there’s a tissue on my knee that wasn’t there before. It’s rumpled and very, very soft and I know it’s come from Gran’s sleeve.

I open my mouth, but I can’t form the words. Instead I just shake my head and start crying again, snuffling into the tissue until it’s soggy with snot.

“Come on, now, Hannah, you’re scaring me.” I look through my tears to see her fix me with a stern glare. “What’s the matter?”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The word seems to hang in the air for an impossibly long moment. Everything has stopped and the room holds its breath, waiting for the meaning to sink in. Pregnant. My insides are hollow and I can hear the word echo through me. Except I’m the opposite of hollow, aren’t I? That’s the problem.

Gran blinks once, then a couple of times, her lids fluttering over her eyes.

“Oh. Really?”

I nod and take a deep breath that wavers in my lungs like it’s not sure it should be there.

“Oh,” she says again, blinking some more. “Are you sure?”

“I looked up the symptoms on the Internet.” She huffs at that. I’m always telling her stuff I’ve read on the Internet and every time she says that if everyone was meant to know everything, then God would have made us all much cleverer. “I’ve not been sick, but I’ve got the other symptoms — my boobs are tender, I’m tired…”

“You’ve not had your monthly visitor?”

I shake my head. “It should’ve been and gone by now.”

I look up to see Gran looking at me with wise eyes, twinkly with the moisture that always seems to be trapped there. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Is she disappointed in me? She must be. The thought makes me start to cry again, silent, sad tears spilling off my face and onto my school shirt.

“Hey, pet, shh.” She pulls me to her. “You don’t know anything for sure until you take a test. Have you?”

I shake my head into her cardigan. Gran gently pushes me upright and creaks out of her chair and takes a twenty out of her handbag. I get up, intending to wave it away, but she presses it into my hand and gives me a look that means business.

“There’s a chemist round the corner by the parade. Get two tests and come back here.” She strokes the back of my hand with soft, cool fingers. “You don’t need to do this alone.”

Rex is having a house party. Depending on who you ask, he’s either celebrating the end of the half-term, or the end of his relationship with the invisible girlfriend. Either way, he plans to get wasted and get laid — in that order. He’s invited half the school to his house tonight and it’s all the guys have been talking about. Tyrone is grumbling because Marcy’s got some modelling job that means she can’t come. I say, “grumbling”; I mean, boasting.