I walk past him and shut the door. He might be telling the truth, but I’ll wait and hear Hannah’s side. Although she’s pulled her dress down, she’s still shaking, so I take off my jumper and give it to her.
“Thanks,” she says as she wraps it around her. “You must think I’m such a head case.”
“I don’t really think anything.”
“I heard what you said to Tyrone. Don’t worry, no one can make me do anything I don’t want to do. Least of all him. Least of all that.” She smiles as she says it, fleeting and small.
“I’m glad to hear it,” I say. “I didn’t want to have to fight him.”
It sounds like a joke and Hannah smiles again, a little bigger.
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Then she sighs and she seems faded, deflated, miserable. “I just want to go home.”
HANNAH
Aaron walked me home. We didn’t talk much, but it was nice to have the company.
All I can think about is how this happened. I use condoms, FFS, and I know they were all on properly because I’m the one doing it. Tyrone put up a bit of a fight, but if he’s refusing to wear one for me… I know I’ve got a reputation — ask Katie who I lost it to and she’ll say it was the summer-jobber at Lola’s playgroup, ask anyone at school and they’ll say whatever name they saw scratched in a park bench or heard whispered in the corridor — but whatever, whoever, whenever they say, I’m not a skank. There are times when it’s not been, like, full-on sex, but has there been a tiny possibility of something ending up where it shouldn’t…? No. There is definitely no chance that I got pregnant from not wearing knickers in a nightclub and straddling that guy’s lap while we pulled. That’s the kind of question you read in problem pages and the agony aunt calls you out for being incredibly stupid on more than one level.
But I am being stupid, because I know exactly when this happened, don’t I?
Yeah, I use condoms. Except for that one time, with that one person…
I open up the text conversation we had afterwards and skim down the threads until I reach the last one I sent:
Just a 1 nite thing? thats it? srsly?!
And I make myself read his reply, no matter how much I know it will hurt:
What did u think was going to happen?
Not this, that’s for sure.
SATURDAY 24TH OCTOBER
HALF-TERM
HANNAH
There’s an angry voicemail from Katie. She must have been drunk when she left it because all her words are slurred together and she repeats herself a few times. There’s something about being worried. (Which meant she hadn’t checked her texts before calling me. As if I’d leave without telling her.) Then she tells me that Tyrone was looking for me. And something that’s so garbled I only catch Rex’s name after the second listen. Basically, I’m a bad friend.
I stare at the text I’m about to send.
Im pregnant…
Then I delete it and ask if she’d like to hang out in town later.
TUESDAY 27TH OCTOBER
HALF-TERM
HANNAH
Since Katie’s decided she’s in a mood with me, I’ve been concentrating on how to tell my mum. I’ve tried, I really have. But I can’t work out when to do it:
• over dinner: This casserole is lovely. The beans look like tiny little foetuses. FYI, I’m growing one of those. Foetuses, not beans.
• in the car with Lola singing in the back: Hey, Lolly, shush a minute. So, Mum, did I mention I’m pregnant? Please don’t drive into that wheelie bin. Or that postman. Or the side of that house.
• in the middle of a homework/school work/too-much-time-going-out argument: NONE OF THAT SHIT MATTERS, MOTHER! I’M PREGNANT, ALL RIGHT?
I know it sounds spineless, but I’m scared of how she’ll react.
You see, Mum’s a nurse.
At the Family Planning Clinic.
Yeah. I know.
We had the chat about the birds and the bees ages ago, with regular refreshers on the occasional car journey. I’m better educated about sex than on any subject I’m taking for GCSE, but then it’s not like I have History books lying on my kitchen table with key facts written in teen-speak the way Mum’s leaflets shout “Rubber is kinky — get dressed before you get down” and “Nothing cool about chlamydia” at me whilst I eat breakfast. It would be very hard not to have a clue in this house.
But it’s always — always — been a case of “As soon as you’re sixteen, we’ll get you an appointment.” There’s not a single part of Mum’s brain that suspects it might be a bit late by then. And the thought of me being the one to bring it up… It’s one thing talking about fictional sex, but a whole conversation of cringe if she knew I was actually doing it. A thought that’s enough to keep me away from the Clinic even on her days off — the girls on the reception gossip so badly, Mum’d know about it before I even got home.
So condoms are the only option I’ve got. You can buy them at Boots.
And there’s always the morning-after pill. Not that that went to plan.
In the back of my mind I always thought I’d go and get an abortion. Simples.
The reality? Not so simples.
This is life and death we’re talking about. I mean, I don’t think you exist until you’re born, not properly, but there is something in there and it’s something that matters. If babies in the womb didn’t count until they came out then no one would give pregnant people who smoke funny looks, or tut too loudly when they have a drink. There wouldn’t be all these rules and guidelines about what’s good for the baby if the baby didn’t matter at all.
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.