Non Pratt - Trouble

“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.

“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.

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.

“Shouldn’t you be out with your boyfriend tonight?” Neville’s still convinced I’m gay. It’s because I’m clean. Neville is not clean and is as heterosexual as they come. He is the walking definition of a dirty old man.

“I am,” I say and wink at him.

“Aye, well you could do worse.”

“You too.” I give him a cheeky grin.

“Don’t push your luck,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling.

The fireworks start up on the lawn, prompting a few half-hearted “ooh”s and a good deal of “used to be better in my day” murmurings but the naysayers soon fade to silence as the rockets are fired up, squealing from the lawn to burst shattered shards of light against the night sky.

The home is at the top of the valley and, as our fireworks start thinning out, we can see others blooming over the rest of the county. It’s beautiful and even Neville, whose default setting is curmudgeonly, mumbles something about it being “bonny up here”. The staff hand out sparklers to those who present a low fire risk and I’m surprised when Neville takes one, but he waggles it around enthusiastically, boyish glee on his face as echoes of zigzags and loops fire in our retinas. I wonder who he really is — who he was — before he became such a cantankerous old bastard.

“What’re you staring at?” Neville’s voice snaps me out of it.

As always, Gran came to ours for Bonfire Night. It doesn’t matter that she’s from Dad’s side of the family, not tonight, when she and I sit on the bench by the back door having the same conversation as last year, tracing over old memories to keep them fresh, remembering Grampa’s favourite night of the year. Remember, remember, the fifth of November.

There’s less talk this year with the weight of responsibility sitting between us — the knowledge that I’m pregnant and that I’ve not told my mum. Gran can’t understand what’s stopping me now the decision’s been made, but she’s old, she’s forgotten what the future looks like when you’re fifteen. Who she is depends on things that have already happened. Who I am depends on what lies ahead. All the things I thought would happen have vanished — just like that — and without them I’m not so sure who I am any more. I need to get a bit more me going on before I face my family.

Mum drops us back at Cedarfields before going to get some petrol, so I have time to have a cup of tea with Gran before I say goodbye. I’m paying zero attention to my surroundings as I walk along the corridor to reception.

“Hannah?” There’s a tap on my shoulder and I turn around. Aaron Tyler. What’s he doing here?

“Hey, Ty,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. There are lots of stray bits of hair since I was chasing Lolly around the garden and had to burrow under a hedge to catch her. Why did I have to bump into someone here? Why him? We haven’t spoken since Rex’s party.

“Could you maybe just call me Aaron?”

Crap. I’ve been calling him by the wrong name. I just assumed he was a surname-nickname guy.

“Yeah,” I say and sort of edge sideways, hoping he’ll get the hint. I don’t want to talk — I look a mess in this skanky old hoodie and I bet Mum’s already filled up and got back to the car park.

“How come you’re here?” he asks, walking along the corridor so that I can’t escape him. I keep the pace up.

“Visiting my gran.”

“Yeah?”

“You?”

“Same. Visiting.” He looks like he doesn’t want to talk about it.

God, this is a rubbish conversation. Why did he even stop to talk to me? We walk in silence until we reach the doors.

“Hey, look,” he says, almost touching my arm.

“My mum’ll be waiting,” I say, hoping he’ll hurry up.