Non Pratt - Trouble

“Get over yourself, Marcy,” I say, trying to squeeze past her, but there isn’t room. This shouldn’t be rumbling on, not after Aaron’s announcement last week. I’m not sure I’ve the energy to do this now.

“She probably couldn’t see you over her belly,” one of the others says with a snigger and I find myself running a hand over my stomach, protecting the bump. They can’t possibly see it in this baggy old school jumper — it’s hard enough to tell without it.

It’s only then that I notice Katie’s with them, at the back. She’s not even looking my way and something inside me snaps.

“Shame I can’t see who said that — Marcy’s ego’s in the way,” I say loudly, pretending to try and look round her.

Gideon puts his hand on my arm and tries to pull me away.

“You don’t want to get in a slanging match with me, Spanner,” Marcy says. “I’ve got way more ammunition.”

“I can’t help being more interesting than you. You try hard, I’ll give you that — but even taking your clothes off for a living doesn’t make you interesting.”

Her lips tighten angrily and the posse look puzzled. The only reason I know she’s done a topless shoot is because Tyrone told me — he’d been jealous of someone else seeing her tits. Ironic, given he had his hands on mine at the time.

“You’re just jealous—”

“Of you?” I laugh, but it’s not a nice noise. “No thanks. I’d rather be a statistic on teen pregnancy than a stuck-up bitch who sells her body for pocket money.”

She spits in my face and everything’s quiet as I hurry to wipe it off. I can’t help myself: “At least your boyfriend had the decency to aim a little lower last time I sucked him off,” I say in a voice that reaches everyone’s ears.

Her hand lashes out and slaps me.

“What are you going to do now, Marcy? Pull my hair?” My cheek feels hot where her palm caught me and she might have scratched me a little with her freaky long fingernails. We stare at each other. She’s simmering with rage and embarrassment. That her precious Tyrone might so much as look at someone as far down the ladder as me is enough to be ashamed of, but to suggest that he would actually go there…?

But we both know he has, because we’ve both seen the fear in his eyes when he looks at me these days.

I smile a little smile that’s meant to look secretive, but obviously it’s not secret, because I’m smiling so that the person in front of me gets the message loud and clear.

“Bitch!” Marcy flies at me with her talons and fists and even her feet as she digs a heel into the top of my foot. I shove her back as hard as I can because I don’t trust her not to go for the bump. She staggers back in a comedy manner and her friends catch her and push her back towards me, circling round us, preventing me from getting away. It’s not so comedy any more and I’m scared by the look on everyone’s faces as I shrink back into Gideon, who’s as much use as wet bog roll. My arms are held low, defending the only thing I care about and I tense as Marcy lashes out—

“Get off her!”

Marcy’s swipe whiskers past my eyes and then there’s a body in front of me, guarding me, protecting me, protecting the baby.

Aaron.

“How do you even know it’s yours?” Marcy yells at him, trying to push him away, but he’s solid in front of me. “She’ll shag anyone who looks at her.”

“Marcy—”

“She’s just a filthy little slut that got what she deserved.”

“Stop it.”

“You’re just another number, only you’re so stupid you actually think she’s telling the truth about that little parasite—”

The tirade is cut short as Aaron steps so far into her space that Marcy’s forced to back up.

“I said stop.” Aaron’s voice isn’t exactly raised, but it’s sharp and scary and it silences all of us.

Marcy stares at him as he stands in front of me and I wonder what she’s seeing. Whatever it is, it scares her.

“Exactly what part of attacking a pregnant girl do you think is acceptable?”

“She st—”

“Pathetic excuse. Like you. Just go.”

Marcy’s struck dumb.

“Go. You just attacked my friend and started insulting the baby she’s carrying — I can’t possibly imagine why you think you’re welcome here any more.” He looks around at the crowd that’s gathered. I see Katie at the back, see her look away as Aaron’s gaze lasers into her. “Any of you.”

Everyone starts muttering to one another and slouching off to the next class as Marcy strops off with a comet trail of friends following her, whispering, glancing back at me in disgust.

Whatever. I have the only friends I need.

I catch Katie looking over her shoulder as she whispers something in Marcy’s ear.

Repeat after me: I have the only friends I need.

Hannah’s waiting for me outside the staffroom after lessons.

“Thought you’d gone home,” I say. After this morning I wouldn’t blame her.

“I don’t run away.” She runs a hand up through her hair and I realize she’s wearing less make-up, her nails are free of varnish and she looks… fresh. “I wanted to say thanks. For this morning. With Marcy.”

I shrug. She doesn’t need to thank me.

“One day I’ll be the one coming to your rescue, you know,” she says with a smile.

“You already are,” he says and he ducks his head away as if he doesn’t want me to look too closely. As if he doesn’t want me to see him properly. I think about how many times I’ve laughed at something he’s said — the way I’m tempted to right now — and I wonder if he’s ever really joking at all.

Mum said that Dad called to speak to me last night before he leaves today, but she followed my instructions to the letter and told him where to go. Apparently he wanted to clear the air. Newsflash, Dad: not happening. The worse things get with everyone else — with Marcy, with Katie, with Dad — the more I realize that it doesn’t matter that Mum isn’t perfect, she’s still my mum and she’s still doing the best she can.

I look down at my tummy. I guess I can identify with that.

Mum isn’t the only one, either. Anj and Gideon are being really nice to me, sitting with me whenever they can (although that still leaves a lot of lessons on my own). Aaron’s amazing too. Always there, just quietly, whenever I need him. I have no idea how this boy ended up in my life, but there will never be a time when I am not grateful for it.

“Hannah Sheppard?” The midwife sticks her head out of her office and I get up, conscious of everyone looking at me still in my school uniform, judging me.

And then my mum’s hurrying down the corridor — a shuffle-run which is the best she can manage in her sensible work shoes.

“I’m here, I’m here, sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find a parking space…”

But it doesn’t matter. She’s here now and that’s all that counts.

I’ve only just got there when my phone beeps a text.

“I’m dealing today until I master the riffle,” I say as I check my phone, ignoring the tut issued by Neville. He’s saying something about manners, but I’m not really listening.

2nd scan all ok — no idea if boy or grl, had its legs Xed! Thought ud like to no. Hx

She’s right. I do like to know.

I’m starting to lose my rag over what to wear tonight. I haven’t been out — to the park, to the cinema, to a club, anywhere — since the start of the year and it turns out that all my decent clothes now make me look fat. I know, I’m pregnant and my body’s got to make space for the other person inside me, blah blah blah, but I don’t look pregnant. I just look fat. And my best bra’s starting to dig in, which isn’t improving things.

There’s a pile of clothes on the floor and I want to jump up and down on them and scream, only I’m worried Mum’ll hear and I don’t want her to know. Her answer will be to look at those stupid magazines and suggest I try some of the frumpy bump-friendly fashion that I would only wear if I had a brain transplant. I feel like there’s something wrong with me — I’m supposed to want to be a different person now that I’ve been sperminated, but I don’t. I want to be Hannah, just pregnanter. What’s so wrong with still wanting to look good? With wanting to show off my new improved pregnancy curves in push-up bras and clothes that look teen not tragic? I want people to think Hannah before they think pregnant.

I don’t even know why I’m bothering. It’s only a trip to the cinema with Gideon, Anj and Aaron. Those guys don’t care if I turn up in leggings and a hoodie.

Somehow that thought depresses me even more.

I don’t want to be the only one who cares what I look like.

Inevitably, I’m the first there. This comes from my father’s innate love of punctuality — which also means that instead of letting me wait for the others in the warm car, he ushers me out as fast as possible so that he can get back home on schedule. He is unsympathetic to the fact that his son has come out without a coat and may well die from hypothermia.