Non Pratt - Trouble

On the way to our desks, I manage to catch her hand and give it a squeeze.

“Good luck,” I say.

“I’m gonna need it!” Hannah says in a rush. “Do I have to wish you luck too or can I keep it for myself?”

“You can keep it.” I squeeze her hand one more time, my fingers brushing across her palm as we part.

Week one:

English Lang.

Biology

French x 2 (Reading and Writing)

I’m finding this harder than I thought I would. Not the papers — which are exactly as hard as I thought they’d be — but the being pregnant at the same time. I thought all that stuff Mum said back in January about deferring was her hoping to give me more time to cram and the “You’re going to be very uncomfortable by then… won’t be getting much sleep… feet will swell up…” were all just excuses.

I was wrong.

Every night I wake up to go to the loo three times. Three times! I wouldn’t mind peeing all night if it meant I got back to sleep right away — only after piss-take-two I usually stay awake for ages. I can’t switch off. If my brain isn’t whirring over all the things it doesn’t know about whatever exam is coming next, then it’s wondering about Jay.

It’s a ticking time bomb of a problem that different parts of my brain keep chucking about faster and faster and faster, until I feel dizzy with worry. Then I think something like, “Stress isn’t good for the baby”, and I kick off another whole world of worry. I’m petrified of what happens next. In a month’s time I’m going to give birth and all the antenatal class taught me was that giving birth is the most painful scary thing in the whole entire world and I might die from it. (That and the importance of doing your pelvic floor exercises.) But that’s not the point because it’s not the giving birth I’m stressing over — it’s the bit that happens afterwards.

I, Hannah Sheppard, will be responsible for another human being. Not one I get to carry about conveniently in my tummy, but one that can wriggle and cry and be dropped (I’m so scared of that), who will want to eat all the time — and eating is breastfeeding because bottle-feeding sounds like a lot of faff and they say if you breastfeed you lose weight but the idea is totally freaking me out because that’s just not what I think my boobs are for, except they are and…

That’s usually when I fall asleep. I think it’s my brain short-circuiting and making me pass out.

Then I wake up for wee number three and pick up where I left off.

I nearly fell asleep during my first French exam on Tuesday. You know when you’re reading something and you just totally haven’t taken it in? So you start again and then you just sort of zone out? And you think, “I’ll just close my eyes for a sec. I’m not gonna sleep, just rest and then I’ll be fine.” Only you don’t rest. You fall asleep and slump forward and hit the desk with your face… Unless you’re so fat that this is a physical impossibility so you end up sliding down the gap between your chair and the desk until you get wedged.

I woke up when someone threw a ruler on the floor. It was Gideon. He’d seen me snoozing.

Katie would never have done that. She’d’ve just told me later about how I drooled out the corner of my mouth or said something embarrassing in my sleep. If phones had been allowed in then she’d have taken a photo and put it on Facebook. She used to do anything for a laugh — I never realized I’d only ever be the butt of her jokes.

But I miss her. Or I miss the Hannah I was before all this — the one who went out drinking and dancing, the one who was allowed to be hot. I miss being sexy. I really do. No one finds a pregnant person sexy, not even the person who’s pregnant. After this what will I be? A saggy bag of stretch marks and pregnancy weight with lady parts like an over-stretched elastic band?

Will I be someone anyone wants?

There’s been a lot of thumping and banging going on downstairs and it’s totally ruining my concentration. I slam the book shut and look at the cover.

Fuck it. If I don’t know the difference between centrifugal and centripetal by now I’m never going to. Besides, I’m hungry.

When I get downstairs I see several pairs of shoes in the porch — one of which looks suspiciously like Aaron’s. I walk towards the kitchen like a girl in a horror movie only, when I push open the door, I’m not greeted with an axe murderer, but the sight of Robert and Lola and my three best mates arranging a tower of presents.

My hands fly up to my face to cover my mouth, but I’m grinning so wide I can barely hold it. As everyone comes in for a hug, Lola tells me that there’s a cake, but we can’t cut it until Mum gets here.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Robert looks at his watch and tells me she’ll be here in a minute. I don’t know where she’s gone, but a little voice suggests something I really want to be true, but suspect isn’t.

Maybe she’s picking Jay up from the station?

Ssh, voice. That’s just silly.

You know what he’s like about grand gestures. Maybe he’s going to step through that door and give you a big hug and then, with all your friends here, he’ll hold your hand and say that the time for pretending is over and that he’s the father of your baby.

He wouldn’t do that and, anyway, why would Mum be the one to pick him up?

Because you’d guess if Robert was missing, duh.

I swallow and smile at my friends and try not to listen to that little voice.

That’s the sound of keys in the front door! I turn, not looking too excited, not looking too hopeful. Mum walks in, smiling, and says she hopes we haven’t started without the guest of honour and I hold my breath, not yet able to see him.

Because he isn’t there, is he?

It’s Gran. And I feel like crying because, instead of being genuinely overjoyed at seeing her, which I should be — which I would be — I’m crushed with disappointment. I let myself cry, but force a smile and bounce around and hug her really tightly. All the tighter because I know that really I am happier that it’s her and not Jay. Gran has stood by me all the way. When no one else knew, she was the one who didn’t judge and just let me do the right thing. Jay wouldn’t have done that.

And I’m squeezing her, hearing my voice saying how pleased I am to see her, how I’d no idea about any of this, but I’m not hugging her. I’m clinging on. If I let go too soon I’m going to fall apart.

There’s something wrong with Hannah. Since her gran walked through the door she’s been overexcitable, mirroring Lola, and I can see Paula biting her tongue because she doesn’t want to tell her fifteen-year-old daughter off in front of her friends. Gideon and Anj are laughing along — they don’t seem to see that Hannah’s mood is brittle, ready to snap under stress. Her smile is wider, brighter, toothier than ever, like she’s trying hard to convince us — to convince herself — that she’s happy.

She loves the presents. LOVES. THEM.

Her mum’s given her a bundle of baby towels and a bath set. Robert’s given her a piggy bank and we watched him slide a fifty in once it was out of the box. Lola handed over a cuddly lion that she immediately tried to reclaim once Hannah opened it. I see Hannah take an envelope from her gran as well as a present. She opens the present — a traditional-looking baby book — but pockets the envelope.

The cake is lovely. Paula’s an even better baker than my dad, and it’s light and fluffy, filled with whipped cream and strawberries and dusted with icing sugar. Lola’s written “BABY” in chocolate chips on the top. She started too far over and the “Y” is squashed along one side of the cake.

After we’ve eaten so much cake and sweets and home-baked party food that we’re approaching a collective diabetic coma, Hannah’s mum says she’s got to take Ivy back to Cedarfields and there ensues a teary goodbye. Gideon and Anj start carrying stuff up to the baby’s room and Robert takes Lola to go and feed the rabbit as I help Hannah clear up. Only Hannah’s stalled, staring at something on the kitchen calendar.

In today’s square Mum has written “BS” — code for baby shower, in case I’d bothered to look. Underneath I can see that she’s rubbed something out.

I take the calendar off the wall as Aaron comes and stands next to me.

Someone has rubbed out the words “Ask Jay?” from today’s box. There’s a quiet sniff from Hannah and I rest my hand on her shoulder.

“I thought Mum had gone to get him earlier.”

Suddenly her mood makes sense. Hannah’s fingers catch on the paper and she accidentally flips over to the week after next. In Saturday Lola has written “DADDY BIRTHDAY!” Again, the last few letters are squashed together to stay within the box.

And that’s when I get the idea.

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