Non Pratt - Trouble

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.

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?

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.

“Mum, don’t — it’s fine,” I hiss and she turns back to me.

“I knew that girl wasn’t listening.” She starts trying to shuffle some of her chips onto my plate.

“What are you doing?” I move my plate away and some chips tumble to the floor. “Stop it. I’m fine with a baked potato.”

“Fine, Aaron.” She slams down her plate so some more chips escape. “I’m just trying to have a nice day with my son. Is it too much to ask that our waitress gets the order right?”

This isn’t about chips.

“Mum, we are having a nice day.” She looks at me dubiously. “You know I don’t have to have everything my own way to enjoy myself.”

“You should have your order your own way,” she says, but she’s smiling and I smile back.

“Whatever, I just mean stop trying to please me all the time. If I say I don’t care about something, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about anything . It just means I want you to choose.”

“OK.” Mum nods, then adds, “But, Aaron, you’re my son, and what I want is to make sure you’re happy, so don’t bite my head off for trying.”

“No, Mum,” I say. “I’ll try to remember that.”

She never used to worry about making me happy.

But they found a new school, new jobs, new house — new life.

My happiness means more than it should to my parents.

It’s late but Mum’s in the sitting room finishing a coffee — I don’t see another mug, which means Robert’s having his in his study. Now is the perfect time. I psych myself up in the doorway: just do it, just do it, just do it—

“What is it, Hannah?” Mum hasn’t even looked up from her magazine. All I can see from here are upside-down pictures of soap stars in bikinis. I walk round until they’re the right way up and sit on the arm of the chair.

“She’s put on a lot of weight,” I say, pointing to one of them.

“She’s skinnier than me,” Mum says, pursing her lips.

“Not really.” I’m lying because I want to get into her good books.

Mum gives me a sideways glance and an eyebrow-raise. “Smaller than a size-six midget, am I?” She shakes her head. “Whatever it is you want, the answer’s no. You’ve been out ever since school broke up and I’ve not seen you so much as look at that fancy new computer you made such a fuss about getting to help you with school work.”

The words stall between my brain and my mouth.

Mum turns the page and the banner reads, “Grandmother at thirty — and pregnant!” There’s a picture of an impossibly-young-looking woman and her daughter both posing with their giant bellies touching so it looks like a Maths diagram.

Mum tuts and turns the page. “I get enough of that at work.”

This is not the right time.

I have failed to tell my best friend.

I have failed to tell my mother.

Who else is there?

My thumb shakes as I scroll through my phone looking for an answer. I make it to the bottom before I scroll back up, mentally crossing out each entry as I go. For a moment I pause when I get to his number and before I know what I’m doing I’m holding the phone up to my ear, not sure whether I actually want him to answer.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.” My voice is so quiet that I clear my throat ready for whatever I’m going to say next.