Non Pratt - Trouble

“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.

“I just wanted to tell you something. About the other night…”

“Can you forget what you saw? It was all a big mistake.”

He looks confused and then nods. “The Tyrone thing. Right.”

It’s my turn not to understand. Wasn’t that what he was talking about?

“I meant you and me.”

Great. So this is why he stopped me — to embarrass me on every level possible.

“I told you before. It. Doesn’t. Matter.” I start to open the door, but he holds it shut against me. I don’t like him doing that, but the action puzzles me. It doesn’t seem very Aaron-Tyler-teacher’s-son-ish.

“Listen to me, please,” he says, in a very serious voice. It’s not threatening or anything… but it makes you listen.

I cross my arms and wait.

“I wanted to explain something.” He sighs, sort of to himself. “Look, it’s not that I wouldn’t… you’re really pretty…”

I snort.

“Less so when you do that.”

I’m so surprised that I almost snort again. Almost . I stop myself because even though I’m pregnant, and even though I know he’s not interested, I still care what he thinks.

“I really like you. Not a jump-your-bones variety of liking. I just think you’re interesting.”

Huh?

“I mean… wow, I’m not doing this very well, am I?”

“No.” I am officially lost.

“I’m not up for anything romantic right now — with girls, or boys, either, for the record.”

“Glad we got that cleared up,” I say. Gideon will be disappointed — he’s convinced Aaron’s a closet. He hasn’t shut up about him since Rex’s party. In French he declared that shagging me was all part of being in denial. I didn’t correct him on the facts.

“But I do want to know you better, Hannah. You seem…” He’s lost for a moment, then finds what he’s looking for.

On cue my mum runs out of patience and beeps the horn.

Mum is full of questions on the drive home. All of them are about “that good-looking boy” she saw me talking to.

“If I’d realized you were talking to him, I wouldn’t have sounded the horn. I thought you were gossiping with one of the nurses.”