Non Pratt - Trouble

The park is freezing. This is not a surprise because it is, after all, December, traditionally a time when people congregate around log fires and sip mulled wine whilst wearing knitted jumpers with reindeer on the front. But we are teens and we throw snowballs in the face of frostbite. Or we would if it ever snowed.

Rex and Katie are together on the swings. The two of them kissed at his party and a few weeks ago Rex copped a feel in the bushes, but since then they appear to be locked in some kind of holding pattern — neither of them pulling anyone else, but not taking things further with each other. It’s driving Rex crazy — and in turn, me, as I’m the one he wants to talk to about it. I pointed out that Katie hates me and he should probably find someone else to help him, but he thought I was joking. The curse of Tyrone’s “funny” tag lives on.

Tonight it’s too cold for the pair to change the status quo and I get summoned over right away by the ever-clueless Rex. Hannah’s sitting on the swing next to them looking bored.

“Drink?” I wave my bottle at her and she shakes her head. I pull a Thermos out of my bag and wave that at her. She laughs and nods and I pour her a hot chocolate, ignoring the revolted expression on Katie’s face.

Hannah wraps her fingers around the plastic cup and breathes in the plumes of steam rising from the surface. She’s wearing a woolly beanie pulled low to cover her ears and it’s pushing the tip of her fringe across her face like a bird’s wing. She catches me looking and gives a little frown.

“I like your hat,” I say and sip from my own non-alcoholic cup, having handed Rex the whisky that Neville didn’t get through.

Hannah and I swing back and forth slightly out of time, but my swing slows as I scuff the toes of my trainers on the ground and we end up swinging in unison before the movement subsides. I enjoy the silence between us and the feel of the hot chocolate in my hands, the gentle sway of the swings. Simple pleasures that aren’t so simple to come by.

“I don’t know why he’s here.”

“He’s my mate, Katie,” Rex replies in a murmur that I only hear because I’m listening for the answer.

“’S’freak.” I look up at exactly the right moment to catch her looking at me. “What are you looking at, Emo Boy?”

“He’s probably looking at that massive mascara smudge halfway down your cheek,” Hannah says immediately, not giving me a chance to say something foolish.

Katie scowls, but she rubs a finger pink with cold under each eye. I have no idea whether there was a mascara smudge there in the first place, but there is now. I smile at Hannah, who grins back.

“Get a room,” Katie says, petulantly.

“Oh, fuck off, Katie,” Hannah says with a surprising amount of venom and stands up. “You coming? Leave these two to suck face instead of trying to make witty conversation.”

From the benches where we end up I can see a flicker of fire in one of the wire bins by the toilets. A small crowd has gathered around it and I recognize Marcy and Tyrone standing together throwing scrunched up paper on the flames. Hannah notices the direction of my gaze.

“Tyrone thought it would be a good idea to burn revision notes.”

“Because he’s never going to need them again…?”

“Yeah. If it’s an idea of Tyrone’s, it’s probably a bad one.” Hannah looks at me. “Thanks for keeping quiet about what happened at Rex’s party.”

“No one to tell.” I shrug, half-joking, half-truthful.

“Thanks anyway. I could do without the trouble right now.”

I hear the “right now”, but I don’t really know if I should question it, so I don’t. Hannah reaches out and puts her hand on mine, sliding her fingers between my gloved ones and squeezing. I’m not sure what this is about, but I squeeze back, although it’s hard to tell how much through the inch-thick material.

“I can’t work you out, Aaron Tyler, but you do seem to have a knack for doing the right thing at the right time.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I say, mystified.

“That’s the point,” she says and takes her hand away.

“Hannah, I need you to take Lola shopping with you.” My mum never asks favours, she commands them.

Only I cannot accept this command. I. Really. Cannot. When Gran asked to see a picture of the scan I was forced to tell her I hadn’t gone. That is not what I expected of you, Hannah . The depth of her disappointment brought me to tears in seconds — even thinking about the look in her eyes is enough to cause my chest to burn with guilt. She stood over me as I rang to book in a new scan with my very angry midwife, and Gran’s arranged to come with me, in case I fail her — and the baby — again.

Christmas Eve isn’t exactly the best time to get out of family duties, but I’ve got to try. If Jay hadn’t deserted us to go on a last-minute ski trip with the other half of his family, I could have palmed this off on him. As it is, all I’m left with is: “I can’t take Lola with me. I’m buying her presents.”

Mum rolls her eyes. “I knew you’d leave it late. Look. I’ve bought her everything on her Christmas list…”

Everything?! I saw that list — it was, like, three pages long.

“I’ll say some are from you. I’m already doing that for Jay. You don’t even have to pay for them.”

I just stare at Mum. I’m having trouble processing my irrational rage at her for buying Lola everything she wants and for suggesting she’ll decide which ones I can give to my sister, as if I’m as thoughtless as Jay, who couldn’t even be bothered to come home, and… I think my brain just timed out. Shit. Come on, brain, get it together, or the second person you end up telling about the baby will be Lola.

This year I bought one Christmas card. I open the cellophane, take out the card and open it.

Blank, like my mind.

I stare at the white space so long that I lose sight of everything around me, something I’ve been known to do. There are no words for what I want to say.

I fold the card shut and close my eyes.

I see my nightmare.

Eyes open, Aaron. Card open, Aaron.

Dear Mr and Mrs Lam,

There are no words.

Thinking of you — always thinking of Chris. I think you should know this.

“What are we doing at the hospickal?”

“Hospital,” I correct Lola gently and pat her hand. On my other side, Gran squeezes my shoulder as she uses me to balance on the paving. It’s been salted, but none of us want her to slip — although I guess there are worse places to do it than right outside A&E. Once inside, the three of us head to the maternity unit.

“Name?” says the woman at the desk.

“Hannah Sheppard.”

“What’s going on, Hannah?” Lola is tugging insistently at my jacket.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.”

“You said that ages ago.”

“…down there.” The woman is pointing to a partly occupied row of chairs.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“If you take a seat down there, someone will call you.”

“Thanks.”

“White book, please.”

“What?”

“She asked for your white book, love,” Gran says, in a way that isn’t actually helpful.

“Yes, I know!”

“No need to shout at Granny Ivy!” Lola starts to cry.

I look desperately at Gran and at the woman at reception, who hasn’t quite lost it on the patience front. Yet. I flounder around in my bag, knowing that I’ve got the stupid thing with me because I have to take it with me all the time in case I get hit by a falling piano or something and whoever treats me needs to know how pregnant I am. I taped the cover of a magazine over it so it wouldn’t look so suss — there it is!