Non Pratt - Trouble

Today is the first time that Hannah acknowledges me since she ran off last week.

“Can we borrow your copy of Jane Eyre ?”

“Of course.” I hurry to hand it over, but I don’t let go when she takes hold of it. I want to at least try and clear the air. I’m frustrated that I’ve ended up involved in something that didn’t even happen. There’s been a seismic shift in Tyrone’s love for my jokes and I’m certain it’s linked to Hannah in some way. “Hannah, about last Friday…”

“Huh?” For a moment it looks like she’s forgotten she even knows my name.

“What happened with me and you…?” I prompt.

“Yeah. Let’s just leave it there, shall we, Ty?”

I wish she wouldn’t call me that.

“I just wanted to say—”

“Leave it, Emo Boy. She doesn’t want to talk to you, yeah?” Katie leans round her friend and snatches the book — doesn’t even say thank you as she cracks the spine open, and gives Hannah’s arm a squeeze.

Did Katie just call me “Emo Boy”?

No one here has a clue who I am. Maybe that’s for the best.

Katie’s sympathy isn’t fooling me. What she really wants is for me to tell her more about what happened. As far as she’s concerned it was a really disappointing shag, but she’s annoyed that I’ve gone light on the details. Katie overshares to the point that I could play pick-the-ex by looking at nothing more than snapshots of their penises. Thing is, there’s a lot I’ve not been sharing with her. Whatever I haven’t told her about Aaron, or the on/off thing with Tyrone is nothing compared to what she doesn’t know about Jay’s party.

Neville chews on the inside of his cheek, reaches for a card, then changes his mind. It’s like playing whist with a tortoise — right down to the sagging skin at his neck and the shell of a cardigan he’s wearing. I can’t see a clock — Cedarfields isn’t fond of showing its residents how slowly time moves round here — and I gently twist my wrist to look at my watch.

“Getting bored, sonny?” Neville’s voice croaks out amidst his too-loud breathing.

I am, but I don’t say anything.

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know. I’ve got plenty to entertain myself. Countdown is on in a moment.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve missed it, Mr Robson,” I say.

Neville works his jaw so I can hear his teeth clicking together. Looking down at my cards, I wonder why I’m going to the park at all. After a week of being out of favour I’m certain no one will miss me. And if I “forgot” my sacrificial offering of alcohol, I could get myself frozen out entirely.

“Well, I’m bored.” Neville takes the cards out of my hand and works them effortlessly back into the pack. “Every Friday, you come, you spend some time with the loneliest oldies and then you leave. Not staff, not family…” His voice might be timorous, but I can feel his gaze, straight and steady, pinning me down. “What’s your business about?”

“No business, Mr Robson, just volunteer work,” I reply, standing up to turn on the light.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a Good Samaritan.” I try to sound like I’m joking but it comes out a little bitter. I’m not bitter, I just don’t want to talk about it.

“Suit yourself,” he says, wincing as he stands. I think about helping him, but I’m not sure he’d appreciate it, then I hear him mutter, “Don’t mind me,” and I hurry to offer him a hand, only to be ignored.

I look at my watch and figure I could leave now. There’s a McDonald’s on the way to the park and I’ve got my book with me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve got one arm inside my coat and I’m turning to say goodbye.

“Have a g—” I stop.

Neville is standing over the waste paper bin unzipping his flies. I bound across the floor and put a hand on his arm.

“Hey!” Neville shrugs me off, spraying a trail of urine over his bedside table. “Do you mind?” And he swings back over the bin.

I turn away and stifle a laugh as I hear a wet patter on the contents of the bin. Neville zips up and turns to face me.

“Poofter.”

I don’t bother correcting him — what good did it do with Hannah? — I just say goodbye and leave, stopping to warn someone about the contents of Neville’s bin.

“He likes you, you know,” the manager says, as she hunts around reception for a set of keys to the cleaning cupboard.

“Really?” I’m not sure Neville likes anyone.

“He does. He asks about you when you’re with one of the others. Wants to know whether you’ll be popping in on him.”

I feel a pang of guilt.

“There you are!” She snatches the keys from under a folder, then turns to me. “Same time next week?”

Somehow I hear myself offering to take care of it. As I head to the cleaning cupboard to fetch rubber gloves and a bin liner, it occurs to me that I find the prospect of cleaning up Neville’s urine-soaked bin more appealing than a night in the park. Not something to tell my mum.

Shit. Not any old shit. The real kind that’s about to hit the fan. I found two tampons at the bottom of my school bag whilst I was looking for my favourite pen this evening. Forget the pen, now I’m standing looking at the kitchen calendar trying to remember when my last period was.

I can’t remember.

In films everyone seems to know when their periods are due — they have them marked in red in their diaries or whatever.

I don’t have a diary.

I stand there for a moment longer and try to think. The tampons in my school bag came from the machine in the toilets by the science labs. It’s the only one that still works and has “Mr Dhupam is a rabbit shagger” written in marker pen on the side. I had to make an emergency purchase after Year 11 assembly, which was the first one after term started…

I count forward past Jay’s party, Mum’s birthday, Lola’s dentist appointment. Four weeks — it should have been then, right? — but I count another week then one, two, three, four, five, six days.

My finger rests on today’s box:

Mum book club 7 p.m . — Life of Pi

That can’t be right. About the date, not the book club… although really it should be called film club, since Mum only ever reads the first few chapters before streaming the movie on Robert’s laptop.

Focus, Hannah.

I count again. I’m nearly two weeks late — or is my period standing me up? Is it a no-show rather than a late show?

It can’t be like that. In the movies everyone’s always sick for a few days before they take the test. They think it’s those dodgy prawns or a bad hangover, but no: baby.

But no: it can’t be like that.

Really. It can’t.

Robert’s coming down the hall and I leave the kitchen, dodging past him on my way towards the stairs, then I’m in my room and at the computer. It’s a very shiny new one, a present from Mum and Robert for my birthday in July. They hope it’ll help with school work, but I like to think of it as an extension of my phone — email, iTunes, Facebook… I wonder if anyone’s commented on my status…

Focus, Hannah.

I type so quickly that it takes a second attempt before Google asks me if I mean “pregnancy symptoms”.

I suppose I do.

It’s the last day before half-term and it’s raining when I walk out of the school gates and up the road. Katie is steaming because I’ve told her she can’t come round to mine straight from school, that I’ll come over to hers later. I’ve told her there’s somewhere else I’ve got to be.