40 Things I Want to Tell You (10 page)

It was difficult to know what QueenTeen should do. I wished everyone’s problems could be tidied up and put into neat boxes or filing cabinets, with solutions available in alphabetical order. I chewed my lip, trying to figure out how to answer.

ONE JANUARY MORNING IN SPANISH CLASS, MS. DEVLIN WAS CHAT
ting about our long-planned March trip to Barcelona. When I was little, I’d been to Spain and France on trips with my mum and dad, but it had been several years since we’d been able to go away—Dad was always too busy. The last holiday we’d taken had been with Griffin and his family before Griffin’s dad died. The holiday to Barcelona was going to be exactly what I needed. I could hardly wait.

The Spanish trip was supposed to help us get ready for our speaking exam—although they speak Catalan in Barcelona and
not Spanish, so it didn’t make much sense to go there. I figured we were going because Ms. Devlin loved Barcelona and not to help us with our exams at all. I remembered when they’d given us the forms to fill in and Mum had sighed at the cost, but she’d found the money somehow. Then I thought of all the cooking I’d be doing for Dad and all the cleaning up: Mum had been in charge of everything to do with running the house (except for Saturday suppers), and she’d been working full time to pay for trips like the one to Spain. For me. I forced the image of my mum’s face from my brain, only to find it replaced with an image of Pete. He was going to Barcelona too. But not Kitty. Or Griffin. Neither of them took Spanish.

Ms. Devlin chattered on, but all my senses were suddenly atuned to Pete sitting behind me. I sat stiff-backed because I could feel him there, his every movement, his breath. Then he tapped me on the shoulder. My whole body burned but I refused to turn round. I remembered when Neen Patel gossiped that Pete’s mum had left his family. Thinking about his mum leaving, I felt my connection with him deepen; a thin, silvery line joining us.

Still, I faced the front. I was not going there again. Ever.

AFTER SPANISH WAS ENGLISH. MR. BENNETTS THOUGHT DICTATION
was fun and had never heard of blogging or websites, which said a lot about him and our lame English classes.

He was muttering away at the front about feminist interpretations of
Wuthering Heights
when Cleo texted me.

Bored. Want 2 get out?

I caught her eye.

She winked. Suddenly she was coughing so hard I thought she might choke. Mr. Bennetts came to a stop and turned like a turtle to look at her. “Ms. Teague, is there a problem?”

She stood up, coughing more dramatically.

“Sir,” I said, “I, uh, think I should take her to the nurse.”

He swivelled his beady eyes over to me. The pause was very long while he weighed me up. Most teachers would never fall for it, but Mr. Bennetts lived on a different planet from the rest of them and I could see he was being persuaded. He just wanted Cleo out of there. Cleo coughed louder.

“I really think she needs to see the nurse,” I prompted.

“Yes, Ms. Finch. Off you go. Take her.”

We were hardly out the classroom when Cleo started laughing. “Sir,” she mimicked.

I thinned my eyes at her. “I thought I did a good job—Oscar-worthy.

She laughed.

I said, “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Anything? Not go to the nurse.”

We wandered comfortably together along the empty corridors, the sound of our shoes clicking on the shiny floors.

“English was so boring,” I said.

We were both quiet.

She asked, “So what’s up with you?” We headed down the back stairs, keeping our ears open for roaming teachers.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you annoyed about me and Xavier? I know I’ve been wrapped up with him, like, all month while you’ve been dealing
with all that stuff with your parents.
And
I know you don’t like him …”

“It’s none of my business.”

“I knew you were annoyed. You shouldn’t give advice to people if you’re not okay with them ignoring it.”

I faced her. “Honest to God, Cleo, I haven’t even thought about you and Xavier. I’m happy you’re happy.”

“Well, something’s up. This thing with your parents …”

I muttered, “I don’t want to talk about them.”

“Okay, well, how are things with Griffin? You haven’t even told me about you guys. I know it’s my fault and I’m really sorry I’ve been so … busy.” A little smile danced over her face. “So tell me about
it.
Have you guys been like rabbits since the first time?”

I pushed open the door to outside. A fresh breeze filled my lungs, cold and tasting of winter. “No,” I said quietly.

She grabbed my shoulder. “
No
? Why not? Come on, Bird, ‘fess up. Was it terrible?” she said.

I shook my head. “Nothing like that.”

God, I wished I’d told her about Pete. There was no way to explain what was going on with Griffin without being honest about that.

She assessed me with her bright eyes and smiled. “You’re just scared probably. You think he doesn’t love you? He adores you, Bird.”

“God, Cleo, would you just
listen.
I’ve been … I’ve done something—” I suddenly thought about her reaction if I actually told her about Pete.
Pete.
She’d be so mad I hadn’t already told her. And then so judgmental about him. Plus, it was weeks ago. I licked my dry lips. I said, “Nothing. No, you’re right.”

“You don’t have to stress about anything, Bird. You have your website, you have me, you have your boyfriend, who is gorgeous and who loves you, you get top marks in everything, you can do whatever you want.”

“I want to fly,” I mumbled.

She burst out laughing. “Oh, Bird, you’re so
you.
Do it again with him. It’ll get better every time—and then you’ll be sure he loves you, if that’s what you need. You’re just stressed about your crazy parents.”

“Maybe. I feel like everything’s falling apart.”

“Really? Your life is so normal. Except for your parents, everything about you is, I don’t know, predictable. Without you being like that, where would the rest of us be?”

That word again. Griffin had said it as well. “Predictable?”

She shook her head. “I don’t mean predictable like
boring
predictable, I mean like I know where you are. You’re the girl who keeps the rest of us together. Think of your website.”

A cold wind blew. I could see the school building through the fluttering leaves of low-hanging branches. “I suppose so.”

“You give great advice, and you’re steady as a rock.”

“What if I don’t want to be steady anymore?”

She snorted with laughter. “You? Seriously, Bird, I think all this is because of what’s going on with your parents,” she said gently. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you properly. You’re shaken up, that’s all. Do it again with Griffin. Poor guy is probably wondering what’s wrong.”

“You sound like me,” I said. “Giving advice.”

She smiled. “I do, don’t I? Well, I’ve learned from the best.”

I looked at her, all elegant and long-limbed like a deer. She
was right. That’s who I was: stable, organized,
predictable
Bird. I said, faintly, “I can’t believe what’s happened to Mum and Dad.”

She put an arm around my shoulder. “I can’t believe it either. If anyone was more predictable than you, it was your mum.”

AT HOME ONE EVENING AT THE END OF THE MONTH, I WAS WORKING IN
my room. I fiddled round with some updates for the website, looking at the piles of questions people had written in to me that I hadn’t yet got round to answering, and then I wasted a chunk of time looking at Pete’s Facebook page, wishing he didn’t keep sneaking into my head.

I thought back to mid-November, the rain, the tension building. I remembered him kissing me, the way he’d taken off my jeans so expertly. Expertly—sure, that was the type of guy he was. I could remember the taste of him as if he’d just kissed me five minutes before.

I looked at an online calendar. Ten weeks had gone by since we had sex and he was in my thoughts all the time. This was ridiculous. I
wanted
both of us to act like nothing had happened. But it was just so hard to forget.

I made myself click over to Oxford University’s website, where I read student testimonials saying why it was the best university in the world. I imagined how good it would be to be able to tell people I went to Oxford. How impressive it sounded. Huh, that didn’t seem like the best reason to go.

I imagined myself going to the college I wanted to apply to—Pembroke College, small, intimate, friendly. I pictured the
life I had planned, trying to feel good, but deep inside I had an uncomfortable feeling like heartburn. I turned back to my website.

I finished up with my homework and lay on my bed. I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on the T.S. Eliot poem assigned to us. I lay awake watching the moonlight falling like feathers into my room, and eventually I drifted into a drowsy, uncomfortable sleep. Images of Pete pulling me to the ground flashed through complicated dreams of Griffin yelling at me, his mother pressed against a window, screaming.

Suddenly, I
knew.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realized.

With everything going on, I hadn’t noticed.

It was no excuse.

I’d been so stupid.

But it couldn’t be true; it couldn’t have happened, not to me.

Not. To. Me.

I deleted the words. The computer screen felt too bright. I hadn’t slept. I called up Cleo. She answered on the tenth ring.

“Uh, Bird, it’s, like, stupidly early.”

“I have to talk to you.”

She mumbled, clearly still half asleep, “Do you want a ride to school? Mum’s coming so I can test-drive—”

“Oh God.”

“What? I drive superbly.” She yawned. “Can you come over?”

“What, now? Bird, what time is it? Oh my God, it’s, like, six-thirty in the morning.”

“I’m going crazy.”

She became attentive. “Are you okay?”

“Just come over. Now. We have to miss school.”

“You’re freaking me out. What’s wrong?”

I spoke really fast. “Oh God, Cleo. I can’t tell Mum and Dad, and I can’t tell Griffin.” I couldn’t even bring myself to think about Pete.

“What, Bird? What is it? You’re scaring me.”

“I can’t even
say
it.”

“What?”

It came out as a whisper. “I’m … oh God … I think I’m pregnant.”

I heard her sharp intake of breath. I waited for her to comment, but for the first time ever, she was actually speechless.

“Cleo, come over. No, don’t. Meet me at Coffee Grounds. I’m going to buy a test and do it there. I have to get out the house. Oh God, I’m not even thinking straight.”

“I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”

I HURRIED TO THE ALL-NIGHT SUPERMARKET AND STAGGERED ALONG
the empty aisles as if I were in a dream. The pregnancy tests sat neatly under the condoms. Condoms. I was so
stupid.
Stopping before … God, that clearly didn’t work as contraception. I pulled off a pregnancy test that said it was over 99 percent accurate from the day of your missed period. It had two white sticks in the box. With a shudder I tried to remember when my period last came. I was never very regular and I’d been so stressed. But I was sure it was
ages
ago.

I shoved the money over to the cashier, huddling myself deep into my hooded coat so she couldn’t see my burning face. Then I stumbled into Coffee Grounds, paid for a cup of tea and, without waiting for it to arrive, rushed into the bathroom.

With shaking hands, I pulled out the instructions for the test. Following them, I peed on the first white stick. Then I waited.

I texted Cleo:

Am here.

She texted back:

B there in 5 mins.

I WAS SITTING AT A TABLE NEAR THE WINDOW WHEN SHE ARRIVED. I
saw her through the glass before she saw me, so I left my un-drunk tea and hurried to meet her outside in the freezing morning. She wore a Burberry red coat, a white scarf and an expression of utter concern. She grabbed me into a hug and I breathed in her newest perfume.

I pulled back, shivering. “Oh, Cleo.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, the words popping like bubbles of gum out of her mouth.

Tucking my arm through hers, I pulled her away from the café. The sky was damp and grey, the tarmac beneath our feet wet from an earlier drizzle, although the rain was holding back. Heavy, dark clouds stacked up to the far left. The air smelt faintly of rotten wood.

I said, “What am I going to do?”

“I thought you only did it, like, once. Didn’t you use a condom?”

I pulled the pregnancy test out of my pocket. She took the white stick from me and held it up. It was a shiny plastic thing, smooth and flat against the ominous sky. “Oh, Bird. There are two lines here. Doesn’t that mean …”

“I know.”

“But these things aren’t always accurate,” she said. I pulled out the second one. Gave it to her.

“Oh, boy.”

“Cleo, I’m, like, going crazy—I can’t deal with this,” I said. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m freaking out. How could this be happening to me? I tried writing a to-do list early this morning but my brain was like a cloud, full of air and no thoughts. I just called my doctor’s office. They must have thought I was insane—I could hardly string words together—but they had a last-minute cancellation, with a different doctor from the one I normally go to.”

Words stopped pouring out. We were both silent. Then I muttered, “Nine a.m. We have to get there at nine a.m.”

“Okay. Okay. Wow. Trust you to be able to get your head together enough to even think of calling the doctor. So nine this morning, that’s good. That’s, like, two hours from now. We’ll miss school. Good idea. Of course. How pregnant are you? You had sex with Griffin how long ago? Ages ago, way before Christmas, right? Like November sometime? Or have you guys been doing it since then? This doesn’t make any sense—Griffin’s, like, a careful person. And you …” She babbled on, but I wasn’t listening.

I thought about the night with Pete in the park, the way we’d fallen to the ground together. I’d honestly thought we’d been careful enough by stopping. I cut into Cleo’s monologue. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize my period hadn’t come. It’s all the crap happening at home.”

I looked at the cars driving by, the rumble of their engines the birdsong of the street. I wasn’t going to cry.

“God, Bird. How do you feel?”

“I’ve been okay. I guess if I think about it I was sick a few times. I threw up when Mum left, but I thought I was just being dramatic. Whatever. Then I vomited once when I went jogging. I figured I was just out of shape. I wasn’t hungry for my New Year’s breakfast. Stuff like that. I was a bit tired. Bloated. But nothing, nothing,
nothing
that would have told me I was having a
baby.
It’s inside me, Cleo. I can’t even … Oh God, and I don’t even love Griffin, but I was going to make it work because of how things are with his mum and … and I was going to fix everything.”

“You’re really stressed out. You do love Griffin. Course you do.”

I turned to her, my cheeks hot. “Listen to me. I’m
not
in love with Griffin. I don’t think I ever have been. Not like
that.
How can I make
him
believe me if
you
don’t?”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I believe you. Let’s go get breakfast somewhere—eggs and bacon and things, not here. We’ve got a while to wait—is there a place near the clinic? Do you want to get the bus?”

I said, “Let’s walk for a while. I need the air. I feel like I can’t breathe.”

AFTER A STROLL AND A LONG BREAKFAST IN A CAFé, DURING WHICH
neither of us ate anything, we went to the doctor. I was numb as I entered the office. The damp air had seeped into my bones. I took off my coat and went over to Reception while Cleo went to sit down. The room smelt of antiseptic and it was library quiet.

I pressed the bell on the desk and was startled by the shrill sound. A smiley woman with round glasses came out and took my details even though I could hardly get words out of my mouth.

When we were done with the forms, she said, speaking as if I were a small child, “Doctor will see you in a bit, take a seat.” She smiled and gestured to the chairs lining the walls, so I went numbly to sit down next to Cleo, who put her hand on my knee. Her nails were painted with a silver stripe along the middle.

Two elderly people sat opposite us. The walls behind them were covered with pamphlets and posters. My eyes picked out certain words.

B
E ON TIME FOR YOUR APPOINTMENT.
B
REASTFEEDING IS BEST.
A
BORTION COUNSELLING. CALL US.

“Have you spoken to Griffin?” Cleo asked. “You need to tell him.”

“Don’t start, Cleo,” I snapped. “Sorry, I’m in total shock,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

She put her hand back on my knee.

When my name was called out, my throat clamped. Cleo nudged me.

“Wait here, okay?” I said.

I went into the doctor’s tiny room. He was a huge man who dwarfed his swivel chair. He wore a checkered shirt that strained around his bulging middle with jeans tucked under his belly. He had grey hair but was balding in the middle. He reminded me of my dad, which was totally awkward.

The doctor adjusted his glasses as I sat, and said, “How can I help you?”

“I, um, I …” I fell silent. I couldn’t get my words out.

“Go on.”

“I think I’m—”

“Yes?” He leaned forward. The room was stifling.

“Pregnant.” I said it so quietly the doctor had to lean even closer.

He sat back. “Right.”

Out the room’s small window I saw it had started to rain. My life was punctuated with rain.

“And why do you think so?” he asked.

“I’ve done two pregnancy tests.”

“Aha.”

“And they both say I’m pregnant. But they’re not always accurate, right?”

“Two home-test positives would mean you’re pregnant.”

Desperation swelled in me. I took a second to speak. “Just like that?” I said. “Really?”

He leaned his chin on two chubby fingers.

“Don’t you need to do some other sort of test here to confirm it?” I begged, feeling like I was being washed away.

“Not anymore. The home-tests are accurate predictors nowadays. Is this good news?” He hesitated. “I have to ask.”

I shook my head.

“What was the date of your last period?”

My face scrunched up as I tried to remember. “The beginning of November … just after my birthday … I guess, the fourth.”

“So”—he looked at his computer and then typed in something—”you’re twelve weeks pregnant.”

“What do you mean?” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I had, um, sex ten weeks ago. I
can’t
be twelve weeks along.”

“We count the weeks of the pregnancy from the date you last had a period. The baby will have been conceived after the end of the second week—at the beginning or the end of the third week, depending on your cycle.”

I thought of Pete in the park that night. I said, “Twelve
weeks
? How could I not have known? Surely being pregnant is like, I don’t know, obvious?”

“Are your periods regular?”

“No. Not always. But twelve
weeks
? I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t realize. I’m normally so … so
organized.
”

“It happens like that more often than you think. Especially for, um, younger women. Sometimes because you don’t expect it and because you don’t know what to look for …”

I’d never been called a woman before, not by someone as old as him. I swallowed. Hard. “Can I still have an abortion?” I asked.

He blinked owlishly behind his glasses. “It’s a big decision. You need to have a scan as soon as possible. Normally women have their scan at thirteen weeks. We’ll book you in as quickly as we can—early next week, probably.”

I swallowed. In the face of his efficiency I could hardly breathe. “Can’t I just have an abortion? Like, now?”

“We need to have the scan to check your dates are right, then we can determine what type of abortion is possible. We’ll book a separate appointment after the scan, if that’s what you decide to do.”

My hands rested on my stomach. I was firm. “I don’t have any other option.”

He tapped his pen on the desk and said, “You’ll make the decision that’s right for you. We offer counselling to help. Perhaps it would be a good idea. Now, we ask all pregnant women this: have you been taking folic acid? Do you know what it is?”

I shook my head. “Oh, but I take a multivitamin.”

“Good, that’s good. Check it has folic acid, just in case. So
now, I need to ask you a series of questions and we need to fill in this form and book you an appointment with a counsellor. We’ll have to move quickly.”

I nodded, suddenly as unable to speak as a stone.