40 Things I Want to Tell You (12 page)

“It’s not that. Oh, Griffin, everything’s so out of control.”

“What, Bird?”

“I do love you. I do. But I think I love you like, I don’t know, a friend. Like a brother.”

He got up from the bed and swept his hand through his hair. His T-shirt rose, exposing an inch of his pale skin. “What does
that
mean?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak.

The room filled with silence and I studied the carpet, the tiny hills of woven fabric. I imagined what it would be like to be minuscule, crawling amid the weave of the carpet, exploring the floor as if it were a mountain range. I heard him let out a slow breath, and if anything, the room got even hotter.

“Bird,” he said, “you don’t mean this. You’re my best friend. My girlfriend. You’re the only thing in this crazy world that keeps me going. You can’t do this to us. Think of everything we’ve been through. It’s just things with your parents. You’ll feel better if you just give everything a bit of time. We’ll take everything more slowly.”

The room veered off its axis. The conversation was all wrong.

He gazed down at me. “I hate that I rushed you and screwed it all up. I’ll wait, you know. Let’s just think about this. We’re together forever. Remember?”

My heart crashed against my ribs. It physically hurt. I had the bizarre image of a mirror smashing into thousands of pieces. I had to tell him about the baby, about the abortion I was planning. About Pete. But there he was looking at me, love filling
his face. Love and confusion. And then there was everything going on with his mum.

“Oh, Griffin,” I murmured. And then—it must have been the heat—I fainted.

I WOKE UP STARING AT A DARK BLUE CEILING, MY HEAD SPINNING.

Griffin’s room. I was in Griffin’s room, lying on his bed.

As soon as I stirred, he said, “Hey, you okay?”

“I don’t feel well.” I sat, woozily, and looked at him.

“We’ll figure it all out. Let’s get you home so you can get some rest.”

By the time we’d got me back to my room, I was feeling even worse. I croaked, “I think I must have flu.”

He lay me down and tucked me in, kissing me on the forehead. “I’ll make you some soup or something.”

I couldn’t figure out why he was kissing me—I thought I’d broken up with him; I thought I’d made it clear. “I’m just going to sleep. See you tomorrow at school.”

Even as he said goodbye, I knew I wasn’t going to go to school the next day. I just couldn’t face any of it anymore.

I read Griffin’s words in my Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life inbox and I wanted to throw up. Today was the day of the abortion. I minimized his message and was faced with the reminder in my inbox.
Appointment Thursday: 11 a.m.
Today. Nausea rushed up into my throat.

I had to keep the appointment and get the abortion.

I had to tell Pete. It was his
right
to know. It was
his
baby.

And I had to break up with Griffin properly.

I read a quotation on my corkboard:

It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.
Aesop

I clambered from my desk to lie on my bed.

I put the pillow over my head and lay cocooned in the soft dark.

I flung the pillow from me and texted Griffin:

I’ll call you later, Bird.

A text came straight back:

LU ;-) Computing VERY boring today. Why aren’t you at school? 2 days off? You must be REALLY sick?!! Can bring you soup later if you like. See you later xxxxx

He was still acting like our breakup conversation hadn’t happened. Like everything was the same. But my life would never be the same after today. It never could.

I watched the clock … I watched the clock as the seconds turned to minutes. The minutes turned the digital face to
10:29.

I couldn’t move.

10:30

10:31

10:32

I groaned again. I had to get up. I had to
leave.

10:36

10:39

I lay on the bed, taking long, slow breaths.

10:41

My phone rang, startling me out of my inertia. Cleo laid into me with a loud “What’s going on? I’m at the clinic. Where are you?”

“I’m …”

“Where? What’s going on?”

“I just can’t get off the bed. I can’t do this.”

“This is crazy, Bird. I’m coming over.”

“The baby.” I tested out the words. “I keep thinking about the baby.” I stood up.

I put my hand on my stomach, which was thicker than it used to be. “I’m already showing a little,” I said, pulling up my shirt and looking in the mirror at the softening of my waist above my jeans. “I can’t help feeling a bit happy about that. I know it’s ridiculous.”

“Hang on, let me just go outside. I don’t want everyone in the waiting room listening to this.”

I could hear a door swing open and then slam.

She said, “This is crazy. You’re not thinking properly. It’s your hormones. You’re acting like a baby isn’t a big deal. You should have gone to see the counsellor they booked for you.”

“I just, uh, can’t get the image of the wriggly baby on the scan out of my mind.”

“It’s not a cute, fuzzy pet. You’re screwing up your whole life.”

“I already screwed it up.”

“What about Griffin? It’s
his
child. Have you told your dad or your mum?”

I sighed and dropped my top back down. I felt like a five-year-old.

She carried on. “Bird, it’s like I don’t know you. Even if you think you want to keep it, or whatever’s going on in your screwed-up head right now, you can’t actually keep a
baby.
It’s going to take over your whole entire
world.
You’ll have to drop out of school. We won’t be able to go to Jamaica.”

I whispered, “But I want to. I want to keep it.”

My voice grew stronger. “I want you to stop talking about me getting rid of it. I know you think I’m insane. You don’t approve. Whatever. I wish I wanted an abortion. It would be much easier, but now I’ve seen the scan I don’t think I can do it. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll be okay with all this and an even-better-than-best-friend friend and I’ll even hang out with you and the baby sometimes, but you
have
to tell Griffin. If you plan on keeping this thing, he’s going to find out anyway, right?”

“Cleo, I have something to tell you.”

I said, “Griffin’s, um, not the father.”

I studied the ceiling of my room. The silence echoed between us. I pressed the phone closer to my ear.

“Okay,” I whispered, “you can speak now, Cleo.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I, um, didn’t do it with him.”

“You
told
me you did.”

“No, technically, I didn’t tell you anything. I just didn’t
say
anything.”

“So let me get this right: you
didn’t
have sex with him.”

She seemed to have missed the point of what I was saying, but I answered her anyway. “I just couldn’t go through with it. I tried to break up with him yesterday, but things with his mum are pretty bad. I just … I know I have to deal with this but I don’t know how.”

“You tried to
break up
with him?
What
?” she screeched.

“Cleo—”

“Hang on.
Hang on.
If Griffin’s not the father, then
who
is? Is this like the Immaculate Conception? I don’t get it.
Who
did you have sex with? You’d better tell me
right
now.”

“You’re going to pass out.”

“Is it someone I know?”

I nodded.

Even though she couldn’t see me, she squealed. “It is! Let me guess. Is it Alec Jones?”

“No. Disgusting. God.”

“Henry Morris?”

“Stop it. Really.” I added, “We did it
once.
It was nothing.”

“Once is not nothing! Was it one of the teachers? Mr. Smith?”

“Shut up, Cleo. Seriously.”

“Then who?”

I spoke really quietly. “Pete.” In the silence that followed I imagined her standing outside the clinic. She’d probably dropped the phone in shock. “Cleo?”

“
Pete Loewen
? Hot, sexy player
Pete
who would screw anything?”

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about him. We kissed one time … then I ran into him at the park …” I put my hand to my lips.

“You did it at the
park
?”

I muttered through my fingers, “Uh-huh.”

“What, like, in the bushes? I can’t get
over
this. Do you still
like
Pete?”

“I don’t know. Even if I did like him, he’s
Pete.
Nothing’s going to happen. I told him that.”

“Sounds like it already happened,” she said.

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“I can’t believe you slept with Pete. And now you’re having his baby.”

“Okay, Cleo.”

“This whole situation is crazy. You have to tell your parents.”

“About Pete?” I said.

“About the
baby.
” She paused. “Tell your mum. It’s not like you can hide stuff from her, anyway. She’s got mum-detector sensors.”

I giggled. “You’re not mad at me for not telling you?”

“Of course I’m mad. But I’ll get over it.”

“You’re the best friend ever.”

“That’s your sentimental hormones speaking. Don’t think you can butter me up and change the topic like that. Break up with Griffin. Tell your parents.”

“I have to tell Pete too—keeping the baby tangles me up with him forever,” I said. “I will tell them all. I promise.” I clicked shut my phone.

I DIDN’T GO IN TO SCHOOL FOR THE REST OF THAT DAY OR THE NEXT,
which felt strange—taking any time off school was something I’d never done in my whole entire life.

On the second day I was sitting in my room, idly looking at the Oxford University website, when the landline rang. I picked it up mainly to quiet its insistent ringtone (Dad had set it to Pachelbel’s Canon). Immediately, I regretted doing so.

“Honey, it’s you.” My mum’s voice came over the line, sounding relieved. “You never answer your phone.”

When I finally spoke, the words were stiff and awkward. “I’m, uh, busy right now.” I wondered if she could tell that my whole life had changed just from my voice.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“I don’t think I want to talk to you,” I said.

“Listen, Bird, come and meet me. Anytime. I’ve been staying not far away—in a small hotel. I’ve been calling you and calling you.”

I thought about my promise to Cleo. Oh God. I
couldn’t
tell my parents. Dad would freak. Mum would … I had no idea what she would do.

“Bird? Are you still there?”

I made a noncommittal harumphing sound.

“Please come and see me,” she begged. “Anytime. It’s been weeks since I saw you. I can’t bear it. My leaving isn’t about you and me.”

“Of course it is—” I cut myself off before my voice broke.

“When can we meet?”

I couldn’t face her.

“Bird, please.”

There was no point putting her off. I said quietly, “Okay, tomorrow?”

“Thank you, honey.” She sounded like she was having trouble holding back her emotions.

“I’ll meet you in Coffee Grounds at eleven-thirty.” I said goodbye and dropped the phone back on the cradle. I pulled out a sheet of paper and made a to-do list.

• Find a job, earn money.

• Tell Griffin.

• Tell Pete.

• Homework piled up—see list in day planner.

• Read a book about pregnancy and one about looking after a baby.

I felt sick. Looking after a baby—a real human being. This was insane. I spent the next couple of hours looking up possible jobs on the Internet, and found a studio nearby that wanted a photographer’s assistant. That would be perfect.

AS I MADE MY WAY OUT THE HOUSE ON THE SATURDAY MORNING, I
spotted Dad sitting in the living room with his laptop open, the wire curling across the floor. At full volume, a soprano voice soared from the CD player.

“You busy?” I yelled.

“I want to learn about opera,” he said. “This is Lucia di Lammermoor singing her final song before she collapses into a prolonged death from grief.”

“It’s very, um, loud,” I said. The secret I was keeping from him slithered through my mind—it seemed impossible that I was walking around with
a baby
inside me yet Dad had no idea.

He said, “Beautiful. Beautiful. Like your mother. What am I going to do without her, Bird?”

I looked at him in his tracksuit, stubble thick under his chin.

I raised my voice to be heard over the opera singers. “I don’t know, Dad.” My fingers splayed like starfish on my belly. I still hadn’t told him—there never seemed to be the right time. God. And now I was going to go and tell Mum. Perhaps she would tell Dad for me. My head began to hurt. I considered cancelling, then remembered my promise to Cleo.

Dad tapped on the keyboard. “According to the Internet there’s a whole world of opera aficionados out there,” he boomed. “I never knew. I wonder if I could start a company that mailed out information to opera fans …”

“I’ve got to go, Dad.”

“You’re seeing your mother. Do you think I can come?”

I shook my head. The soprano hit an incredibly high note and my throat tightened. I wasn’t going to cry. I hurried out the room.

I OPENED THE DOOR OF THE CAFé AND WAS HIT WITH THE BITTER
smell of roasting coffee and the noise and bustle of customers. It took a moment to locate Mum. Then I saw her sitting stiffly in her wooden seat. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail that emphasized her narrow cheekbones and bow mouth. She looked pretty, her pale skin almost rosy. She had already seen me and was just lifting a hand to wave at me when her eyes narrowed and roamed over my body. The funky salsa that was playing seemed to stop, as did all the conversation in the room.

I mooched toward her, squeezing past a woman rising from her seat.

Mum’s eyes scanned my body. She met my gaze but paused as if she saw me as a completely different person—a stranger. Her voice was a sigh. “Oh, Bird. What have you done?”

“What?” I said, trying to be nonchalant, desperately hoping she wasn’t talking about the pregnancy, but already understanding that she
could tell.

“Bird,” she whispered, “I’m your mother. I haven’t seen you for weeks. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

My mouth was dry. I mumbled, “I’m not showing. How do you
know
?”

“I’m your
mother
…” she repeated. “Just look at you. You’re … it’s so
obvious.
”

“No one else noticed. It’s not even a bit obvious to the rest of the world.”

“Your face is the spitting image of mine when I was … pregnant with you. Of course I’d notice. But none of this is the point.”

Over her head the café was crowded, the baristas whirring up espressos, the staff edging round tables to get everyone served. I shrugged. “At least I don’t have to work out how to tell you.”

“You think this is some sort of joke?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I sat heavily opposite her. Maybe I was showing more than I thought. I felt paranoia trickle through me—would everyone at school know? Could they tell? No. No one had said a word.

“I’ll have a decaf latte,” I told the waitress who appeared at my shoulder.

“Anything else?”

I wanted to ask for a whole new life, a whole new set of parents, a whole new personality. I shook my head and the waitress darted away.

Mum whispered urgently, her pale eyes huge, “Bird, this is serious.”

I wanted to curl up on her lap and cry like a little girl. But I was too angry with her to admit that. I said stiffly, “You left. It’s my problem.”