40 Things I Want to Tell You (17 page)

“Oh, Amy.” He rubbed his palms against his cords. “It’s not
that you’re not talented. I loved your pictures. But I need someone long term.” He slapped his hand to his forehead. “You have no idea how hard it’s been to find a good assistant. It’s taking ages and I had to get rid of the first two.”

“I’ll work hard. I promise. I really need this job.”

He forced a smile. “I, uh, look, it’s just not the right time.”

“I would be perfect.” I knew I was begging.

“Seriously, I don’t think you’ve thought about this. You’re not going to find it easy to have a job with a newborn.”

“I’m giving the baby away.”

His tone changed. “Look, Amy, I’m, uh, I’m really sorry.”

I could see in the thinning of his eyes that he was disappointed in me somehow. He figured I was a stupid teenager. He was judging me. What happened to
lady
, the word he’d used to describe me when he thought I was booking a shoot?

I wanted to ask him if he was allowed to discriminate against me like this. Surely there were laws or something to protect pregnant women so they could get jobs. But I was too ashamed. It was too much. I twisted away so I could get out of there before I wept.

This was the sort of question I used to find easy to answer. Now I typed out the right responses, feeling like a fraud.

I looked over my answer. It was the right thing to say, but it felt like I wasn’t the one writing it. I was a
liar.
I sounded calm on the page when in real life I was trembling. But I couldn’t confess to Felicity345 that I wasn’t even a tiny bit in control of my life.

I climbed into the single bed in the rosy room at Cleo’s house and fell into a restless sleep. Sometime in the night I woke up to the baby moving. It kicked at my hand as I rested my fingers on the hardening balloon of my belly. I wondered if the baby was dreaming like I’d been dreaming. Do babies dream in the womb? I’d dreamed I was about to climb Everest. I stood at the bottom of the mountain and looked up to the clouds above. There was a sharp peak far, far away, jutting into the sky like a solitary tooth in a baby’s mouth.

I said, “I can’t.”

I WAS MELTING. THE WEATHER WAS FREAKISHLY HOT FOR APRIL.
Unbearable. My thighs rubbed together under my dark green dress. It was like a sack. The short sleeves showed off the thickness of my wobbly arms. I’d gained so much weight and was way bigger than I’d expected, and than any of the women I’d looked at on YouTube as they sailed through their first five months. As I waddled along the corridors of school I wondered if I’d ever get my body back the way it used to be.

Kitty sneered at me one day, “You’re so fat
already.
”

I ignored her, so she gave up and left.

Cleo came over and kissed me on the cheek. “You look so pretty. Glowing.”

“I look fat. And everyone thinks I’m a slag. And I’m going to fail all my exams. And I can’t imagine ever having a life again. Moan, moan.”

“You were so little to start with, you were bound to get, you know, big.” Her fingernails were yellow and black.

“I
knew
I was extra fat. Interesting nails,” I said. “Like bees.”

She wrinkled up her nose. “I know. Who does yellow and black?”

“At least you can stay awake to study. I’m worried, Cleo. I can’t take my exams. I keep falling asleep on my homework. I wish I could handle a latte.”

She wasn’t listening. She pulled a torn-out newspaper article from her pocket. Underneath the headline was Cleo’s
name.

It was about a band. “You wrote this? When did you do all this? I didn’t even know you’d been to see these guys. Were they good? Hang on, don’t tell me,” I said when she tried to speak. I read, “
Opening with a thin sound, unsure and shy, but finishing with explosive anarchy, Diet Nations grabbed hold of the stage halfway through and made it their own
…”

When I got to the end, I said, “Wow, Cleo. It’s great. It’s so, I don’t know, so well
written.
I can’t believe you got something published in the paper. I didn’t know you were even
interested
in writing for newspapers.”

Cleo shone with pleasure. “I’m a girl of many talents.”

“I can’t believe I haven’t even noticed what’s been going on with you. We’re living in the same house!”

“You’ve been busy.”

I was about to reply when all the muscles around my swollen tummy tightened like a corset being tied.

“You okay?” she said.

“I think I had a contraction.”

Her eyes grew wide. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did it feel like?”

“Tight. Weird.” I rubbed my belly and said, “It stopped as suddenly as it started.”

“It’s probably Braxton Hicks. Fake contractions. Your body is preparing itself for the baby. They can come and go for weeks.”

“Fake contractions?”

“I read about them on the Internet. I’ve been trying to keep up with the pregnancy week by week, you know.”

I turned to her. “You’re, like, the best friend ever. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, enough of that. How d’you feel now?”

“It’s stopped. Nothing’s happening now.”

“Good, that’s good.”

“So the baby isn’t coming?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll wait and see. Let’s skip English. We can go to the doctor if you’re worried.”

“I think I’m fine. I should read those sites.”

“I still think we should skip.” She leaned through the open door into the classroom. “Mr. Bennetts, I have to take Bird to the nurse.”

I couldn’t hear his reply. But Cleo said in an exaggerated whisper, “Do I
have
to explain, sir?” My cheeks grew hot. Cleo swung back out the door, grinned, spun me round and guided me down the corridor.

“Let’s go sit outside,” she said. “Here, have this.” She gave me a chocolate bar from her bag.

EASTER CAME AND WENT AND THE DAYS BLURRED INTO EACH OTHER.
The next meeting with Nicole was pretty much like the first one, just with more details. She gave me stuff about the new family and asked me to read it, but it stayed on the floor next
to my bed at Cleo’s house. I didn’t book an appointment with the counsellor. Several people wrote in to my website, but I didn’t answer their problems. Mum stopped calling but sent frequent texts telling me she loved me. I guess she’d decided a new approach might work better. School started again. The weather grew colder and then hotter again, and the worst April of my life turned slowly into May.

One lunch break, I took a walk in the park across from the school. I was sitting by myself on a bench in the shade of a tree when Pete came over and sat next to me.

“How’s it going, Amy?”

“What do you think?”

“You don’t need to be so angry,” he said.

He’d told everyone I was pregnant. God. I should hate him for blurting out my secret, but the baby wriggling inside me made me feel connected to him.

He said, “Are you okay?”

I looked at him and started laughing. I laughed so hard, tears sprang to my eyes and I knew that in about half a second I was going to start crying and getting hysterical. I said, trying to calm down, “Pete, just leave me alone, would you?”

He clenched his jaw. Got up. Walked away.

I sat very still and watched him. I wished I had my camera with me so I could photograph the image. His outline made a Pete-shaped exclamation mark against the bright sky. He’d made a Pete-shaped exclamation mark in my life.

I wished I could ask him to come back and tell me everything was going to be all right.

But it was too late for that.

I read over what I’d written. Forgiveness. SuzyBlue needed to forgive herself, and her friend needed to forgive her too, but I wasn’t sure either girl would be able to do it. I rubbed my arms, feeling suddenly shivery, then I posted my reply. I flipped from my website to my personal inbox.

I shut down my laptop and folded it up, chucking it into my small rucksack. I rubbed my hands over my out-of-control curly hair. I’d pictured moving back home as some sort of wonderful reunion with hugs and
I love you
s, but Dad wasn’t even going to be there.

Later that evening, I unlocked the front door to my empty house. I wandered from the front room to the kitchen and then
up the stairs to my room. Across the way I could see Griffin’s window, curtains wide open. He wasn’t there, but I couldn’t help but remember all the times we’d spoken to each other through those panes of glass. I drew my curtains.

I looked at the printout from Oxford University I’d pinned on my corkboard. With a rush of anger, I ripped it down and tore it into tiny pieces. I tore off the quotations and the inspirational messages. I ripped down the photograph of myself smiling into the distance and threw it away. The corkboard was empty.

Hickory, dickory, dock,

The mouse ran up the clock …

The clock struck midnight and I was wide awake. Ominous night filled my bedroom. The baby moved inside me, small flutters and then two hard kicks.

I tried to imagine the baby—its eyes, hands, tiny feet—but only other people’s babies came to mind.

The clock struck one …

Two …

Three …

Four …

My legs cramped and I had to get up to pee and then I drifted off, but the baby wriggled and woke me. I heard a soft footfall in the living room and I wondered if Dad was home. But what if it wasn’t him? Fear jolted me like an electric current. Not fear for me: fear for the baby. I lay there, stiff and frightened, waiting to hear any other noise. I held my breath until I worried that the baby needed air. I tucked my phone in my hand, ready to call for help. The baby kicked me, harder than before.

A moment later, I heard a creak in the corridor by the front door. I sat straight up, the covers falling off my body so I was exposed. Someone
was
in the house, but it didn’t sound like Dad. Even when he tried to be quiet, he moved far more loudly than this person. Silently, I put my feet onto the carpeted floor, pushed myself off the bed and tiptoed to my door. My heart thudded like the baby was kicking me repeatedly, except he was still now, frightened too. Or sleeping, oblivious. I stubbed my toe on the doorframe. Wincing, I listened for the intruder. Silence. But I
knew
someone was there. As if to confirm my suspicions, there was another creak.

Cautiously, I peered at the upstairs corridor from my room. Strange shadows lurked like huge dark bats hanging from the ceiling. I padded along to the top of the stairs, smelling my dad’s aftershave, all spicy and warm, as I passed his room.

My heart was so loud, I was convinced the intruder would hear it. I imagined a great hulking man in the living room—perhaps he was stealing the TV. I imagined what he would do when he saw me, shivery in my nightgown, pregnant and vulnerable. Another soft footstep came from the kitchen. A light flickered on.

My heart fluttered to the top of my throat.

I flipped open my phone. I yelled, “I’m calling the police.”

The kitchen door opened. From within came a surprised voice. “Bird? Did I wake you?” A woman’s voice. My mum’s voice.

Fury replaced fear like I’d been injected with it. “What are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”

She came into the hallway, fragile and childish somehow in the semi-dark, illuminated only by the kitchen light behind her.

I cried, “Why are you
here
? This isn’t your house anymore.”

I could see her willing herself not to correct me. It
was
her house. Never Dad’s. If it had been Dad’s, he would have invested it in the business. I felt my throat constrict. I wondered how Mum had survived worrying about money for all those years.

“You scared me half to death,” I said. “What are you doing here? I nearly had a heart attack,” I added.

She said, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Your father told me to come by so you weren’t on your own tonight, but I knew you wouldn’t want to see me, so I waited until you were asleep.”

“It’s five in the morning.”

“I’ve been here since about midnight. In the living room, reading. We just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“I’m
fine.
I’m not a kid.”

She appraised me. “No, no. You’re not.” She rubbed her neck. “Your father tells me you’re giving the baby away.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I think it’s a good idea. You’ll be able to carry on with your life.”

“Yeah, okay. Good night.” She made to speak but I lifted a hand to stop her. “Really, Mum, I just need to sleep.”

The mouse ran down,

Hickory, dickory, dock.

I couldn’t sleep, though. I was too keyed up. And I couldn’t help thinking about the babies Mum had lost. I switched on the light. Tears blurred my vision but I pulled a pen and paper from my desk and began to write.

I don’t know what to say. I look at the empty page and my heart feels like it’s ripping in two. I want to explain why I’m doing it—why I’m going along the adoption route. Although sometimes I want one thing, sometimes another, I have a list of practical reasons.

This isn’t what I want to say. What do I want to say?

Why is this so hard? Why can’t I do this?

What am I doing? I hardly know myself anymore.

I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel kicks in the night and I am sick with what I’m doing. But I don’t know how else to … I don’t know what to say. I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Say.

I gave up and collapsed back onto my bed. I fell into a woozy, anxious sleep.

When I awoke, Mum was gone. She’d left me a fruit salad in the fridge.

THE NEXT DAY, I WAS SO TIRED I COULD HARDLY THINK AS I WENT
from class to class at school. At one point I stumbled and leaned against my locker. When I looked up, Griffin was staring at me, his vivid blue eyes filled with pain. His hair was wet—he must have come from gym class and just had a shower. I attempted a smile. He pushed his hair from his face and his gaze ran down over my body. I wanted to say something to him but there were no words left. His lips puckered like he’d eaten something bitter. I could almost see his heart breaking all over again. He turned away.

Cleo came up to me and said angrily, “What’s
with
you?”

I knew immediately from her tone that she was furious. “What?”

She leaned against a locker. “I have to talk to you.”

“What’s up?”

She wouldn’t look at me. “So, um, you didn’t tell Griffin.”

“What?”

“That Pete’s the father.”

Oh no. I steadied my shaking hands. “Griffin found out? Pete knows? How?”

“Nathan was being a jerk to Griffin all through Art. Calling him Big Daddy and pretending to rock a baby. Griffin finally just snapped and yelled that the baby wasn’t his. Then Pete went completely white. Like all the colour had been taken from him. Pete said,
Not yours? You sure?
Then Kitty made a joke, saying,
What, do you think it might be yours?

“Suddenly Griffin got it. He said,
You?
But although it was a question, it wasn’t, and I was sitting there trying to work out what to do or say. Why didn’t you tell him? Why would you
treat him so horribly? Didn’t you learn from lying to him the first time round?”

I stammered, “I didn’t … didn’t know how. And then more and more time kept going by and he wasn’t speaking to me and …” I looked at her beseechingly, willing her to understand. “I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

She pushed herself off from the locker. A group of girls slowed to watch as she yelled, “Who
are
you? It’s like I don’t even
know
you.”

“I didn’t say I’d tell Griffin everything. You have
no
idea what this is like.”

“I do my best. I helped you through every step of this. You lived in my house when you had nowhere else to go. I held your hand through the scan, stood waiting for you at the stupid abortion clinic. I read stuff on the Internet about babies. But all you think about nowadays is you. It’s like everyone else has faded out the picture. You used to be so caring for other people. You used to care about
me.
”

I couldn’t speak.

“You’re
so
screwing everything up. Yet you keep giving advice on your website like nothing’s changed. But everything’s changed.” She brushed a hand over the space in front of her face as if she were wiping me away. “You know what? I can’t handle you right now.”

“Cleo, don’t go,” I called.

She pushed her way through the group of people gathering round us. “I don’t think I know you the way I thought I did. You’ve changed.”

I said, weakly, “Maybe I have. Maybe I was tired of being predictable.”

“Well, I’m tired of you,” she said. And she was gone.