Just My Luck(80)

I thought he’d say she was nothing.

He’s not saying she’s nothing.

Which means she is something. The latest thing. But then, he was just a second ago kissing me. I block out the memory of him standing at the door of the school toilets while Megan slapped and kicked me. I try not to think about him taking photos of me with my knickers around my ankles. He starts to look about him, he seems confused. Almost as though he’s suddenly unsure as to how he came to be alone in the woods with me, as though he’s forgotten he was the one who took my hand and practically dragged me here.

‘I’m really drunk,’ I say. I’ve heard people say this, by way of an excuse, when they’ve done something they regret or when they want to do something they know they shouldn’t and are already making excuses even before it’s happened. And sometimes people say it just because it fills a gap in conversation, and they can’t think of what else to say. I’m not sure which of these applies to me. Maybe all of them. The ease between Ridley and I has been hacked apart. He’s nervous and jumpy and can’t look at me. I want him to look at me more than anything in the world, because my costume is cool and I had my make-up done professionally and if ever there was a time for him to want me, it is now.

‘I’m pregnant.’

So now he looks at me. His head snaps around so damn quickly I think it is going to fall off. I expect to see some level of regret or sympathy, maybe even excitement, or is that too much? All I see is rage.

‘You are fucking lying.’ His voice breaks on the word ‘fucking’. Which – cos I’m drunk – makes me sort of want to laugh. Laugh for two reasons, I mean; one, his voice is still unreliable and he’s going to be a daddy. Plus two, the word ‘fucking’ is definitely the pertinent one here. We had sex, more than once, now there’s a baby coming. It doesn’t take Einstein. My brain is thinking this, but lots of other stuff too. Once again I feel like I’m floating above this conversation, not really in it. It’s too much. I guess I’m technically hysterical.

I shake my head, try to focus. ‘It’s true. I took a test.’

‘Fuck.’ He drops into a low crouch. Goes down like he’s been shot. Balancing on his feet, his elbows resting on his haunches, his shoulders bent, head in his hands, he stares at the ground. It’s a familiar stance. He squats like this when his team loses a match. ‘Fuck,’ he says again.

‘It’s OK,’ I say. Although I don’t think it is. I don’t want to be a mum. I’m too young. We’ve just won the lottery and I’ve bought all those cool clothes. I won’t be able to get into them because I’ll get fat. But on the other hand, we’ve just won the lottery and I am sixteen in a few weeks so maybe it could be OK. If Ridley wanted the baby. If he wanted me. I crouch down next to him. Very close. Our heads are almost touching. I want to put my hand on his back. Stroke him. Comfort him. I start to but daren’t, not quite. My hand hovers near his skin but not on it. I can feel the heat coming off him. It drives me mad.

I hear him mumble something but it’s tricky to make out exactly what. I’m swaying; crouching in heels after debut-vodka-chugging is hard. He repeats himself, clearer this time. ‘I don’t want this.’

‘This?’ I ask, dying.

‘You. A baby. This.’ He looks straight at me now. Arrows fly from his eyes and literally pierce me. ‘I don’t want you at all.’ His words knock me over. I fall back onto my bottom. The ground is damp.

I look at Ridley, he is shaking, his hands and lips are quivering. I think he’s going to cry. He hasn’t cried since he was eleven, not even when his grandad died, and he loved his grandad. He looks really scared. Really sad. I feel bad that I’ve made him feel this way. That not wanting me is weighing so heavily on him. I know this is weird and I should just hate him, but I don’t. I love him. All I ever wanted was to make him happy. To be happy with him. I’ve known him since before I can remember knowing anything. He is so familiar to me. He is the boy me. I watch him withdraw; it hurts as though I am being split in half. ‘How can I mean nothing to you now?’ I ask. When we were that. All that.

‘I dunno, but you don’t.’ He stands up and looks longingly back at the party. I know he wants to be there. Probably with Evie Clarke. He does not want to be with me, or to be a dad. ‘Have you told anyone?’ he asks. I shake my head. ‘You need to tell your mum. She’ll sort it out. You have enough money to fix everything now,’ he says over his shoulder as he strides away.

I can’t watch him walk. I turn away, and clamber on to all fours, like an animal. I start to puke. My vomit is cocktail-coloured. Red. It looks like blood is pouring from my mouth. I’m sick and sick and sick until I’m just retching and spluttering and there’s nothing more to bring up. I don’t know if I’m being sick with the pregnancy, or with the alcohol. I know, lousy combo. Maybe I’m just sick because of life. My eyes are closed as I can’t face the world. But then I hear footsteps behind me, scrambling through the brambles, twigs and grass. I freeze.

Ridley has come back! My heart lifts again. He’s come back! Maybe to apologise, maybe to hold me close. He’s come back and it will be OK. I quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. He won’t want to kiss me if I’m covered in vomit. I don’t want him to see me crawling on all fours, surrounded by puke and self-pity. I need to get up, look a bit dignified, look a bit sorted. As I move, something hits me from behind. Really hard. Sudden and unexpected, I think a log has fallen from a tree above and bashed me. It’s like accidentally belly-flopping into a swimming pool when you are trying to dive. Hurt and shock invade but the pain is not on my belly but in my bottom as though I’ve literally been kicked up the arse. Instinctually I scrabble away from the pain, as I do so I put my palm flat into my vomit, which causes my arm to slip and give way beneath me. Whack, another hit. Terrified, I think the sky is falling in. I cannot control my limbs; I crumple and fall flat to the ground.