40 Things I Want to Tell You

  He tipped my face up to his.

  I was on fire.

  He said, “I can’t read you at all. That’s what I like about you.”

  “Pete, you have no idea.”

  “Well, tell me, then.” He leaned in to kiss me and I almost let him, but then I held a hand up to his lips. He needed to know about the baby.

  I said, “You don’t get it, do you?”

  He sighed. “God, do we have to be so intense?”

  My eyes narrowed and I shoved him off. “This is too intense for you, Pete? You stroll over here, put your arm round me like … like things are fine. I haven’t seen you for ages; we don’t even know each other. And you sit down and tell me you want to be my business. That’s your problem—you can’t be what you say you want to be. You make out you’re into me, then when I call you, you can’t commit to anything. You come and sit here, trying to kiss me like you own me, but when I try to talk to you, you think I’m being too intense. Well, get this, Pete Loewen, maybe I am intense. Maybe that’s what I’m like. If you want someone different, there’s always Kitty.”

  “It was a joke,” he said. “Relax.”

  “It’s all a joke to you, Pete.” The air was cool and the shafts of sunlight I’d seen before were gone. “Well, I’m not laughing. None of it’s funny to me.”

  His eyes became flinty. He clenched his jaw.

  I let the words spill from my lips. “I’m pregnant, Pete. Hilarious. Ha. Ha. Ha. Right. Now who’s laughing? Not so funny anymore, is it?”

  His face went blank.

  I continued, “And I’m not having an abortion and I was going to keep it, but then I freaked out and I’ve been looking at adoption sites on the Internet, but part of me still thinks I should just have the stupid abortion, but then I can’t and I just … I just don’t know why. It’s a nightmare. I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it and I have no one to talk to because Cleo doesn’t know anything about this stuff either and I don’t want to talk to a counsellor because I just don’t and my parents have split up and they’re the last people I could talk about this with and then you come over and make jokes and act like you always do and mess with my head and make me crazy and then everything’s supposed to be funny and it’s not funny. And my head is just … is just spinning because I don’t know if I want to give the baby away and I don’t even know how to decide something like that.”

  “A baby?” he said slowly.

  Pete. The troublemaker. The guy who was going nowhere with his life. The guy whose dad was in prison. The guy who would sleep with any girl who was stupid enough to fall into his arms, including Kitty Moss. The guy who’d just asked me not to be so intense: intense? This baby would tie me to him forever.

  “It’s not yours,” I heard myself lie.

  His blank face suddenly transformed as it filled with fury, his grey eyes dark. “So why are you telling me?”

  I pushed my hair out of my face. “You know what? Forget it. Don’t come near me. Everything that happened between us was a total mistake. I wish I’d never been so stupid as to go anywhere near a guy like you.”

  “You’re so full of yourself, Amy. You think you know everything about everyone. I’ve seen your advice column online, Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life. Huh, you seem to think you know how to tell other people how to live. Let me break it to you: you’re the most judgmental person I’ve ever met. You have no idea how to live your own life, yet you think you can tell everyone else what to do.”

  “How did you find the site?”

  “I saw Cleo checking it out on her phone when I was sitting behind her one day, then heard her call you Miss-Take-Control … She’s not very discreet, your friend.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  He shook his head. “Just our little secret.” He smiled briefly, then anger returned to his eyes.

  I would have been flattered he’d gone to the trouble of seeking me out online if I wasn’t feeling so furious. “People love my column.”

  His voice softened. “Why are you so blind to what you need in your own life when you’re so good at telling other people how to live? You’re pregnant. What are you doing?”

  “I’m thinking of giving the baby away. I have a plan. I’m going places. I want to go to Oxford University. And you were just … a … a crush. You don’t care about me.”

  His voice filled with venom. “You don’t know anything. You never even bothered to get to know me. I hope you and Griffin are very happy together.”

  “You’re the one who started sleeping with Kitty Moss.”

  “I haven’t touched Kitty. We broke up. It was nothing.” He rubbed his face. “I only brought her to that stupid party because I was trying to get you to pay some attention to what you were missing.”

  “Pete, don’t give me that. You’re a womanizer and a creep.”

  “You think you’re in control of your life? Well, Miss Seventeen-and-Pregnant, you’re not. We could have had something really good, Amy.”

  “No, we couldn’t. You’re not ready for something good—you’re too immature.”

  My words seemed to strike him hard, because he put his hand against his chest

  I said, “Don’t. Come. Near. Me.”

  He slumped on the bench like he’d just been shot. And with that I stood and walked away from him, the sounds of my angry words echoing in the space between us, ricocheting off the walls of my empty heart.

  CHAPTER 16

  SCHOOL WAS BUSY, WITH MS. DEVLIN IN A FEVER PITCH OF EXCITEment about the upcoming Barcelona trip, so there wasn’t much time to think about stuff, which was good because I didn’t want to think about anything anyway.

  As the half-term holidays rolled around, Mum tried to get in touch with me, leaving messages on my phone saying things like, We need to talk, and It’s not too late. Please, Bird, call me so we can think about what you’re going through together, and Have you told your father yet? You have to tell him. I deleted every message and didn’t call her back.

  Sun 20 Feb

  Dear Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life,

  With spring coming, I feel like I should be sorting out my life but I can’t seem to get a grip. Every morning I wake up miserable. I’m swimming under water and I don’t know how to get to the surface. Nothing’s wrong but everything is. How can I get out of this funk?

  Bellyboo, 17

  As I wrote, I wondered briefly if Pete would read my advice, then decided I didn’t care if he did or not. Only he, Griffin and Cleo knew my online identity, and that wasn’t going to change what I told Bellyboo, or anyone else.

  Hey Bellyboo,

  You might be depressed. Go and see your doctor for a checkup—depression is a serious issue, and your doctor will be able to advise you (check out the new Other Help section on the site for the number of a support line).

  Tips to Take Back Control

  Get out of bed when your alarm goes off. Don’t lie there feeling worse.

  All the usual: exercise, healthy eating, not too much coffee, lots of sleep, blah blah blah …

  Do one of the things you feel you should be doing every day, but just one thing. Break it down so you don’t feel overwhelmed.

  Spend time with friends. Take a day off and have fun.

  If none of these are working, and you haven’t yet been, go and see your doctor.

  From one teen to another …

  Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life

  When I finished my answer, I felt like I was doing a good job. For a few moments, I really was Miss Take-Control-of-Your-Life. I posted my reply, then added a new Other Help section with a list of phone numbers and websites with useful information. I updated some of the coding so the pages looked better. Because even more people were writing in, the whole thing needed a bit of tidying up. By fixing things for everyone else, I felt hopeful I could get back some control in my own life.

  Cleo called, interrupting me as I logged off, to ask me what I was packing, and I genuinely didn’t know
what she was talking about.

  “It’s half-term … remember?”

  I flicked through my desk calendar. “Oh my God. We’re going to Spain, like, tomorrow!”

  “Uh, Ms. Devlin’s been handing out checklists constantly. We’ve been talking about nothing else in Spanish class—hellooooo? And you’re supposed to be coming over to stay the night and we’re going to the airport together. Remember?”

  I ran my pen over the days in my calendar. “I had the dates wrong in my head. God, this is so not like me.”

  “Pregnancy brain,” she said. “I read about it on the Internet on one of those baby websites. You forget stuff all the time because of your hormones.”

  “Maybe I’m just really stupid.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  I shrugged, not that she could see me. “I just don’t know what’s going on inside my own head anymore. That ever happen to you?”

  “Like, all the time.”

  “How do you live with it? I can’t tell if I’m happy or sad or if I secretly want to see Pete every day for a week on this trip or if I hate him.”

  “I hate him. Can we talk about this later? Like, you have to be here getting ready to go to Spain tomorrow.”

  “Okay, okay.” I glanced round my room and groaned. My clothes were all over the floor—I hated how messy it was, but trying to find clothes that fit took up way too much time every morning for me to be able to clean up after myself. “I have no idea what to bring. My clothes are all too small—I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m just huge.”

  “No one can tell yet. Don’t worry. Well, except for your supersonic mum.”

  She paused and my stomach lurched as I thought about what it was going to be like when everyone found out, when I was showing so much it would be obvious to the rest of the world. I was still in suspended animation.

  She said, breaking my thoughts, “My mum has some stuff.”

  Normally I wouldn’t wear anyone’s mum’s clothes, but Cleo’s mum dressed only in designer outfits and always looked great. Way better than I ever did. I didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Good. Thank God.”

  “I’ll pull out some of her stuff. You go and find your brain.”

  “Thanks for looking at baby websites for me. I’ll come over.”

  I grabbed some underwear from the laundry basket and folded up a few things I could bring for myself. I checked the weather in Barcelona on the Internet—warmer than normal for this time of year, but cool in the evenings—and wrote a list of all the last-minute details:

  • Passport

  • Check-in online (instructions from Ms. Devlin in Spanish folder)

  • Money—ask Dad? Bring bank card (does it work in Spain? Take money out before; otherwise, find out online?)

  • Warm clothes—wool dress could go over C’s mum’s leggings, maybe … check with Cleo

  • Bathroom things—in main bag, can’t bring them through Security

  • Call Griffin to say goodbye

  • Reading for English—bring Adventures in the Skin Trade

  I gathered everything into a suitcase and called Griffin. He wasn’t answering his phone, so I left a message asking him to give me a call later. I did one last visual sweep of my room and headed downstairs to talk to Dad.

  I found him asleep on the sofa. He jerked awake and muttered, “What time is it? I should be working.”

  As I did every time I saw him, I studied his face to see if he knew. I tried to work out if Mum had told him. He rubbed his tongue under his cheeks and coughed heavily. I didn’t recognize this man as my father—the cheerful, ambitious, oblivious, loving man he used to be was gone.

  I said, “It’s Sunday morning, Dad. Like, 11:45. Look, you remember the school trip to Spain that Mum … I mean, that you and Mum paid for in September?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “I suspect your mother sorted that all out. Was it expensive? When is it? I don’t have any money right now for a school trip.”

  “No, Dad, it’s all sorted. It wasn’t expensive because a big group of us are going and it’s with one of those cheap airlines, and Mum said it was all okay.”

  “So what do you need?”

  “Well, I’m staying the night at Cleo’s and we’re leaving tomorrow. We’re back next Sunday morning.”

  He grunted.

  “Dad, is that okay? Will you be okay?”

  “Huh?” he said. “Yeah.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. “That should keep you going,” he said.

  I sat next to him. He smelled a little sour. “Dad, I don’t have to go.”

  “Course you’ll go. I’m fine. I’d drive you over to Cleo’s but the car isn’t working well. I should have taken it in this week.”

  “No problem. I’ll get myself there. Or she can give me a ride. Sure you’re okay?”

  “Don’t worry your little Birdy head over it. Have you spoken to your mother? She won’t answer my calls.”

  That meant Mum hadn’t told him about the baby. Thank God. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to cope with any more bad news right now, although the state he was in, maybe he wouldn’t even register the information.

  I said, “I haven’t been replying to her. I don’t want to talk to her right now.”

  “Come here,” he said, smothering me in a big, stinky hug.

  “Thanks, Dad, for the money,” I said, pulling away from the smell as quickly as I could.

  “I’ll bet rain could be turned into an energy source,” he said.

  I put the money in my pocket, glad I had some left over in my account from my birthday. Dad hadn’t given me any money since Mum left, and twenty pounds wouldn’t get me very far anywhere, let alone in Spain. I found out online that my bank card would work over there, then I had only a few more bits and pieces to finish off—and I’d be ready.

  And so far, I hadn’t let the thought that Pete Loewen was going to be on the trip distract me. Well, not too much, anyway.

  CLEO AND I LAUGHED TOGETHER LIKE WE HADN’T DONE IN AGES. SHE did my nails and helped me pack her mum’s things. We lay around on her bed and chatted, and as I drifted to sleep I felt like the argument with Pete, the tension with Griffin, the pregnancy, all of it was just a dream.

  Her dad gave us a ride the next morning, so early that the sun was just breaking into the sky. Everyone from Spanish class was at the airport.

  Except Pete.

  I waited and waited, pretending to myself the whole time that I wasn’t checking around for him. I imagined him loping into the airport, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his eyes fixed on mine. Then I reminded myself that since our fight in the park, we weren’t speaking.

  Cleo leaned over and whispered, “It’s okay to go on a plane when you’re pregnant, right?”

  “Shh.” I put my finger to my lips and looked around at the others from our class, but no one had heard. “I checked on the Internet. It’s fine until I’m, like, thirty-five weeks.”

  Ms. Devlin and the other teacher, Mr. Bartlett, waved everyone into a group, yelling out in Spanish what we were supposed to be doing, chastising a couple of students who hadn’t checked themselves in. Ms. Devlin generally managed to be wired, wound-up and smiling all at the same time—she was obviously delighted to be en route.

  Pete still wasn’t there.

  The airport buzzed with the constant chatter of people passing through. Loud announcements boomed about passengers late for flights. Boarding calls and reminders not to leave luggage unattended echoed around the cavernous ceilings. Once we were all through Security—which was a ridiculously complicated drama, what with Ms. D. insisting on only speaking Spanish to us and half the group not understanding anything—Cleo and I wandered round the shops, spraying perfume at each other and trying on face creams. We smelt of musk and roses, of fruity tones and floral hints, our faces plump and smooth, and both of us were heady with the upcoming trip. A holiday from my life was exactly what I needed.

  It was only whe
n, with a white-noise roar, the plane took off that I realized Pete really wasn’t going to make it. The part of me that was weighed down by the baby was glad. A week without either Pete or Griffin around would probably be the best thing for me, but a small shard inside me missed him, a tiny diamond of longing.

  BARCELONA WAS A JEWEL. THE SUN FELL LIKE SOFT FABRIC AS WE arrived, cushioning the higgledy-piggledy buildings, the crowded plazas and the verdant parks. Deep shadows knifed through the glow of afternoon light. The air smelt of churros, sweet and doughnut-like and served on every street corner. Groups of people huddled around, smoking with abandon. The smell of cigarettes made me nauseous but nothing was going to prevent me enjoying the trip, not even pregnancy sickness—I remembered how all the websites I’d read told me by the second trimester I’d be over the nausea. Not a chance.

  We arrived in the hotel lobby and stood around. I snapped some photos of the mustard-coloured floor tiles and whitewashed walls, and I listened to the chatter of a group of German tourists who were pointing and exclaiming in loud, grunting delight at a photograph of the bright pink unfinished church, La Sagrada Família, on the wall. I wandered into a small courtyard filled with dark metal tables and chairs, and photographed that too. A loud squawk made me jump. A huge blue-and-red parrot perched in an ornate cage to my left. He spent the following days yelling at passersby, and through our breakfasts in the courtyard, he screamed in semi-Spanish to those of us unfortunate enough to end up close to him.

  The owners of the hotel were from Panama, Ms. Devlin said. They’d called the hotel Colón after their home city, apparently a violent and dangerous place. As she was conversing with them, I tried to understand what they were saying and was disappointed not to be able to pick up a word. I had thought I was good at Spanish, but when real Spanish-speakers said anything, I was out of my depth. The rest of our group was giggling and chatting—all of us were excited and buzzing with the prospect of so many days away from home and parents and responsibilities.

  CLEO AND I HAD A SMALL ROOM TOGETHER ON THE FOURTH FLOOR of the hotel. It had two austere single beds covered in thin brown blankets. Just over the street was a bar that boomed loud pop music, and as we settled in for the first night, both of us were kept awake by the sounds of people laughing and yelling outside. We lay there quietly, and I just enjoyed thinking about all we were supposed to be doing during the week ahead.