If Sharon thought about it, she could remember she’d had her rags, one at sports day and that’s why she didn’t win the 800 metres or the hurdles or any of the sprints. And there was one in Charities Week, because that was the day the blood had shown on her skirt, and she had to pretend she had sat on a chocolate ice cream, and she’d gone home at lunch time and she hadn’t gone to school for two days until the school rang Dad, and he said I thought those days were over, love so she went back, because she hated to make him sad.
Had there been another one since then? Yeah, another one, or maybe two. Enough. There was no need to feel scared.
Sharon started to count. From now. Because it didn’t really matter, because nothing would go wrong. It was just for something to do.
She checked. Four days, a week, three weeks, a month. Over a month. Two. Shit. Shit and fuck.
She went to the toilet when she woke up, after breakfast, after her shower, when she got to school, at the end of lessons, at the beginning of lunch, halfway through lunch, at the end of the lunch, after school at school, after school at home. With no sign of blood on her knickers or on the paper, she stuck her fingers up there. She stuck them up, and she wriggled them back and forth a bit until it almost hurt. They came out again without a sign of blood. Shit. Shit and fuck.
She said to Pip ‘my rags haven’t come.’
He looked scared and he said shit and that was the moment when she knew he wouldn’t stay.
She tried to pretend there was nothing wrong, she told herself it couldn’t be true, she prayed to God. She filled her prayers with promises and bargains she told herself she’d keep. But why would He listen? He never had before.
She burnt the tea and she burst into tears.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ Dad said. ‘Is it exams? Are you worried you won’t know enough?’ She thought of a million different things to say, of different ways to get the words out, but in the end, she just said ‘I’m pregnant. I’m having a baby.’
