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“Right.” I nodded, flashed her a quick smile as reassuring as I could and walked into the classroom.
“Miss,” I called to the teacher.
Miss Platt was her name. Young and uppity, pain in the arse. Loved history more than she loved the kids she was teaching it to.
“Yes, Mr Ballentine?”
“I’m skipping class today.”
She gave me a dry look. “You are not, Mr Ballentine. We have a test. Sit down.” She gave me a stern look. “Now.”
“Actually,” I tilted my head at her apologetically, “wasn’t a question. Just letting you know.”
“If you skip this class you won’t play on the weekend,” she glared at me, obviously annoyed that she was being challenged in front of the class.
I gave her a little grimace. I was well known as the best player in our first 15’s squad and Varley’s a rugby school.
“Come on—” I gave her a look. “We both know you can’t make that call—”
“Mr Ballentine if you walk out of this classroom, you will have a Friday detention.”
I nodded once.
“Yep, sounds fair!” I smiled. “Too easy. Pass it on to Jonah, would you? He’ll give it to me later.”
And then I walked out of the classroom, closing the door behind me. Looked down at the girl I love, lifted my eyebrows up even though they already felt weighed down. “Let’s talk.”
I offered her my hand, led her down the hall.
She didn’t say anything for ages, not til we’d walked aimlessly to the car park.
I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. I remember I felt something coming. It was just on her, this nervous energy I hadn’t seen before.
“Are we breaking up?” I asked quickly.
She paused. It was a long pause. “I hope not.”
I reached over and pushed some hair behind her ears. “Parks, what’s going on?” I lifted my eyebrows impatiently, a bit over it.
“I’m pregnant.”
I remember there was a red robin in a tree by us, twittering.
That’s the sound I hear when I think of that moment. And the wind moving through the air. The way the leaves blew around the tyres of the car. The air was sharp.
Her face, staring at me, waiting for me to say anything more than the fuck-all I was offering her.
My mouth had gone dry.
I cleared my throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She nodded once.
“How sure?”
“Very,” she said quietly.
“Oh,” I said, like the vowel. Like an arsehole.
