We Are Not Okay

by Natália Gomes

  It’s funny how shops always place the pregnancy tests at the back. Is it for privacy? Or is it to shame the young unwed girls who have to walk through the entire store to get to it, with their heads tucked to their chins, cheeks a warm red, repeating a silent prayer that no one will see them, that no one will notice their sins?

  I’m doing that walk of shame right now. My head is tucked to my chin and my cheeks are no doubt as red as those crimson nail gels up front. Rectangular boxes loom over me. Loaded onto shelves that reach from the ground near my toes up to the ceiling where a too-bright fluorescent light burns my retinas. Dozens of boxes neatly packed, some with smiling (married) couples, one with a blue bird soaring over the pink label, and another with a small white house in the corner. Each cover represents something I don’t have. Something I won’t be able to give…It. A parent. No, two parents. A house.

  What does the bird represent? Freedom? (Bit ironic isn’t it?)

  There are just so many options. Which do I get?

  One shows a smiley face if it’s Positive so I quickly push that one aside. Another is triple the cost of the rest, so I choose the one with the biggest display sign. That must mean it’s in high demand, which means it’s the most accurate. And I need accuracy. I need a hundred per cent accuracy.

  My hands tremble when I slide over the ten-pound note, but the cashier doesn’t even look at me. Perhaps she knows my dilemma all too well herself. She looks a little like Trina which makes me blush even more. She has the same hair colour as her, wears the same shade of lipstick – too shimmery for daytime. Perhaps this is where Trina will be in a year. While we all go to university, she’ll be here, selling girls like me pregnancy tests.

  Or maybe it won’t be her standing behind that counter. Maybe it will be me. And maybe I’ll have a baby inside my belly.

  ‘Your receipt.’

  I shake my head and glance up. Now she’s looking at me. Right at me. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Do you want your receipt?’ she says again.

  ‘No.’ I snatch the box from her. ‘Thank you.’ I can’t have any evidence on paper that I was here. Nothing that anyone can find. And use against me.

  When I get home, it’s stopped raining but the dark clouds still hover high above. Clusters of charcoal grey and swirls of white tell me that it will probably shower again tonight. My mum’s car is gone from the driveway, which is odd but I don’t question it too much right now. I’m glad to get the privacy. I know I’m safe to do this, for now.

  The first thing I do is drink two large glasses of water.

  But when I’m on the toilet I can’t go. I’m too nervous.

  So I go back downstairs and drink another glass of water. Then I jump up the stairs. Run around the coffee table. Push my stomach with cold fingers. Soak my hands under a warm tap. But it’s staring at the running tap that finally does it.

  I dangle the stick in the toilet bowl, feeling the warmth graze my fingers. But it doesn’t gross me out. It’s too late for that. I wash my hands and set the timer on my phone, balancing it on the edge of the sink.

  Then I wait.

  And wait.

  What now?

  I grab the box for instructions, but my fingers are clammy and it slips out dropping on the floor. Collapsing onto my knees, the words on the back jump around so I have to focus my eyes and read the sentence over and over again.

  One vertical line = Good. Not Pregnant.

  Two vertical lines = Not Good. Definitely Not Freaking Good. Bad. Very Very Bad.

  Please not two lines.

  Please not two lines.

  I turn the stick over in my hand, my eyes still up towards the clock. Slowly lowering them, I see the shelf above the bath with the small apothecary jars of lavender bath salts and rosehip bath oil. Then the tip of the bathtub. Then the bottom. The black tile, the white tile, the black tile…the…the…

  Two vertical lines.

  Two.

  Not Good.

  Definitely Not Freaking Good.

  ULANA

  I check the hallway again. No Aiden. No Sophia. I knew she wouldn’t be in today, but Aiden? He never misses class.

  One of the other girls rounds the corner and leans against the wall outside the classroom doors of the chemistry wing. Her brown shoulder bag flops on the ground, her pink phone case sticking out the side pocket, gold feather attached to the top clip. She reminds me of Sophia, but I think her name is Clare, maybe with an ‘i’. I don’t know, not many people talk to me here, except Sophia. She was one of the first people I met at Birchwood, after Trina Davis. Both of them were so warm and welcoming, especially Sophia. She was so kind to me. I thought everyone here would be like her. I was wrong.

  Clare looks up at me then goes back to looking at the dark red hue on her fingertips. My parents would never let me wear a nail varnish that shade, or any shade at all. They hate the look of varnish on girls. They’re better about make-up; I get away with some blotting powder, lip balm, and occasionally a little mascara. I’ve never tried eyeliner or lipstick before. Maybe one day I’ll try. Bold lined eyes. Lashings of the blackest blacks of mascara. I’ve seen women like that back in Morocco. Their made-up eyes pop out from brightly coloured yards of silks and chiffons.

  The door suddenly opens and hits me in the elbow. ‘Oh sorry, Ulana,’ says Mr Fergusson.

  ‘No, it’s my fault, Sir. I shouldn’t have been standing right at the door.’ I bend down and slide my bag across the floor before heaving it up over my shoulder. It’s heavy, with every textbook imaginable to a school syllabus. That’s what I carry around with me most days just in case I need to cross-reference anything, or I get a few minutes between class to read up on next week’s assignment. Or sometimes next month’s. I know people must think I’m weird but it’s easy for them. For me, one bad grade is the beginning of a very long discussion that ends with my parents re-evaluating their decision to move the family to the UK for its education system and ‘Western opportunities’.

  I know I’m lucky to be living here, to be educated here so I can’t afford to mess that up. After school is university and then I will be a doctor just like my dad was, I mean ‘is’. I know he’s ashamed that he’s not anymore but it’s not his fault. He works hard to provide for us. He would do anything for me. I’m the one that should be ashamed. I lie to him every day. The truth is I don’t know how he’d react to Aiden. He’s such a compassionate man, and he raised me to be kind to others. But I’m terrified he won’t approve, that the same concerns that I have he’ll have too, and the not knowing if that will happen is just not enough for me to take that risk. So I do everything I can to keep these two lives that I’ve found myself living as separate from each other as possible.

  Home. School.

  Family. Aiden.

  Neither can meet.

  I make lists, sometimes, of the lies I would tell if I was ever caught out:

  1.I’ve never met him before in my life.

  2.He’s in my class at school, he was just asking me about the essay due.

  3.He offered to walk me home. Through the woods (that’s not weird at all).

  4.I heard a noise from the woods so went to check it out. With Aiden (again, not weird).

  5.OK, fine, but this is the first time anything like this has ever happened.

  6.We’ve only hung out twice, maybe three times, that’s it.

  7.I’ve never met him before in my life.

  But like I said, neither can meet so hopefully I’ll never have to refer back to that list. Home stays there, school stays here. And that includes Aiden. If only he could understand that. I yank out my journal and stare at the deep black lines on the pages. I’m about halfway in with scribbled notes but today I have something else to write on these pages. Today, I’ll write him a letter. I’ll explain everything, I’ll help him understand. My hands hover above the journal as words jump around in my head. Where do I start? ‘I love you’?

  I glance around as if people
can hear my thoughts, know what I just said to myself. Love. No, it can’t be love? I can’t love him. And Aiden can’t love me. Our relationship means so much to me of course, but love is different. Love means marriage, maybe. Love means… public acknowledgement. We are definitely not tackling that just yet.

  Yet? I just said Yet. That must mean that it probably will happen eventually. So why not just do it now while we’re still somewhat under the radar. Quick lunch in the daytime, no lingering. It could be done, theoretically. I think. Sophia could come round, ‘pick me up’ for the full effect. I leave with her, come back a couple of hours later and no one would have to know how exactly I filled those couple of hours and with who…with whom?

  While Mr Fergusson demonstrates a rather indecipherable chalk model of molecules and cluster cells on the blackboard, I craft a very indecipherable letter to Aiden. At first it weakly consists of lots of ‘I’m Sorry’ but soon moves on to what he really wants to hear, and what I really want to say.

  It is worth the risk.

  What we have is worth the risk.

  What I don’t write is ‘What we have is worth any risk’ because that’s a statement I’m not ready to be tested on. Any risk implies complete and full disclosure to my parents. I can’t do that. But I now have to consider that there will be a time when Aiden does ask me to do that. And then his question really will have to be answered – are we really worth the risk?

  By the time the bell rings for lunch, my letter is neatly folded into three sections and tucked between my textbooks. Sliding them off the table, something knocks me, sending everything to the floor. ‘Hey!’ I yell, as the figure steps over me.

  ‘Sorry, but you were in the way,’ he says, glancing back, hands still tucked into his pockets. ‘Your head scarf must have been over your eyes.’

  I roll my eyes and quickly gather up my strewn belongings on the floor. I hurry down the hallway under the throbbing of the lunch bell. I know she’s not here today but I push open the doors into the cafeteria hoping to see Sophia’s smiling face. Instead, all I see is Clara from her drama class.

  ‘Hey, have you seen Sophia?’ she asks me, clutching a copy of As You Like It in her hand.

  ‘No, she’s…um…absent today.’

  She turns and a sympathetic smile inches onto her face. ‘Yeah, I guess I would be too.’

  ‘Oh, you heard?’ I feel nauseous. Why are so many people talking about this today? Sophia must be going out of her mind. I’ll stop by after school, tell her no one mentioned it today. I hate lying.

  ‘Yeah, I think everyone at school saw those photos. It’s disgusting that he did that. That must be a crime.’

  ‘Yeah, I said that too.’

  ‘Well, if you talk to her, tell her we’re all thinking about her. No girl will go near him now. Well, except one I suppose.’

  ‘Wait, who?’

  Clara rolls her eyes, ‘Lily Shepherd is telling everyone that she and Steve hooked up at the weekend. Twice.’

  Great. As if Sophia needs this too. Blood searing hot inside me, I spot Steve sitting at a table in the way back. By the time I push through the lunch crowds, I’m suddenly right there beside his chair. He turns to face me, and I immediately notice Aiden next to him. It’s too late to turn back. ‘Have you talked to Sophia? Apologised?’ I ask Steve. He ignores me but his eyes flicker to the ground. His cheeks redden slightly. I open my mouth to say something else, something that will really get his attention but then I see Aiden. He seems to be looking at a piece of paper flat out on the table. My piece of paper. That’s my writing. That’s my letter.

  I turn back to my textbooks, my eyes searching for the letter I once held but it’s no longer there. It must have dropped out when that guy bumped me. Yes, I wanted Aiden to read it but not the entire Sixth Year too.

  ‘What’s that?’ My voice hitches a little at the end and I hope no one notices.

  ‘Aiden here got a love letter,’ laughs Lee. ‘Listen to this, Aiden, I want you to know how much I care about you and how important you are to me. You’re sweet and—’

  ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’ I’m going to throw up.

  Aiden tries to snatch the letter from Lee’s hands, but he pulls it back too quickly and passes it on to Steve.

  ‘You’re so patient and understanding—’

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to do, like deleting those photos of Sophia from your profile pages?’ I blurt out. Then I turn and walk out the cafeteria, my shoes loudly stomping the tiled flooring underneath my soles.

  I’m burning inside. The humiliation courses through my veins. How dare they read that letter like it’s some kind of joke? There are real emotions in there. My emotions are in there.

  Am I a joke to them? Am I a joke to Aiden? And why isn’t Sophia responding to my texts?

  TRINA

  Journal Entry 4: 10.10.2018

  Saturday

  On Saturday, I

  Something happened to me. Something horrible happened to me. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.

  Wasn’t my fault Was my fault Is my fault

  I don’t know if I can write this.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  I’m done with journals. They mean nothing. Just words. Trivial feelings I once felt. But I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t have those words in my head anymore.

  Everything is so different now. Nothing is as it was before.

  Before…

  What if someone was to find this? What if my mum was to read this, if she was interested at all in what I was thinking, what I was feeling? What then? There would be questions. The police would want to talk to me. They would ask me to come to the station and make a statement. I’ve seen TV shows. That’s how it works. And even then, people like Him get away with it all the time. They’ll blame me. All they have is questions.

  Questions.

  Those questions would need answers and I don’t have those. I don’t know what happened on Saturday night. And then they’ll blame me. Say it was all my fault. Everything is always my fault. I do everything wrong. I mess up all the time. I can’t get anything right.

  I don’t know what happened.

  I don’t know anything.

  All I know for sure is that my life ended on Saturday. My old life that is. It ended and a new one began. And not one I’d ever wish upon anyone to live.

  I’m not making any sense.

  It’s because nothing makes sense to me anymore. Nothing is right anymore. Everything is wrong. So wrong.

  I guess if anyone ever reads this, I should at least try. I’ll try to explain. Where should I start?

  Maybe I should start at the beginning.

  Saturday was like any other day for me. My mum works shifts so she’s hardly ever home, and when she is all she does is sleep. I can’t fault her for that. She’s doing her best. She’s single-handedly keeping a roof over our head and a meal on the table for us. I work a little, answering the phone at the taxi rank a few afternoons a week and at the weekends, but I only make just over four quid an hour. That doesn’t get us far. But I give most of it to my mum, putting it in the empty tin of Quality Street in the bottom kitchen cupboard where she keeps all of her money. She says banks are for people who have money, not people who need it, and especially not those who use it almost immediately after they earn it.

  So on Saturday, as usual I put my earnings into the tin, expect for one ten-pound note which I spend on a cheap bottle of wine from Aldi’s and one pack of cigarettes which I try and stretch out over the week at school and on the walk home. I’m usually at a house party on the weekends, so I just bum a smoke off anyone that’s there.

  That’s what I was doing when I met him – Him. He was smoking outside, and I wanted to save my pack for the week, so I lied and said I had just run out. He slid his carton out of his jeans pocket and popped the lid open for me to take one. I pulled out two and tucked the second one behind my ear for later. He thought that was cute
. I thought He was cute.

  I wouldn’t have even been talking to him if Rhys hadn’t ignored me. I went there, in my new clothes from H&M – which I can’t return now because…

  Because.

  Anyway, I see Rhys there sitting on the armchair in the living room next to the iPod dock, can of beer in his left hand, while his right hand wraps around the waist of Lucy McNeil. Yep, she was sitting on his lap, with her tongue down his throat.

  After that, I spent twenty minutes crying in the toilet while some random hugged me and told me ‘Boys are really simple. Just make him jealous – flirt with someone else and he’ll be all over you again soon.’ So I did just that. I picked someone. The guy outside smoking Camels. He was older, one of Lee’s brother’s friends who just showed up uninvited, and he seemed worthy of making Rhys jealous.

  But I was wrong.

  I was so wrong.

  We started drinking more. He’d brought vodka and rum, and I began drinking everything he gave me. I was drunk. I knew I was drunk. The room was moving in front of me, pulsing like it was alive or something, and I couldn’t stop banging into people when I walked. I fell on the stairs a few times as I climbed up with Him. I’ve never been that drunk before but I remembered when my mate Ana was she stuck her fingers down her throat and said she felt better after. I tried but I couldn’t make myself throw up in the toilet. So I staggered into one of the bedrooms and lay down on the bed. I thought if I slept it off for an hour then I would wake up and feel a bit more sober. Sober enough to walk home anyway. But until then I couldn’t go back like that. My mum would kill me. And I did fall asleep for a little bit. I think. But, when I…

  When I.

  When I woke up, I wasn’t alone in the bedroom anymore. The first thing I noticed was the H&M skirt. Navy with embroidered pink roses. It was on the floor beside the bed. It wasn’t on my body anymore. My shoes were beside it. My tights. My tights were ripped. I could see the fabric frayed and split. All I thought at that moment was why are my tights ripped?