Emily Taylor - The Teenage Mum

by Vi Grim

  I make it to Janice's house a week later.

  She has me sing, I'm leaving one a jet plane. It's wonderful watching her face; she’s tries so hard to maintain an even smile but as I hit the high notes, she cringes, pulling her neck in like a tortoise.

  'Great,' she says. 'We have a little bit of work to do, but that's why you're here. I do enjoy a good challenge.'

  And a challenge I am. On day two, she gives me a shot of Southern Comfort to loosen up my vocal chords. 'It does the trick for me,' she says, taking a slug from the bottle.

  It's rough stuff but does loosen up my vocal chords. She has me practicing my scales and does her best to stop me yelling and screeching. My boyfriend, James, comes along sometimes and sings too. He has such a sexy voice. When we all sing together, if I don't sing too loud, we sound just great.

  My moods are up and down and all over the place and my periods have stopped. I'm in a mess, a very happy mess. It's falling in love that's done it, that's what it is.

  It's great hanging out with James. We go into Port Royal in the evenings and dine in restaurants with all the famous people, then go dancing. It's wonderful being a grown up and doing grown up stuff.

  I see Azziz sometimes, he says he's happy cos I'm happy but he doesn't look it. Him and James have a fight. James is ever so brave and gets a couple of good punches in, but does get beat up. I hit Azziz as hard as I can and won't talk to him anymore. He's probably just jealous. James's pretty face gets a fat lip and a black eye, which makes him look like a panda.

  On Sunday afternoons we have jam sessions on the beach in front of Janice's. The Stones come, Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hendrix and lots of other dead musicians. They know each other so well that they make amazing music. It flows randomly about the place while always moving forward, like a river washing us all along with it.

  I'm getting more confident now and take the microphone and sing; I even do some solo bits. It's so neat to be able to sing. Thanks Janice.

  I drink rum punch and smoke the sweet cigarettes they pass around. I get happy as, then throw up everywhere and can't even look at food for two days. I stick to fizzy water after that.

  I'm enjoying myself so much that I lose track of time.

  Then, disaster! We're in a gay club; it's one of James's favourite hangouts. His friends are really cool and we have good fun with them but I do find it a bit odd seeing blokes snogging blokes and girls kissing passionately. I even saw a girl with her head up inside another girl's T-shirt. I can't wait to tell Annie, she won't believe me! Anyway, this boy comes in and slaps James across the face, like girly like. Then James bursts into tears and next minute they're snogging! I'm devastated. James mumbles, 'Sorry, I had a tiff with Timmy and was just trying to get back at him.'

  He doesn't love me, I've been used! What's more he left me for him. Him! For a bloke!

  All he can say is sorry after I've given him my body. Bastard!

  I punch him so hard he'll never forget, set fire to his apartment with his precious records and his awards from Hollywood, grab my bag and head for home.

  8.

  Jesus is waiting for me. I'm so pissed off that I hit him when he tries to give me a hug. He comes back later to find me upside down with my head stuck in the corner of the sofa sobbing. 'Pull your head in woman,' he says.

  'Go away!' I scream.

  He taps me on the shoulder a few minutes later and says, 'Em, drink this down. It'll make you feel better.'

  His hot toddy burns its way down my throat, sending shudders through my body, but does the trick. I burst onto tears and cuddle up against Jesus.

  He's been looking after my place. The lawns are mown, the garden is weeded and dinner is cooked. It's almost too much. No wonder he's got so many followers. Azziz and Janice come round and we have dinner. It's all laughter and tears. The tears being all mine. After dinner we sing the most depressing blues and country and western songs that Janice can think of. They make me laugh. I feel like shite but it's so good to have friends.

  My cottage needs redecorating. I don't like the colour. The aqua marine bathroom is okay but everything else needs changing. I want the living room to be bright yellow, my bedroom purple, the other bedroom red and the toilet green, and I want it to happen now.

  Jesus, Azziz and Janice help. We have good fun. We sing and splash paint on each other and I change my mind all the time. I don't like the red bedroom so we paint it blue. The green in the toilet makes me throw up, literally, I actually throw up, so we paint it orange and Janice uses a football to make big yellow blobs all over the walls.

  My body has been going through all sorts of changes the last couple of years. I like the way it is shaping up, with all the curves and dips. It seems to be having another growing spurt. When will it stop? My nipples hurt and my boobs are growing bigger. I don't want them too big, they are just fine like they are. Stop, stop, stop!

  I've missed another period too.

  I want to go and see Castor, but go to see Pollux instead.

  He looks me up and down, looks serious for a moment, then winks and in a big loud voice that I'm sure can be heard all over the universe says, 'Congratulations Emily, you're pregnant!'

  I don't know whether to jump for joy or run around screaming. I hope it's not that bastard James. If it's his, I don't want it, I want to get rid of it, right now.

  There's no space in the moon so I jump up and down a few times on the spot, then gather my wits. 'Do you mind if I go and see Castor?' I ask.

  'Go ahead,' says Pollux.

  Bing!

  I'm in Castors moon. He looks happy. I'm not, I start crying.

  'Come close,' whispers Castor.

  I put my ear right up against his lips and he whispers, 'It's seven weeks old.'

  'Yes!' I shout and jump in the air, hitting by head on the roof. Once I've picked myself up, I give Castor a big kiss. Yes, Zula is the dad!

  Seven weeks, no wonder I've been feeling weird!

  I sit there looking down on Camillo and thinking about my baby. Next year it'll be down there, a new little person, running about. How neat!

  'Castor, give me the rundown.'

  'Right, pregnancy,' he says, flicking up some web pages. The first one we read treats it like it's a disease that's best avoided, giving ten ways to avoid catching it, then listing the signs and symptoms to watch out for if you have caught it and methods of curing it, like killing the baby dead. Castor finds a friendlier page that mirrors my feelings. Now I know Azulay is the dad, I'm happy to be pregnant

  'Okay, here we go,' says Castor, 'Fatigue, feeling extremely tired at any time of the day or night.'

  'Yes.'

  'Tender breasts, slightly swollen.'

  'Yes.'

  'Nipples hurting.'

  'A little bit.'

  'Funny coloured circle around the nipple.'

  I have a quick check, 'No.'

  'Headaches.'

  'Yes.'

  'That's the hormones,' says Castor. 'They cause you guys so much trouble. Next, dizziness and fainting'

  'Yes.'

  'Odd smells suddenly bother you.'

  'Ummm, yes.'

  'Mood swings.'

  'Yes!'

  'Periods light or missed.'

  'Yes.'

  'You don't like things that you normally like, and crave things you normally don't like.'

  'Yes, I had to have burnt toast this morning, lots of it.'

  Castor stops reading and says, 'Large bump appearing in tummy.'

  I pull up my T-shirt and we both look. I like to think that I can see the tiniest bump at the very bottom. 'Yes!' I say, delighted with myself.

  Jesus and Azziz are at my cottage. Azziz has a cut on his head that is bleeding down his face. I get him to sit down and hold a rag on the cut until the bleeding's stopped, then I clean the wound and Jesus stitches him up.

  'It doesn't look like you slipped on the bath mat,' I say to Azziz. 'What happened?'

  'I was just having a wo
rd with your friend James.'

  'He's not my friend,' I say, stomping my foot.

  'He's not mine neither,' says Azziz.

  'I can see,' I say, wiping away some blood that's seeping from his wound.

  'You'll be delighted to know that his friend Timmy as dumped him.'

  'Good,' I say triumphantly.

  'Anyway,' says Azziz, 'I've been having a word to him about supporting his baby-'

  'It's not that slimeball's baby. I was pregnant before I went to Zwingly. I'm seven weeks pregnant.'

  'Seven weeks!' says Azziz, adding things up in his head. 'There was only me and Jesus on Camillo -'

  He doesn't finish his sentence because Jesus hits him really hard, knocking him across against the wall on the other side of the room. I've never seen Jesus mad before. His eyes get huge and round and his crown of spikes glows red.

  'NO!' I shout, but they're not listening.

  They are like a couple of robots fighting. They throw each other around, smashing up my cottage. I've got to stop them before they hurt each other. I grab the photon canon from my wardrobe and fire a shot between them, knocking a huge hole in the front wall.

  'Stop!' I yell. 'You're not the dad, not Jesus not Azziz.' I fire another shot at the floor in front of them and they get blasted out through the hole in the wall. That worked. I hope they're okay.

  Once they've picked themselves groggily off my front lawn, I march them on my sofa, still pointing my canon at them and clarify things. 'Boys, neither of you is the dad. Aren't congratulations in order? Isn't the tradition a bottle of champagne?'

  Jesus looks a bit sheepish, 'Well who is the father then?'

  'Not telling, it's none of your business!'

  'So it's an immaculate conception,' says Jesus.

  'You could say that,' I say, giving him a wink.

  All is quiet for a moment, then Azziz plucks a bottle of champagne out of mid-air and Jesus produces four glasses.

  Pop!

  Azziz uncorks the bottle and fills the glasses until they overflow sending waterfalls of bubbles cascading down the sides. He clicks his fingers and Zeus appears.

  He staggers around, high on ozone, and falls over. Jesus and Azziz help him to his feet, carefully place a glass of champagne in his hand, and he's gone again.

  'Silly old fart,' curses Azziz under his breath.

  Jesus raises his glass and says, 'I would like to propose a toast. To Em's baby.'

  Clink, clink, clink!

  The champagne tickles its way down my throat and makes my knees go all wobbly. It's a welcome relief after the evening's excitement.

  Once the bottle is empty, Azziz asks, 'If neither of us is Dad, can we be the God parents?'

  'What sort of example will you be?' I say, nodding my head towards my smashed up house.

  'Sorry,' says Jesus. 'It's just because we care about you.'

  'Alright then, but you must set a good example for him.' I give them a big hug. 'I've been a bit off lately, sorry about that.'

  When the zinodes arrive to fix my cottage the next morning, I give them some plans. I couldn't sleep during the night so I redesigned my cottage, turning it into a house. I want lots of kids, so there's three new bedrooms. They look at the plans and change them around so they're much better. Zinodes are really good at that sort of thing. As soon as they've started work, I change my mind. I want lots of kids, but if I build lots of rooms, it'll never happen. Life's like that.

  They repair the holes in my walls and build an extra bedroom out the back. Azziz and Jesus come and help and it's all done by the evening, walls up, paint dry, furniture in.

  We light a bonfire on the beach and barbecue fresh fish, then the zinodes set up a screen on the front lawn and we watch Manchester United playing Liverpool.

  9

  God's not talking.

  He won't wear the immaculate conception story.

  He won't talk to Azziz or Jesus because he's sure one of them is the dad. Even if they're not, they should've been taking better care of me.

  I don't see what's so bad about being pregas, it's really exciting that there's new life coming. What does it matter who the dad is anyway? As long as it's not that creep James!

  If they want to fight about it, that's their problem.

  We are now well into spring. It's a wonderful time to be pregnant. There's magic all around. The trees have new green leaves, there's lambs in the meadow and the pesky morning chorus has worked its charm and the bird nests are now full of fluffy chicks. Negrita is looking very plump as well. I hope she doesn't have kittens; one of her is quite enough.

  Apart from burnt toast, there's other things I crave, chocolate for one and cherries. it's not quite cherry season yet, so I'll have to wait. The ones on the tree are still green.

  I've had enough of travel and the outside world for a while; I don't want to know about slimeballs or gays. I just want to do homey things, chill out and let the baby grow. I find Trigger and we go for long rides. I take him to the prairie then he takes me to all his favourite places, we push through dense forest and find a little clearing full of wild strawberries and follow a stream to a gushing waterfall. The jiggling makes me want to pee at the time, but Trigger doesn't mind stopping, it gives him a chance to grab a mouthful of fresh grass. He has explored all over Camillo, and knows it even better than the slugs.

  The garden's doing well; with the slimeball compost, everything is growing like crazy. I try to spend a couple of hours gardening each morning, weeding, training the beans and bougainvillea and eating strawberries as soon as they turn red.

  My trees are growing. They're an inch high. I weed and water and sing to them then threaten to turn them into firewood if they do not get a move on.

  I want to tell Mum and Dad about the baby and tease then about becoming grandparents. I wonder if they'll ever get to see him. I could go and visit. It might turn weird though. Dad will probably freak out and have a heart attack or the social services will catch me and make me go to school. Or I'll click my fingers to come back and nothing will happen and I'll be stuck in Sheffield in the rain.

  I'll just stay here.

  Castor says that I need to take it easy, that I should eat well and get lots of rest.

  I go fishing off the rocks every morning and have fresh fish for breakfast then hunt around my lawn and eat any dandelion flowers that have popped up. I crave their bitter yellowness.

  I'm three months pregnant now, so past the riskiest bit. I hope the baby is okay and there's nothing wrong with him. I feel really good so I'm sure he's okay. I think he's a she but I'm not too sure. I stand naked in front of the mirror and wonder about my little bump; he's going to be so much trouble. My skin has gone all perfect and smooth and almost glows with healthiness and my hair is growing like crazy. It's down to my shoulders and really thick. It's not blond blond like it was before; it's starting to get browny streaks in it. Mum has beautiful reddy-brown hair. She said she used to be blond when she was little. I hope my hair goes the same colour as hers; blond is okay for kids but looks a bit wimpy on adults. I never understood why they dye their beautiful hair streaky blond. It always looks so tacky.

  I wonder what my baby will look like. I think it will look like me but it won't. Zula has beautiful dark skin and thick black hair. Will it have his greeny-brown eyes? I hope so.

  I wonder how Ijju's baby is coming on. I click my fingers and the white wormoscopic refractor appears on my front lawn. Some daisies have come up. They almost taste as good as the dandelions.

  Ijju is looking good. She should be a supermodel or something.

  She is still slim but her bump is more than a just a bump, it looks like a balloon that's ready to pop. It must be due soon. Maybe I could watch. I'm not sure if I want to, childbirth is one subject I've been avoiding thinking about. How can a great big baby fit out through my little fanny, something has got to give. It's going to hurt!

  Ijju and me will be related; our babies will be half-brother
s. I ask the slugs to let me know when Ijju is ready to give birth.

  I avoid looking at England. I will cry if I see Mum and Dad and might do something stupid, like bing them up here. I'd love to see their faces though. They'd get such a shock! They'd freak out and run around screaming. I don't want to see Annie; I'm still feeling a little guilty about her dad. Not that guilty though, if I had the chance again, a Burmese tiger would escape from the zoo and eat him. That way he’d suffer for what he's done to Annie and her mum.

  It's time to relax. I need to kick back and give my baby a chance to grow, to let my energies go into growing his bones and giving him great big muscles. The trouble is that I can't find a good book to read; I've grown out of Jacqueline Wilson. I need something a bit meatier to read. I visit Pollux and we go shopping. I ask him to recommend some books.

  'You'll like The Hunger Games,' he says.

  'What's it about.'

  'It's about a teenage girl that kills everyone. It's very good.'

  'It sounds like me, I'll get it.'

  We order it and the Harry Potter series and a whole lot of other books. Pollux offers to download e-books but I want proper books with pages that I can throw at Negrita when she sharpens her claws on my bedspread, so I'll have to wait.

  I sit out on the sofa enjoying the sunshine but soon get bored. Then I remember my diaries. I used to carry my diary everywhere in a secret pocket, so that it was always with me if I got abducted or blown up or something. Now that my life is a little less precarious, the diaries are tucked in the drawer on the little table next to my bed. I haven't written anything since the slimeball got me, there's a whole lot of catching up to do.

  First I read through my diary from the desert, starting in Timbuktu and crossing to Khartoum. The sketches Ijju and me drew come alive again: the camel train, the sand surfing, the rock paintings and the pyramid hidden under the sand. It all seems so long ago now, like from a different life. I flick through the pages from Abdullah's seedy penthouse; I didn't like that much, and reach Camillo and my wonder of being on this special little asteroid.