Abigail’s parents already know about the pregnancy, or so she tells me.

We sit facing each other in the darkest back corner of a coffee shop. ‘Our baby,’ she keeps calling it. She keeps patting the bulge of her stomach. And yes, there is definitely a bulge under her top. Patting it, stroking it, hugging it, while I try not to look that way.

I try not to look at her either. Just the sight of her makes the anger burn hot in my chest. So I fix my eyes on some random painting there above her head: snow-covered mountains to cool me down. While she babbles on and on.

I wish I was here drinking coffee with Precious. Precious from college, who doesn’t speak much and then always in a soft, calm voice. Like she really thinks about what she’s saying. If I was here with Precious, I’d be looking deep into those gentle eyes of hers. I don’t think I’d even notice the painting on the wall. How different this would all feel!

But no. It is Abigail who sits here, babbling on at me.

“Yes, my folks were upset at first. Obviously. But now they’ve calmed down. Specially since I told them all about you, and your family. About how your mother is headmistress of a secondary school and a strong church member. And how your dad is a successful businessman. And how you are busy studying to be a journalist, my Lexie-Love.”

My coffee is cold, cold as the snow on the painted mountain. It tastes like poison. I repeat what BK suggested. “It’s early days, right Abigail? You don’t have to go through with this. There are ways, you know. And it’s legal.”

She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, pulls her eyebrows into a drama-queen frown of horror. Like she is the star of some soap-opera. Wraps both her arms around her stomach-bulge, like she must protect it from me.

And then she carries on, as if I haven’t spoken. “So when shall we tell your parents? Shall we wait till after my scan? You’re going to come with me for the scan, aren’t you? Yes, that’ll be the best idea. Then we can show your mother the baby photograph. Well, the sonar-gram – that’s what it’s called. And hey, the doctor says this time they can tell if it’s a boy or a girl! Isn’t that exciting? What are you hoping for, my Lekker-Lex? Son or daughter?”

I tell her to leave my parents alone. I tell her I don’t want her anywhere near my home. And there is no frikken way I’m going anywhere with her: not for clinic visits or maternity appointments or scans.

My words are like water off a duck’s back to her. Water off a duck’s back! I swear she doesn’t register anything I say. She asks if I want to come back with her to her house. Her parents are out for the day.

She flutters her eyelashes at me, smiles a suggestive smile. “I’m sure you’re missing my bedroom, my sexy Lexie!” she says.

Is she frikken insane?

I get up and leave her with her second cappuccino and the mountains dripping snow behind her. When she calls after me, I keep walking.

*****

Just before end-of-term tests, I have a nightmare.

Abigail’s yellow Maternity Folder stands upright on the floor beside me. Expanding, growing higher and higher, while the yellow cardboard turns to yellow steel. Folding itself around me like a jail cell. A soundproof jail cell so that no-one can hear me screaming. Not even my mother.

Through its yellow bars, way off in the distance, I can see a sweet, lovely face. I recognise it at once. It is Precious’s face. And she is holding out her hands to me. She is calling me to come to her. I know this even though I can’t hear her sweet, soft voice. I struggle against the bars, trying to bend them.

And Abigail is there in a warden’s uniform, a bright red uniform. Jangling the warden’s keys. Refusing to unlock the door. Laughing all the while.

Until Precious disappears.

***

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