Kamvi stood up and went to have a shower. At least there was hot water, and she stood for ages and let the water run over her. She got dressed and put her headphones on and played her favourite song.

Downstairs Miss Strydom was waiting for her and Cynthia. “You will both receive a written warning, two demerits and I will be contacting both your parents,” she said to them from her seat at the breakfast table, her hand poised midway to her mouth, holding her tea cup.

Well, thought Kamvi. I guess that’s that.

That was one thing that could be said for Miss Strydom – she dealt with punishment quickly and efficiently and didn’t let it drag on for days. Kamvi could imagine her mother receiving the call, sitting on the front seat of one of the long-distance buses that she worked on. She would be perfectly neat and well dressed, with her hair combed out and smoothly turned in. Her slender brown ankles would be crossed, and her shoes shiny, but her smooth brown forehead would be creased with concern as she took the call, and her mouth turned down in anger.

Kamvi decided that she would not think about her mother right now. The sun was shining warmly, and she was glad that her Life Orientation class was going to take place outside that day.

* * * * *

Kamvi slipped into her very baggy shorts and huge hoodie for Physical Education, even though the sun was beating down. She could have sworn that she noticed Thandi pretending not to look at her stomach, and she was sure she heard Hope and Tristan whispering her name.

For a few days Kamvi had felt worried – she seemed to be seeing people talking about her all the time. She had told herself that she was imagining it all, but it was while they were playing baseball that it happened. Kamvi slid into base and collided hard with a team mate.

Next thing, Kamvi heard her classmate, the blond surfer Joshua, of all people, saying loudly: “That can’t be good for the baby”.

Her first thought, as she stood up and turned her face away from him, was: how the hell does he know? I don’t think I have ever said a word to him, not once, in the years I have spent in his class. Kamvi knew then, with a sinking feeling, that her pregnancy was no longer a secret.

Mrs Jason, standing close by, turned from where she was standing, clipboard in hand. As Kamvi straightened and raised her head, she looked straight into the teacher’s icy, piercing, blue eyes.

“Kamvi,” she said, clearly and firmly. “Come and see me at break time please.”

At break Kamvi walked heavily, her school bag weighing her down and slowing her pace. In her classroom Mrs Jason waited, her short hair standing straight up on her head. She always reminded Kamvi of some kind of bird, and now she cocked her head to one side when she said: “There’s a rumour going around that you are pregnant. Is that true Kamvilihle?”

How come everyone suddenly knows, wondered Kamvi to herself. Who could have said anything? Cynthia? Cynthia didn’t know. No-one knew. She had told no-one at all. That’s why it didn’t really exist. It was just a thought. A possibility. Nothing more.

Kamvi sighed deeply and nodded, and suddenly she found that she was crying, and Mrs Jason was giving her a stiff hug, and Kamvi thought, surprised, gosh, she’s a smoker, as the smell of smoke enveloped her.

“How old are you?” Mrs Jason asked matter-of-factly, as she and Kamvi awkwardly separated.

“Fifteen Ma’am,” said Kamvi, dropping her head.

“It’s against the law you know,” said Mrs Jason, adding, as if to herself, “It’s called statutory rape.”

“I wasn’t raped,” said Kamvi, much louder than she intended.

Mrs Jason put her hand up, and patted Kamvi’s shoulder absent- mindedly while muttering softly to herself, “I know, I know.” Mrs Jason moved her hand to her mouth, and stood staring out of the window for what seemed to be a long while before she spoke again. “Does your mother know?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“How many weeks are you? Do you know?”

“I don’t know Ma’am. Maybe, um, six months.”

Mrs Jason’s eyes widened and shot down to Kamvi’s waistline. She shook her head, just a little.

“Well then,” she sighed, “it’s too late now. Much too late.”

***

Tell us what you think: What is it too late for? What should Mrs Jason do?