“That’s very young,” she said, in case I hadn’t noticed.

“Right,” I said, all brisk and business-like. No time for messing about, let’s get to the point. “And now what? What happens now, what are the procedures, where do I sign up?”

“For what, dear?” she asked, a bit surprised at my lack of denial and histrionics, which I think are the usual reactions. She glanced encouragingly at the box of tissues on her desk.

Nope, no tissues for me today, thank you very much. Today was all about getting things sorted out, settled, organised. Today was the day for making a plan.

“You know, sign up, for… um… whatever needs to be done…” I faltered. I thought I’d had it sussed: didn’t you go to the doctor, get checked out for… um, things… and then, I don’t know, learn breathing and stuff?

Apparently not.

The counsellor lady looked like she was trying hard to remember the extension number for the psychiatric ward. “The poor girl’s obviously in shock”, she must have thought. “She clearly doesn’t know her arse from her elbow, probably a bit simple, in fact. Or it could be drugs…”

She spoke in the careful tones of one coaxing a stretchy-white-coat-wearing, bloody-scissors-wielding nutter away from the bodies. “Well dear, we’ve plenty of time for all that. You need to make some decisions first. Erm…” (Small hesitation here, choosing words carefully, not wanting to set off the looming nervous breakdown.) “…Do you know who the father is?”

Yikes. I knew she thought I was bad, but I didn’t know she assumed I was such an abysmal loser. Visions of Appalachian hillbillies, dancing in her head.

“Of course I know who the father is, you bloody rude cow!” I wanted to screech, but didn’t. What I did say was “It’s my boyfriend, he’s the only one it could be. It’s just he’s not here right now, because he… because…um, well…” My train of thought ground to a halt right there.

Because I’d told him not to come, that’s why. Beats me why I did that. He knew where I was. He’d said he’d come if I wanted him to. We’d spoken about it and he was all about being supportive and doing whatever I wanted and “being there for me”. He told me he’d “put me through school”, though he was a little fuzzy on the details of exactly how he planned to manage that, or what it actually meant. He cried a lot. He was also all about waiting for the second test, in case the first was wrong. In other words, he was just hoping it wasn’t true. He hadn’t thought any further than that. He didn’t know like I did.

I was all about being strong, being responsible, not needing him. And so I went alone. Still, he should have come with me, even though I told him not to. But at the time I thought it didn’t matter.

The counsellor lady gave me an illustrated booklet about pregnancy and birth, and sent me on my way. She seemed relieved – I think I scared her a little. She told me to make an appointment at the antenatal clinic downstairs. I did so, self-consciously, although I didn’t keep the appointment.

I went back to the library and sat at a table reading my precious booklet – hidden inside a large atlas, of course, in case anybody I knew happened by. There was a whole new world in there – one I’d never known existed. A world of trimesters and haemoglobin and scary-sounding things like pre-eclampsia and placental abruption. All explained in easy-to-understand, mildly condescending terms. I wanted to know it all. I tried to absorb as much as I could there in the library, because I knew it would be a while before I could bring my booklet out into the open.

I watched my mom as she drove up to fetch me shortly after. I smiled at her, and in my head I told her I loved her and I was sorry. I knew I had to tell her that night. I knew it would change everything, and there’d be no going back. For better or worse, my real life had begun.

***

Thirteen years later, it’s still hard to think about that night. My friends thought I’d try to hide it. I mean, isn’t that what you do? Aren’t your parents supposed to kick you out, or send you to visit your “Auntie Cookie in Klerksdorp” (what is it with Klerksdorp?), or some variation on good old suburban skandaal theme? Someone even suggested I run away, rather than face my mom and dad. Apparently a life on the streets with a baby sounded terribly exciting. So made-for-TV-movie. Freaking Virginia Andrews again – she’s got a lot to answer for, putting stupid ideas into stupid girls’ heads. Although, call me Mary O’Flaherty and give me a job at the manor house, and it could even have made a passable Catherine Cookson.

But Sensible Tracy was back in control again. Not an ounce of romance in her soul, God bless her; she’s practical and somewhat anal. She’d come back from holiday to find the place wrecked: cigarette burns on the carpet, vomit in the pot plants and strange people snoring on the couch. And she was not very fucking pleased, let me tell you. She bustled around angrily, picking up garbage and taking down names – and she decided there’d be no hiding the belly with giant jerseys or secretly giving birth in the bathroom. There’d be no more silliness. From now on, Tracy would be doing the right thing – you just watch me. From this day forward, for the rest of my life, I’d never give anyone the chance again to say I’d messed up.

Famous last words.