Brilliant.

Class got let out early. I was truanting outside Tommen and for once, she wasn’t bolting for her princess-mobile or pretending she didn’t see me. We were walking—me, dragging a boot against the gravel for the sound, her clutching that fancy schoolbag like.

She kept looking at me like I was going to bite. Probably because I had last night. Whatever.

We get to the bus stop, not because we’re getting the bus because she don’t need to. And I wasn’t gonna go home yet.

She’s fumbling around in her bag—probably for lip balm or a mirror or whatever it is Tommen girls carry around—and then it happens.

Plop.

Little booklet hits the pavement like a slap. I clock the title in big, patronising letters:

“So You’re Expecting? You’re not alone. A Guide to Teenage Pregnancy.”

The silence that follows is violent.

She freezes, eyes wide like she’s just dropped a loaded gun. My stare’s locked on the thing. Whole world narrows. Can’t hear the birds, can’t hear the bus engine in the distance. Just that one phrase, repeating in my head like some sick echo.

She scrambles to pick it up, but I get there first. I toe it towards me with the tip of my boot, real slow. No rush. Just enough time for her to panic. Then I crouch down, pick it up, and hold it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“Seriously?” I say, voice low.

She opens her mouth, shuts it again. Looks like she’s going to cry. I hate that. I fucking hate that.

“You’re not serious.” I laugh. It comes out sharp. Cold. “Jesus, fuck, are you actually—?”

“It’s not—It’s probably nothing,” she blurts. “They just—They ask, and then they give you stuff—”

“Right,” I snap, tossing it back at her like it burned. “They just hand out pregnancy leaflets now, do they? Like sweets.”

She flinches. Says nothing. That silence? It says everything.

I take a step back. My heart’s hammering like I’ve just legged it from the Gardaí. My throat’s dry. My jaw’s locked tight.