Read an extract from Handle With Care by Louisa Reid
Told in prose and verse, this novel tells the story of Ruby, who gives birth at school not even knowing she was pregnant, and how she is let down by society and those who love her, with tragic consequences…
Part One
ASHLEY
It’s 10.07 a.m. and Mr Batson has just taken the register at the start of second period when Ruby starts moaning.
“What’s up?” I say, quiet so Batty doesn’t start screaming at me in his I used to be in the army, and don’t you forget it voice. I had to sneak past his beady eye on the way into class so he wouldn’t clock my eye shadow or confiscate the new bracelet Jacques bought me for Valentine’s – a cute silver charm hanging delicately at my wrist: a running shoe. If only it were magic, and could lead me out of the fog of school and into the fresh air, racing by my boyfriend’s side to somewhere better.
I’m deep in the daydream when Ruby puts her head in her hands and moans again.
“I didn’t know you hated history that much, Ruby,” I say, still quiet, trying to make her laugh and leaning towards her. I can smell her shampoo. The same one she’s used for years: coconut, vanilla, almond. It smells of being twelve and sleeping over, taking a shower in her ensuite, and using all her products. Organic. Expensive. Rich and buttery, like I imagine a trip to the Caribbean or the Maldives tastes. Her mum is proper loaded and so Ruby always smells good, has the shiniest lip gloss, the longest eyelashes, cheeks like roses. Hundred-quid haircuts and five-star resorts. I wait for an answer, but Ruby doesn’t look at me, she’s bent over the desk, head down. I poke her gently in the ribs.
“Have you not done that essay? Don’t worry about it. You know you’re Batson’s fave. Like teacher’s actual pet. So gross.” But Ruby doesn’t smile or laugh; she twists her face instead and shifts about, like she can’t get comfortable, like something’s really bugging her.
Under her blusher she’s dead white. A couple of the kids in the row in front of us turn to stare; I flick them the finger and look back at my mate.
She’s pale. Paler than usual, for February that is. She experimented with fake tan in Year Ten, said she wanted a bit more of a glow, that her mum said she looked sickly – holding her arm beside mine and pulling a face at her pallor. I told her it’s only my freckles that make me look tanned; she wasn’t convinced. She seems to have settled for her English Rose peachy creams (she calls it washed out, seen better days, ghost girl chic) after she ended up all streaky and orange, but reckons she’ll go for a proper spray tan before summer. Right now, though, there’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead and I’m wondering whether or not she’s got Ebola or Coronavirus or some new hideous superbug, and why the hell the teachers don’t still make us wear masks. I’m on the verge of sticking my hand up and calling Batty over because I don’t want Ruby’s puke all over my school uniform, much as I love her, when she answers.
“I’m fine.”
Her thin smile is fooling no one. She winces, pulls a deep breath, and picks up her pen. Whatever. Leave her to it, I think, and look back at the board – I’ll quiz her later. Book open, I start copying down the lesson objectives, then the causes of the First World War, because we do things in order of importance here at Nobhead Academy. Beside me, Ruby is doing the same thing, quiet again, scribbling in fits and starts, and I try not to watch her and make her feel weird, gently kick her ankle with my foot, just so she knows I’m here. We share another smile which says more than words could: it’s a mixture of promises, feelings – like: I’ve got your back, can’t wait to talk later, you look good, what’ll we do today? Tomorrow? For the rest of our lives? Who are we going to be, and how will we know we’ve decided right? Ruby is the friend who I share that stuff with. Her breathing steadies and we work for another minute, but at 10.13 there she goes again. It’s a bit louder this time, this funny Nuunuuuuh sound which she smothers with her sleeve, chomping down on her designer version of the regulation school cardi, and she shifts in her chair like it’s burning her bum, twists her face again and drops her head on the desk.
“You sure you’re OK?” Something is up here. Zara catches my eye from over the other side of my best friend.
“She was feeling crappy in PE,” Zara mutters over Ruby’s head, “she kept legging it to the toilet.”
“I didn’t, I’m fine,” Ruby says, “really.” But she’s shaking her head too fast, like she does when she’s bullshitting. “I think I ate something, my stomach.” She’s panting a bit, and the sheen of sweat on her forehead doesn’t look remotely healthy. “I’ll go to the toilet. I think I need to go.” She moans again, clutching her stomach, her face tight, eyes glassy.
“Look, you should go to the nurse,” I tell her, but Ruby doesn’t answer, she’s too busy gripping the edge of the desk and trying to hold back another moan. She can’t. It leaks from her, something prehistoric, scary, and the kids in front turn to stare again. A couple of lads start to laugh, thinking she’s mucking about, waiting for it to kick off, and because of all the noise, Batty fixes Ruby, maybe for the first time ever, with his searchlight stare.
“Ruby Howard? Is there a problem?”
“Can I be excused, sir?” she manages to say, straightening, making eye contact with him. Her skin has lost all its colour now; she’s a kind of greasy shade of dead. “I don’t feel good, I need the toilet.”
Someone yells, “She’s gonna barf,” and someone else shouts, “No, she’s not, she’s gonna shit herself.” And the room erupts in a frenzy of puke and crap noises that even Batson struggles to silence. I remember in Year Seven when poor Tilly Hall wet her pants in drama, a river of piss running down three tiers of seats. She’s been Pissy Tilly ever since. Batson sighs. Looks at his watch.
“Wait for break. You should have gone at change over, shouldn’t you?”
I’m fairly certain that the ability to go for a shit when you need one is a fundamental human right, and I’m about to tell Batson that very thing, when all at once Ruby is grabbing at the desk and moaning again and then her face looks surprised and I follow her stare and see that there’s stuff, liquid, running down her legs, over my boots, puddling on the scuffed classroom floor. At first, I think she’s actually gone and done a Tilly, but the noise coming from her snatches that thought away and replaces it with another far worse. I stand up, grab her arm, hold her, because she’s doubling over and it’s only 10.18, which means that if what I think is happening is happening, then it’s happening fast.
Handle With Care is published by Guppy Books on 10 October 2024
Louisa Reid will be appearing with Kathleen Glasgow and Josh Silver for a YA panel like no other on 10 October in Manchester. Tickets available at https://lu.ma/YAPANEL
