Raising Amy

I have always wanted a baby, as far back as I can remember. I remember telling Dean Bryant in Science once – don’t know why, I didn’t even like him – and he said, “Why?” And I said, “Dunno”. Because it’s the truth. I don’t know why. I just do. I plan to call her ‘Amy’. I go through mum’s catalogues and pick out baby clothes for her, right from birth to when she’s my age. Though by then, I suppose she’d pick out her own clothes. But it’s nice to imagine what Amy’ll look like, and who her friends will be. I’m not crazy or nothing; I mean, yeah, I did steal my baby cousin when I was eight, but I was only playing and I gave her back. I’m not like one of those crazy middle-aged baby-snatchers, you know, stalking hospital wards. And anyway, a snatched baby doesn’t look anything like you, for a start.

It’s weird, because having a baby is all I can think about sometimes. Like in Design when I made that baby’s mobile. I started looking at all the lads in my class the other day, you know, to see which ones would make good dads. I don’t mean, like, raising Amy or anything, but - you know. You know. Anyway, Dean Bryant, he’s too spotty. And Dylan Wheeler hasn’t discovered deodorant yet. Michael Crook’s got this moustache-thing growing through on his top lip, and although Jay Parmar is quite cute, he’s Asian, and I don’t want Amy to be Asian. All the boys in my class are too immature anyway.

I wish I could create her on my own. That’s what snails do, apparently. I’ve never had anything of my own before – I don’t even have my own bedroom, and Carrie’s a right cow about it. “Piss off, I’m on my phone”, she’ll say. I mean, it’s called a ‘mobile’ for a reason. I’d just get a slap if I said that though. God, I wish she’d just go move in with her skanky boyfriend. Mum won’t let her though; she says she’s got to do her A-Levels first. She was dead proud that Carrie got 2 As in her AS’s. She said I’ve got to get good GCSEs, else she’s going to take back my I-Pod. I don’t really care though. Sometimes I feel like, if I don’t have Amy soon, I’m going to explode or something. I’ve asked mum loads of questions, like what’s it like to give birth, and what was my first word and stuff like that. When I asked about the birth stuff, mum sat me down and told me about tampons and things, and looked embarrassed. But I’d done all that at school, and she didn’t answer my question. She’s started getting me and Carrie mixed up as well. She always said before that my first word was ‘apple’, because we were in a shop and I wanted one. But now she says my first word was ‘daddy’, which is bull, because dad had left before I was born. That’s why I’m only going to have one kid. I’m not going to forget Amy’s first word; I’ll record it onto my phone and play it back to her when she’s older. My mum doesn’t know I’m here half the time. Don’t know why she even bothered having me. She doesn’t do any of the stuff that mums are supposed to do, like ask about homework or come to parents’ evening, or make tea that I like. I try and just stay out of her way most of the time. Carrie and her are bestest friends, so they don’t need me hanging around. I’ll be gone soon anyway; they might even give me a flat when Amy gets here. Or I could see if, because they’re such ‘best friends’, mum and Carrie can share, and me and Amy can have the big room.

I started a newspaper round last Saturday, to get some extra money. Got about a tenner saved up so far. My mate Clare does one too, so we go down together to pick up the ‘papers. Though she takes ages on her route; her boyfriend lives down Laburnham Lane, and she always pops in to his house to see him before finishing. He’s a right minger; he’s older than her and is really tall and lanky. And he wears aftershave. He’s such a ponce. Mum didn’t say anything about the job. I don’t even think she was listening. She’s got this habit of just blocking out noise and going somewhere else. I hope it’s nice there. Sometimes I wish I could do that, especially in Humanities when Zoë Moore’s having a go. God, she thinks she’s so special. Just because she’s had sex loads of times and gets high down the park. Like ‘Oh yeah, let’s go down the park and drink cider’. Slag. I mean, I wouldn’t say that to her face – I’d get my head kicked in – but it’s true.

They’re all losers at my school. I’m going to send Amy to a boarding school, like the one in Harry Potter. I’ll be rich by then. And Amy will be really pretty. Clever too, but not a swot. And she’ll have her own room, and new trainers. And she’ll be a really good actress and get into all the school plays, and she’ll always be the best in all her classes. Noone will dare mess with her, because all her friends will stick up for her, and besides, everyone would love her and want to be around her and would notice if she was miserable and hiding in her room. I’d be a good mum, I would, and I’d never yell at her, and while she is little I will read to her every night and give her little baths and dress her in cute clothes. I’ll do everything for her – I’ll feed her and take her out. Everything. I can even teach her French if I pass my GCSEs. The Connexions counsellor says I should focus on a career, something like being a nursery nurse. But it’s not the same unless it’s your own. Other people’s kids cry too much and need changing all the time.

I’m not sure how it’s going to happen yet, but I know it’s going to happen soon. If I get pregnant this month, it means Amy will be born a Leo. That’s a good star sign that is, and it’s compatible with mine, so we’ll get on fine. Mum’s a Scorpio. Says it all really. I’ve been taking a detour across the edge of the park lately, on my way back from my ‘paper round, to see where Zoë and that lot hang out. There are loads of older boys there. I want Amy to be blonde. I will be a good mum. I’d give her everything. I’m just tired of waiting.