Her face wan, Nicky mumbled a "hi," and made straight for the staffroom. I noticed she wasn't wearing make-up. Not that she looked any less pretty. She did not. It was like seeing a football jersey without the sponsors' logo; it did not detract from the overall appearance but was conspicuous by its absence. Mark, the manager, called it grease-paint. Ironic, given his hair had more wax on it than a wick, and he smelled like he had fallen into a vat of after-shave.

She slumped into the white plastic Easy chair, body as heavy as the black bags hung under her eyes. Her head fell forward and buried itself in her folded arms.

I returned to loading the compactor.

A soft whimper caused me to turn around. "You okay?"

Nicky looked up, eyes blurry with tears. "I'm late."

I had no clue what she was late for, but I hated seeing her this upset, so I tried being helpful. "Why don't you tell Mark you're poorly. I'm sure he'll let you shoot off early."

She smiled, as a lone tear trickled down her cheek. "I might be pregnant."

"Oh..."

"I don't know what I'm gonna do." The tears flowed.

I dropped the brown box I was holding and went to her, unsure of what to say. Instinctively, I reached out and patted her shoulder.

She started talking as fast as the teardrops fell. "Must've been that party. The one Eddie dragged us to a few weeks back. I got absolutely rat-arsed. We end up going upstairs. Eddie, the eejit, can't find the condoms. Insufferable gobshite left them in the pocket of his other jeans. And he's too wasted to drive. You think I could make him go downstairs? Starts moaning about how he's not asking people he hardly knows for rubbers. Like, I don't know he blabs about our love-life to strangers in the pub. Guys are such wankers."

"Yeah..."

"He's all, What's the big deal? Stop being a pain in the hole. On and on he goes, bending the ear of me. By this stage of the game, I'm half-past blotto. I just wanna pass out in peace. 'Stead of which, I got this manky Barry White, squeezing my tit, telling me he can't get enough of me."

However, after she'd relayed to him the consequence of their night of drunken passion, Fast Eddie couldn't wait to put some distance between them. When Nicky had called into the pub earlier, one of the other barmen claimed Eddie hadn't come into work, despite the fact she could plainly see his meticulously polished Ford Focus parked out front.

She was seventeen and scared shitless. "My ma'll go ballistic if she finds out I've got a bun in the oven. And me Da'll disown me."

She hadn't even told her friends. "They'd act all sympathetic. Come tomorrow half the school would know I'm up the duff."

School. She would sit her Leaving Certificate exams at the end of the year. Nicky did the maths on her fingers. "The baby'll be due then." She gripped my forearm with such strength that I felt sorry for her future midwife. "I might have to fly to England."

"To get an abor—" Nicky raised a stiff hand to silence me. As though mentioning the word would invoke a curse. Perhaps hearing it aloud made it real for her.

"How will I cope with a kid? I can barely remember to brush my teeth. How'm I gonna look after a baby? I want to go to college... This affects my entire future." She started sobbing.

She looked up. "You must think I'm awful..."

"No." I told her about the homeless man, dying alone and unloved. Maybe it was worse bringing a child into the world if you couldn't love it unconditionally. Life is pretty tough, even with a family to care for and support you.

Nicky glanced at the clock on the back wall. She dried her eyes on the green cardigan sleeve. "Please don't tell anyone, will you."

"Who am I going to tell? You're the only one I talk to."

She stood up, straightened her skirt, before wrapping her arms around me in a crushing embrace. "Thanks," she whispered in my ear.

I heard raised voices coming from the living room when I entered the house. At first, I thought my parents might be fighting. I took up position on the third bottom step of the stair and listened, as I used to when I was younger, in those bleak days when my dad was unemployed and he and my mother were locked in a constant struggle to make ends meet.

For a second time in five years, my father was passed over for promotion. My mum sounded livid, her voice hitting Soprano-like heights as she complained he was one of the few that didn't sleep on the job, and this was the thanks he got.

I recalled the stories my dad would tell us over dinner. A colleague had decided to catch a few hours shut-eye before the shift ended. He returned to headquarters, encountering the night-shift controller, who asked him if anything unusual had occurred. To wit, the guard shook his head. "That's odd," the controller said. "I've had the Fire-brigade on the radio. While you were out there fiddling like Nero, Fratellis burnt to the ground."

My personal favourite had to be the one about the guard caught taking a nap on duty. A night-time supervisor driving past spotted the company van pulled over and rapped on the window. Despite being jolted out of the land of Nod, the guard's ability to think on his feet remained undulled. "You ever do that again, I'll have you done for religious discrimination," he told the startled supervisor, waiting to read him the riot act. "I was in the middle of reciting the rosary for the reposing soul of me poor dead mother, and you just bollixed it up. Now, I've gotta start all over." The penitent supervisor high-tailed it out of there, leaving the knackered security officer to resume his communion with Hypnos.

Neither of those stories amused me now. My dad had a problem. He was a teetotaller, which excluded him from the boy's club. No matter how diligently he worked, or how many nights off he forfeited to cover coworkers' shifts, he would never be Sergeant material. The title was inconsequential, but the extra euros in his pay packet might have helped stall the greying process.

I tip-toed upstairs to my fortress of solitude and dropped onto the bed.

I got to thinking about Nicky and my dad. Alcohol had been to blame for Nicky's current situation. Not drinking had landed my father in his predicament. It seemed you were damned if you do and damned if you don't. Life found a way to screw you, no matter what path you chose.

That familiar black cloud pressed down upon me, submerging into a self-defeating cognitive fog.

I grasped for happy thoughts. United putting four past Chelsea in last seasons cup final. An image of Cantona raising the silver trophy aloft formed in my head. Displaced by one of Robbie in his replica jersey.

Robbie.

I rolled off the bed and lumbered downstairs. My dad must have seen me through the glass-panelled living-room door because his voice cut off before I entered.

"Oh hey, son, we didn't hear you come in. How was work?"

"Same ol', same ol'." I decided not to mention anything about Nicky. My father came from a generation that didn't embrace the notion of sex before marriage. You met a girl, fell in love, settled down and had kids. That was the mantra. His parents celebrated their golden anniversary last Spring at a fancy hotel, spending the entire meal arguing over my Granddad's choice of tie. As a concept, it had its flaws. However, right now, I hadn't the wherewithal for an argument. "Okay if I give Robbie a ring?"

"Didn't you see him all day in school? Isn't that enough?" My mother shot him a look. He sighed. "Go on then."

"Thanks."

"Make it quick. We're not made of money."

"Ah, Seán, will you leave him be," my mum said, smiling at me.

"He was blathering for hours last night. You said so yourself, May. I'm dreading our next phone-bill."

"Robbie rang me."

"Your dad's right," my mum said. "His poor mother has to provide for her family all on her own. I'm sure she can do without her phone bill sky-rocketing into the bargain."

"What'll they be like when they get girlfriends?" my dad said.

Amani answered. "Hi Aaron, I'll get him for you now." I could almost feel her warm smile travelling down the line.

Robbie and I would lose ourselves in the magic of enjoyable conversation, never once finding ourselves exhausted of words. Begrudgingly, calling it a night, after a vexed parent warned us, for the umpteen time, to wrap it up.

Usually, I'm not a brilliant conversationalist. I listen politely, but half the time I'm formulating a reply in my head that won't make me come across as a total fucking eejit. Mostly I listen because I don't feel I have anything of value to add to the conversation. With Robbie, it was the opposite. I was always excited to hear his opinion, listening with rapt interest. Before cutting loose like that hermit in the Monty Python movie who had broken his thirty-year vow of silence and wanted nothing more than to revel in the freedom of words. When I rabbited on in my rambling way, I knew he was taking in every word. Often he would surprise me by referring to something I'd said weeks ago.

Talking with Robbie helped put my problems into perspective. Though, funnily enough, I never discussed them with him. Instead, we made each other laugh. And the more we laughed, the further away the black cloud drifted.

When my father came in the hall, tapping his watch, it was time to call it a night. His stony eyes told me he would not be leaving until I did.

After we'd said goodbye, I nipped upstairs to bed. The instant I climbed under the covers, my lids grew heavy, and I fell into a light sleep.

The following evening, Nicky appeared in some discomfort when she entered the back room.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"I'm so tired I can just about stand. Feels like some bastard's drilling holes in the base of my spine, grinding my insides into a fiery liquid that's leaking out my fanny. The state of my panties. It's like a scene from a slasher flick." She grinned. "But, honestly, I've never been better."

After that graphic depiction of the female menstrual cycle, Nicky spoke of her relief to be sans child. I was happy for her. And equally pleased the subject had changed. I sometimes envied women for their style and grace. However, I did not envy them having to contend with period pains.

"Eddie's slagging me off for being a drama queen. Oh, who cares it's over now." I pitied Nicky. Eddie sounded like a complete tool. She deserved so much better. It wasn't my place to tell her this. There's a fine line between friendly advice and interfering. Besides, I didn't want to spoil her happiness.

She unwrapped a Fruit'n'nut bar, broke off three squares, and offered them to me. I shook my head and watched her demolish the chocolate as though her life depended on it.

I collected up a cardboard box and shoved it into the compactor, climbing aboard the thought train to Pleasantville.

"Oh here," she said in an excitable tone, shunting me back to reality. "I almost forgot. You know Monica Tierney?" Slim, attractive, honey-blond hair and refined air, reminded me of a young Michelle Pfeiffer. Sure, I knew Monica.

I nodded.

"She sits next to me in French. Anyways, yesterday we got to talking about the fellas 'round the area who we'd go out with and stuff. I mentioned your name, and she was all like, 'Oh yeah, he's cute. I quite fancy him."

"Me? Really?"

"Yes, you. Can't think why." Truth be told, neither could I.

"I'm kidding—you are just so-o easy." Nicky burst into a fit of giggles. She clutched her stomach. "Ooh, that hurt. That'll teach me. Anyhow, Sarah Rourke's parents are away this weekend. Free-house." She winked. "I've talked Monica into going, so"—she arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow—"you fancy it?"

I didn't sleep well that night. So many thoughts, cramming the ol' cerebellum. My first party. A girl I liked had expressed an interest in me. I pictured us hand-in-hand, like Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder. My entire body coursed with nervous excitement. The wait was finally over. I hoped. I brought an arm out from beneath the sheet, stretched it back, and knocked twice on the wooden headboard.