Ziggy
Ziggy
Ziggy often viewed his life like the lines of a computer program.
Until year eleven, just after his sixteenth birthday, he’d been following a neat, predictable, stable line of code. A line which led, he’d hoped, to university, then a well-paid job somewhere far, far away from the run-down council estate he’d lived on his whole life.
But a series of decisions—what his computer science teacher would refer to as “if-then-else statements”—had led him down an entirely different branch, plunging his avatar into a parallel universe. One from which, it seemed, there was no return, no loop back to the beginning.
Only the first decision had been his—led entirely, according to his mum, by his hormones. When he and Jenna had found themselves in the stationery cupboard during the junior prom, and he’d realized that his lucky condom was still in the pocket of his jacket which was hanging over the back of his chair in the main hall, Jenna had told him not to worry, that she could take the morning-after pill. His decision had been, just this once , to take the risk.
The other decisions had not been his at all.
Jenna had decided not to go to the chemist the next morning, on account of her chronic hangover. The day after that was a Sunday, and her parents had planned a family visit to her grandparents. She could hardly tell them why she needed to stop at a pharmacy, could she? By day three, the stationery cupboard liaison had felt like a drunken dream, her fear had ebbed away, and, besides, it was all a bit late by then, wasn’t it?
After that, there had been a series of nondecisions. Jenna hadn’t decided to keep track of her menstrual cycle. She hadn’t decided to see a doctor when she’d finally realized there’d been no sign of her period for months. She hadn’t decided to let Ziggy know that anything was up. In fact, she hadn’t made any decision at all until she was twenty-six weeks pregnant and could no longer zip up her school skirt. The decision had, by then, been made for her. And for Ziggy.
The final decision had been very much his mother’s.
When Jenna and her mum had come round for the most awkward cup of tea in the history of the universe, and Jenna’s mum had talked, through a mouthful of fruit cake, about adoption, Ziggy’s mum wasn’t having any of it. Before Ziggy could refill the teapot with boiling water, his mother had announced that Ziggy was just as responsible for Jenna’s situation as she was, and would not be an absent, feckless father like his own had been. Before he could reply that “absent and feckless” seemed a wholly sensible strategy in the circumstances, she appeared to have agreed that she, and Ziggy, would bring up the baby and Jenna need have no responsibility at all, unless she wanted it. Which she didn’t. And who could blame her?
So, like the heroes of his favorite children’s book who had walked through a wardrobe into Narnia, Ziggy had been propelled from a stationery cupboard into a parallel universe which he hadn’t chosen and didn’t understand and from which he couldn’t escape.
And, to make it all so much more painful, Ziggy got to watch his former life play out in front of him, in the form of Jenna, who’d moved schools for a fresh start, but who he often saw about town and on social media. She still traveled everywhere with a gang of “besties,” still dated boys who weren’t single fathers, went to parties, took all the risks, and made all the mistakes that teenagers were supposed to make. Jenna, who still had a future.
···
The bell sounded for the end of the lesson. Pens were zipped back into pencil cases, books and files swept into schoolbags, and chair legs scraped across the floor as the class fled for the door.
“Don’t forget, I want to see your coursework by Monday!” shouted Mr. Wingate to a sea of departing backs which coalesced into small groups, none of which contained Ziggy.
In his past world, Ziggy had been a magnet. Wherever he went, he would attract small groups of friends, like iron filings drawn to a charge. But now his polarity had been reversed, and they skittered away from him as he drew near.
“Ziggy! Hold up! May I have a word?” said Mr. Wingate.
Several faces turned back, etched with a momentary curiosity, before resuming their exit. Ziggy ran through a mental list of what he might have done wrong. A missed piece of homework? A messed-up test paper? Computer science was his best subject, and he was pretty sure he was on top of it, despite everything. Top of the class, even.
“Pull up a chair,” said Mr. Wingate, gesturing at the space opposite his desk at the front of the room.
Ziggy dragged a chair into position, resting his schoolbag next to his feet, and waited.
“I was wondering,” said Mr. Wingate, steepling his fingers in front of his aquiline nose and peering over the top of his glasses, “whether you were considering reading computer science at the university?”
For a few moments, Ziggy was catapulted back into his old universe—the one where he’d had ambitions, and choices, where his future had been a blank screen just waiting for a new line of code to be inputted.
But, just as quickly, his reality returned, along with a wave of guilt. That universe might have been full of possibility and excitement, but it didn’t have Kylie in it. And how could he possibly wish for that?
“I’m not applying for uni,” he said, looking down at his hands. “It’s not really an option, because…”
“I know about your situation, Ziggy,” said Mr. Wingate, in a completely different voice from the one he used to issue instructions from the front of the class. “But it needn’t stop you. You could find a course in London. Or if you wanted to go farther afield, which might be good for you, the universities all have arrangements for single parents. Accommodation and affordable childcare.”
“But what about the money?” said Ziggy, trying to extinguish the small flame of hope that Mr. Wingate had ignited before it could take hold. Hope, he had learned, was more painful than acceptance. “I can’t afford it.”
“You could get a student loan,” said Mr. Wingate, “and maybe even a scholarship or bursary.”
“I need to think about Kylie,” said Ziggy, firmly, more to himself than to his teacher. This had, after all, been his mantra for the past six months.
“If you get yourself a brilliant degree, which I think you can, it would be way better for Kylie in the long run,” said Mr. Wingate. “Your earning potential would be much higher, and think what a wonderful role model you’d be for your daughter.”
Ziggy opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Wingate, who was used to railroading dissenting students, soldiered on.
“Look, I would really like to give you a couple of extra sessions each week after school. I could help you with your UCAS application and, with a bit of additional focus, I think a scholarship is a real possibility. Just think about it, Ziggy. Will you do that for me?”
“Sure,” said Ziggy. “And thanks.”
The Ziggy who picked up his bag and left the room was a slightly different one from the Ziggy who’d entered it less than an hour before. At least one person in his world hadn’t completely written him off. Mr. Wingate believed in him, and had even offered to give up his own free time to help him. Ziggy allowed himself, just for a while, to feel like the future mapped out by his teacher might even be possible.
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As he approached Mandel Community Center, Ziggy deliberately looked away from the noticeboard, and the council’s doom-laden poster boldly occupying its center. He couldn’t even think about the possibility of the nursery closing down, on top of everything else.
The nursery and the Senior Citizens’ Social Club both ended at the same time, so the hallway was filled with people representing the whole spectrum of ages. A physical manifestation of “from cradle to grave.”
“I nearly got mown down on the pavement just now, by an old woman in a leather biker jacket with lilac hair, riding a pimped-up mobility scooter,” he told Janine as he strapped Kylie into her buggy.
“That would be Anna,” said another old lady, dressed incongruously in flared jeans. Her white hair was in a bun in which she appeared to have stored a Biro, and she wore a brightly patterned silk scarf tied at her neck. She was pulling an emerald-green tweed coat with a fur collar off one of the pegs on the wall. Ziggy presumed the fur was fake. Surely nobody wore the remains of actual dead animals anymore?
“Anna used to be a long-distance lorry driver,” she continued. “It screwed her back and left her with an extremely macho wardrobe and an almost pathological need to own the road. She’s just as bad with the walking frame on wheels she uses indoors. She nearly pinned one of the toddlers to the wall on her way out just now.”
Ziggy had no idea how to reply to that, so he didn’t. Before he lost his nerve, he blurted out the words he’d prepared in his head and rehearsed for Janine, all the way back from school.
“Uh, Janine, I was wondering if there’s any way Kylie could stay an extra hour, just a couple of days a week. My teacher wants me to apply to do computer science at uni. He’s offered to help me after school,” he said in a rush, then held his breath.
“Oh, Ziggy, honey,” replied Janine, in a tone he already knew meant no. “I would, honestly, but we only get the hall from eight a.m. until four p.m. After that there’s a whole rota of activities—karate, NCT classes, Alcoholics Anonymous. You name it. And I can’t work any later, in any case. I have commitments, too. I’m sorry.”
Ziggy knew she was. And he’d known that this would be the answer, but he’d owed it to Mr. Wingate, and to his past self with all those dreams, at least to give it a go.
“Sure. No worries,” he said. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Wait,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see the old woman with the tweed-and-fur coat. “Computer science. I presume that means you’re good with technology? The internet? Stuff like that?”
“Uh-huh,” said Ziggy. “I guess. I’m definitely the best in the class.”
“I’m Daphne,” she said. “Perhaps I could look after your little sister?”
“Daughter,” said Ziggy and Janine simultaneously.
“Good God, you’re not old enough to be a father. You’re barely old enough to shave,” said the lady, voicing the thought that Ziggy knew everyone had, but most were too polite to say out loud.
“Well, you’re not young enough to wear those jeans,” replied Ziggy. “You’re barely young enough to be alive.”
Ziggy cursed his big mouth, yet again. If he hadn’t misheard, this old lady was, for some unknown reason, offering to help him solve his problem, and he’d just insulted her.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was really rude of me. What were you saying?”
The woman’s glare softened a little. “I said I could take your daughter back to your place after nursery twice a week and wait with her until you get back from school.”
“Do you have experience with babies, Daphne?” asked Janine.
“Dear girl, how could one possibly get to my age without having experience with babies? And besides, I’d only be in charge for an hour, right? And she’s just a tiny little thing. How hard can it be?” said Daphne.
“Uh, I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” said Ziggy. Surely he couldn’t entrust his daughter to a complete stranger? “Besides, I really can’t afford to pay for babysitting.”
“I wouldn’t dream of charging you anything…” said Daphne.
Ziggy weighed up his vague concern versus the offer of free childcare. An almost imperceptible nod from Janine tipped the scales in favor of Daphne.
“OK, you’re on,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t live to regret this.
“Great. But you’ll need to do something for me in return,” said Daphne.
“Uh, like what?” asked Ziggy. Maybe he could help with weeding her garden or picking up prescriptions from the chemist. A few trips to the library, perhaps?
“Do you know anything about internet dating?” she said.