Read Me Like a Book Page 9

  Half of me wants to run over and get the gossip, but of course I don’t. She looks over in our direction, deliberately makes no eye contact, then whispers something in Luke’s ear and they both laugh. She’s gone and turned him against me too? After everything I’ve done for him.

  Then Dylan spots them.

  “Hey, look,” he says, getting all excited. “Why don’t we hook up with them, make it a foursome?”

  “Actually, I’m kind of feeling a bit rubbish tonight. I don’t know if I want to see a film after all.”

  He looks confused for a moment, and then his face brightens up. “You want to go back to my house, just watch telly . . . or something?” He puts his arm around me. “My parents won’t be in till late.”

  “Yeah, fine.” I don’t know if his “or something” is what I want either. What I do know is that I want to get out of there.

  When we get in the car, he pulls me close to kiss me. It’s the first real kiss we’ve had since the party.

  “What’s that for?” I smile uncertainly.

  “Who says it’s for anything?”

  “Well, it must be for something. You’ve not done that for ages.”

  He pulls away. I shouldn’t have said anything. “Yeah, well. I didn’t know if you wanted to.”

  “It was nice.”

  “Come on.” He starts the car. “Let’s get back to my place.”

  Half an hour later, we’re at his house, snogging on the sofa. Corrie is on the telly, and two barely touched cans of Stella are on the floor. Dylan is fiddling behind my back to get hold of my bra strap.

  “Dylan . . .”

  He carries on. A second later, it’s undone. He groans as he moves his hand around from my back, but I pull myself away from him. “Stop. Wait.”

  He looks puzzled. “What’s up?”

  What is up? My first thought is to say I don’t want to do it without a condom. My second thought is that I don’t want to do it, full stop. I can’t switch off from the unwanted pictures in my mind: Dad in some poky studio, Mum alone at home, leaning over the sink, holding on to it as though she’d crumple without it.

  “Look, I’m not really in the mood,” I begin. I’ve decided I’m going to tell him everything. I need to get it off my chest. Maybe I’ll feel better about us if I do. Maybe things could feel more like they did a couple of weeks ago.

  But he’s moving away from me. “It’s OK,” he says. He sounds beaten. “I get it. D’you want me to take you home?”

  “What? Why are you asking that?”

  “Listen, I’m not the kind of guy who forces himself on girls who don’t want it. I don’t need to do that, you know.” There’s a hard edge in his voice. I haven’t heard that before. To be honest, I don’t blame him.

  “I know you don’t need to.” My own voice has tightened.

  “So, shall I take you home?”

  What’s the point in trying to explain? I’m tired. I haven’t got the energy for this. I stand up. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe you’d better.”

  We drive home in silence.

  I go through the next couple of days in a zombie-like state. I hardly even know what’s going on around me. I’m shut off from all of it.

  Friday morning, I skulk into English class. Miss Murray’s frowning as I close the door behind me. We’ve each got ten-minute appointments to talk through a test she gave us last week. I know I’ve failed.

  “Sit down, Ash.”

  I feel like turning around and walking straight out. I can’t handle getting a major lecture on top of everything else, especially not from her. “Look, I know it wasn’t very good. It’s just —”

  “Ash, what you’ve written is fine.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s great. The Paper One question wasn’t so strong; you need to refer to the texts a bit more. I suspect you didn’t review last year’s books terribly well.”

  I look at my feet.

  “But the Paper Two section.” She waves the paper at me. “Ash, it’s excellent. You showed a very thorough grasp of Wuthering Heights, and you analyzed the poem brilliantly.”

  I stare at her. “You have got the right person, haven’t you?”

  She looks at the top of the page. “Well, as long as you’re actually Ashleigh Walker and not an imposter.”

  “I wish I was. Wouldn’t mind swapping my life for someone else’s at the moment.” I bite my lip the moment the words are out. Why did I say that?

  Thing is, she makes me want to talk to her. Tell her everything. It’s the way she looks at me, as if she’s really listening, as if she cares about what I’ve got to say, her green eyes staring into mine as she folds a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s as if she can see right inside my head. I can’t remember anyone else ever looking at me like that.

  “Do you want to talk about it, Ash?”

  Yes, yes, I want to sit and talk with you all day.

  I’m shocked at what I’ve just thought. Is that really what I want? I blush, as if I’ve accidentally said it out loud. “Nah. It’s nothing,” I reply quickly. “I was just messing about. I’m fine.” All those years with Cat have left their mark. I am officially an expert at skirting around anything that might resemble a genuine feeling.

  “Well, if you change your mind . . .”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “As long as you’re sure. About your work, then. I’ve been looking back in the files and have noticed that your marks really don’t seem to reflect your ability.”

  So it was just a well-disguised lecture after all.

  “And I think you should come to the extra classes I’m running on Wednesdays.”

  “Extra classes!” I snort. “It already takes all my effort to get to the ones I’ve got.”

  “Yes, I’d wondered if there was a bit of an attendance problem.”

  Here we go.

  “But that’s not what this is about,” she goes on. “My job is to get you through your A-levels, and, as far as English is concerned, you can do very well, but you’ve got a lot of catching up to do. You’ll need to work pretty hard to get a good average after your grades last year. Look, just think about it.”

  What’s she up to? Has Mr. Kenworthy left some notes behind suggesting she wind me up to get me back for everything I did to him? Extra work? I’ve only ever done that as a punishment. Detentions for bad behavior.

  “I don’t really think —”

  “Anyone can change, you know,” Miss Murray says, breaking in. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of if you want to pass your A-levels.” She pauses. “How are you getting on with your applications?”

  I look at her blankly.

  “University applications.”

  I look away from her. “Not bothering.”

  “Ash, you must!” she says as though it really matters to her. “The deadline is this week. Just fill it in. Keep your options open.”

  “I don’t even know what I’d study.”

  Miss Murray hands me my test and pauses while I look at the figure at the top: I didn’t fail! In fact, I did rather well. Then she says, “I wouldn’t have any doubts if I were you.”

  I stare at the test, then up at her. Her eyes seem to be telling me she knows something I don’t. Directing me somewhere. It’s like someone has come along while I was scrabbling about in a dark house trying to find my way around and shown me a door I hadn’t seen. There’s a chink of light underneath, and I want to know what’s there. Anything’s worth a try right now, even if it means turning into a complete nerd. And at least Cat isn’t around to tease me about it.

  “OK, I’ll do it today,” I hear myself saying.

  Would anything she suggested sound like a good idea?

  It’s the luggage that does it. Three big suitcases, a couple of bags, a few odds and ends. I don’t know what I’d imagined, but it wasn’t this. If anything, I suppose I’d pictured him going off with a duffel bag, maybe staying away a few days, then coming back saying they’d made a big mist
ake and were going to stick together after all.

  If you looked around the rooms, you wouldn’t think there was anything missing. But it’s like one of those spot-the-difference cartoons in a puzzle book. The changes are so subtle, yet glaringly obvious once you’ve seen them. A photo missing here, a cup there. A heart a bit more broken than it was before.

  From behind my bedroom door, I can hear Dad moving around the house.

  I’m not going to watch him carry all his belongings away in bags and boxes.

  I keep picking things up and putting them down, attempting to do my homework then realizing I’ve been staring at the same line for ten minutes and not taken in a word. I try tidying things away but find myself sitting on the floor, holding a sock and not knowing what I’m doing with it.

  Then there’s a knock on my door.

  I stand in the middle of my room, biting my knuckles.

  “Ash, love, it’s Dad.”

  I can’t answer. My throat hurts.

  “Can I come in?” He waits a moment and then comes in anyway, sits on the bed. He holds his hand out to me, but lets it drop to his lap when I don’t take it.

  “Why don’t you come and see me next Saturday?” he asks. “We’ll do something nice together.”

  When’s the last time we did anything nice together? Does he remember the happy times, like I do? Does he realize how long ago they were?

  It’d be easier if I were a kid. Then he could pick me up on Saturdays and take me to the zoo and buy me an ice cream, spoil me rotten then drop me off at home for Mum to pick up the pieces. It’s hard to imagine what we might do now. Sit and watch Match of the Day together? Read the weekend papers? Talk about . . . what? What do we talk about?

  “Yeah, that’d be nice,” I say.

  “I’ll ring you up about it, then. And see you next weekend.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Will you be OK?”

  I nod. He stands up and kicks one foot against the other. Funny, I do that too. I suddenly — belatedly? — wonder how much we have in common.

  “Look, I’d better, you know . . . I’ll ring you.”

  I can’t look up, and I don’t trust myself to speak. If I stop and think about it, I still don’t really understand why he’s leaving, why they couldn’t try again. Best not to stop and think about it.

  “Are you going to give your old dad a hug, then?”

  I lean into him and he holds me tight for a minute, kisses me gently on the forehead before shuffling over to the door. “It’ll be all right, love.”

  I fold my arms tight around myself and nod.

  Then he’s gone.

  I’m sitting on the window ledge where I used to wait for his car to come home, and now his car’s crammed full of enough belongings to take him away from us.

  He and Mum are talking in the hall, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I don’t want to.

  Then Dad walks down the drive. He glances up at my window to wave. I instinctively jump back. I’m not going to wave him off. I’m not going to do that.

  I watch the car drive to the end of the road, flash a turn signal, round the corner.

  Gone. That’s it. My dad’s gone.

  I stand in the window for a long time, watching while nothing happens in the street.

  After a while, I can hear a muffled noise coming from downstairs.

  Mum doesn’t even notice me enter the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, head in her arms, body hunched and jolting with each sob as though she’s retching.

  Something inside me unblocks. I kneel down on the floor beside her and she stops for a moment, looks at me, her face contorted with grief. Without thinking, I slide my arms around her waist. Immediately, she wraps her arms around my head and we hold each other, rocking and sobbing, almost afraid to let go in case the other one is next to leave.

  We sit like that for a long time as the house grows darker.

  Monday morning, Mum’s leaving for work as I come downstairs. Neither of us knows what to say, so we don’t say anything. She looks awful. She hasn’t bothered putting any makeup on, and her face is pale and thin. For the first time, I notice lines cutting down the edges of her cheeks.

  As I eat breakfast on my own, I miss Dad’s slurping and chewing.

  “Don’t be late for school!” Mum calls from the door, and for once I smile at the words. At the constancy of them.

  And then my phone beeps.

  It’s a text from Dylan. The first contact we’ve had since last week. Sorry not been in touch. Not sure how you feel. Thought you might text, but you haven’t!!! Do you still want to go out with me???? x

  How am I meant to answer that? How can he just spring a question like that on me in a text? I can’t deal with this right now. My dad’s just walked out on us. Doesn’t Dylan realize that’s more important to me?

  Well, no. Of course he doesn’t, because I haven’t told him. In fact, now that I think about it, I can hardly recall a proper conversation between us. A conversation about something that really matters. What exactly have we got in common? What’s holding us together?

  Maybe it’s time to start facing facts. Dylan and me — we’re not right. He’s a nice guy; I’m a nice girl. We’ve had fun — but it just doesn’t click. Doesn’t work smoothly. Any of it. And it’s about time I said so.

  But do I really want to do it in a text?

  I look at my phone. Sod it — he’s asked the question. Without stopping to consider the irony of finally telling him my real feelings when it’s about splitting up, I type my reply.

  Am not sure, I write. Then I add, I guess it’s not really working. Maybe we should call it a day? x

  It’s only after I’ve sent it that I realize how much I mean it. When my phone beeps again, I grab it quickly, surprising myself by how much I’m hoping his answer says he agrees.

  I open the text.

  Maybe you’re right. We can still be friends though? x

  I can’t ignore the relief I feel, and I know for sure that this is what I want. I write my reply. Of course. No hard feelings, I hope? Sorry it didn’t work out. Take care. x

  A minute later, there’s a reply.

  OK. You too. See you around, love Dylan xx

  I almost laugh. It’s the first time either of us has ever used the word “love.”

  I stare at my phone. Can it really be that easy to split up with the boy I lost my virginity to less than a month ago? Can technology really be that advanced? Or is “advanced” the wrong word?

  As my eyes glaze over and my mind numbs, I notice the most awful feeling creeping up inside me. I can’t put my finger on it. I know it could have something to do with the fact that my dad’s left home, my mum’s falling apart, my best friend isn’t speaking to me, and I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend, but I’ve still got a feeling it’s something more than that.

  It’s only later, as I watch a woman with straggly hair and a screaming toddler get on the bus, that it hits me.

  My period is late.

  I find myself wandering past the English room as Miss Murray is coming out.

  “Hi, Ash, are you all right?” she asks as she locks the door.

  I don’t know what possesses me to say what I say next. The words are out before I’ve even thought about them. “No. In fact, I’m pretty crap. Can I talk to you?”

  She looks at her watch. I knew it. She never really meant it when she said she’d listen to me. She’s just like all the other teachers, pretending she cares but really just counting the minutes till the bell rings and she doesn’t have to think about us.

  “Forget it.” I turn away.

  “I’ve got about half an hour till my next class — final one of the year.” She smiles.

  I’d forgotten it’s nearly the end of term. Bloody Christmas soon.

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  Then she’s unlocking the door again. I follow her inside and my nerve takes a nosedive. What am I doing? A whole tumble of thoughts pile
into my head. What if someone sees me and thinks I’m sucking up to the teachers? What if she laughs at me? What if I cry and can’t stop? What if —

  “Have a seat.” Miss Murray sits down at her desk and pulls up another chair.

  I sit down and put my bag on my knee. Hands in her lap, she leans forward, facing me. I look at my bag. Then I look at the walls — loads of books. Shelf after shelf of sets of hardback books: Romeo and Juliet, To Kill a Mockingbird, a brand new set of Life of Pi.

  “Ash, how can I help?” Miss Murray touches me gently on my arm and I jump. You know that stupid joke where you say, “Have you ever seen a match burn twice?” You light a match: once. Then you blow it out and touch it on someone’s arm: twice. It feels like that.

  I stop looking around the room and meet her eyes. “I know this might sound really stupid to you, but I just feel like my life’s falling apart.”

  “Go on,” she says softly.

  “My mum and dad have kind of . . . well, my dad’s left home.” I’m suddenly ashamed. Maybe she’ll think there’s something wrong with me that made my dad walk out. I don’t want her to think that. OK, I admit it. I want her to like me. So what?

  “Oh, Ash. I’m so sorry,” she says. “How awful for you. No wonder you looked so down.”

  Yes! Exactly! Finally, someone recognizes that this is pretty rubbish for me, as well as for them. And of course, it’s her. For the first time, I don’t feel so selfish for feeling that this is something that’s happening to me as well as to my parents.

  I fiddle with the buckle on my bag while I carry on. “They argue loads, but that’s normal, isn’t it? I mean, he shouldn’t just leave. I don’t understand.”

  I glance up without moving my head.

  She’s still looking at me. “It’s hard to say whether it’s normal or not,” she says. “Every marriage is different. But what I do know is that it can’t be easy for you, being in the middle, feeling torn in half.”

  Yes! She understands me so well!

  “It’s a really horrible situation, for all of you.”

  I nod. “And my boyfriend and I have just split up. We weren’t together for very long, and it was me who ended it, but . . . but . . .” I stop. My throat hurts.