Read Me Like a Book (11 page)

I sit back down. It’s his voice that stops me more than anything. It sounds so grave. For a moment, I think perhaps someone has died.

Mum comes back to the table and sits with her head in her hands. Dad looks down at the table. I sit stock-still, barely breathing. An onlooker might have thought we were saying grace, except Mum doesn’t look thankful for anything. I can’t see her face, but her shoulders are shaking slightly.

“Mum?” Is she laughing? Surely not. An emptiness grabs at my stomach.

“Dad?”

He draws a sharp breath, looks out the window. When Mum eventually lifts her head up, her face is streaked with mascara. A skunk gone wrong.

I can’t ignore this any longer. I can’t block it out or pretend it’s not really happening. This is real. Way too real.

“Mum? What’s this about?” I ask through an empty throat, a tiny part of me still hoping I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe everything’s OK with them. Maybe it’s me — they know about the party, about Dylan. Or the shoplifting! Suddenly, all of those options feel better than the one I know inside is the real one. “Have I done something wrong?”

Mum’s eyes fill again, shining blurrily at me. She shakes her head.

“It’s us, love, it’s not you,” Dad says. “We don’t want . . . we’re not . . .” He looks at me, holds my eyes for a moment before speaking to the table. “We’re getting a divorce.”

And that’s it. Four words, and the walls I’ve spent all these weeks building up tumble down so quickly it’s as if they were never there.

Everything is quiet. Mum closes her mouth and looks as though she’s holding her breath. Dad’s eyes stay fixed on the table. There’s no movement. I feel as if someone has clamped two massive hands over my ears and two more over my eyes, and my mind goes blank.

When I was about five, we went to the coast for a holiday. One evening, I went down to the beach with Dad. It was totally dark. No streetlights, no cars or roads or houses or anything. Only this great expanse of beach, and the black sky, and, in the distance, the sea. I remember standing there, holding my dad’s hand and feeling very small and alone. If you listened carefully, all you could hear was the sea, rumbling in the distance. Nothing else. Just nature. Huge, bleak, dark, almost silent. It was like the beginning of the world. Or the end.

I can remember the sensation so clearly. First the silence, and the blackness, then gradually this slow rumbling in the distance. Something unfamiliar coming closer and closer. Scaring me.

I hadn’t thought about that for years — till now.

I realize they’re waiting for me to speak. What can I say? That I’m surprised? That would be a lie. Devastated? That would be too true. Should I beg them not to do it? Would it make any difference?

“Are you sure?” I hear myself ask in a shaky voice.

Mum makes a kind of choking sound and nods her head.

“I’m sorry, love,” Dad says gently.

“Is there anything I can say that would make a difference?”

“We’ve tried everything,” Dad says. “It’s just not working. It’s over.”

My parents aren’t working. My family is over. I can’t make my brain compute the words, even though I think I should be able to. I mean, it’s not as if this is the biggest surprise in the world. Life in this house has been pretty awful for a long time. But it’s only now that I realize there’s a massive difference between endless arguments and actual divorce.

“When?” I ask. “I mean, are you doing it straightaway, having a trial separation, or what?”

Mum looks up. Fresh tears are streaking down her face. She wipes them away with her hand, smudging the mascara away so it crisscrosses around her cheek. A clown in a storm.

“Your father’s moving out in a few weeks. Just as soon as he can get organized,” she says, suddenly not sounding like my mum, but like — I don’t know — just another person whose fight isn’t with me.

“A few
weeks
? Dad?”

Dad lifts his head slightly. Still not enough to meet my eyes. He gives a small nod. “We can’t do it anymore,” Dad says. “Neither of us can do it anymore.”

Mum bites her knuckles as a choking noise escapes.

“Where will you go?” I ask Dad.

“I’ll stay in a studio apartment for a bit, till we get things sorted out.”

“A
studio
?”

“Just for a little while.”

I look at Mum. “This is definite?”

She shrugs, and then, almost imperceptibly, nods.

I turn to Dad. He looks beaten and worn out. “I think so,” he adds.

I stare at them both. What have they done to each other? They’re broken. I can see it. And yes, OK, a tiny bit of me knows they’re probably doing the right thing — but there’s a selfish part of me too, wondering if they’ve thought about me in all this. I know it’s unfair, so I don’t say anything, but I feel as if they’re ripping up an agreement they had with each other and tearing me down the middle.

“I don’t want you to get divorced,” I say eventually.

Dad gets out of his chair and sits down next to me. He puts his arm around me as I sit stiff in my seat. “I know, love, I know. Neither of us wants it either, but we’re out of options.” He strokes my hair. Mum moves back to the sink.

When did my dad last touch me? It feels alien. I remember when he used to pick me up from Brownies. He’d wheel my bike while I walked along the walls on our street, holding his hand all the way. Then I’d jump down into his arms for a bear hug when we reached our house. Those hugs. Those safe arms.

“When will I see you?” I ask.

“That’s up to you. I’ll be there whenever you want me.”

“Weekends and stuff?”

“Weekends, school holidays, whatever.”

I nearly laugh. I’m only going to have two more school holidays — Christmas and Easter. Then what? University? Unlikely, given last summer’s results. Work? What will I do, stack shelves in the grocery store for the rest of my life? My future suddenly has question marks everywhere. A panicky feeling is thudding in my chest and I need to get away.

I pull away from Dad and try to smile at him. “I need to get to school.” I leave the table and touch Mum’s arm. “I’ll see you later,” I say.

In the doorway, I stop and turn back to them. Summoning up every bit of strength I’ve got, I force the tears out of my ears and out of my throat. “I still love you both,” I say. “Whatever happens.”

And then I get my stuff and leave the house.

I glance through the window as I close the gate. Dad’s still sitting at the table, staring at nothing. Mum’s washing up, her head down, hair fallen forward, almost in the sink.

I feel like an orphan.

I blow on my hands as I walk through the bitter streets. It doesn’t help much, so I shove them in my pockets where I find an old cough drop that’s unwrapped itself and oozed its smooth, liquid center into the lining of my coat. My pocket is now stuck together with semi-hardened, honey-flavored gunk. Perfect.

My mind is as cold as my hands when I get off the bus. Robyn’s waiting at the bus stop, and we walk to school together in silence.

“You OK?” she asks after a bit.

“Uh-huh.”

She looks at me with concern. I don’t want concern; I want distraction. “Is it Dylan?”

“Is what Dylan?”

“It. You know. You look like death cooled down. Has something happened?”

“It’s not Dylan.”

“What, then?”

“Look, it’s nothing, OK?” I snap. Cat wouldn’t have badgered me like this. She’d have teased me or taken my mind off it with some mad plan.

We still haven’t spoken.

I don’t want to fall out with Robyn too. “I’m sorry.” I force a smile. I need to change the subject. “Have you heard from Luke yet?”

“Oh, God.” Robyn goes bright red. “I don’t know what I was doing kissing him on Friday. I hardly know the guy!”

I think about Dylan and me and what
we
did on Friday. My own face starts to burn.

“I think he fancies Cat. I thought you and her were mates anyway,” Robyn says.

“Yeah, correct. Were.”

“Oh, sorry. Is that what’s wrong?”

“Look, nothing’s wrong, OK? Just leave it.”

Robyn looks like I’ve stamped on her toe. She was only trying to be nice. “Look, I’m sorry. Really.” I stop walking and turn to face her. “I’m having a bit of a hard time at the moment, and I wouldn’t know where to start, or stop. I just want to try and forget about it for now. Is that OK?”

“Sure,” she says with a smile. “But if you change your mind, then I’m here, right?”

“Right, deal.” I feel ridiculously grateful. So much so that I almost think I could tell her everything on the spot and probably cry my eyes out the whole time. I suddenly realize Robyn’s becoming the nearest thing I’ve got to a best friend.

Eventually, I smile back as much as I can with a numb face and mumble, “Thanks.”

At the end of English, Robyn’s waiting for me to get my stuff together. “I’ll catch up with you,” I say, taking my time.

Miss Murray’s filling in the register at her desk and hasn’t noticed I’m still there. I cough gently. She looks up and smiles straightaway. There’s something about the way she smiles. It’s not like my mum’s big red secretary smile or Cat’s scheming grin. It’s like standing in a patch of sunlight. She does it every time, and right now my life is so dark, I need some of that sunshine.

I’ve been thinking about it during the lesson. How these lessons are the only place where I really feel I can let go of everything. I need more of that, so I’ve made a decision. I grimace at her. “I’ve been thinking about that group.”

“The debating group?”

“Mmm.”

Miss Murray puts her pen down. “And?”

“Well, I thought I might try it out. I could do with some distraction at the moment.” I feel my voice crack as I speak. Oh, no. I can’t start crying in front of Miss Murray.

“Is everything all right?” She runs a hand through her hair and focuses hard on my face. My eyes start to sting under her gaze.

“Yeah, fine.” I look down. “I just, you know . . .” For a second, I want to tell her how awful everything is. I want to cry, and I want her to tell me it’ll all be OK. She’s the one who can
make
it OK.

Then I pull myself together and clear my throat. “I just thought I’d like to get involved. At least, I think I do. I mean, it’s not all geeks, is it?”

Miss Murray laughs. “Yeah. You’ll hate it.”

I make a face.

“No, it isn’t, but if you’re worried, why don’t you get someone else to join with you? Robyn, maybe? You made a good team in the death penalty debate.”

I think for a second. She’s right. Joining with Robyn is actually a really good idea. Robyn would love it. And, yeah, we
were
a pretty good team.

“OK, I’ll do it,” I say.

Miss Murray smiles again. “Well, that’s great. We start next term. I’ll give you more details when I’ve got them. You know the math teacher, Mr. Philips? He’s running it with me.”

“Great.” I grin. Jesus. What are things coming to when a
teacher
is the only person who can make me smile?

“You’re looking better,” Robyn says as I catch up with her down the main drive. I tell her what I’ve just been talking about with Miss Murray.

“That’s so cool!” Robyn enthuses.

“Really?” A debating club is
cool
? I try hard not to think about the kind of words Cat might use to describe the idea. I’m not sure how many of them would be polite, but I know that “cool” would
definitely
not be one of them. Before Robyn can rethink her opinion, I carry on. “So Miss Murray asked if you might want to join too.”

Robyn tilts her head to the side as she thinks. “Are you definitely joining?” she asks.

“I will if you will,” I tell her.

She grins. “OK,” she says. “You’re on.”

“That’s great!” I’m about to say more when I spot Dylan, and his unexpected appearance snatches my words away.

He’s waiting for me outside the gates, leaning against his car and fiddling with his phone. He hasn’t noticed me, and a shot of nerves jams my throat. For a moment I feel like turning back and waiting till he’s gone.

Then Robyn says, “Hey, there’s Dylan,” and he looks up. He grins, but it’s different. Like when you smile for a camera because it’s expected, as opposed to when you just can’t help yourself and your whole face gives off a feeling of pleasure.

I smile back.
Say cheese
.

“See you tomorrow, then.” Robyn takes this as her cue to exit, making me panic for a second. I don’t want her to go. I’m suddenly nervous about being alone with Dylan; I don’t know what to say to him.
Jesus, Ash, get it together
.
This boy was on top of your naked body last weekend. He’s not exactly a stranger.

“Yeah, see you,” I say, trying to stay calm.

Dylan puts his arm around me, and I try to relax. He doesn’t ask why I haven’t answered his calls, and I don’t offer any explanation. It feels like a barrier. So does the sex, the party, and what’s happened with my parents. I suddenly realize we don’t have anything to talk about.

“Good day at school?” he asks.

“Yeah, not bad.”

“So what you been up to?”

How the hell am I supposed to answer that?
Oh, the usual, you know. Dad’s leaving home, Mum’s a wreck, and I’ve turned into a geek. How about you?

I wish we could get back to how it was. I think I do anyway.

“Not a lot. What about you?” I say eventually.

“Same.”

We
really
don’t have anything to say to each other. I try to remember what we spent all our time talking about before. Before.

But I can’t.

“You want a lift home?” he asks. “Or to maybe go for a walk or something?”

I pause for a moment. “I’d better get home, if that’s OK?” It’s weird. The thought of being at home is about the most painful thing I can imagine right now — apart from the thought of
not
being there.

“Want to go see a movie this evening?” Dylan asks casually as he drops me at the end of the street. Actually, the thought of getting engrossed in someone else’s story is probably the best idea I’ve heard in days. “Definitely!” I reply, and we smile genuinely at each other for the first time since the party.