Read Me Like a Book (13 page)

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.

Miss Murray leans forward in her chair. “But what, Ash? I mean, in itself this is all tough enough for you, but I think you’re trying to tell me there’s more?”

How does she do it? She just
gets
me. I take a deep breath. “I think I might be pregnant.”

There’s a long silence during which I stare at my feet. As soon as the words are out, I realize how terrified I am of them. I start to feel sick. The room is swaying from side to side, and that just seems to confirm it. Morning sickness. What the hell am I going to
do
?

“Oh, Ash. That’s the last thing you need to be worrying about. You must feel like it’s all too much.”

I can’t reply. My throat is too clogged up. I nod instead. That is exactly how I feel.

“It’s OK. You can talk to me. Which do you want to tackle first? Your parents or your worries about being pregnant? You can tell me everything.”

So I do just that. I tell her about my birthday, Dylan breaking up with his girlfriend, the arguments at home, falling out with Cat, Dylan’s party, what happened afterward. I don’t stop till I’ve spewed the whole lot out of me. Miss Murray listens to it all. She doesn’t say much, but I don’t want her to. I just want her to listen and to let me unload everything without judging me — and that’s what she does.

How does she know exactly what I need?

She’s handing me a box of tissues. While I blow my nose, she puts her hand on my arm again and looks at me really intently. It makes me want to climb inside her eyes and curl up. But it scares me too. I don’t know why.

“Ash, you’ve got a hell of a lot going on here,” she says gently. “You need to look after yourself. There are problems with all the people you’re close to — your parents, your best friend, your boyfriend. It’s hard enough having
one
of these things going so wrong — but all at once? Well, it’s no wonder you feel like you can’t cope. Anyone in your position would feel the same.”

I listen to her, taking in every word. And it’s weird. She doesn’t say anything that makes any of it different. How could she? No one can change what’s actually happening. But just the fact that someone is saying to me, “Yeah, Ash, your life is shit right now. I hear you” makes it
seem
different. She makes me feel . . . I dunno, kind of validated, if that makes sense.

“You can’t do anything about your parents. And it’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

I shrug.

“Ashleigh?”

“Yeah, whatever. I guess.”

“Good. And it sounds like you’ve done the right thing with Dylan if you don’t feel you have a future with him. And the pregnancy thing — well, that’s just a matter of time. My guess would be that you’re
not
pregnant, but if you’re seriously worried, why not take a pregnancy test? With so much going on in your life, there’s no point in wasting valuable time — and emotion — on a problem that may not even exist.”

“I know, I know. I will. Just not yet. I guess I’m a bit too scared to face that just yet. It’s been a week — and I’m usually quite regular. But I’m probably OK,” I say, not believing it for a minute but not wanting to dwell on the idea of pregnancy too much.

“Going through stressful times can affect your cycle, you know,” Miss Murray says.

“Yeah.”

“The one thing you
can
do, though, is try to patch things up with Cat. She’s probably missing you too, you know.”

That thought hadn’t even occurred to me. “You really think so?”

Miss Murray smiles. It feels like a rainbow on a miserable day. “I would put my lottery ticket on it,” she says.

I laugh.

“Feeling a bit better?”

I nod. I am. I’m feeling a
lot
better.

I glance at my watch. Has half an hour passed already? “I’d better get going, hadn’t I?”

“Unless you want to sit in on my next lesson.” She smiles again.

I smile back. I blow my nose one last time, wipe my eyes, and get up. “Thank you so much.”

“You can come and see me anytime, you know,” she replies. “It’s what I’m here for.”

I’m thinking,
No, it’s not. This is way beyond what you’re here for
. But I don’t say it. Instead, I shuffle awkwardly to the door. “Thanks,” I repeat, feeling stupid that I can’t think of anything different to say.

“You’re more than welcome, Ash,” she says seriously.

As I walk away, I hear her at her door. “Right, come on in, folks. Sorry to have kept you. Coats off, quiet down . . .”

She kept a whole class waiting because of me.

There’s something in the back of my mind when I wake up. Just out of reach. Like when you get a bit of food stuck between your teeth, right at the back of your mouth.

Then I remember: Dad’s left.

And I remember the same thing happened yesterday morning, too, and the one before that. I feel like someone’s kicked me on a bruise. It’s not like we used to have loads of quality time together. It’s just, I don’t know, there’s something about the silence. The house echoes with too much emptiness.

Mum and I have been skirting around the subject. Not talking much at meals. I say “meals,” but that’s a bit grand for what’s been going on around here. Toast and coffee, that’s all I’ve seen her have.

She looks dreadful. Her hair’s all thin and lanky. She hasn’t gone to work since Monday; this is always a busy time, too, just before Christmas. She’s spent the week mooching around in an old pair of sweatpants and a big, baggy top. Her eyes are as saggy as her sweater, with dark rings around them. When Mr. Wyman, her boss, phoned yesterday to ask for the Pritchard file, she wouldn’t even get out of bed — just told me to tell him it was in the cabinet by the window, third drawer down, under “C.”

“Pritchard? C?”

“Car thief,” she replied and turned over.

I’m due at Dad’s, so I go upstairs to say good-bye. She’s up and sitting at her mirror putting makeup on. That’s a good sign. I go over and kiss her cheek.

“Are you going to be OK?” I ask.

She smiles weakly at me in the mirror. “Of course, darling.”

“You sure? I mean, I don’t have to go. If you’d rather I didn’t, I can always call him and tell him I —”

“Go.” Mum turns around and takes hold of both of my hands. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“OK. As long as you’re sure.”

Mum attempts another smile. “I am, darling. I’d be worse if I stopped you seeing your father.”

“Let’s do something nice later, shall we?”

“That’d be lovely,” she says. “Just you and me?”

I kiss her hand. “We’ll get a couple of DVDs, and loads of chocolate.”

Her smile finally reaches her dark eyes. “I’ll look forward to it. Now go, and have a lovely time.”

“Love you,” I say without thinking. “See you later — and you can pick the movie.”

I can’t believe the state of this place. My dad is living in a smelly little room with wallpaper peeling from the ceiling, a stove in the corner, and a bathroom in the corridor that he shares with four other flats.

He takes my hand. “Come on, love, let’s get out of here.”

“Definitely!” I shudder as he pulls the door closed. “Where are we going, then?”

“Well, where d’you want to go?”