Read Me Like a Book (17 page)

What do we think?
I
think I have never heard a teacher use the word “crap” before. And I’ve never thought about how to analyze an argument before. I’ve only ever thrown myself into them — and maybe started figuring out how I got there once I’m stuck way too far in. I think she’s like a switch that turns an old grainy black-and-white film into vibrant color. I think she wakes me up. I think I want to come up with a good idea because I’m hungry for her praise and for her to look at me and talk to me as if I’ve said something intelligent.

I think she does something to me that I don’t understand — and for now, it’s one thing I
don’t
want to analyze.

It’s dark when I get to the bus stop. I’m sure it’s been winter forever. Robyn had to leave early because her mum was taking her to a dentist appointment. Everyone else has disappeared in one direction or another, and I’m on my own waiting for the bus. I get a flicker of nerves as I look down the street. It’s raining hard, and there are big puddles at the curbs with the odd car anonymously slipping down the road and spraying the pavement in its wake like a water-skier.

Then this car slows down as it comes toward me. A black Fiat 500. My chest is thumping, and I pray that it’s not a curb crawler with a thing for teenage girls. I shove my hands in my pockets, making as mean and unwelcoming a face as I can, but the driver slows right down. The car pulls over just past the bus stop. What am I going to do now? I glance around for my best escape route when the driver honks. I pretend I haven’t noticed and start to walk briskly in the opposite direction.

“Ash!” a familiar voice calls from behind me. I spin around and feel like the biggest idiot in the world. It’s Miss Murray!

“Where are you going?” she asks, leaning out of her window as I come toward her.

“Just home.”

She smiles. “Where’s home?”

“Oh, right. It’s, er, Willow Drive, in the Manor estate. D’you know it?”

“Not the road, but I know the area. It’s on my way home.” She leans over to unlock the passenger door. “Get in. I’ll drop you off.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s pouring and you’re getting drenched. Of course I’m sure. Come on, we can talk about the meeting. And about your schoolwork.” She puts on a stern face as I get in the car.

“Ah, now I understand,” I say with a smile as I put my seat belt on. “You just want to have a go at me for my last essay while I can’t escape.”

“Damn. You’ve cottoned on to my tactics at last,” she says, slapping the steering wheel in fake frustration.

A comfortable silence follows, and then a moment later she says, “No, it’s good to have the company on the way back. I hate driving in silence, and my radio’s broken.”

We’ve stopped at a traffic light, and she glances across at me. “Anyway, it’s nice to have a chance to catch up with you, see how you’re getting on.”

“Right,” I say, getting tongue-tied again. I’m replaying what she said about having company. Does she mean
my
company, or would anyone do? Am I special in any way? I mean — she pretty much makes everyone she talks to feel special, but would she give
any
student a lift home?

She gives me another quick glance, then laughs.

“What?” I ask guiltily.

“You look deep in thought.”

I’m grateful for the dark, and for her eyes on the road so she can’t see my face heat up. Is she psychic? Did she hear my thoughts?

OK, so she makes me feel special
and
paranoid.

“So what do you think of the group, then?” she goes on, telepathically knowing I need to change the subject.

“It’s great, actually. I enjoyed thinking about why some things are more fun to argue about than others.”

Miss Murray laughs. “So you’re glad I twisted your arm into getting involved?”

“Yeah, I’m glad you talked me into it.” Jesus. For a second, I hear myself and I’m relieved Cat can’t hear me raving about an after-school club.

“Good. It’s a nice group. I thought everyone had great ideas.”

“Me too. I liked Aidan and Sal’s one about dogs versus cats.”

“Yeah, that was funny, wasn’t it? Especially the way they did it, with Aidan as a cat and Sal as a dog. Very individual. And clever too, because on the surface it was about which one is cuter, but underneath, it was all about how we see ourselves and each other. That’s probably a contender, actually.”

And there she goes again. All we’re doing is discussing a debate about pets, and yet she gets my mind making twelve million leaps. Aidan and Sal had basically said that dogs just want to love and cats just want to be served, and that we’re all like one or the other.

I look at Miss Murray as she drives. Which one is she? Right now, I feel like the dog. I just want to be around her and make her smile.

The thought makes me edgy. I don’t get why I’m thinking about her like this. It’s not normal. Not normal for me anyway. I mean, I’ve never really thought about
anyone
like this. I think back to my boyfriends. I was really into Dylan to begin with, and, yeah, I checked my phone every five minutes to see if he’d texted, but it wasn’t like this. I didn’t want time to stand still whenever we were together so the moment would last longer. I didn’t spend every minute thinking about what I could do that might make him smile.

Shouldn’t I have felt like this about my boyfriends rather than about Miss Murray?

“Your suggestions were great too,” she says. “I loved the one about the Internet being evil. I thought your ideas were bang on.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Especially what you said about social networks and iPhones — how people are always looking for something more than they’ve got, looking to be somewhere other than where they are. It was clever. I liked it.” Miss Murray laughs. “You remind me of myself sometimes in the way you think.”

I want to wrap up what she’s said and take it home with me. It feels like a gift. And I want to say something clever and witty so she’ll keep on liking what I say — but I can’t think of anything. We don’t speak for a minute, and I have a brief panic. I don’t want the journey to end in silence. I don’t want it to end at all, actually. Each time we come to a set of lights, I will them to be red.

I decide to take a risk. “So, what was your unforeseen domestic emergency?” My voice trembles a bit.

She winces. “Didn’t know you’d heard that. Well, I’d like to tell you that my washing machine exploded, but unfortunately it wasn’t quite as simple as that.” Then she looks across and half-frowns, half-grins. She doesn’t say anything else.

“Is it something to do with Mr. Philips?”

“What would Mr. Philips have to do with it?” Her grin deepens, but she looks puzzled. I usually love it when she smiles, especially when it’s me who’s made her smile. It’s like getting an A+
and
a gold star on your work. Only this time I feel stupid. I wish I could take the words back. She says, “You don’t think Mr. Philips and I are —”

“No, course not,” I leap in. “I just meant . . .” What can I say? That
was
what I meant. My voice trails away. I’m an idiot and she’s laughing at me; she thinks I’m a stupid kid who doesn’t know anything.

She stops laughing. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just that I didn’t think you would imagine I’d be with someone like Mr. Philips. I thought you’d have known . . .” Her voice trails off.

“Known what?” I ask with more urgency than I can account for. We’re nearly at the Manor estate, and my time is running out.

She turns into the estate and pauses before replying. I’m panicky and excited, and I’m sure she’ll hear my heart over the engine.

Then she opens her mouth to speak. I hold my breath; letting it out would pierce the moment. I just want to stay sitting in her car with her, like this. I steal a quick look at her. As soon as she faces me again, I know I’ll look away, embarrassed, caught out.

Her hair is tucked behind her ears, a few stray strands lazily brushing her cheek. I suddenly have the strongest sensation of wanting to reach out and curl them in place behind her ear. Oh, my God! What the hell am I thinking? What’s happening to me?

My face burns. But I carry on looking at her. She’s got laughter lines, like Mr. Philips. They make her look sophisticated. She’s probably only five or six years older than me, but I suddenly feel boring and young. I don’t want her to see me as a kid.

She turns to me and I instantly look away, just as I knew I would.

“Sorry, Ash,” she says. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s only that . . . Mr. Philips isn’t exactly my type, that’s all. He’s a nice man, a very nice man — just not for me.”

I want to ask her something more, but I’m not sure I can find the right words.

“Now, where’s this Willow Road?” she asks. The moment has passed. I give her directions and we drive in silence.

“Thanks for the lift.” I fiddle with my seat belt as she pulls up at my house.

“It’s fine, Ash. Any time. It was nice to have your company.”

“Yeah, you too,” I mumble.

“And Ash,” she says, briefly putting her hand on my arm as I open the door, “I’m glad you joined the group. It’s good to have you there.”

My arm’s burning and so is my face. I’m desperate to get away, and I want to stay all evening. As getting away is the only option, I step out of the car. “Thanks again,” I say, and I stand in the road for a while as she drives off.

The street’s quiet. Something about it feels different; something’s shifted, but I don’t quite know what. Or maybe I do, but I’m not ready to admit it just yet.

Looking up at the sky, I think about the way things change: faint blue day to this dense, jet-black night, marriage to divorce, certainty to uncertainty. Maybe
I’m
not everything I thought I was. The thought gives me a prickly sensation at the back of my neck, like an itch, only one that doesn’t go away when you scratch it. It’s like watching a horror film when you know something scary’s coming up but you don’t know what.

Perhaps nothing is as simple as it looks. Perhaps everything has another layer, a hidden room that only reveals itself when you accidentally stumble across the secret door.

Or perhaps I’m talking bollocks and it’s time to go to bed.

“Another cup of tea, Ashleigh?” Elaine hovers over a tray of delicate white china teacups. I reply with a shrug. She looks nervously at Dad, who looks nervously at me.

“What?” Am I meant to be happy about this? Bizarrely, I’m only here for Mum. She said we should show them we’re not bothered.

To be honest, I don’t hold it against Dad. It’s actually been quite nice at home not having arguments going on every day. And Elaine’s not all that bad, I suppose. It’s just weird. At least she’s not a blond bimbo half his age. She looks stern when she listens to me, as she frowns and screws up her eyes.

“The cake’s delicious,” I say, smiling at Elaine through gritted teeth. Mum also said to be polite.

She beams at Dad, who gives me a grateful smile.

“I’ll give you the recipe if you like,” she says, cutting me another piece.

“Ash making a cake?” Dad says with a laugh. “That’ll be the day.”

“She’s a talented young lady, Gordon.” Elaine pats his knee and leaves her hand there. She gives me a quick wink — or is it a nervous twitch? “I’m sure she could do anything she wanted.”

I’m looking at Dad’s knee. Too much too soon, Elaine. I’m his daughter. He only split up with my Mum two months ago.
Move your hand
.

Dad shifts a bit in his seat and she eventually takes her hand away.

“Wouldn’t mind another piece myself,” Dad says. He holds out his plate and they smile as their eyes meet. Did he and Mum ever look at each other like that?

Next second, the front door opens, breaking their gaze, thank God.

“Jason, darling!” Elaine jumps up and flies to the door.

“Hi, Mum.” A boy about my age squeezes past her, throwing a gray raincoat over the sofa.

“You’re just in time to meet Ashleigh.” She takes him by the hand.

“Hi, Ashleigh,” he says without looking at me.

“Hi,” I say. “It’s Ash.”

“Ash, this is Jason, Elaine’s son,” Dad chips in.

“Hi. It’s Jayce,” he says with half a grimace — or is it half a smile?

“Hi, Jayce,” I say.

“Right, then.” Jayce heads toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Elaine snaps.

“To my room. Why?”

“You’ve not forgotten we’re going out for dinner?”

Jayce heaves a heavy sigh. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’m just making a phone call.”

“He’s probably had a difficult day at work,” Elaine says once he’s out of earshot. “He’s such a good lad.” Then she and Dad exchange little conspiratorial smiles.

It’s going to be a long evening.

I stare down at a huge white plate with a small circle of meat in the middle and tiny slivers of vegetables balanced beautifully across it. A line of sauce has been delicately drizzled around the edge of the plate. Fine dining. Polite clinks echo around the restaurant as well-dressed family groups and trendy young couples talk in waiting-room whispers across glass tables. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my jeans.

“How’s school going, love?” Dad cuts into a minuscule piece of fish.