Read Me Like a Book

  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?”

  “Um.” Crikey. When did Dad and I last actually do something or go somewhere together? I can’t even think.

  We end up at McDonald’s, where our joint skills at avoiding talking about what’s really going on are instantly exposed, like a bright day showing up a dirty window. Sample conversation:

  Dad: How’s school, love?

  Me: Fine.

  Dad: Done anything interesting this week?

  Me: Not really.

  Dad: You going to have a Big Mac or McChicken?

  Me: McChicken, I reckon. Meal deal. What about you?

  Dad: Think I’ll go for the Big Mac
myself.

  Elephant in the room, anyone?

  As we finish up our food, I decide to try and talk about it.

  “Dad . . .”

  He looks at me, and for a second I wonder why his expression seems so familiar: dark eyes, pale skin, no hint that this is a face that ever knew how to smile. Then I realize where I’ve seen it before. On Mum.

  “Is it . . . you know . . . are you —”

  “Are we sure?” he breaks in, in a rare moment of actually understanding what I’m trying to say.

  I nod. I feel ashamed even asking. And scared. Why ask a question when you don’t want to hear the answer?

  Dad reaches across the napkins and half-empty boxes and takes my hand. “I know that we didn’t talk about all of this with you, and maybe that was our mistake,” he says. “But, believe me, we talked to each other.”

  “Really?” I think back over the past weeks and months and, for the life of me, I just can’t recall them having a conversation that didn’t end in a screaming fight.

  “Yes, really. We talked a lot. And you know something else?”

  “What?”

  “We went to see a counselor.”

  I can’t help it — my jaw actually falls open.

  “We went six times. We didn’t want to involve you in it all. It didn’t seem fair. We thought we might be able to work it out. But we can’t, love. It’s over.”

  I nod and try my hardest to force away the boulder in my throat so I can reply. It’s not budging.

  “Obviously, nothing in life is one hundred percent certain, but we’re as sure as we can be. We wouldn’t have even considered putting you through this if we weren’t.”

  Dad squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his back. He looks so grateful for this one tiny offering that I feel as if I could melt into a pool of sadness and spill all over the floor.

  Instead, I hear some grown-up-sounding words coming out of my mouth. “Dad, I understand. Thank you for talking about it.”

  And then, because I can’t bear to see my dad looking like a broken man, and also because I realize that there’s really not a lot more to say, I get up. “Thanks for lunch,” I say.

  As he stands up, I give him a hug. He grips me so hard it almost winds me. “I love you, sweetheart. We both do,” he says croakily.

  “I know, Dad. I love you too,” I mumble.

  “Come on. Let’s go and mooch round some of your favorite shops.”

  We leave McDonald’s and walk slowly down the street. I link my arm in his and find myself wondering if maybe it’s all going to be OK. Not yet. But one day.

  We wander through town for a bit. Dad buys me a couple of magazines in Smiths, and I help him pick a new tie in M&S, and then he walks me to the bus stop. He’d offered me a lift home, but I don’t think Mum’s ready to see his car roll up in the drive yet.

  Just before the bus arrives, he opens his mouth to say something.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, I was going to tell you . . . I . . .” There’s this really long pause.

  I glance up the road. “Dad, the bus . . .”

  He shakes his head. “It’ll keep, love,” he says. “Maybe next week?”

  “It’s Christmas next week!”

  “I’ll make you some dinner. Just you and me.”

  A mixture of panic and sadness grips me as I look at him: his tired, worn eyes and a couple of spots of gray in his hair. Have they sprung up in the past week, or have I just never noticed them before? “Yeah, OK,” I say gently.

  From the back of the bus, I watch him standing on the pavement — not waving, just standing, alone and upright. “Bye, Dad,” I whisper. I turn back around, closing my eyes for a moment. Then I get my phone out and check out the latest Cute Emergency kitten video that Robyn’s sent me. Good timing. I could totally do with something to make me smile right now.

  “Hello?”

  “Cat, it’s me.” I hold my breath while I wait for her to reply. She doesn’t.

  I have no idea how I’m going to fix this, but I know I’ve got to try. Ever since talking with Miss Murray, I’ve been seeing my argument with Cat a bit differently. I think she probably has every right to be pissed off with me. I’d gotten so caught up in my own problems, I stopped being a good friend to her.

  “Cat, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is croaky.

  Cat sighs dramatically.

  “Please, let’s make up. I was wrong and stupid and selfish and I’m sorry. Really. Please forgive me. I miss you. And you miss me too.”

  “Who says I do?”

  “Please, Cat! I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh, God, what about this time? Don’t tell me: Dylan.”

  “No, we’ve split up.”

  “Oh. Right. Lover boy dumps you and you come running back to me, then?”

  “Cat, I’m . . . I think I might be pregnant.” The words come out almost as a whisper, and I grip the phone while I wait for Cat to answer.

  “Oh, bloody hell, Ash,” she says eventually. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”

  And she is. She turns up with a pregnancy testing kit, a hug, and a monster bar of Dairy Milk. “Well, I couldn’t eat all that on my own,” she says casually.

  “I’m so sorry. I was a selfish, stupid idiot, and you were right to get fed up with me.” I squeeze her tightly. “I’ve missed you so much!”

  Cat peels my arms off her. “Yeah, I know,” she says with a cheeky grin. “It must have been awful for you.”

  I nudge her in the ribs and she laughs. “I’m sorry, too,” she says. “I was a stroppy cow. And yeah, OK, I’ve missed you as well.”

  And just like that, we’re back to normal, and it’s as if we never fell out.

  “Right. How late are you?” she asks.

  “About a week.”

  “A week? Bloody hell, Ash, I thought you were about two months gone by the way you sounded. A week’s no biggie. I’m always a week late!”

  “I know. But I’m not.”

  “OK. Have you done a pregnancy test yet?”

  I shake my head. “Too scared. I can’t face it. What if I am actually, you know . . .” I can’t say the word again.

  Cat hands me the pregnancy testing kit. “Look. Take the kit. And see if you can work up the courage to do it. If you still haven’t started your period in another week or so, promise me you’ll do it then?”

  I nod. “I promise. Thank you.” I shove the kit in a drawer.

  “Good. OK.” Cat lies back on my bed. “So, what’s new with you then, apart from this?”

  I take a breath. Where to start? “Well, my dad . . .” I begin.

  Cat is upright. “Yes?”

  “He’s left home.”

  Cat stares at me. “No! Have they moved in together?”

  “Huh? Moved out, you mean.”

  We lock eyes. Cat speaks slowly. “So, why has he gone?”

  I shrug. “I guess they’ve just been making each other miserable for years. I think it was mutual. They’re both pretty cut up about it, but both seem to think it’s the right thing.”

  Cat gives me a funny look.

  “What?” I demand.

  She lets out a sigh. “OK, I’ll tell you. But don’t shoot the messenger, OK?”

  My insides leap. “Tell me what?”

  Cat bites her lip — the part that isn’t covered in studs. “I think your dad might be having an affair,” she says.

  “What?” I nearly laugh. “Dad? An affair? No way!”

  Then I think about the way he was trying to tell me something as I was leaving last weekend. Was that what he wanted to say? No! Surely not.

  I stop smiling. “What makes you say that?” I ask quietly.

  “I saw them.”

  “Them? Who? Where?”

  Cat shrugs. “I don’t know who she was. I saw them coming out of the deli by my mum’s work at lunchtime a few weeks ago.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Kind o
f small. Light brown hair. Not exactly the type you imagine men leaving their wives for.”

  I wince.

  “Sorry.”

  I think about the description. “Hang on a sec. Has she got a little round face, pointy chin, looks a bit like a mouse?”

  “I didn’t see them for long. But, yeah, I suppose so, probably.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “That’s just Elaine!”

  “Elaine?”

  “Dad’s accountant. She works with him.”

  “They had their arms round each other.”

  “Cat, seriously, it’s just Elaine. It’s fine. I’m positive, honestly. He’ll have just been saying good-bye to her or something. They’re good friends. They’ve worked together for years.”

  Cat lets out a breath. “Jesus, Ash, I’ve been terrified of telling you this.” Then she laughs. “I have to admit, I never saw your dad as someone who’d do that. What a relief.”

  “Yeah. Jeez,” I agree.

  But then, out of nowhere, a memory comes into my mind. It was about two years ago. I’d gone to Dad’s work after school. He was running late, and Elaine chatted to me while I waited for him. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I can’t stop myself wondering — why was she there? It was way past the end of the day, and there was no one else around. Just her. And him. I mean, she was his accountant, and they did work together, so it made sense. But what if Cat was right? What if that is the real reason Dad and Mum are splitting up? What if everything else is just a cover? What if everything he’s said to me is a lie?

  Suddenly, I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t, and I’m back to square one with all the crappy things in my life. Worse. Square minus one.

  I swallow hard and make a decision. I’m not going to obsess about this. I’m not going to drag Cat through it all with me. I’m not going to be selfish. I’m going to be a proper friend.

  I force a smile onto my face. “So,” I say. “Tell me what’s been going on in the life of Cat for the last few weeks.”

  Cat tells me about a guy she met at the skate park, and about her mum coming home drunk from her work event, and about the tattoo she’s having done next week. She decided on a dragonfly in the end.

  I listen to it all. And I’m grateful to have her back. More grateful than I can ever put into words.