Read Me Like a Book

  Miss Murray’s going through all the coursework we should have in our folders; more than half of mine’s missing. How am I ever going to catch up? What was I doing all of last year?

  I dawdle as we pack up, as usual. I wonder if she’s noticed I’m always the last to leave. Or if she minds. “Catch up to you in a sec,” I say to Robyn as I take my time organizing pens and books and rearranging my bag.

  Then everyone else has gone.

  “How was Christmas, Ash?” Miss Murray asks as I shuffle over to her desk.

  “Kind of OK, I suppose.”

  “That sounds marginally better than it could have been.” She smiles.

  I can feel the heat of her eyes on me, and I nervously meet them. “How are you now?” she asks without taking her eyes away from mine. It makes my face burn. She’s doing that thing she does, where she seems to reach right inside and see all the things you normally hide. Maybe she learned how to teach by studying The Demon Headmaster.

  “I wanted to tell you . . . to say thanks. For last term. Talking and stuff.” I can’t get the words out. I feel like I’m back in those PE lessons trying to tell Miss Anderson why I can’t go swimming. “I’m, I’m OK. I’m not worried anymore, about, you know . . .” I stammer, hoping she’ll fill in the gaps and know what I’m talking about.

  “You started your period?” she asks, just like that.

  “Er, yeah.”

  She looks really pleased — as if it actually makes a difference to her. As if she cares. “Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I have to admit, I had wondered if everything was going to be all right.”

  She thought about me over the holidays?

  “Nothing to stop you knuckling down to some good solid work now, is there?” she says as she fills in her grade book.

  I point at the stack of homework we’ve just given in. “It’s not very good, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I’m sure it isn’t.” She flicks through the papers. “But then, I’m not expecting much. Since you did so poorly last time.” She winks, and my stomach does a little backflip. What the hell’s that about? I mean. Seriously. A teacher? A woman?

  I pull myself together. “I suppose I’ve no excuses anymore, have I?” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Then she smiles and closes her book. “By the way. You remember the debating group I told you about? We’ve got our first meeting next Monday. Are you coming?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Right now I’m not sure which urge is stronger: to be anywhere she is or to get as far away from her as I can till I’ve worked out why she has such a weird effect on me.

  “You’ll enjoy it.”

  Thing is, I know I will — if she’s there. “OK. See you then,” my mouth says before my brain has a chance to tell the rest of me to run like hell.

  It’s raining and dark by the time I get home. I’m climbing the stairs when I hear it — a huge crash downstairs. Oh, my God! I’m on my own and the house is being broken into. I’m stuck halfway up the stairs, twisting from side to side, feet stuck to the floor, trying to work out what to do. People talk about their knees knocking when they’re scared, but I never realized that they actually do.

  After another loud smash, I know I’ve got to do something. I pull my phone out of my bag. My first instinct is to text Cat, but what can she do? If she was here, she’d probably walk right up to the burglar and tell him to piss off, but over the phone? Not quite so easily done.

  Robyn? She’d be lovely and supportive, but, again, there’s not much she can do from the other end of a phone.

  I could ring Dad and ask him to come over. He would — but I don’t think Mum would want him in the house. Mum, then? No, she’ll be on her way home from work by now, and she never answers when she’s driving.

  I take my shoes off, crouch low, and tiptoe down the stairs.

  I’m a few feet away from the bottom of the stairs when I hear another crash. It sounds like someone’s smashing all our windows in.

  What do I do? Should I call the police?

  Hunched over, almost in a ball, three steps from the bottom of the stairs, I’m paralyzed. It’s like the time I was on my own in the house with a spider in my bedroom. I stood looking at it with a glass in one hand and a card in the other. All I had to do was put the glass over it, slip the card underneath, take it to the window, and chuck. But it took half an hour of sweaty eyeball-to-eyeball contact before I could get up the nerve to move.

  I just can’t seem to make a decision. Do I sneak out of the house, phone the police, confront the burglars on my own? I feel as if I’m in an action film where I have to make a run for it and need my partner to cover me — only I’ve got no partner.

  I catch myself for a second. This is ridiculous. All I have to do is either get to the door and run out of it or make a phone call. Come on!

  I’ve just about talked myself out of my panic and decided to call the police when I hear another crash. The only difference this time is that it’s accompanied by a loud, long, piercing scream.

  For a second, I literally feel my hairs stand up, like a massive domino-run all over my body. Then, very gradually, the feeling subsides as the sudden realization of what’s going on knocks each one down.

  Firstly: It’s Mum!

  Then: That means it’s not a burglar.

  Which leads to: It’s not an ax-wielding madman either.

  Until the last one, which stubbornly remains standing: Why is she smashing the house up?

  As I enter the kitchen, I notice that the shelf where we keep all the old bits of chipped crockery is empty.

  Mum’s outside the back door in the garden. I can make her out quite clearly, even though it’s dark. She hasn’t seen me.

  Her hair is plastered to her face from the rain, and her makeup’s streaked. Is it raindrops or tears? I think it’s probably both. She’s soaked through: no coat on, just a long black skirt and a thick black sweater. She looks like a kitten that’s been rescued from a river — a tiny, fragile creature with its fur all soaked and stuck down.

  Her next scream interrupts my thoughts. “Aaaaarr-rgggghhh-you-bloody-buggering-shit-heap-of-a-bloody-BASTARD!”

  My instinct is to duck as the nearly-new-but-slightly-soiled plate is hurled violently against the wall that stands between us.

  I guess Dad’s told her about Elaine, then.

  Her face clouds over with confusion for a moment when I burst out into the garden, as if she doesn’t recognize me. For a second, I see into the future: she’s old and gray, she has dementia and can’t remember my name. The thought pretty much breaks my heart in two.

  “A-Ashleigh,” she stammers, looking down at the cracked mug in her hand. It’s the one with a picture of a balloon on it that used to change color when it was warm, one of my favorites, even though it doesn’t change color anymore.

  “Mum.” I move toward her.

  Fresh streaks are coursing down her face. “It’s OK, Mum,” I say softly as I approach her, ease my way over, reach out for the cup.

  By now her expression has dissolved from determined maniac back into the face of the utterly miserable mother I realize I totally love. I gently prise the mug from her hand with a sense of achievement.

  Once I’ve put it down safely out of her reach, I look back at her. Her shoulders are hunched over, her head drooping so far down it looks as if she’ll fall forward and topple over in a minute. Without thinking, I put my arms around her. Almost as soon as I do, she puts her head on my shoulder. Her arms hang loosely by her sides, and her whole body starts to shake.

  “He’s got another . . . he’s got . . . he’s got . . . he . . . I can’t . . . tell you. It’s not . . . fair . . . on you,” she sobs.

  “Look, let’s go inside, shall we?” I steer her back to the door.

  Once we’re in the house, I lower her onto a chair then put the kettle on. She’s stopped crying and is now staring into space, clutching a soggy envelope.

  I reach out
for the envelope. “Can I?”

  She hesitates for a moment. Then holds it out.

  Dear Julia,

  There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’ve started seeing somebody. It’s Elaine from the office. I swear to you it has only just started.

  I’m sorry if the news is hurtful to you. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. We are both free to do what we like now, but I understand that it is very soon, and I know that this might be hard for you.

  We thought it might be practical for me to stay with her for a while and see how it goes. The studio isn’t sensible for any of us.

  I hope you are all right. I don’t want to hurt you. I think we both need to move on with our lives, and I hope you will also find someone.

  I wish you all the very best, always,

  Gordon

  “I always knew she was after him,” Mum whispers.

  “I want to help you, Mum,” I say, feeling useless.

  She smiles weakly. “How can you?”

  “Whatever I can do, I want to do it.” I take hold of both her hands. They’re cold. I rub them between mine and blow on them.

  “Come on.” Still holding her hand, I lead her toward the stairs. “I’m going to run you a bath.”

  I leave Mum to soak up the steam and lavender while I make us both a drink. After her bath, we sit up in her bed together, drinking hot chocolate.

  “Remember that song you made up for me?” I say. “I’d ask for it over and over again.”

  She puts her drink down and looks at me. Then she starts singing, in a croaky voice, hoarse from crying. “Little Ashleigh, pudding pie, has a twinkle in her eye.”

  She puts her arm around me and I join in, surprised to find how much comfort the words still bring me. “And her giggles, all the while, make her mummy laugh and smile.”

  We grin at each other as we sing. By the time we get to “As long as I have Ashleigh-pie, there’ll never be a cause to cry,” we’re hugging each other and giggling like kids.

  I don’t notice the change, but at some point I realize her giggling has turned to huge, wounded sobs.

  I hold her tight, rocking her gently till she wears herself out and falls asleep in my arms.

  What on earth am I doing in a math classroom on a Monday evening with seven geeky students and a math teacher? Robyn is with me, which is something at least. But she isn’t: Miss Murray.

  Why does that make me feel so disappointed?

  We’re trying to agree on a topic for the first debate. Mr. Philips keeps coming up with tired old subjects like vivisection and euthanasia. Why are teachers so boring? Most teachers.

  The door bursts open.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Miss Murray says breathlessly to the room as she slips into the seat next to Mr. Philips. Her coat’s falling off her shoulder as she pushes her hair back and rubs her face with her hands. And suddenly, it all looks different. Now that she’s here, I’m happy that I am too. I just don’t know what it is about her — when she’s in the room, it’s as if someone’s turned the lights and the heating on.

  Robyn nudges me. “Oh, good. We can get started now,” she says in a low voice.

  I smile at her and feel my whole body relax.

  “You all right?” Mr. Philips says quietly to Miss Murray. We’re meant to be working in pairs. I pretend to be working, but I’m straining my ears for Miss Murray’s response.

  “Unforeseen domestic emergency, I’m afraid,” she whispers back to Mr. Philips.

  What’s that about? They sound cozy. Are she and Mr. Philips an item? I glance at him once the group discussion gets going. He’s got really intense green eyes that clash with his red hair, and crinkly lines at the corners of them that make him look like he’s always smiling. He’s quite good-looking in an odd sort of way. She’s not going out with him, is she? I don’t want her to be.

  After ten minutes, we all have to feed our ideas back to the group. A guy called Danny who I don’t know suggests we discuss why the music charts are dominated by such talentless crap. Surely he’ll get told off for that? But he doesn’t.

  “It’s a good idea, Danny,” Miss Murray says, nodding at him. “But let’s look at it in more detail. Break it down. We need to think about examples of the ‘talentless crap’ that is in the charts. And examples of the good tunes. Reasons for both. Then decide if we have enough to build a debate around. What d’you think?”

  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, tele
pathically 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.”