Read Me Like a Book

  I stare at the swirls in my coffee and the grains of sugar stuck on the rim of the mug. What am I meant to say? I’ve got absolutely no idea. So I say nothing.

  “I do, Ashleigh.” Mum reaches out for my hand, and I quickly pick up my coffee.

  “I know, Mum.” I look around the café. Look at the tables. The counter, the ceiling — anywhere but her face. “Can I go now?”

  As soon as I’ve said it, I feel awful. I glance at her. She’s clenching her teeth, and a tic is beating in her cheek. Her eyes are dark. I want to take the words back, but I’ve got nowhere else to put them, so I leave them hanging there.

  “Is it so awful to spend a few minutes with your mother?” she whispers. “Am I that much of a terrible person?” She dabs at the corners of her eyes with the edge of her napkin, then tilts her head away and looks up at the ceiling. The strip light buzzes and flashes sadly like at the end of a school dance.

  “Mum, you’re not a terrible person at all,” I say. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Dad is either. I just wish you’d sort things out.”

  Mum nods. “Thank you, darling. That means a lot.”

  “And I’m sorry if I was a bit sharp,” I add. “I don’t mean to be. I’ve just got stuff on my mind too.” Like the fact that Dylan hasn’t been in touch since our date, and wondering whether I should text him first, and if Cat’ll be at school so I can ask her advice. All of which, frankly, is a welcome distraction from having to think about any of this.

  “I know,” she says, “and I’m sorry. All this nonsense between your father and me, it’s not fair to you. I don’t even know what’s gotten into us. We used to be so . . .” She makes a strange noise, like a cross between a choke and a gulp. “Well, things have changed,” she says finally. “He barely looks at me nowadays. We don’t speak to each other. Don’t even know what to say or where to start.”

  Makes three of us.

  “I’m sorry, Ashleigh. I just want us to be a family again, and I’ll try my best to make that happen. Will you give me a chance?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say. I look up quickly and she catches my eyes. For a second, a tiny window opens between us and I remember when I was little and she was my idol. She used to tell me about the first time she took me swimming. I was two and I had a turquoise swimsuit with a white frill around the bottom. “I held you against me and heard your little heart beating against mine,” she used to say, and I’d make her tell me again and again. I never knew if I actually remembered it myself or if I’d just heard the story so often I could picture us there. My little arms around her neck, hot cheek against her ear, her safe arms holding me tight.

  When did she stop being my best friend?

  I smile back and we sit in silence for a second before she picks up her bag. “Just nipping to the loo.”

  “Look, I need to get moving. I’m going to be late.”

  As I edge out of my seat, she studies my face, brushing my cheek with her thumb as though she’s looking for something. Then the moment has passed and we go our separate ways.

  Leaving the café, I force the conversation out of my mind. They’ll sort it out. I’m sure they will. They’ve got to, because the alternative is, frankly, unthinkable.

  By the time I reach the school gates, my thoughts are safely off Mum and Dad and back onto the other pressing issue: When is Dylan going to ring?

  Cat and I get our lunch and take a seat in the cafeteria. For about a millisecond, I toy with the idea of talking to her about my parents. I decide against it. Saying the words out loud to Cat would make them all too real. Instead we discuss what might be going on with Dylan.

  We don’t come up with much.

  “Perhaps it’s like that film,” Cat ventures through a mouthful of chips.

  “What film?”

  “You know. What’s it called?”

  “He’s Just Not That Into You?” I offer.

  “No, I meant the one where the guy loses his short-term memory. So, like, he meets someone one day, or even knows them really well, but by the next day, he’s completely forgotten who they are.”

  “How does it end?”

  “Um. He finds out that he’s murdered his wife.”

  I laugh. “I think I prefer my suggestion.”

  “OK, moving on.” Cat bends down and rolls up one leg of her jeans. “I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo.” She points at her ankle. “Dragonfly, just here. Or a butterfly. Or maybe a ladybug. What d’you think?”

  We leave Dylan behind and discuss the relative merits of various winged insects instead. Cat shows me pictures of each of them on her phone. She already has five tattoos. I think she’s addicted. Personally, I’m not keen on pain so I don’t think I could do it myself — but they always look great on her.

  But as this is the sixth time I’ve been through this process with her, I can’t help a bit of me switching off. Sorry if it makes me a rubbish friend and a terrible person, but while I’m saying, “Yeah, that’d be lovely,” and “Ooh, that’s pretty” and “Mmm, maybe that one,” there’s a bit of me inside that’s thinking, “Maybe Dylan’s not that into me.”

  By the time I get home, I’ve decided I’ve had enough of thinking about Dylan. He clearly isn’t interested, so it’s time to get on with my life and stop wasting any more time on him.

  Only trouble is, there’s not a lot to distract me. Nothing nice anyway. Mum and Dad still aren’t talking, and I don’t fancy sitting in silence in front of some boring documentary that none of us wants to watch but no one will offer to change because that might involve having a conversation. So I shut myself in my room and consider my options. I’m even on the verge of doing some homework.

  And then Dylan turns up. Just like that. Come to save me from an evening of potentially studying the history of the Corn Laws, like a knight in shining armor. Well, OK, more like a shop assistant in a battered Fiesta, but it’ll do just fine.

  I see him pull up from my bedroom window, and I’m suddenly faced with a major conflict. In about one minute, he’ll ring the bell. Not that our drive’s so long it takes a whole minute to walk up it; it’s just that Dad recently installed a new gate that you can only figure out how to open if you happen to be a genius who’s won Eggheads, The Weakest Link, and possibly Wipeout, too. By the time a normal person’s worked it all out, the burglar-detector light has flashed on and our latest first-time visitor is rooted to the spot by a glare that a trained interrogator would be proud of. He likes his gadgets, Dad does. And his security.

  Anyway, the question is,

  The boy of your dreams turns up unexpectedly at your house late at night. You have one minute to get to the door. Do you:

  A. Frantically brush your teeth, sort out your hair, spray perfume over your body, and apply makeup; or

  B. Get to the door before he rings the bell, thus avoiding any chance of your parents meeting the boy before he’s even kissed you?

  Under normal circumstances it would be “B.”

  Mostly Bs: You are impetuous and feisty, a crazy chick who enjoys life to the fullest, takes no prisoners, and is prepared for any situation.

  That’s me. Except for one thing. I’m halfway down the stairs when I realize I’ve still got my pajamas on. Well, I wasn’t expecting him to come around, was I? Which leaves:

  C. Change out of your PJs with the teddy bear pattern and piece of string holding up the bottoms because the elastic’s gone?

  Mostly Cs: Oh, dear. You are the one who’s always left behind as you haven’t quite figured out how to keep up with the go-getters. Try to think ahead a little. Get in shape, get it together, but most of all, get a life.

  Without thinking, I tear into my bedroom, fling a pair of sweatpants over my pajamas, and throw on a sweater I bought from New Look over the weekend. I glance at my feet: Mum’s cast-off slippers with a hole in the big toe. I’ll have to go barefoot. I hurl myself out of my room, down the stairs, and across the hall just in time to get to the door before Dylan r
ings the bell — and before Mum and Dad have noticed anything.

  “Hi,” he says with a grin.

  “Oh, hi.” Heart racing and totally breathless, I try to sound as if I just happened to be passing by the door.

  Dylan keeps smiling and my knees start to buckle. So there I am, barefoot, out of breath, and holding on to the door knocker to keep myself upright, when he starts laughing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s your top. What’s . . .” He reaches forward. My heart stops. My eyes half close. This is it!

  And then he says, “. . . this?”

  My eyes snap open. He’s holding a bit of cardboard, and it seems to be attached to me. No! I’ve only gone and put my new sweater on backward and left the bloody tag on! I might as well give up and go home. Except I am home. I can’t even do that. Brilliant.

  But then he does it anyway — looks at me for a second and puts his hand on my shoulder. I gaze back at him, and I’m just starting to feel awkward when he leans forward and kisses me.

  I’m about to collapse, Hollywood-style, into his arms when I suddenly remember three things:

  1) I haven’t brushed my teeth.

  2) We’re on my front doorstep (and center stage as far as Mrs. Langdale’s concerned).

  3) My parents are still up and will soon notice a draft if we stand in the doorway much longer.

  “Come on.” I grab a pair of wellies from the porch and push him out the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Anywhere. You’re driving.” I softly close the door behind me.

  So we’re driving along, it’s late in the evening, I’m wearing wellies and a backward sweater with my pajamas underneath, no socks, no money, no coat, no idea where we’re heading. And I’m in heaven.

  I keep sneaking little looks at Dylan. He does the same, and every time I meet his eyes, I get this back-flipping butterfly action in my stomach.

  After about ten minutes, he pulls over, switches off the ignition, and turns to face me. He keeps opening his mouth, taking a deep breath, and then closing it again. “Goldfish” is what comes to mind, but I don’t want to say it, so I look around while he gets it together. We’re in the middle of one of those modern housing estates: the lawns all very neat and tidy with symmetrical borders and perfectly trimmed edges. The houses all look the same, except for the odd one where someone has made a stab at individuality with a bit of ivy creeping up the front wall or a bit of decking instead of a lawn.

  “Ash, I need to talk to you,” Dylan blurts, suddenly grabbing hold of my hand with both of his and looking at me intensely. “I don’t think I’ve been completely honest with you,” he says after a few more gulps of air.

  I don’t think I’ve been honest? Only a boy could say that.

  “Look I wanted to tell you . . . I’ve got, had, I mean, you’re, she’s —”

  “She’s?” Out of the heap of words thrown together in no apparent order, that one gets my attention. “She, who? She, what?”

  We gaze at each other in silence for a few seconds. His messy hair is falling into his eye, and he looks like a Labrador puppy with floppy ears. I want him; can I have him? Please can I?

  He turns away. I sneak a look at him fiddling nervously with his fingers. His nails are bitten all the way down, and there’s red, sore-looking skin around the sides of them. I take hold of his hands.

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I say in my best reassuring voice. “I’m not going to run away.”

  I’m not a hundred percent sure about that last bit, actually. I mean, it could be anything.

  “I’ve brought you here to tell you to leave me alone. I can’t stand you.”

  “The thing is, I’ve got this nasty genital disease and I keep passing it on to others out of revenge against the woman who gave it to me.”

  “I’ve killed someone and I’m scared I might do it again.”

  “Look, this is the situation,” Dylan says, breaking into my thoughts — thank goodness; I dread to think what the next one would have been.

  He takes a deep breath and turns to face me. “I had a girlfriend,” he says steadily, then lets out his breath in a big rush and falls silent again.

  “Ye-e-s?” Does he think I’ve never been out with anyone? “I have had a few boyfriends in my time, you know,” I tell him. “I don’t mind if I’m not your first.”

  For a moment he squints at me, then he almost laughs. One look at my face and he stops, though. “No, I mean, I just had a girlfriend. Kind of recently.”

  I ease my hand away. “How recently?”

  “Look, I wanted to tell you.” He pushes his hair back and turns away from me. “We’ve been together about a year, but we’ve not been getting along lately. Last few months we’d more or less split up anyway.”

  I raise an eyebrow. Try to anyway. It’s one of those things I just can’t do, no matter how much I practice. I just know I look more like a rabbit about to sneeze than an assertive young woman who’s totally in control of the situation. “More?” I ask. “Or less? Which?”

  He glances at me, then turns back to the windshield. “We talked about splitting up, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  He stares straight ahead. “Well, we didn’t actually, finally do it. But we have now. Once I met you. After we went to the cinema, well, that was it.”

  I can’t stop my face from twitching into a smile. He looks at me again and half smiles back. “I waited for you to get in touch all week after Luke’s party. I didn’t think you were going to. But then you texted me. So I rang Em and we met up today —”

  “Today? As in the same day that you snogged me on my doorstep?”

  His cheeks are growing redder by the minute, and a frown creases up his forehead. I want to reach out and smooth it over but remember just in time that I’m too cross.

  “Look, we went to the park, that’s all, and I told her it was over. She was dead upset.”

  Ahh, my heart breaks.

  “But we talked. And I think we can still be friends.”

  Er, not if I’ve got anything to do with it, dude.

  “And then I just wanted to see you straightaway. Tell you I like you. And see if you want to, you know, go out with me.”

  He’s biting his nails now and has nearly reached the skin. Then he looks up and gives me a shy smile — and he’s done it. He’s won me over.

  “I like you too,” I say with a shrug. “And, yeah, OK, I’ll go out with you.”

  For a moment we look at each other and neither of us says anything. Then he leans over, takes my face in both hands, and kisses me again.

  When it starts to get uncomfortable leaning over the hand brake, I pull away and straighten myself in my seat. “Where are we anyway?”

  “Oh, just around the corner from my house. Do you, er, d’you want to come over?”

  It’s getting late. My parents will go mad if they notice I’m out. “I think you’d better take me home.”

  I get him to drop me at the end of the street. I don’t want to attract attention to myself. And I want another of those kisses but daren’t do it outside our house.

  “See you later,” I say, trying to sound casual as I get out of the car.

  He rolls the window down and leans across the seat. “I’ll text you soon.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” I call back without turning around. Good thing he can’t see how big my smile is.

  I weave my way along the street and up the drive, avoiding the burglar-detector trigger spots like a professional.

  The house is quiet. Mum and Dad must have gone to bed. I’m about to head up to my bedroom when I notice something: a sliver of soft lamplight under the living room door. Are they still up? I hover outside the door, then I hear Dad’s voice and for a split second I feel a huge wave of relief. They’ve made up. They’re talking again. Then I realize — he’s not talking to Mum. It sounds like he’s on the phone. I lean into the door and listen.

  “
No, not yet,” he says in a low voice. “It’s tearing me apart. I don’t know what to do.” Long pause. “Yeah, I know. I’m just glad I’ve got you to talk to or I’d be lost.”

  I’m glued to the floor. Who’s he talking to? What’s he talking about? Is he in there sleeping on the sofa bed again? What’s going on around here?

  I don’t want to dwell on any of the questions suddenly filling up my mind and blocking out the whole of the last blissful hour with Dylan. I can’t risk thinking about them, or I might have to think about the answers too.

  I creep up to my bedroom, my happy bubble well and truly burst. I try my hardest to think about Dylan’s kisses instead of Dad’s whispers, and finally I drift off into an unsettled sleep.

  Next morning, I doze through my alarm, ignore Mum’s wake-up call (“Don’t be late for school!”), and wait till she and Dad have left the house before I get up. I can’t face them. Whatever’s going on between them, I just want them to hurry up and sort it out so we can go back to normal. Whatever passes for normal. Not sure I can even remember.

  I don’t want to be late for school, for once. We’ve got English first. English has been the only decent thing in school lately. It’s Miss Murray. She’s like an oasis of fun among a wilderness of dinosaurs — if that’s not mixing too many metaphors. Look, see, she’s gotten to me already. When would I ever have used the word metaphor before?

  She keeps going on about bringing in poems, which a couple of the others have done. I printed out the lyrics to the song I’d mentioned in our first lesson and keep meaning to show them to her. I haven’t managed to get beyond thinking I’ll look like a nerd if I do, so I haven’t bothered up to now. I want to, though, and it’s weird. She’s the only teacher who’s ever made me want to do something like that, in more than a decade of compulsory education.

  Everyone seems to feel the same way about her. I’ve noticed the smile rate is a lot higher in her lessons than anywhere else in school. She makes everything into a game. It doesn’t feel like learning. Or it didn’t. It’s changed a bit this week. We’ve started reading Wuthering Heights and, to be honest, I can’t get into it.