by Liz Kessler
“So.” She clasps her hands together, brings them up to her mouth. It reminds me of morning prayers at primary school.
“Hands together, eyes closed,” Mr. Jackson, the headmaster, would say, and we’d deliver the Lord’s Prayer in three hundred synchronized monotones.
“Our father, who art in heaven, Harold be thy name,” I intoned earnestly every morning. It was years before I realized God wasn’t actually called Harold.
I look up at Miss Murray. She’s propping her lips on her fingertips, eyes almost closed, and, for a second, I wonder if she’s praying too.
“So,” she repeats. “Can anyone tell me a poem they’ve read and enjoyed recently?”
No one says anything. A poem? That we’ve enjoyed? I stifle a laugh and look down at my desk like everyone else.
“Oh, no!” she suddenly exclaims and goes back behind her desk. She picks up a piece of paper and frowns at it. “I must have written down the wrong room. I thought this was an English A-level class.”
Why do teachers always have to be sarcastic?
But then I notice her cheeks have gone red. Just a bit, just enough to make me feel sorry for her, and I don’t care about the silent agreement. So I do something I haven’t done for as long as I can remember. I put my hand up.
“Does it have to be an actual poem, miss?” I raise my eyes to look up at her without lifting my head.
“What did you have in mind? Ashleigh, isn’t it?”
“Ash, yeah.”
“What did you have in mind, Ash?”
“Well, there’s this song I wrote the words out to; I think it’s kind of like a poem.” What am I doing?
“That’s great,” she says with a smile that feels like it reaches right into me and looks around inside. Can a smile even do that?
“Can you remember it?” She’s leaning forward, looking at me so intently I’m afraid she’s wading through all my hidden secrets.
I can feel a room full of gobsmacked eyes zoning in on me. So I pull myself together and give the only answer that’ll save me. “No. Sorry.”
Miss Murray purses her lips, still looking at me.
“But I know it’s good,” I add feebly. She’s going to think I’m an idiot now. Not that I care what a teacher thinks of me. At least, I never have before now.
“Maybe you could bring it in sometime,” she says as she turns away and picks up a book from her desk. I feel dismissed, and I’m not sure I like it — although it does mean I’ve gotten away with not looking like a total weirdo in front of my peers.
“I’d like to see it.” Her head, slightly tilted, turns her smile into a question, and I shrug in reply.
“Good.” She opens the book. “Now, here’s one of my favorites.”
Then she says, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”
I look around the class. Everyone has stopped doodling and passing notes to one another; the air’s tightened.
“They may not mean to, but they do.”
Is it a poem?
She holds our attention all the way to the last line, when she puts the book down and says, “Philip Larkin.” Into the silence, she adds, “He’s a poet.”
As she passes photocopies around the room, we study them with suspicion.
“Any thoughts?” Miss Murray asks.
I find myself nodding as I read the poem, as I relate to every word. It’s as if the poet knows exactly what’s going on in my head. I want to say so, but I’ve already done my bit, so I do the looking-down-at-my-desk thing again and wait for someone else to speak. The tension spreads awkwardly around the room, seeping into every little space.
Finally, Luke breaks the silence. “Is that really a poem, miss, or did you make it up for a laugh?”
But before she has time to answer, the bell rings. Bags are instantly on top of tables, chairs scraped back.
“Excuse me!” she shouts over the racket. “I didn’t tell anyone to go anywhere.”
She’s standing in front of her desk, arms folded, and frowning as she looks around at us. We eventually stop moving while we wait for her to speak. Weird. We never did that for Mr. Kenworthy.
There’s something about her. It’s as if she’s not on the opposite side of a high wall, like most teachers. She makes the wall seem like a thin line — as though she can reach across to our side of it. Maybe it’s because she’s probably only about five years older than us. Maybe it’s because she smiles more than most teachers. Maybe it’s because she shared a poem with swear words in it. I don’t know what it is — I just know that, yeah, OK, she’s cool. For a teacher.
Outside the room, people are already running past the door, chasing each other to the bus queue.
“As we’ve been getting to know each other today, we’ve not had time to study this poem,” Miss Murray goes on. “We’ll continue with it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like you to read it again at home and jot down your initial responses to it. Any questions?”
In reply, we grab our bags and squeeze out to join the corridor rush hour.
I catch up with Cat at the bus stop. She draws on a cigarette while I tell her about the party. We’ve hardly had a chance to talk all day.
“D’you think I should call him?” I ask. “Or text?”
Cat grins. “Send him a topless selfie?”
I laugh as Cat finishes her cigarette and chucks it on the pavement. I wish she wouldn’t do that. Wish she wouldn’t smoke at all, to be honest. Not out of being a goody-goody. Mainly because it makes her stink, and hanging out with her makes me stink and makes Mum and Dad accuse me of smoking — which I don’t. Dad’s never convinced, no matter how much I promise I don’t smoke. Tried it. Didn’t like it. But I don’t have any intention of telling Cat what to do; it would only make her do the opposite.
“So, tell me about Magaluf,” I say, happy to change the subject. “Did Jean score?”
Cat bursts out laughing. “Actually, nearly. She and I had a contest to see who could get the most smiles out of the waiter I sent you the pic of. She got the most, so I told her she’d won.”
“Hadn’t she?”
Cat smiles her cheeky Cat-smile. “Depends if you count making out with him behind the recycling bins as a winning move!”
“You didn’t!”
“’Course I did. Anyway. Come on. Back to the party,” she says as the bus rounds the corner. “What’re you going to do about message-in-a-bottle boy?”
We get on the double-decker bus and go upstairs, where we carry on sorting out the minutiae of each other’s love lives till we part company at my bus stop. “FaceTime me later,” Cat calls as I get off the bus.
“Will do,” I call back as I brace myself for an evening at home.
Mum and Dad are driving me mad. They’ve had a row and haven’t spoken a word to each other for three days.
Dinner is a nightmare. A silent nightmare.
Mum perches martyr-like on a stool at the other end of the kitchen while Dad and I sit at the table. He’s reading the paper while he eats, and she’s staring pointedly out the window.
It’s been like this for months. Things will be OK for a bit, then it all blows up over something tiny and the atmosphere makes the North Pole feel like a Caribbean cruise.
It upset me when it started happening. I tried to make them sort it out. I’d be crying and I’d beg them to make up. And they would, kind of. At least, they’d be civil to each other in front of me. Then they stopped doing even that.
I guess I’ve kind of cut off from it now. It’s horrible. I hate myself for it, but it’s better than crying my eyes out in my room because I can’t make them stop.
Dad is slurping his soup. It’s making me want to scream.
Has he always done that?
I’ve got a vague memory of very different mealtimes: Mum cooking while Dad would open a bottle of wine and pour them both a glass. They’d talk about their day, smiling, interrupting each other, refilling their glasses. Then we’d play word games while we a
te, and afterward Dad and I would clear up. He’d wash, I’d dry, racing each other. He’d flick bubbles in my face to try to distract me. He’d make me laugh.
Mum interrupts my nostalgia trip. “Ashleigh, please could you ask your father to remember to put the trash bins out?” she says as she gets up and takes her plate to the sink. “And it’s recycling this week too.”
A while ago, I might have said to ask him herself — but it’s easier to give in and do what she says.
“Dad, remember to take the trash bins out tonight,” I say.
Dad doesn’t raise his head from his newspaper.
“Dad. It’s trash night. And recycling.”
Nothing.
This is what it’s like. Arctic, I’m telling you.
I try a new tack. “Dad, by the way, I’ve dropped out of school, become a drug addict, and committed a string of violent acts.”
Dad turns the page and looks up briefly as Mum leaves the kitchen and closes the door behind her. “What, dear? Sorry. Oh, good, that’s nice,” he replies before going back to his paper.
I get up with a sigh and decide to sort the trash out myself.
That Philip Larkin knows what he’s talking about.
Later, as I scribble down a few thoughts on the poem, I get this weird feeling about the next English class. As if for the first time in forever, the lesson might be remotely relevant to my life. As if I’m looking forward to it or something.
What the hell is that about?
It’s a week later and I have to say, my parents are not the number-one thing on my mind. Nor is my English homework.
I’m on a date. With Dylan.
I sneak a glance at him as we drive to the cinema. He’s got his window open, his elbow leaning on the frame as he drives. His other hand is resting on his knee, fiddling absentmindedly with the fraying rip curling into a smile in his jeans. Kiss FM on the radio. Does it get better than this?
It’s easy to get away with looking at him. He’s doing most of the talking, so it’s only polite. It would probably be polite to listen more carefully as well — and then I might not come across as a complete moron. Example:
Him: There’s a chick flick, a French film, or the new James Bond at the Odeon. Which d’you fancy?
Long pause while I stare at him (out of politeness).
Me (suddenly realizing it’s my turn to speak): Oh, the Odeon, definitely.
Or:
Him: What did you think of the party?
Long pause, etc.
Me: Oh, I just borrowed it off my mum for the night.
What? Why?
We pick the James Bond film in the end, and he’s engrossed from the first trailer onward. I wait for his arm to creep around my shoulder. It doesn’t. Why not? I study my options while he glares at the screen.
A. He’s a perfect gentleman. (Good option. Bodes well for future. Unlike Cat, I actually like this in a boy.)
B. He’s shy. (Could go either way. Might be sweet at first, but would lose appeal if it goes on too long.)
C. He’s totally engrossed in the film. (He’d rather watch grown men with big guns and little gadgets chase each other around than get with me? Not good.)
D. He doesn’t fancy me. (Clearly the worst option; I refuse to consider it a possibility at this stage.)
Still, it’s a good film, and we have a laugh on the way home. Dylan feels easy to be with. Plus I keep getting wafts of what smells like honey and almonds, which makes me think he must have washed his hair before he came out — or at least had a shower or something. Either way, he’s made an effort, which has to be a good sign.
When we get home, the living room lights are on. Dad’s a complete fascist about wasting electricity, so they must be up. There’s no way I’m going to run the risk of ruining everything by inviting Dylan in, so we talk in the car.
After about ten minutes, I know curtains will be twitching. Mrs. Langdale across the road doesn’t like to miss anything. I can just imagine the conversation the next day:
“Ooh, who’s got herself a new boyfriend, then?”
“He’s not my boyfriend, actually, he’s just —”
“I mean, fancy courting at your age!”
“I am seventeen now, you know.”
“Seventeen! In my day, it wouldn’t do to be on your own with a man until you were almost married. Sitting there in a car with him for all the world to see, it would have caused a scandal.”
“But we weren’t doing anyth —”
“Yes, yes, dear, I know. Got to rush; I’m late for my wash and set.”
No, a grilling from Mrs. Langdale is to be avoided at all costs. So we say good night, and that’s that. There’s an awkward moment when we don’t know whether to kiss or not. He’s fiddling with the rip in his jeans so much I’m worried he’s going to tear them off from the knee down.
In the end I get out and say, “See you around, then,” in my flippant voice (which I’ve been practicing lately, along with complete indifference and total spontaneity).
He mumbles something that sounds like, “Yeah, see you,” but I’m halfway up the drive by then. I’ve ended the evening in control, and that’s good. Then, just as I get to the front door, I suddenly remember I haven’t given him my phone number. Without thinking, I turn and run back to the car.
“My number,” I pant. A sprint down the drive is more exercise than I’m used to.
He smiles and says, “I’ve already got it.”
“You have?”
He waves his mobile at me. “It’s in my phone. You texted me, remember? I texted you back.”
Oh, God. I’m an idiot! But he saved my number! He’s got me in his phone. “Oh, yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “I’d forgotten.”
I try to regain a bit of the cool and hard-to-get ground as I let myself into the house without turning around to wave.
When I get in, no one’s up. Damn. I could have invited Dylan in after all.
Dad skips breakfast, and it’s only when I go into the living room to look for my bag that I notice the sofa bed’s out. This is a first. My heart flips into as much of a tumble as the disheveled sheets. I’m torn between wanting to know what it might mean and wishing I’d never seen it.
Mum’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing hard at the grill pan.
“Mum, why’s the —”
“Late for work, darling.” She doesn’t turn around. “I’ll speak to you later.” Then she whips off her rubber gloves and flounces out of the room.
You can see where I get my If I pretend to myself it’s not happening, maybe it’ll go away strategy.
I grab a bowl of cereal and occupy my mind by reading the list of ingredients. Any second now, Mum’ll shout, “Don’t be late for school.” A simple “good-bye” doesn’t happen around here. Then she’ll go off to work, and I’ll be left alone with nothing to distract me from wondering what the hell is going on.
But Mum doesn’t shout anything. A minute later, she’s back in the doorway, rattling her keys, rain tapping on the window behind me.
I look up. “What?” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I can’t help it. If neither of them can manage to treat me like a grown-up, why should I act like one?
“When do you have to be in this morning?”
“Half past ten.”
“Right,” she says. “How about a nice cup of tea?”
I look up. “What about work?”
She slaps on her secretary smile and says, “I’ll phone them. You’re my daughter and that’s more important.” Then she’s gone.
Oh, no. I don’t like this. She’s never late for work. And we’ve never had a “nice cup of tea” together. I don’t even drink tea. Shows how much notice she’s taken of me lately. She could tell you more about the town’s biggest criminals than her own daughter. She works at a law firm. Started as a temp five years ago, and she practically runs the place now.
“Right, that’s settled.” She’s back at the door, fastening her briefcase. “We’r
e going out. My treat.”
“What about school?”
“You can be a little late.”
I guess she’s got it all sorted. Whatever it is Mum wants to tell me, I’m going to have to listen — even if I really, really don’t think I want to hear it.
We small-talk about the weather all the way. I’m telling you, we’re professionals at this avoidance stuff.
I squeeze into a table at the back of the Starbucks around the corner from school. Mum slides in opposite me while mellow music and the smell of bacon and burnt toast waft over the counter in equal measures.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” That slap-on secretary smile again.
I pour milk in my coffee and force myself not to reply with the angry sarcasm that’s building up inside me. As I stir in some sugar, I try a different tack. “Mum, I don’t know —”
Mum interrupts me. “Ashleigh, I need to talk to you.”
I stop stirring and look at her. Detach, detach, don’t get drawn in.
“I don’t want you to be upset,” she goes on. “None of this is your fault, but your father and I . . .” She stops, picks up her tea, sips it.
“Look, it doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. I’m suddenly positive about one thing: whatever she wants to tell me, I don’t want to hear it. I’d prefer to keep lying to myself and pretending everything’s fine than have her actually confirm out loud that it isn’t. “What you do is your business.”
She looks out the window. “I just don’t understand what — I mean, everything was all right before . . .” Her voice trails away, and her eyes mist over. She blinks at me. What does she see? Hardness? Fear? The strongest desire in the world for her to please just STOP?
“We’re all right though, aren’t we, Ash, you and me?”
I can’t speak. “Mmm-hmm.”
She closes her eyes while she wipes her mouth with a paper napkin, leaving a bit of lipstick behind. “Just because your father and I can’t seem to get on with each other at the moment doesn’t change how I — how both of us — feel about you.” She pauses, then says, more quietly, “I do love you very much, you know.”
