Read Me Like a Book

by Liz Kessler

  “Ash, I . . .” She breaks the painful thrill of the moment.

  “What?”

  She looks up. “Sorry, just trying to organize my mountain of marking.” She points at the stack of papers on her desk and grimaces.

  “Yeah, yes, of course. Sorry.” I pick up my bag.

  “No, don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I want to help. And I’ll bring you the relaxation exercises for next lesson.”

  “Brilliant, thanks.”

  My mind’s racing for something else I can say, something that can keep me here one minute longer — but I know I should go. Time with Miss Murray is always on a meter, always on the verge of running out. And I’m always wanting to catch those last moments before I have to go.

  Does she know how I feel? Can she tell how much I want to — to what? What the hell is it that I want to do anyway? Touch her? Kiss her? What’s the matter with me?

  I drag myself to the door.

  “Ash?”

  “What?” I can’t meet her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about the practice exams,” she says with a smile. “You’ll be fine. You’re doing great — I’m proud of you.”

  And there it is. My crumb. The treasure that I can take away and store for later when I will turn it over and over, looking at it from every angle. My goingaway gift that means I am able to leave.

  “Thanks,” I mumble as I shut the door and run to meet up with Cat in the yard. By the time we reach the bus stop, I’ve already replayed the conversation three times in my head.

  The house is empty when I get in. Mum’s got her first Fish in the Sea date. The deal is that I’m going to phone her at eight o’clock. If it’s going well, she’ll just let me know and get back to her meal. If not, I’m to pretend I’m having a personal crisis so she can make a quick getaway.

  Eight o’clock on the dot, I call. Mum picks up instantly.

  “Ash, tell me the house is burning down.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve locked yourself out of the house, had to be rushed to the hospital — anything!”

  “I take it he’s not the man of your dreams, then?”

  “I don’t know about dreams, but he’s boring me to sleep.”

  “OK, tell him I’m having a panic attack over my exams and you need to get home to calm me down. I’m a danger to myself in this state.” That’s the second time in one day I’ve used these exams in a panic-attack-related lie. It occurs to me that I probably should be a bit worried about them by now.

  “Great. See you soon, then,” Mum says.

  “Good luck.”

  Half an hour later, I’m in my bedroom when I hear the front door open.

  “I’m upstairs,” I call. “You managed to get away before he bored you to death, then?”

  Mum doesn’t reply. Then I hear voices. I run to the top of the stairs. I try smiling politely while attempting to maintain the appearance of one who is mid–panic attack. Which I almost am now.

  “Martin gave me a lift home,” Mum says. He insisted, she mouths at me, her back to him.

  “Hi, Martin.” He doesn’t look too bad — until I get closer. He’s wearing pointy cowboy boots — who wears actual pointy cowboy boots? — with slim jeans and a black leather jacket. Just wrong.

  He wipes his palm down his jeans and reaches out to shake my hand.

  Mum makes this please-help-me-get-rid-of-him face at me.

  “Look,” I say, holding my hand out and wobbling it. “I can’t stop shaking. Mum, I don’t know what to do,” I say, forcing a wobble into my voice. “I really need you to help me.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mum says woodenly. “I’m ever so sorry about this, Martin.”

  He smiles. He’s got quite a nice smile, actually. “Not to worry.”

  Mum opens the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” she calls down the drive as he fiddles with the gate.

  “Yeah, she’d been trying to find something to help her sleep,” I whisper.

  Mum glares at me. For a second I think she’s going to tell me off. Then she closes the front door and starts giggling. A moment later, I’m laughing too.

  “Whose harebrained idea was this?” Mum gasps between guffaws.

  “I think it was mine, but it might have been a bit yours too.”

  As we head for the kitchen and Mum puts the kettle on, we’re clutching each other and roaring like maniacs. And for the first time in weeks, the laughter doesn’t turn to tears.

  I don’t know if it was Miss Murray’s words or what, but something clicked for me after my conversation with her, and I suddenly got to work. In fact, for the couple of weeks since then, it’s been pretty much practice English exams for me and nothing else. I’ve barely seen Robyn or Cat, except for the odd evening when they’ve come over to study with me. In Robyn’s case, we actually got loads of work done during those times. When Cat’s been over, well, the word “study” is more like a euphemism for complete, all-out gossip-fest.

  For the most part, I’ve been working on my own. Hard. And even kind of enjoying it.

  And then, before I know it, the practice exams are finished. Over and done with, and I’m on the verge of getting my results!

  We’re having an extra session for Miss Murray to give us our English results and some feedback on how we did. I should have come in for tutor period earlier, but I didn’t see the point in hanging around with nothing to do all afternoon.

  Only thing is, she’s not here. And, for that matter, nor is anyone else from my class. What’s going on? To be honest, I don’t care if none of the others get here. But where’s Miss Murray?

  Five to four. I peer through the window. Her desk has three piles of essay papers on it and a few open books around them. Empty Coke bottles are scattered on the tables around the room. Her bag has been left open on the floor by her chair.

  I text Robyn. Am at English. Where are you?

  I try the door. Locked. Something twists in my stomach — but why? It’s not even four o’clock yet. Miss Murray’s probably in the staff room; she’ll be down in a minute.

  Five past four. Ten past. Background noises — cars leaving, kids shouting, teachers hurrying home — they all die down as school empties for the day. What if something’s happened to her? What the hell am I going to do? I can’t go and see the headmaster; she hates me. I can’t go home; how could I leave here without knowing if Miss Murray’s OK?

  My phone pings with a reply from Robyn. Arrgghh! Forgot to tell you. No English this afternoon. Miss Murray sick or something. Sorrrrrrrrry!!!!

  I’ve just read the text when I hear someone behind me. I swing around just in time to see the surprise on Miss Murray’s face.

  “Ash! Oh, my God, I completely . . . I sent a message to your tutors, but you must have missed it. Ash, I’m sorry.”

  I’ve never seen her so flustered, not even when she came in late to the debating club that time.

  “It’s fine,” I say, putting my phone away. Robyn must have gotten it wrong. Anyway, as long as Miss Murray’s here now, it doesn’t matter; I’m in no rush to get away. In fact, I’m happy that everyone else was around to get the message. It’s just us.

  My heart flips over at the thought of us spending time on our own. And, yeah, I could agonize about it and ask myself what the hell is going on — but I don’t seem to want to bother anymore. All that matters is how I feel when I’m around her.

  She looks at her watch. “We’ll have to reschedule, I’m afraid.”

  She must see the disappointment on my face as she continues, “Something came up. I had to leave early this afternoon. I’ve just nipped back to collect my things.”

  “I don’t mind having the lesson now if you want.” I try to sound casual.

  She’s unlocking the door as she answers. “They’ll be closing the place up in half an hour. We don’t want to get trapped in here all weekend, do we?”

  I can’t imagine anything better than being stranded on my own with Miss Murray for two whole days.r />
  “No, I suppose not,” I say.

  She’s gone inside, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to follow or go away. I hover at the door while she starts to clear her desk. She’s bustling around, shoving piles of papers together and bundling them into her bag.

  “D’you want me to go?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Um, it’s just . . .” She looks at me and pauses. I try to act like I don’t mind what she says. I’ve got a casual smile fixed onto my face, which probably looks ridiculous. The silence is broken only by the sound of rain splattering unevenly against the window.

  A second later, a knock on the door makes me jump like a thief with a guilty conscience. It’s the janitors. “Can we get in?” one of them asks, pointing at her floor cleaner.

  Miss Murray starts shoving papers into her bag again. “Two seconds,” she says.

  I shuffle my feet, and she looks at me again. “Look, I tell you what,” she says. “Seeing as you’ve come in, why don’t we nip round the corner to Starbucks and have a quick talk about your paper over a cuppa?” She looks across at the door. “I feel bad about letting you down when you’ve made the effort.”

  I try to keep my smile casual as I reply nonchalantly, “Fine, yeah, whatever.”

  Starbucks is nearly empty when we arrive. Who wants to hang out in a coffee shop just around the corner from school on a Friday afternoon? We get drinks and then I plonk myself down on a seat; Miss Murray squeezes in opposite.

  I try to think of something to say, but my mind is empty. That’s a lie. My mind is full. It’s full of thoughts about her. Where was she earlier? What is it that was more important than us? Than me?

  Miss Murray breaks the silence. “So, let’s talk about your paper, then.”

  “Was it awful?”

  She frowns. “I’ll try and break it to you gently. . . . You got an A.”

  “An A?” I splutter. “I’ve never gotten an A.”

  “Well, you have now.”

  I stir my hot chocolate. “It’s you who did that, you know,” I mumble.

  “No, Ash. It’s you who did it. And you can do it again.”

  “But I did it for you,” I say quietly.

  She doesn’t say anything, and I wish I could take the words back. When I look up, I can’t read her expression. “What?” I ask.

  “Thank you,” she says. And just for a moment, I think I see her for who she is. Instead of the amazing mentor who teaches me and teases me and knows what I’m thinking better than I know myself, I just see another person. “Right, come on. Let’s have a look at what you did right and wrong.”

  She opens the paper and leads me through my answers. All I can see are tick marks and “YES” and “WELL DONE!” written in red pen everywhere. I mean, there are a few critical comments here and there too, but not many. And there’s the grade at the top of the front page. Like she said: A.

  “You did brilliantly,” she says, passing me the paper. “Just like I knew you would.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I say.

  “Well, I can. And you should too.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I take a swig of my hot chocolate and try to think about what to say next. I want to keep her interested. Want to keep her here. She’s nearly finished her drink, and I don’t want her to go.

  I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my thoughts inside. Does she know how I feel about her? Do I know how I feel? What does it make me? And is she the same?

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask before I manage to stop myself.

  “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

  Can I really ask her? And now that I’ve got the chance, what exactly do I want to know? Eventually I chicken out and say, “Do you like teaching at St. John’s?”

  She looks surprised. Then, staring straight at me, she says, “Is that really what you wanted to ask me?”

  I hold her eyes and hold my nerve. “What did you think I wanted to ask you?”

  She laughs. “They must have put something in this hot chocolate, as I almost feel inclined to answer you honestly, and we can’t have that, can we?”

  “Can’t we?”

  She laughs again. “Come on, Ash, we’re going round in circles.”

  “Tell you what, then. Why don’t you answer the question you thought I was going to ask, and I’ll see if I can guess what the question is?”

  “All right, then. Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes. That’s the answer.”

  I laugh. “Oh, well, that narrows it down a bit.”

  “What, you want more than that?”

  “It might help.”

  “All right.” She stops smiling and gives me one of those direct looks that make me go still inside and forget anything I’m saying or thinking. “Yes, I am.” Then she tilts her head to one side. “And, to be honest,” she continues, “I think you are too.”

  I’m about to speak when she adds, “But maybe you don’t know it yet.”

  My head is swimming with thoughts that I daren’t say out loud. “Brilliant?” I ask in the end. “Talented? Overworked?”

  She laughs.

  “Highly irritating?”

  “Now you’re getting closer.” Then she glances at her watch and suddenly gets up. “Ash, I’ve got to go,” she says seriously, and before I know it, she’s halfway to the door. I follow her like an obedient puppy. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting,” she says.

  “We could always stay a bit longer.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  She pauses at the door and turns to me, her eyes dark.

  “I mean, just to talk,” I falter. Suddenly I’ve lost my footing. One small slip and I’m in unfamiliar territory. “We could have another drink or something . . .”

  “Ash, I’m your teacher.”

  “Well, yeah, technically. Temporarily. But, hey, you’re only a few years older than me. You could even be my big sister or —”

  “It’s not that simple.” She heads out of the café, and I follow her into the street.

  “No. ’Course not,” I say as we walk. I’m desperately trying to keep some lightness in my voice, but I know she can see through it. She gets past all my defenses. She can read me like a book. She has been able to from the moment she first walked into our classroom.

  “And it’s not just about doing what you want,” she’s saying. “There are other people to consider. Another person. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so,” I reply as we reach her car. “But you’re right,” I suddenly blurt out. “I think I am too.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I know what the question is.”

  “I really have to go, Ashleigh.” She’s holding her keys and facing me, and I’m standing in the rain, stupidly shuffling from one foot to the other. I don’t know how to say good-bye to her. She glances at her watch again. “You’d better get going,” she says. “Won’t your mum be worried?”

  My mum? Why should she be worried? She doesn’t know that I spend every moment thinking about the next time I’m going to see you, or that the high point of my day is when you walk past me in the corridor on your way to the staff room at break. She doesn’t know how disappointed I feel if I don’t see you, or if I see you and you don’t smile at me. She doesn’t know how I couldn’t concentrate on what you were saying the other day when we sat together at your desk because all I could think about was how close you were — so close, at one point, that your leg touched mine. I didn’t move a muscle in case it broke the contact, and when you moved your leg, I couldn’t concentrate then either because I was too busy wondering if you’d moved on purpose.

  She doesn’t know that sometimes I look at your mouth when you’re talking and I imagine kissing you. That I want to do it so much I’m scared in case one day I forget myself and just do it anyway. She doesn’t know that I have never, not once, not even silently, admitted any of these thoughts before, even in my head.

 
; “My mum’ll be fine,” I say eventually.

  I’m the only one who’s worried.

  Miss Murray’s looking at me so hard I wonder if she heard me thinking. Then she says, “Don’t look so anxious. Come here.” She takes hold of me and hugs me. She feels sorry for me. She thinks I’m a stupid, messed-up kid who needs comforting, and she’s giving me a friendly hug, a motherly hug, letting me know it’s all going to be OK.

  I guess the hug probably lasts five seconds — if that — but it feels like forever, and I don’t know how to let go. I can hear her breath in my ear, and I can’t breathe out. I’m just breathing in and in, and any minute now I know I’m going to burst. She’s holding me so gently, as though I might break, and I wonder if maybe I will.

  Then she says, “I need to get going,” and I step back as though she’s scalded me.

  “Sorry,” I stammer.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” she says with a smile, but it’s not like her usual smile, and I know she’s retreated to some place where I’m not allowed to follow. It’s part of the rules to the games we play. The rules she wrote and I haven’t even read. “Have a good weekend, Ashleigh.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  And then she’s gone, and I’m standing in a side street in the rain, wondering where the hell to go from here.

  My mother puts the microphone back in its holder and takes a small bow as applause ripples around Feathers. It’s their monthly singer/songwriter night. It’s basically karaoke, but they changed the name a couple of years ago when someone told the manager that no one does karaoke anymore. Whoever gave them that information was clearly wrong, as it’s their busiest night every month.

  I’m squashed in a corner with Tony, Fish in the Sea number two, who’s clapping his hands together above his head as though she’s served an ace in the final at Wimbledon. I’m not sure how I ended up being a gooseberry like this; she said it would be “safer” that way. He’s all right, actually. Quite promising. He’s a little bit taller than her, thin and wiry. Nice smile. They spoke loads on the phone before tonight. When he turned up, he brought a card — for me!