by Liz Kessler
She’s standing on her own, hands in her jacket pockets as she leans against a pillar at the edge of the dance floor. She looks up as I pass, a hint of recognition in her eyes.
“Left your book at home, then?” I shout over the music. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ash. What a pathetic thing to say.
“It’s a bit dark for reading,” she replies, looking at me briefly before turning away. Oh, my God, her eyes are beautiful. They might be blue. They’re big and wide and she’s got long, thick eyelashes.
“D’you want a drink?” I ask without thinking, but she shakes her head.
“I can’t. Sorry.” She taps her watch. “I’m going to miss the night bus if I don’t leave in a minute.”
“Oh, right.” I’m glad it’s too dark for her to see my cheeks redden. “Sorry. See you, then.” I turn to leave.
“Hang on.” She’s rummaging in her jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. It’s a Topshop receipt. She scribbles something on it and shoves it at me. For a second, I feel the heat of her hand on mine as she passes it to me, and I could almost close my fingers around hers. I look up at her and an electric tingle shoots up through my chest and into my mouth. Her mouth’s slightly open. I want to kiss her. What the hell am I thinking? I don’t even know her.
And then her hand’s gone and she’s moving away. “I’m Taylor, by the way. See you,” she says, and I shove the paper into my pocket and go to find Cat.
As we leave the club to flag down a taxi, my voice is hoarse and my cheekbones ache from smiling.
The first thing to hit me is the crying. Everywhere. The school entrance hall is full of students, huddled in groups or in pairs, a few with parents. It seems as though at least half the people I can see are bawling their eyes out.
Annabelle Stewart, one of the smartest students in the school, is standing with her boyfriend. He’s got his arms around her and her shoulders are shaking.
“Who’s going to let me do medicine now?” she’s sobbing.
“Look, you’ve still got three As and a B.”
“That’s useless! I needed four As,” she says, gulping.
A boy in my law class who did about as much work as I did is talking into his mobile. I smile as I pass, but he doesn’t smile back, just gives a halfhearted wave. “No, not one,” he says into the phone. “I’ve said I want them regraded but I don’t know if it’ll make any difference . . . I know, I feel sick.”
I’m like the hero in an action film, walking toward my fate, my doom. People falling by the wayside all around me. As I pass the staff room, I take a quick look through the glass door. It’s full of students. On their phones, talking to teachers. Some grinning. Some panicking. A few of them crying. I wish Cat was here. I begged her on the phone this morning, but she wouldn’t come. Said she knew she’d failed everything and didn’t want to give Mrs. Banks the satisfaction. Robyn’s coming this afternoon. We said we’d meet up later, either to celebrate or commiserate.
I head toward the scrum at the far end of the corridor. It’s like last call at Feathers on karaoke night. Eventually I push and wriggle my way to the front of the crowd and start looking down the list. I see Cat’s results before mine. History: X. That means she didn’t turn up. General studies: X. Law and geography: both E, the lowest grade that could technically count as a pass. Maybe she’ll be pleased.
I spot Robyn’s results too. She’s got a B in English. She’ll be well pleased with that.
Then I see my name: Ashleigh Walker.
Law: D. Could have been worse. Sociology: E. It’s a pass, at least. General studies: C. How the hell I managed that, I don’t know. Then I rub my eyes, glance around for a second to check that this is real, and look again at the last one.
English: A.
I keep staring at it. I’m scared to believe it in case I get home and there’s a letter saying they’ve made a mistake.
I scribble my results down on a scrap of paper and push my way through the crowd. I walk back down the corridor in a daze. Who can I talk to about it? I need to make sure it’s right. I want to laugh and jump up and down. It’s only now I realize how much I wanted it.
The only person I want to see is Miss Murray. I know I’ve not thought about her as much lately, but, being here and seeing those results, she’s the only person I want to share this moment with.
I don’t notice anyone around me as I walk down the corridor on my own. I need to get out of here.
But as I turn the corner, I look up — and suddenly the entrance hall is spinning around me.
When we were about thirteen, Cat and I used to go to the fair on Saturday afternoons in the summer, once we’d gotten bored with the poolrooms and the local arts center. It was just another place to hang out, thinking we looked grown up, chewing gum and wearing too much eyeliner. It was always the Tilt-A-Whirl, or the speedway if you wanted to look cool. That’s where you sat on a motorbike, or if you were really cool you stood by the side of it while the ride simply went round and round. Basically it was a carousel, only with bikes instead of horses, and it went a tiny bit faster.
It was harder to be cool on the Tilt-A-Whirl, as they’d always choose our car to keep spinning. “Push us faster!” we’d shout.
“That’s what me girlfriend said and now she’s pregnant,” the long-haired Tilt-A-Whirl guy would say and we’d laugh, although I never quite got it. And then he’d spin the ride and my head would be thrown back and my stomach would feel cold and empty and I couldn’t help screaming and laughing. Then I’d step off the ride and the ground would be spinning. I couldn’t walk in a straight line. If I stood in one spot and closed my eyes, I was at the center of the universe with the whole thing revolving around me. It was brilliant, for a second. Then I’d open my eyes and feel sick.
Now, I’m right back there, the floor rotating away from me. Because she’s standing right in front of me.
I reach out for something to steady myself. The only thing I’d wanted, the only thing I’d thought about, every single moment of every day for weeks. And now she’s just here, in the same room, chatting to a couple of students as though nothing has happened, as though she never left.
I stumble toward a chair, shuffling sideways like a crab so I don’t need to turn away. I know she’s going to look across in a moment and, when she does, she’ll see me. And I’m sitting on a plastic orange chair in the middle of the entrance hall, on my own.
So I stand up again. Then she spots me. She glances my way for a split second and catches my eye, but she doesn’t hold it long enough for me to do anything. What would I do anyway? Smile? Oh, hi there, long time no see and all that. I don’t think so.
She carries on talking a bit longer, then breaks away. She’s coming toward me. What am I going to do? My legs are turning into liquid and my cheeks are on fire. My arms feel six feet long, hanging uselessly by my sides.
“Hello, Ash.” She looks at me seriously, as though she’s a police officer who’s caught me red-handed burglarizing someone’s house. It takes me a second to remember that I haven’t done anything wrong. At least, I don’t think I have.
I can’t speak. I’m like one of those contestants on a daytime quiz show who can’t answer a simple question. “It’s always harder when you’re in front of the camera,” the host tells them when they don’t know the capital of France. Bollocks, you’re just thick, ten million people around the country are thinking. Well, now I know how it feels. I can’t remember the appropriate reply to “Hello.”
Miss Murray’s rummaging in her bag. She pulls out an envelope with my name on it.
“Here. I was going to send it if I didn’t see you.”
I take it. It feels like a card.
“I wanted to say well done,” she says while I stare at the envelope. I don’t know whether to tear it open or save it forever.
I look up. “Thanks.”
She smiles. “I always knew you could do it.”
“Not without you, I couldn’t.”
“Annie, won
derful to see you,” a familiar voice rumbles behind me. Mrs. bloody Banks.
“Hello there, Mary.” Miss Murray returns Banks’s wooden smile.
“I think congratulations are in order,” the principal continues. “You did a fine job there. A fine job. One hundred percent pass rate. Well done.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” Miss Murray says, “but, really, the credit must go to the students.”
“Of course, of course. And well done to you too, Ashleigh,” Mrs. Banks says, wiping a piece of invisible fluff from her skirt. “Anyway, mustn’t keep you.”
Miss Murray looks at her watch. “I’d better be going myself, actually.”
“All the best, then,” Mrs. Banks says and walks off as though I wasn’t there.
“So, are you coming back?” I ask casually once Banks is out of earshot.
“I’ve got a new job.” She looks away and runs her hand through her hair. “In London.”
“London? That’s about a million miles away.”
She smiles. “I think it’s a bit less than that, actually.” Then she stops smiling. “You’ll be fine, Ash.”
“How do you know?”
“You can do anything you want, so make sure you do. Don’t let anything stop you. Or anyone.”
I nod. I don’t reply. What can I say?
“You’ve got a great future ahead of you, I promise.” She puts her bag on her shoulder. “I’ll see you,” she says.
“Will you?” I whisper.
She smiles weakly and turns to go.
She stops at the door, looks around the hall, and catches my eye. I stare at her as though I’m watching the action from the outside. She doesn’t smile or anything. Just looks at me for a moment, then walks out the door. She’s left me again. And I know she’s gone for good this time.
A car horn startles me as I’m stumbling out of school, about to rip the envelope open.
“Ash.”
It’s Mum. What’s she doing here? I shove the card into my bag.
“I couldn’t wait,” she says through the window. She’s in Tony’s car; he’s at the wheel.
“Well?” she asks. I shrug. “Ash, how did you do?” Her voice is tight. A bit like the old Mum.
I hand her the slip of paper with my results.
“Oh,” she says.
“Yeah. Rubbish,” I reply.
“They’re not that bad. You got a C in general studies — and an A in English! Ash, that’s absolutely marvelous!”
I shrug again. “No one’ll ever take me now. I only got one decent grade.”
“The D and E are both passes,” Tony says quietly.
Mum turns her tightness onto him. “Tony, I think I can handle this. Ash, get in.”
I climb in the car and we head home.
“An A, an E, and a D, plus everyone knows general studies doesn’t count,” I say when we get in the house. Tony’s dropped us off. Mum says she’s taking the morning off to help me figure out what to do next. “I’ll just have to get a job.”
“What, working the register at Tesco?”
I look up at Mum. “Are you angry with me?”
She pauses for a moment, then speaks gently. “Of course I’m not angry,” she says carefully. “I know you did your best, and it’s not been an easy year for you.”
“Mmm.”
“And I know your father and I haven’t exactly helped.”
I feel a stab of guilt. That’s exactly what I’d just thought, but it’s not fair. “Mum, don’t blame yourself,” I tell her. “It’s no one’s fault but my own. I’m the one who’s messed up.”
Mum tries to smile at me. “And you’re the one who’s done really well in English too, and I’m proud of you. I’m really proud of you. That’s why I want you to make something of yourself. I don’t want you to be waiting tables or stocking shelves. You’re a clever girl, Ash. I just want you to make the most of your life.”
It sounds like a rehearsed speech. Not natural. In fact, now that I think about it, my conversations with Mum have all felt a bit strained again lately.
“OK, me too. But how?”
“Let’s start by making your A grade worthwhile and get you in somewhere.”
Four “no ways,” two “we’ll get back to yous,” and three “phone back tomorrows” later, and I’m on the phone to one of the universities in Manchester. After my whirlwind online search, I can’t even remember which one this is.
“This is the last one, right?” I say to Mum while I wait to be connected to the English department. “It’s humiliating.”
I get put through to the head of English. I’ve only spoken to secretaries so far.
“When can you come for an interview?” he drawls after a few questions about my results.
“Er, um . . .”
“Would tomorrow at twelve o’clock suit you?”
“Honestly?”
“Unless you’ve got something more important to do?” he says with a laugh.
“No! I mean, of course not! Tomorrow at twelve — just hang on.”
Mum’s nodding at me. “I’ll take you,” she whispers.
“Tomorrow, twelve o’clock is fine,” I hear myself saying. “Great! Thank you.” I scribble some instructions and put the phone down in a daze.
“What happened? What did he say?”
“He said they’ve still got a couple of spots, and that he’s interested in the A. He said they might be able to fit me in, but he wants to meet me before saying definitely.”
“Ash, that’s wonderful. They’ll love you. Why wouldn’t they?” Mum takes a step toward me, then leans forward and hugs me awkwardly. I hug her back briefly. What the hell’s going on here? I thought we’d become close again. I want to ask her what’s the matter, but something stops me. I’m not really sure what.
As soon as Mum’s gone back to work, I grab my bag.
My hands are shaking as I open the envelope from Miss Murray. It is a card. It’s got a picture of someone climbing a ladder. Right at the top of the ladder, there’s a bunch of stars.
I open the card. She’s written across both sides.
Dear Ash,
You did it! You got that A! I am so proud of you. Remember you thought at one point that you couldn’t do it? I always knew you would.
Now you’re moving into a whole new phase of your life, to a place where you will question everything you thought was true and immovable. Just remember, what you actually need isn’t always what you think you need.
I won’t forget you. Good luck with your dreams,
Annie M.
That’s it? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I know she’s trying to tell me something, but what? That I wasn’t really in love with her? That I didn’t even know my own feelings? What? And now that she’s gone for good, I know I’m never likely to get an answer.
I read her words again and again, getting more indignant each time. “I won’t forget you”? Yeah, sure you won’t.
Then I realize: I’m indignant, not heartbroken. It’s changed. It’s finally shifted. It doesn’t get right inside me anymore. All those weeks of waiting, thinking about her all the time, believing she was everything I had ever wanted — it just became a habit. Like brushing your teeth. You don’t do it because you desperately want to, it’s just part of your morning routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, think about Miss Murray. And it changes so gradually that you don’t even notice. Well, now I do. Yeah, maybe she’s right. Maybe I don’t need her anymore.
All that time I thought she was my future, I was wrong. She wasn’t my future at all. She was the door to my future. But I’m through that door now, and ready to close it behind me.
I know exactly what I have to do.
“Hello?” A quiet voice answers after four rings.
“Hi, is this, um, Taylor?” I squeeze the words through the nerves clogging up my throat.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Oh, hi, it’s, er, it’s Ash.”
“From the other night. From the club.”
“Oh, hi!”
Now what? “Well, you gave me your phone number, so I thought I’d ring.”
Pause. Then she says, really softly, “Do you want to meet up?”
“I’d love to. How about this weekend?”
“Saturday?” she suggests.
“Saturday would be great!”
We arrange to meet at the town hall Saturday afternoon. After I put the phone down, I jump about in my room, alternately punching the air and biting my fist, cringing. Oh, my God, what will I wear? What will we do? Where do you go on a date with a girl?
I’m still thinking about it the next day as Mum and I drive to Manchester. I stare out the window, running over it all in my head while Mum listens to Radio Four. I can’t remember exactly what Taylor looks like. I shut my eyes and try to picture her, but I can only see her hair. And her eyes. Big, blue eyes, they were. Or were they green? They were lovely anyway.
“This is it.” Mum pulls me away from my daydreams as she parks, and a knot of nerves clutches at my stomach. “I’ll get a cup of tea.” She points to a sign for the cafeteria.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in a small, square office, sitting in front of a huge desk that takes up half the space. It’s stacked about a foot high with papers. One wall is covered in postcards, another has a notice board plastered with memos and agendas for meetings. The other two walls have theater posters all over them.
The thin man with wild black hair and little round glasses sitting behind the desk leans back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. Mr. Anderson, he’s called. Alan Anderson. He says I should call him Al, but that doesn’t feel right.
“You had an extremely good reference from your teacher,” he says once he’s introduced himself and told me a bit about the course. “One of the most glowing I’ve ever seen, in fact.”
“My — my teacher?” I stammer.
He smiles. “I gave her a call this morning.” He leans forward and shuffles through some papers. “A Miss — what was it now — Murphy? Moore?”
