Read Me Like a Book (10 page)

“You can’t go!” A panic-stricken Robyn grabs my arm. “I don’t know anyone except you.”

“You know Luke.”

She blushes again. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. Surely everyone knows Luke’s only got eyes for Cat? Or maybe not. I catch him looking at Robyn. Maybe she’s just what he needs to break the Cat habit.

“Hardly,” Robyn says, interrupting my thoughts. “And anyway, I want to hang out with you.
Please
.”

I give in, relieved, and she drags me back for a dance. Luke joins us on the dance floor: the three-foot-square space between the sofas in the front part of the room. He passes me a can of lager.

Robyn and I are soon doing a girl-band-style dance routine when Dylan sidles up behind me.

“You look gorgeous,” he whispers.

“There you are!” I reply as I turn around to kiss him.

He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “Why don’t we go upstairs for a bit?”

A lightning streak goes through my body. Fear? Excitement? This is it. We’re actually going to do it. Am I ready? Do I want to?

He takes my hand, and I follow him up the stairs.

As we stand in his bedroom in the silence, I can hear grunting noises coming from the room next door. Dylan and I look at each other and laugh. Then he lies down on the bed and straightens the duvet next to him.

I sit down by his side. “Look, I haven’t . . .”

“Don’t worry.” He shuts me up by kissing me, and I start to relax. Before long he’s got my top off and is fiddling with my bra. It’s undone in a second.

“You’ve clearly done this before,” I say.

He laughs and I feel uncomfortable, exposed. I grab my blouse and hold it up against me.

“Have you?” I ask.

“What?”

“Done it before?”

“Well, yeah, but not with anyone as gorgeous as you.” He kisses my shoulder.

“How many?”

“How many times or how many girls?”

This is getting worse. “How many girls?”

Dylan looks down and is quiet for a moment. “Four, OK? No, sorry, five. Five, that’s it.”

“Five?” I repeat quietly.

“I
am
two years older than you. Look, I really like you. I don’t just do it with anyone. I’ve got to really fancy them. And I fancy you like mad.”

I don’t reply and he moves away. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he says. “I’m not in the habit of forcing myself on girls.”

“I do want to,” I say. At least I think I do. No, I’m sure. I move closer to him.

Dylan smiles. “Good. So do I,” he says softly and leans over me. He kisses me really gently and slowly strokes my body. I feel myself relaxing again.

We’ve soon got our clothes off, and I don’t look at him; I’m too embarrassed about my nakedness. And, yeah, OK, a bit nervous about what’s about to happen — but I don’t want him to see that. So instead, I pull him closer and kiss him a bit harder.

After a while, he moves away a little and looks at me. I know what he’s asking, and I give him a quick nod.

Slowly, he pulls himself up and gets on top of me. Within moments, he’s inside me. It feels good. At first. Then he pushes himself further into me and it hurts a little. He stops for a second and looks up. “You OK?”

I nod again. Then I shut my eyes and reach out to kiss him and we carry on. It’s definitely hurting now. Not so much that I want him to stop. Not just yet. For a second, I think of that stupid quiz program that Dad loves —
Mastermind
— and that thing the guy says, “I’ve started so I’ll finish.” I kind of feel like that, and the thought nearly makes me laugh.

Dylan doesn’t notice. He’s holding himself up on one hand and has the other one on my shoulder. It looks as though he’s doing press-ups. I glance at his face. He isn’t looking at me; he seems in a world of his own now. He’s got his head stretched up and his eyes closed, straining and grunting and pushing harder and faster all the time. My legs are starting to hurt from being so wide apart, and I’m beginning to feel sore inside. OK, I think I’m done now. I hope he’ll finish soon.

A couple of minutes later he suddenly jerks and lets out a loud groan, then flops back down on top of me. He’s heavy on my body. I wriggle a bit and he moves himself over to lie beside me.

“You were brilliant,” he murmurs and kisses me on the cheek. What does he mean? I haven’t done much. Just been there. I don’t answer, and when I next look over, his eyes are closed.

A few minutes later he opens his eyes and grins at me.

I smile back a bit woodenly. Then a thought bursts into my head.

“No!” I’m upright.

“What? What is it?” Dylan sits up too.

“Condoms! We didn’t use a condom.”

“Aren’t you on the pill?”

“Of course I’m not on the pill! I’ve never done it before! Why would I be on the pill?”
How could we have been so stupid?
“What if I’m pregnant now?” I ask, my voice coming out in a squeak.

He touches my arm. “I’m sure you’re not pregnant.”

I pull my arm away. “What makes you so sure?” I snap. I know I’m being unreasonable but I can’t help myself.

“I don’t know. I just —”

“What about AIDS?” I say quietly. “Or chlamydia or something?”

He laughs. “I haven’t got AIDS! Or chlamydia.”

“You think it’s funny, do you?”

“Ash, I didn’t . . .” His voice trails away. “I’m sorry. What d’you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

We sit in silence for a bit. Our clothes lie on the floor, twisted and inside out. My stomach twists with them. I don’t know what to say to him. I want him to hold me, but I’m not going to ask. And he’s not likely to want to now.

As the darkness of the room closes silently around me, I can hear the music downstairs; it feels like another world.

Dylan reaches out to touch my arm. “Do you want to get up?” he asks.

I don’t answer.

“Come on, Ash, don’t be like that. Please. You’re making me feel awful.” He leans over to kiss me and I turn my face away. “What have I done?”

I shake my head. What
has
he done? What has he taken away from me? What have I given him? I don’t want to be horrible — I just can’t look at him.

“Look, d’you want some time on your own?” he asks gently.

I nod.
Of course I don’t
.

“OK, if you’re sure . . .” He gets out of bed and starts putting on his clothes. “See you in a bit?” he asks from the doorway.

“I’ll be down soon,” I reply, and he closes the door behind him.

As the darkness continues to build around me, emptying me, I keep telling myself I’m not going to cry. After a while, I get dressed and go to find the bathroom. Staring at myself in the mirror, I wash my face. What I’ve done — does it show?

Dylan is at the bottom of the stairs when I come down; he puts his arms around me straightaway.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,
I’m
sorry. Are you OK?”

I nod and let him hold me for a bit. Then he takes my hand and we go back to join the party.

Robyn spots me and drags me away. “I’ve just been snogging Luke on the dance floor!” she says excitedly. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been with Dylan. So where’s Luke now?”

“Over there, talking to Cat.” Cat! Oh, no. Robyn is
so
going to get hurt. Why does it feel like my fault?

“Gimme a sec,” I say.

I walk over to Cat and Luke. I haven’t seen her or heard from her since our argument. “Cat?” I say nervously.

She looks at me briefly, then deliberately turns her back and carries on talking to Luke. It feels like an actual slap across my face.

“Fine!” I say and swing away from her, almost bumping into Robyn, who’d followed me over. I’m suddenly tired — of all of it. “I’m going home,” I say to Robyn. As soon as the words are out, I realize how much I mean them. I desperately want to be tucked up, safe and warm, in my bed.

I leave Robyn and go to find Dylan. He’s getting a beer out of the fridge.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell him.

“Babe, really? Is it something I’ve done?” he asks. “You did want to — you know — didn’t you? Please tell me you did.”

“I did, honestly. It’s fine, you’ve done nothing wrong.” I force myself to smile. “It’s me. I’m just tired and I need to go home.”

“Really?”

“I’ll see you soon, OK? Ring me tomorrow?”

“You sure you have to go?”

“Yeah, I’m knackered.” We both laugh at this, and his face relaxes, relieved.

He comes to the door. “Speak to you tomorrow, then,” he says, leaning over to give me a kiss. I start to walk away.

At the gate, I turn and look back at the house. Dylan’s inside, laughing with Luke. Is Dylan telling him what we did? No. He wouldn’t. He’s not like that.

I glance at the upstairs windows. The bedrooms are dark, the curtains drawn on the evening’s brief secrets.

Dad is still up when I get in. “Your mum’s in bed,” he tells me.

“OK.”

He turns to go into the living room but stops at the door. “Do you want a hot chocolate, love?”

My eyes fill with tears. He used to make me hot chocolate every night when I was little. I realize, yes, that is exactly what I want. “That’d be lovely, Dad, thanks.”

He smiles. “I’ll bring it up to you.”

As I sit in bed in my pajamas, drinking hot chocolate, I look around my room. I gaze at the flowery wallpaper where, if you stare hard enough, it isn’t flowers at all, but people and animals. There’s an old witch-type woman’s face and a monkey that turns into an elephant if you look at it from a different angle.

Then there’s the familiar maroon carpet. It used to be shaggy, but it’s worn almost bald in places now, with felt-tip stains in the corner from years ago that I’ve never managed to get rid of and a faded bit just by the bed where I was sick as a kid. Mum cleaned it up with bleach and accidentally dyed the carpet white. I was ill for a week. Mum and Dad took turns taking time off work to sit with me doing jigsaws and letting me tell them dreadful jokes. They always laughed, too. I can hardly imagine them laughing at anything now.

My bedroom. A collage of my life. It’s so . . . safe.

Finishing off my hot chocolate, I switch the light out and turn to the wall. Almost without realizing it, I start to cry. Gently at first, the tears rolling from the corners of my eyes and falling across the bridge of my nose onto the pillow. I hold my stomach, bury my face in the quilt, and sob until I fall asleep.

I’m sitting on the side of my bed, half dressed and half asleep, when Mum appears at the door.

“Sweetheart, are you going to come down for breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry,” I reply as I reach down to put my socks on.

I’ve pretty much lost my appetite this week, what with Mum and Dad, Cat and I still not speaking . . . and Dylan.

It’s Tuesday and I haven’t spoken to him since the party. He texted on Sunday, asking if I was OK and when he could see me again. I texted back that I had loads of homework and I’d let him know. He’s tried to call, but I haven’t answered my phone. I don’t want to talk to him yet. He’ll ask if I’m OK, and to be honest, I’m not sure I am. It’s not just him — what we did — it’s everything. If he asks me what’s wrong, I might be in danger of spilling everything out, and then I’d be lost.

Better just to add him to the list of things I’m blocking out — even if it means I’m building so many walls around me I’m starting to feel stuck in a well.

Mum clears her throat.

I look up. “What, Mum?”

“It’s just, your father and I — well, we’d like it if you would join us.”

My stomach turns over. Her face is white. What the hell is going on? Half of me wants to know; the other half wants to run a mile with my hands over my ears. “OK, I’ll be down in a minute,” I say.

Mum’s made semi-scrambled omelets, which we eat together in silence.

After about ten minutes of chewing and rustling and forks scraping on plates, I’m starting to relax. Maybe there’s nothing going on; they just wanted my company.

Then Mum puts her knife and fork together, wipes her mouth, and looks like she’s about to make a speech. Dad carries on eating, oblivious as usual, till she gives a little cough. He looks up, shovels one last bite into his mouth, and then takes his cue from her and pushes his plate away.

For a moment, I feel like I used to when I’d been talking during assembly and the headmaster’s halfway through the notices and suddenly stops speaking. You daren’t look up because you’ve been messing about and you know he’s going to be looking right at you. Finally you chance it, and sometimes he is and sometimes he isn’t. He never says anything, but you know he’s clocked what you were doing and will remember. Those silent seconds of him staring at you are far more scary than if he’d just shouted at you in front of the whole school. It’s the uncertainty.

Mum gets up and takes the plates away.

“Thanks for breakfast, Mum.” Is there still time to get away before anything awful happens? I start to leave the table.

“No.” Mum whirls around at the sink, dropping a fork on the floor. She looks at Dad. “Oh, for God’s sake, Gordon,” she says, wearily running a hand through her hair. “I’m not doing this one on my own.”

Dad holds his hand out to grab my arm. “Ashleigh, hang on a sec, love. We need to talk to you.”