Read Me Like a Book (16 page)

Cat’s laughing as she pulls away. “You’re sure?” she asks. “You did it properly?”

I hand her the kit. “I didn’t need it,” I reply. “I started my period! I’m free! Omigod, I’m so happy!”

Robyn grabs me and hugs me tight. “Yay! That’s brilliant!”

“I know!” I grin at them both. “Right. Let’s get the cocktails. It’s my round!”

As we head back to the bar, I find myself wanting to run around the whole place screaming and hugging everyone, telling them I’ve got my life back.

As I knock back my second Happy New Year I realize that, actually, I’m not bothered about the people in the pub. The only person I really want to tell is Miss Murray.

I can’t wait to see her. I’m glad we’re back at school in a few days.

What?
Did I
really
just think that?

Miss Murray’s going through all the coursework we should have in our folders; more than half of mine’s missing. How am I ever going to catch up? What was I doing all of last year?

I dawdle as we pack up, as usual. I wonder if she’s noticed I’m always the last to leave. Or if she minds. “Catch up to you in a sec,” I say to Robyn as I take my time organizing pens and books and rearranging my bag.

Then everyone else has gone.

“How was Christmas, Ash?” Miss Murray asks as I shuffle over to her desk.

“Kind of OK, I suppose.”

“That sounds marginally better than it could have been.” She smiles.

I can feel the heat of her eyes on me, and I nervously meet them. “How are you now?” she asks without taking her eyes away from mine. It makes my face burn. She’s doing that thing she does, where she seems to reach right inside and see all the things you normally hide. Maybe she learned how to teach by studying
The Demon Headmaster
.

“I wanted to tell you . . . to say thanks. For last term. Talking and stuff.” I can’t get the words out. I feel like I’m back in those PE lessons trying to tell Miss Anderson why I can’t go swimming. “I’m, I’m OK. I’m not worried anymore, about, you know . . .” I stammer, hoping she’ll fill in the gaps and know what I’m talking about.

“You started your period?” she asks, just like that.

“Er, yeah.”

She looks really pleased — as if it actually makes a difference to her. As if she cares. “Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I have to admit, I had wondered if everything was going to be all right.”

She thought about me over the holidays?

“Nothing to stop you knuckling down to some good solid work now, is there?” she says as she fills in her grade book.

I point at the stack of homework we’ve just given in. “It’s not very good, I’m afraid.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t.” She flicks through the papers. “But then, I’m not expecting much. Since you did so poorly last time.” She winks, and my stomach does a little backflip. What the hell’s that about? I mean. Seriously. A
teacher
? A
woman
?

I pull myself together. “I suppose I’ve no excuses anymore, have I?” I say.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something.” Then she smiles and closes her book. “By the way. You remember the debating group I told you about? We’ve got our first meeting next Monday. Are you coming?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Right now I’m not sure which urge is stronger: to be anywhere she is or to get as far away from her as I can till I’ve worked out why she has such a weird effect on me.

“You’ll enjoy it.”

Thing is, I
know
I will — if she’s there. “OK. See you then,” my mouth says before my brain has a chance to tell the rest of me to run like hell.

It’s raining and dark by the time I get home. I’m climbing the stairs when I hear it — a huge crash downstairs. Oh, my God! I’m on my own and the house is being broken into. I’m stuck halfway up the stairs, twisting from side to side, feet stuck to the floor, trying to work out what to do. People talk about their knees knocking when they’re scared, but I never realized that they actually do.

After another loud smash, I know I’ve got to do something. I pull my phone out of my bag. My first instinct is to text Cat, but what can she do? If she was here, she’d probably walk right up to the burglar and tell him to piss off, but over the phone? Not quite so easily done.

Robyn? She’d be lovely and supportive, but, again, there’s not much she can do from the other end of a phone.

I could ring Dad and ask him to come over. He would — but I don’t think Mum would want him in the house. Mum, then? No, she’ll be on her way home from work by now, and she never answers when she’s driving.

I take my shoes off, crouch low, and tiptoe down the stairs.

I’m a few feet away from the bottom of the stairs when I hear another crash. It sounds like someone’s smashing all our windows in.

What do I do? Should I call the police?

Hunched over, almost in a ball, three steps from the bottom of the stairs, I’m paralyzed. It’s like the time I was on my own in the house with a spider in my bedroom. I stood looking at it with a glass in one hand and a card in the other. All I had to do was put the glass over it, slip the card underneath, take it to the window, and chuck. But it took half an hour of sweaty eyeball-to-eyeball contact before I could get up the nerve to move.

I just can’t seem to make a decision. Do I sneak out of the house, phone the police, confront the burglars on my own? I feel as if I’m in an action film where I have to make a run for it and need my partner to cover me — only I’ve got no partner.

I catch myself for a second. This is ridiculous. All I have to do is either get to the door and run out of it or make a phone call. Come on!

I’ve just about talked myself out of my panic and decided to call the police when I hear another crash. The only difference this time is that it’s accompanied by a loud, long, piercing scream.

For a second, I literally feel my hairs stand up, like a massive domino-run all over my body. Then, very gradually, the feeling subsides as the sudden realization of what’s going on knocks each one down.

Firstly:
It’s Mum!

Then:
That means it’s not a burglar.

Which leads to:
It’s not an ax-wielding madman either.

Until the last one, which stubbornly remains standing:
Why is she smashing the house up?

As I enter the kitchen, I notice that the shelf where we keep all the old bits of chipped crockery is empty.

Mum’s outside the back door in the garden. I can make her out quite clearly, even though it’s dark. She hasn’t seen me.

Her hair is plastered to her face from the rain, and her makeup’s streaked. Is it raindrops or tears? I think it’s probably both. She’s soaked through: no coat on, just a long black skirt and a thick black sweater. She looks like a kitten that’s been rescued from a river — a tiny, fragile creature with its fur all soaked and stuck down.

Her next scream interrupts my thoughts. “Aaaaarr-rgggghhh-you-bloody-buggering-shit-heap-of-a-bloody-BASTARD!”

My instinct is to duck as the nearly-new-but-slightly-soiled plate is hurled violently against the wall that stands between us.

I guess Dad’s told her about Elaine, then.

Her face clouds over with confusion for a moment when I burst out into the garden, as if she doesn’t recognize me. For a second, I see into the future: she’s old and gray, she has dementia and can’t remember my name. The thought pretty much breaks my heart in two.

“A-Ashleigh,” she stammers, looking down at the cracked mug in her hand. It’s the one with a picture of a balloon on it that used to change color when it was warm, one of my favorites, even though it doesn’t change color anymore.

“Mum.” I move toward her.

Fresh streaks are coursing down her face. “It’s OK, Mum,” I say softly as I approach her, ease my way over, reach out for the cup.

By now her expression has dissolved from determined maniac back into the face of the utterly miserable mother I realize I totally love. I gently prise the mug from her hand with a sense of achievement.

Once I’ve put it down safely out of her reach, I look back at her. Her shoulders are hunched over, her head drooping so far down it looks as if she’ll fall forward and topple over in a minute. Without thinking, I put my arms around her. Almost as soon as I do, she puts her head on my shoulder. Her arms hang loosely by her sides, and her whole body starts to shake.

“He’s got another . . . he’s got . . . he’s got . . . he . . . I can’t . . . tell you. It’s not . . . fair . . . on you,” she sobs.

“Look, let’s go inside, shall we?” I steer her back to the door.

Once we’re in the house, I lower her onto a chair then put the kettle on. She’s stopped crying and is now staring into space, clutching a soggy envelope.

I reach out for the envelope. “Can I?”

She hesitates for a moment. Then holds it out.

“I always knew she was after him,” Mum whispers.

“I want to help you, Mum,” I say, feeling useless.

She smiles weakly. “How can you?”

“Whatever I can do, I want to do it.” I take hold of both her hands. They’re cold. I rub them between mine and blow on them.

“Come on.” Still holding her hand, I lead her toward the stairs. “I’m going to run you a bath.”

I leave Mum to soak up the steam and lavender while I make us both a drink. After her bath, we sit up in her bed together, drinking hot chocolate.

“Remember that song you made up for me?” I say. “I’d ask for it over and over again.”

She puts her drink down and looks at me. Then she starts singing, in a croaky voice, hoarse from crying.
“Little Ashleigh, pudding pie, has a twinkle in her eye.”

She puts her arm around me and I join in, surprised to find how much comfort the words still bring me.
“And her giggles, all the while, make her mummy laugh and smile.”

We grin at each other as we sing. By the time we get to
“As long as I have Ashleigh-pie, there’ll never be a cause to cry,”
we’re hugging each other and giggling like kids.

I don’t notice the change, but at some point I realize her giggling has turned to huge, wounded sobs.

I hold her tight, rocking her gently till she wears herself out and falls asleep in my arms.

What on earth am I doing in a math classroom on a Monday evening with seven geeky students and a math teacher? Robyn is with me, which is something at least. But
she
isn’t: Miss Murray.

Why does that make me feel so disappointed?

We’re trying to agree on a topic for the first debate. Mr. Philips keeps coming up with tired old subjects like vivisection and euthanasia. Why are teachers
so
boring?
Most
teachers.

The door bursts open.

“Sorry I’m late,” Miss Murray says breathlessly to the room as she slips into the seat next to Mr. Philips. Her coat’s falling off her shoulder as she pushes her hair back and rubs her face with her hands. And suddenly, it all looks different. Now that she’s here, I’m happy that I am too. I just don’t know what it is about her — when she’s in the room, it’s as if someone’s turned the lights and the heating on.

Robyn nudges me. “Oh, good. We can get started now,” she says in a low voice.

I smile at her and feel my whole body relax.

“You all right?” Mr. Philips says quietly to Miss Murray. We’re meant to be working in pairs. I pretend to be working, but I’m straining my ears for Miss Murray’s response.

“Unforeseen domestic emergency, I’m afraid,” she whispers back to Mr. Philips.

What’s that about? They sound cozy. Are she and Mr. Philips an item? I glance at him once the group discussion gets going. He’s got really intense green eyes that clash with his red hair, and crinkly lines at the corners of them that make him look like he’s always smiling. He’s quite good-looking in an odd sort of way. She’s not going out with him, is she? I don’t want her to be.

After ten minutes, we all have to feed our ideas back to the group. A guy called Danny who I don’t know suggests we discuss why the music charts are dominated by such talentless crap. Surely he’ll get told off for that? But he doesn’t.

“It’s a good idea, Danny,” Miss Murray says, nodding at him. “But let’s look at it in more detail. Break it down. We need to think about examples of the ‘talentless crap’ that is in the charts. And examples of the good tunes. Reasons for both. Then decide if we have enough to build a debate around. What d’you think?”