Read Me Like a Book (25 page)

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.

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.”

Silence.

“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?”

I swallow. “Miss Murray,” I say quietly.

He stabs the air with a finger. “That’s it! Said you were a shining star and would be a credit to any course you were in. She says we’d be lucky to have you.”

He spoke to her this morning? She said that about me? For a moment I’m so thrown I can’t speak.

The man laughs. “That’s a good thing, by the way. So, anyway, tell me a bit about yourself.”

I take a breath. What can I tell him?

“Let’s start with why you want to do this course.”

OK, I can do this. I looked up the course details earlier, and I really liked what I saw. “Well, the fact that it’s not all about writers who have been dead for hundreds of years appeals to me,” I begin.

Mr. Anderson throws back his head and laughs. “I like it,” he says. “I like your honesty.”

“I — I mean, obviously Shakespeare and all of those are great,” I carry on quickly, “but I’m more interested in modern literature. I enjoy reading poems and books and thinking about how they reflect what’s going on in the world around me.”

He’s looking at me and nodding, and I decide to be brave and take another step.

“And I, um, I like the fact that you’ve got a module called Literature, Culture, and Identity,” I say, blushing furiously in case he knows why I like the sound of it. “I — I’m interested in that kind of thing.”

I stop talking and look down.

A moment later, Mr. Anderson is speaking again. “You’re interesting,” he says.

I glance up at him and smile. He smiles back. “I think you’re the type of young person we would like in our course. And with your impressive reference as well . . .” He scratches his chin, then nods. “Ah, to hell with it. Let’s do it. You’re in. Now, have you got anything you’d like to ask me?”

I stare at him. “Er . . . are you offering me a place?”

“I certainly am.” He laughs. “Is that your only question?”

My mind is suddenly
full
of questions, but I seem to have lost the power of speech. “Thank you so much, Mr. Anderson!” I manage in the end.

“Al,” he says, correcting me. “And you’re welcome.”

He shuffles some papers on his desk. “If you’d like to see my secretary on your way out, she’ll give you all the necessary documentation. The book lists will be sent out in the next couple of weeks, and I recommend you get started as soon as possible. Once you arrive, there’ll be plenty of other things to distract you from your studies for the first week or two.” He smiles again and holds out his hand. I reach forward and shake it awkwardly. “See you in a month or so, then,” he says.

“Yeah, great. Wow. Thank you.” I stumble out of his office and pick up the paperwork, then make my way to the cafeteria.

“I did it,” I say numbly. “They want me.”

“Yes!” Mum punches the air, then grabs me and pulls me in for a hug. “That’s amazing, Ash! And of course they do. Who wouldn’t?” There’s a hint of sadness lurking behind her eyes as she moves away. “I’ll miss you,” she says.

“You’ve got Tony.”

Mum drops her arms and turns away.

“What’s happened?”

She shakes her head.

“Mum?”

“Oh, Ash, I’m just not sure I’m really ready to get serious about someone.”

“Serious? Does he want to?”

She nods. “He’s talking about us moving in together. Not now, but, you know, sometime.”

“Wow. That’s a bit . . . soon?”

“Exactly.” She picks at the cuffs of her jacket. “He’s a nice man. A lovely man. It’s not him that’s the problem. It’s me. I just don’t think I can do it. Not yet. I can’t give out something that I haven’t got.”

“Oh, Mum.” I want to hug her. I don’t know what’s stopping me.

“Ash,” she says quietly. She’s going to tell me off. What have I done?

“What?”

She pauses for ages. She’s looking at me through narrow eyes, examining me.

“What?”

Then she smiles. “No, it’s nothing. Just, well done, love.”

I don’t ask again. I daren’t. It was that look. What was it? What isn’t she saying? Why don’t I want to ask?

I spend the whole journey home trying to remember when exactly it was that we stopped communicating again.