Read Me Like a Book (21 page)

I lean forward. Close my eyes. I’m —

“Ash, we . . . this isn’t what I . . . you need to . . .” She stops midsentence, runs a hand through her hair, turns away from me.

My eyes snap open. “There’s no one around.” I smile, nervously, stupidly. “It’s OK.”

“No, Ashleigh, it’s not OK.” She turns around and looks at me, and I stop smiling when I see her face. “It is — definitely — not — OK.”

She crosses the hall to pick up her coat. “You need to go home. Your mum will be wondering where you are.”

“It’s fine. She won’t mind. She’s cool.”

“I need to finish my grading,” she says, heading for the door.

I can’t let her go. Can’t let this moment end. It might be the only one we get. I follow her to the door. “You said you liked me, you enjoy talking to me,” I say weakly, my arms hanging limply by my sides, my face on fire.

“I do like you,” Miss Murray says. “Of course I do, just not —”

“You made me feel special.”

“Ash, you
are
special. You don’t need me to tell you that. You just need to believe it yourself.”

“Special to you.”

Miss Murray lets out a breath. “OK, maybe you are special, in a way. I guess I see a bit of myself in you. And, yes, OK, perhaps that means I feel a closer bond than I should. A teacher’s not supposed to have favorites — but yes, all right then, I admit it, I guess you’re one of my favorite students.” She tries for a smile. “Is that good enough?”

I step back. I feel like I’m falling, like she’s punched me in the stomach. “A favorite student,” I repeat. “That’s all I am?”

Miss Murray stares at me. “Ash, what did you
think
?”

“I . . . I thought . . .” What
did
I think? My thoughts and my words drain away.

Miss Murray is leaning on the door. “Ash, come on. It’s time to go.” Her hand is so tight on the handle, her knuckles are pale. She’s looking at the floor.

“Miss Murray.”

“What?” She doesn’t move.

I stare at her face, but she doesn’t return the look. “I love you.”

The air in the room has frozen, every atom suspended. Then her tense body slackens. Her hand loosens its grip on the door, and she turns her head slowly toward me. She meets my gaze for a moment. Her eyes have dark rings under them. Her forehead is creased with worry. Her cheeks are pale. I want to make it all OK. I want to make her happy. I desperately want to touch her face.

“I know,” she says quietly.

Then she opens the door and waits for me to leave.

“See you on Monday?” I call as she locks the hall and heads toward her classroom, but she can’t have heard me as she doesn’t reply.

“So, if you could open your books to page . . . where did you say you were up to? Right, yes, page one-three-three. Now, someone tell me what you’ve learned about this poem. You, yes, you, what’s your name?”

I stare at the substitute teacher like a zombie. What the hell is going on? Miss Murray hasn’t missed a single lesson since she started here.

I make a quick escape, pleading a desperate need for the loo. I soon find myself wandering aimlessly down the corridors.

“Shouldn’t you be in class, Ashleigh?” I turn around and see the headmaster, Mrs. Banks, coming toward me.

“I was looking for you,” I bluff, convincing no one. She folds her arms and stares at me. “It’s about Miss Murray,” I add quickly.

“Ah, yes, I was going to come and see you about her.”

My heart flips over. “Me?”

“Don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble. I mean your whole class. In fact, I’ll come back with you now and I can tell you all together.”

“Tell us what?” I try to keep up as she marches down the corridor.

“You’ll just have to wait, Ashleigh. I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

She’s found the only way of getting me back into that awful lesson.

So we hear the news together. Me, who spends every waking minute thinking about Miss Murray, and the rest of the class, who probably just see her absence as a good excuse to ditch.

“I know this is not an easy time for you.” Mrs. Banks looks around at us. I fidget with my pen, trying to look as unconcerned as everyone else. Robyn and I exchange a quick look and a half-shrug.

“Your A-levels are nearly upon you . . .”

As if we need reminding.

“So I know it’s not the best time for this to happen.” She pauses, clicking her pen. I want to snatch the thing from her. Then she says, “I’m afraid Miss Murray has left us.”

Left us? What do you mean? How can she leave us? How can she leave
me? A dull pain creeps into my stomach while I try to maintain a bored, blank expression.

“Her contract was due to run to the end of this term, but sadly, for personal reasons, Miss Murray has had to leave early. She has done an excellent job, and we are very grateful to her. Mrs. Hollins here will teach you for the remainder of the term. Now, any questions?”

Can I trust myself to speak? Thankfully, Luke saves me the job. “Why couldn’t she stay for the whole year, miss?”

“As I’ve said, personal reasons. In other words, nothing to do with you. Or me, in fact.”

“You mean you don’t know, miss?”

Mrs. Banks flushes. “Any more questions?” she asks briskly. Luke’s right. She clearly doesn’t know.

Personal reasons.
Is it me? Is it what happened, the things I said? Am I so completely awful to be around that she had to leave? Or is it something else, not me at all? How can I find out?

Mrs. Banks flashes her smarmy smile around the room. “Now, let’s save our thoughts for studying, shall we? You’ll need every bit of mental energy you can muster over the coming weeks.” And she’s out the door before anyone else has time to speak.

At the end of the day, I go over to Robyn’s with her. I’m still in a daze. Robyn comes into her bedroom, where I’m sitting on the floor with my books around me, and hands me a plateful of Jaffa Cakes. Comfort eating.

“Thanks.”

She sits on her bed. I glance over at her, assuming she’ll be immersed in the book that to me is just a blur. But she’s staring into space.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she says without looking at me. “Do you know what I mean?” Then she looks at me so intensely that for a moment I’m confused. Is Robyn in love with Miss Murray as well? Does she know how I feel?

“I think so,” I reply hesitantly.

“I’ve never had a teacher like her,” she says. “No one else ever seemed to really care about us like she did.”

“You’re talking as though she’s dead or something.”

“I just don’t see her as the kind of person who would abandon us like that. She was too committed. Don’t you think?”

The tears are falling from the bottom of my nose and my chin; I don’t bother to wipe them away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Robyn slides down onto the floor and puts her arm around my shaking shoulders. “Hey, it’s OK. You don’t need to apologize for crying.”

Her impossible efforts to understand make me feel even worse, and she holds me tighter and strokes my arm.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she half whispers. I stop for a moment and look at her. She wipes a tear from my cheek with her palm and smooths my hair back. I suddenly realize how close she is and how tightly we’re holding each other. For a second, she returns my look. Then, before stopping to think, my eyes are closed and I’m leaning toward her. Am I imagining she’s Miss Murray? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I tighten my arms around her and brush her lips for a second, for a fraction of a second —

Suddenly she’s pulling away from me, scrambling out of my arms as though she’s just discovered a beetle inside her sweater.

I put my hand to my face as though I’ve been slapped. I actually think I have been.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Robyn is shrieking at me from halfway across the room.

I start to get up. She takes a step backward and slips on one of my books. I move forward to try and stop her falling.

“Don’t come near me,” she spits, awkwardly regaining her balance.

“Robyn, I —”

“What do you think I am? What are
you
?”

“What d’you mean, what am I? You know what I am. I’m your friend.”

“
Friend?
Is that what you do with your friends?”

“Look, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought you wanted . . .”

“Wanted what?”

“I didn’t mean to do anything. I was just confused.”

“
You’re
confused. What do you think I am? I thought we were friends. I didn’t know you had ulterior motives.”

What can I say?
Hey, don’t worry, it’s not you I fancy, it’s Miss Murray?
I keep my mouth shut.

“I think you should leave,” Robyn says quietly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robyn, can’t we talk about —”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I just think it’d be better if you went.”

“I don’t need this,” I say quietly.

“No, nor do I.” She’s standing near the door, her arms are folded, and she’s staring at me like I’m a stranger.

Neither of us says anything while I pack up my things. The silence shames me. “Robyn, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you —”

“Look, it’s nothing personal. I’m just not . . . like that.”

“Nor am I. Well, I mean, not about you. I just don’t know what I —”

“Ash,” she says, opening her door even as she speaks, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ll see you at school, right?”

“Right. OK.”

She gives me a quick, tight smile as she closes her door, and I walk home in a daze.

When I was in primary school, I joined the chess club. It was in one of those awful caravan-type rooms they used to put classes in when they didn’t have enough proper classrooms. They were called “terrapins,” and they were meant to be there for a term or two; they’re probably still there now. It was on Thursdays after school, and I only went because I wanted to be with my “boyfriend,” Jamie Middleton. We used to go around the back and practice kissing each other on the lips and wonder if we were doing it right.

I never improved at chess. I was too busy kissing Jamie Middleton. But one thing I remember about the game is that you always have to look at the pieces around you and think about five steps ahead if you’re to stand any chance of winning. I remember my head spinning from trying to work out all the possible moves in one go. Sometimes I’d look at the board and realize I was being completely slaughtered. I hardly had any decent pieces left, and the game was closing in on me.

Yeah, I remember that feeling well. Checkmate.

“Pens down, please.”

I hand in my law paper. Two years’ work swapped for five flimsy sides of A4 paper.

Cat lights up a cigarette when we’re barely out of the building. “That was a load of crap, wasn’t it?”

“It was awful.”

“Only three more, thankfully. Can’t wait to get away from this dump. I bet you can’t either.”

“What d’you mean?”

Cat blushes for what I think must be the first time in her entire life and mumbles, “Well, you know. Get away from all the . . . people.”

“Huh?”

“I just thought . . . Look, never mind. It’s all garbage anyway.”

“What’s all garbage?” Heat rises in my face, spreading quickly to my ears.