what you were really laughing at, they’d have a fit. You can just imagine it, can’t you? Like in sociology last week. “Sorry, Mr. Foster, Janet was just telling me how the condom got lost while she was having sex with some lad she met at a club over the weekend, and how they tried to find it by —”
And then you’d get, “That’s enough, thank you, we don’t need the details. Just get on with your work.” You can’t win.
So I’m just about to go for the noncommittal old favorite “Dunno” when I glance up at Miss Murray. She has this expression on her face: sort of interested and kind, and looking right into me, her eyes soft and wide open. It’s that thing she does that makes you want to tell her the truth. She should have been a lawyer or something, not a teacher.
“Well, I’ve never, I mean it’s not my kind of, I don’t . . .” What am I trying to say? What
is
the truth? That I don’t think I’m good enough?
Then it’s Miss Murray’s turn to laugh. I can feel myself blushing. Forget honesty. “I just don’t see the point in giving up precious time to go to some boring meeting with a load of pimply boffins,” I snap.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Why on earth did I go and say something so pathetic? I’m definitely in for a lecture now. I try the nonchalant slouch — hands deep in pockets, mouth stifling a yawn, eyes semiglazed over — and wait for it to come.
Nothing.
In the end I have to look up. She’s still looking at me. And smiling. Not laughing. Not out loud anyway, but she must think I’m a right idiot.
“Sorry,” I say eventually.
“Don’t worry about it. But you should think about it. You’d enjoy it.” She starts packing her grade book and pens into her bag. “We could do with someone like you.”
I kick my feet against each other and hope she doesn’t notice my ears have turned pink.
“Someone loudmouthed and opinionated,” she adds with a gentle laugh.
I look up at her and can’t help laughing too. She’s teasing me, but not in a horrible way. Not like Mrs. Banks.
She
wouldn’t know a sense of humor if it slapped her round her coiffured head.
What’s the deal with Miss Murray? She isn’t like a normal teacher. She’s more like . . . I don’t know. I
really
don’t know. Something I can’t place. It’s unsettling.
“You are very articulate, Ash. And very persuasive.”
I haven’t got a clue how to reply. In the end, I manage to mumble “Thanks” and shuffle out of the room.
Cat’s waiting for me at the gates.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry, got held up, talking to Miss Murray.”
Cat rolls her eyes.
“About some work,” I lie quickly, brushing away a stupid feeling of guilt. “Don’t even know what she was on about, really. I didn’t take much notice.” Why am I trying so hard to play down the fact that I enjoy talking to Miss Murray? For Cat’s benefit, or my own?
Cat isn’t even listening. Or looking at me.
“Cat?”
“So, how’re you doing? How’s your mum?” she asks.
“My mum?”
“And . . . and your dad.”
I stare at her.
“Just I haven’t seen them for ages. I mean, at home, at your house. Not been invited round for a while.”
“I know. Sorry. I’ve been a bit busy with other things.” I wink and wait for her to pick up her cue and ask how it’s going with Dylan. She doesn’t.
“So they’re OK, then, your parents?”
I think about the past few weeks: the silences, the sofa bed. I’ve forced myself to not think about it so much that I’ve hardly even talked about it with Cat. Just mentioned it in passing. Too nervous to say too much — and too embarrassed. It feels like admitting a failure or something. On the other hand, this is Cat. My best friend. I can tell her anything. To be honest, it might even help to talk about it. “Well, actually, I’m not so sure,” I begin. “My dad —”
Cat stops and looks at me. “What about your
And then you’d get, “That’s enough, thank you, we don’t need the details. Just get on with your work.” You can’t win.
So I’m just about to go for the noncommittal old favorite “Dunno” when I glance up at Miss Murray. She has this expression on her face: sort of interested and kind, and looking right into me, her eyes soft and wide open. It’s that thing she does that makes you want to tell her the truth. She should have been a lawyer or something, not a teacher.
“Well, I’ve never, I mean it’s not my kind of, I don’t . . .” What am I trying to say? What
is
the truth? That I don’t think I’m good enough?
Then it’s Miss Murray’s turn to laugh. I can feel myself blushing. Forget honesty. “I just don’t see the point in giving up precious time to go to some boring meeting with a load of pimply boffins,” I snap.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. Why on earth did I go and say something so pathetic? I’m definitely in for a lecture now. I try the nonchalant slouch — hands deep in pockets, mouth stifling a yawn, eyes semiglazed over — and wait for it to come.
Nothing.
In the end I have to look up. She’s still looking at me. And smiling. Not laughing. Not out loud anyway, but she must think I’m a right idiot.
“Sorry,” I say eventually.
“Don’t worry about it. But you should think about it. You’d enjoy it.” She starts packing her grade book and pens into her bag. “We could do with someone like you.”
I kick my feet against each other and hope she doesn’t notice my ears have turned pink.
“Someone loudmouthed and opinionated,” she adds with a gentle laugh.
I look up at her and can’t help laughing too. She’s teasing me, but not in a horrible way. Not like Mrs. Banks.
She
wouldn’t know a sense of humor if it slapped her round her coiffured head.
What’s the deal with Miss Murray? She isn’t like a normal teacher. She’s more like . . . I don’t know. I
really
don’t know. Something I can’t place. It’s unsettling.
“You are very articulate, Ash. And very persuasive.”
I haven’t got a clue how to reply. In the end, I manage to mumble “Thanks” and shuffle out of the room.
Cat’s waiting for me at the gates.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry, got held up, talking to Miss Murray.”
Cat rolls her eyes.
“About some work,” I lie quickly, brushing away a stupid feeling of guilt. “Don’t even know what she was on about, really. I didn’t take much notice.” Why am I trying so hard to play down the fact that I enjoy talking to Miss Murray? For Cat’s benefit, or my own?
Cat isn’t even listening. Or looking at me.
“Cat?”
“So, how’re you doing? How’s your mum?” she asks.
“My mum?”
“And . . . and your dad.”
I stare at her.
“Just I haven’t seen them for ages. I mean, at home, at your house. Not been invited round for a while.”
“I know. Sorry. I’ve been a bit busy with other things.” I wink and wait for her to pick up her cue and ask how it’s going with Dylan. She doesn’t.
“So they’re OK, then, your parents?”
I think about the past few weeks: the silences, the sofa bed. I’ve forced myself to not think about it so much that I’ve hardly even talked about it with Cat. Just mentioned it in passing. Too nervous to say too much — and too embarrassed. It feels like admitting a failure or something. On the other hand, this is Cat. My best friend. I can tell her anything. To be honest, it might even help to talk about it. “Well, actually, I’m not so sure,” I begin. “My dad —”
Cat stops and looks at me. “What about your
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