Read Me Like a Book Read Free Page A

going to think I’m an idiot now. Not that I care what a teacher thinks of me. At least, I never have before now.
    “Maybe you could bring it in sometime,” she says as she turns away and picks up a book from her desk. I feel dismissed, and I’m not sure I like it — although it does mean I’ve gotten away with not looking like a total weirdo in front of my peers.
    “I’d like to see it.” Her head, slightly tilted, turns her smile into a question, and I shrug in reply.
    “Good.” She opens the book. “Now, here’s one of my favorites.”
    Then she says, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”
    I look around the class. Everyone has stopped doodling and passing notes to one another; the air’s tightened.
    “They may not mean to, but they do.”
    Is it a poem?
    She holds our attention all the way to the last line, when she puts the book down and says, “Philip Larkin.” Into the silence, she adds, “He’s a poet.”
    As she passes photocopies around the room, we study them with suspicion.
    “Any thoughts?” Miss Murray asks.
    I find myself nodding as I read the poem, as I relate to every word. It’s as if the poet knows exactly what’s going on in my head. I want to say so, but I’ve already done my bit, so I do the looking-down-at-my-desk thing again and wait for someone else to speak. The tension spreads awkwardly around the room, seeping into every little space.
    Finally, Luke breaks the silence. “Is that really a poem, miss, or did you make it up for a laugh?”
    But before she has time to answer, the bell rings. Bags are instantly on top of tables, chairs scraped back.
    “Excuse me!” she shouts over the racket. “I didn’t tell anyone to go anywhere.”
    She’s standing in front of her desk, arms folded, and frowning as she looks around at us. We eventually stop moving while we wait for her to speak. Weird. We never did that for Mr. Kenworthy.
    There’s something about her. It’s as if she’s not on the opposite side of a high wall, like most teachers. She makes the wall seem like a thin line — as though she can reach across to our side of it. Maybe it’s because she’s probably only about five years older than us. Maybe it’s because she smiles more than most teachers. Maybe it’s because she shared a poem with swear words in it. I don’t know what it is — I just know that, yeah, OK, she’s cool. For a teacher.
    Outside the room, people are already running past the door, chasing each other to the bus queue.
    “As we’ve been getting to know each other today, we’ve not had time to study this poem,” Miss Murray goes on. “We’ll continue with it tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like you to read it again at home and jot down your initial responses to it. Any questions?”
    In reply, we grab our bags and squeeze out to join the corridor rush hour.
    I catch up with Cat at the bus stop. She draws on a cigarette while I tell her about the party. We’ve hardly had a chance to talk all day.
    “D’you think I should call him?” I ask. “Or text?”
    Cat grins. “Send him a topless selfie?”
    I laugh as Cat finishes her cigarette and chucks it on the pavement. I wish she wouldn’t do that. Wish she wouldn’t smoke at all, to be honest. Not out of being a goody-goody. Mainly because it makes her stink, and hanging out with her makes
me
stink and makes Mum and Dad accuse me of smoking — which I don’t. Dad’s never convinced, no matter how much I promise I don’t smoke. Tried it. Didn’t like it. But I don’t have any intention of telling Cat what to do; it would only make her do the opposite.
    “So, tell me about Magaluf,” I say, happy to change the subject. “Did Jean score?”
    Cat bursts out laughing. “Actually, nearly. She and I had a contest to see who could get the most smiles out of the waiter I sent you the pic of. She got the most, so I told her she’d won.”
    “Hadn’t she?”
    Cat smiles her cheeky Cat-smile. “Depends if you count making out