Read Me Like a Book Read Online Free

d’you fancy?
    Long pause while I stare at him (out of politeness).
    Me (suddenly realizing it’s my turn to speak): Oh, the Odeon, definitely.
    Or:
    Him: What did you think of the party?
    Long pause, etc.
    Me: Oh, I just borrowed it off my mum for the night.
    What? Why?
    We pick the James Bond film in the end, and he’s engrossed from the first trailer onward. I wait for his arm to creep around my shoulder. It doesn’t. Why not? I study my options while he glares at the screen.
    A. He’s a perfect gentleman.
(Good option. Bodes well for future. Unlike Cat, I actually like this in a boy.)
    B. He’s shy.
(Could go either way. Might be sweet at first, but would lose appeal if it goes on too long.)
    C. He’s totally engrossed in the film.
(He’d rather watch grown men with big guns and little gadgets chase each other around than get with me? Not good.)
    D. He doesn’t fancy me.
(Clearly the worst option; I refuse to consider it a possibility at this stage.)
    Still, it’s a good film, and we have a laugh on the way home. Dylan feels easy to be with. Plus I keep getting wafts of what smells like honey and almonds, which makes me think he must have washed his hair before he came out — or at least had a shower or something. Either way, he’s made an effort, which has to be a good sign.
    When we get home, the living room lights are on. Dad’s a complete fascist about wasting electricity, so they must be up. There’s no way I’m going to run the risk of ruining everything by inviting Dylan in, so we talk in the car.
    After about ten minutes, I know curtains will be twitching. Mrs. Langdale across the road doesn’t like to miss anything. I can just imagine the conversation the next day:
    “Ooh, who’s got herself a new boyfriend, then?”
    “He’s not my boyfriend, actually, he’s just —”
    “I mean, fancy courting at your age!”
    “I am seventeen now, you know.”
    “Seventeen! In my day, it wouldn’t do to be on your own with a man until you were almost married. Sitting there in a car with him for all the world to see, it would have caused a scandal.”
    “But we weren’t doing anyth —”
    “Yes, yes, dear, I know. Got to rush; I’m late for my wash and set.”
    No, a grilling from Mrs. Langdale is to be avoided at all costs. So we say good night, and that’s that. There’s an awkward moment when we don’t know whether to kiss or not. He’s fiddling with the rip in his jeans so much I’m worried he’s going to tear them off from the knee down.
    In the end I get out and say, “See you around, then,” in my flippant voice (which I’ve been practicing lately, along with complete indifference and total spontaneity).
    He mumbles something that sounds like, “Yeah, see you,” but I’m halfway up the drive by then. I’ve ended the evening in control, and that’s good. Then, just as I get to the front door, I suddenly remember I haven’t given him my phone number. Without thinking, I turn and run back to the car.
    “My number,” I pant. A sprint down the drive is more exercise than I’m used to.
    He smiles and says, “I’ve already got it.”
    “You have?”
    He waves his mobile at me. “It’s in my phone. You texted me, remember? I texted you back.”
    Oh, God. I’m an idiot! But he saved my number! He’s got me in his phone. “Oh, yeah,” I say nonchalantly. “I’d forgotten.”
    I try to regain a bit of the cool and hard-to-get ground as I let myself into the house without turning around to wave.
    When I get in, no one’s up. Damn. I could have invited Dylan in after all.
    Dad skips breakfast, and it’s only when I go into the living room to look for my bag that I notice the sofa bed’s out. This is a first. My heart flips into as much of a tumble as the disheveled sheets. I’m torn between wanting to know what it might mean and wishing I’d never seen it.
    Mum’s at the kitchen sink, scrubbing hard at the grill pan.
    “Mum, why’s the —”
    “Late for work,