Read Between the Lies, page 12
Ryan needs to play it cool for a while. But not sure he knows how.
‘Does she know about the wedding?’ I ask.
He nods.
‘That’s what this is all about. She’s angry her ex has found happiness and she hasn’t. Once the wedding’s over she’ll calm down. Believe me.’
Ryan’s expression says – what do you know about stuff like this?
He gets up and walks to the door.
‘Mam also wants me to go and spend Christmas with her in Coventry. All of it.’
‘Not the end of the world.’
‘I need to be here, helping you with your reading.’
‘You can only do so much, Ryan. I’m the one who’s gonna have to get up on stage, altar, whatever, and do it.’
Ryan looks like he wants to go. But something’s stopping him.
‘There’s another reason I don’t want to go stay with me mam.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Wanna spend Christmas here, with you.’
Shksepeear
‘Okay, Ryan?’
‘Aye.’
Naomi pats the sofa next to her. I sit down, curious to know what she’s after.
‘I’ve got something for you. Your wedding reading.’
I force a smile. Know what a massive deal this is for her.
‘Do you like Shakespeare?’
‘He’s okay.’
‘Yeah, he wasn’t bad. Well, here’s a little sonnet he wrote.’
She opens her laptop, and hands it to me. There on the screen are my words.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
Can’t imagine how Shakespeare found the time to write 116 of those, along with all his other stuff. Suppose he didn’t have the internet, a mobile phone, or Netflix.
‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ I say.
‘Nice? It’s flippin’ gorgeous.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I meant.’
Naomi laughs. ‘Thought I’d give you the reading early. Give you plenty of time to prepare.’
Don’t think I need six weeks for that. Six minutes will do. Not sure I can say the same for her son.
‘What about Tommy? Where’s his reading?’
‘Mark will give it to him. I’ll print this off for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How are your studies going?’
‘Good.’
‘I know we’ve had a few bumps in the road, but wanted to say how proud I am of the way you’ve handled everything.’
It’s horrible to have to say it, but I will anyway, Naomi’s nicer than me mam right now. Not the old one, from way back, but the new one with the crazy ideas. Naomi’s kind, friendly, not too bossy. Usually leaves it to Dad if I need telling off. She’s never bitter, but I guess she’s got nothing to be bitter about. Living with Tommy can’t have been easy, but if it’s been tough, it doesn’t show. Bet she’s never done a bad thing in her life.
And then her face goes serious, like doctors do in films when they’ve got bad news.
‘How’s your mam?’
Of all the questions.
‘She’s okay,’ I lie.
‘I assume she knows about the wedding?’
‘Aye. And the new house.’
She sits there. Thinking.
Bet Naomi would love to ask more. But even if she did, I wouldn’t say.
She leans over and wraps me up in her arms. It feels good. Even though they’re not the right arms.
‘Don’t worry, Ryan. Once the wedding’s over, and we’re settled in our new place everything will be different.’
Aye, because not long after that I’ll be four thousand miles away.
Faer
Want to move on. But I’m manacled to the past. Logan will be out of prison next year. He’ll want revenge. Or for me to get involved in something stupid. I just know it. I’ll say no. I have to say no. But what will the repercussions be? Mum says, ‘a problem’s not a problem until it’s a problem.’ Logan may not be one now, but he will be soon.
Then there’s the problem that’s always there, waiting for me, in every book, on every page. I’ve started learning to touch type. And I’ve been doing the lessons Ryan set me. They seem to be going okay, but the last place I want to see whether they’ve worked is the actual wedding. I can read out loud with just Ryan there, but what will I be like with two hundred eyes on me?
I’m on my beanbag, listening to an audiobook of Animal Farm, when Mark appears in his running gear, holding a piece of paper. Take off my headphones.
‘What you listening to?’ he says.
‘Music.’
‘We should go see a band sometime.’
If the sort of music I hear on his car radio is anything to go by, I’d rather go to a museum.
‘Maybe.’
He stands there looking awkward, as he usually does when he appears in my room.
‘Your mum and I have chosen our wedding readings. Want to see yours?’
‘Sure.’
Mark hands me the paper, and I read.
Try to read.
‘Yeah, neat,’ I say.
‘Wow, that was fast.’
That’s because I didn’t read it. My eyes flew over the page, like a stone skipping across water. Know there are words I don’t get. But don’t need him to know that.
‘Do you like it?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, it’s cool.’
‘You can keep it.’
‘Cheers.’
I fold the paper and post it into my jeans pocket. Don’t want to talk about the reading. Not now. Not to him.
‘How are the preparations going?’ I ask.
‘Pretty good, Tommy. Got the reception booked at the cricket club. Catering’s sorted. Invitations have gone out. Just awaiting the hate mail from those not on the list.’
Ryan’s mum will probably send a letter bomb.
‘Going to be such a great day,’ he says, bending down to give my arm a firm squeeze. ‘Maybe we could go on another bike ride this weekend.’
‘Got an away match. And loads of study to catch up on.’
‘Sure.’
He stands there, as if he’s got more to say, but doesn’t know how to say it.
‘See you later, Tommy.’
‘Yeah.’
Mark goes off to get sweaty. I take the paper out of my pocket, unfold it, and go through it again, this time at my normal ambling pace. There are a few words that trip me up, but it seems okay. Reading inside my head is cheating, though. I need to try it at volume, with someone listening.
Head to Ryan’s room.
‘Can I try my reading out on you?’
‘Aye,’ he says, looking up from his laptop.
‘Out on the street.’
‘The street?’
‘Yeah, don’t want Mum hearing me practise.’
Ryan grabs his coat and we head out of the front door. I find a spot up the road with a small patch of green and pull the paper from my pocket.
‘What’s your reading?’ asks Ryan, the cold air turning his words to smoke.
‘“The Art of Marriage”, by some bloke.’
‘Well you’re pretty good at art.’
Almost funny, Ryan.
Clear my throat. Like I will on the day. Inflate my lungs. Clutch the paper.
‘A good marriage must be created.’
Ding de ding dong.
An ice-cream van drives past. Who the hell eats ice-cream in winter? I stop and wait for the tinny sound to fade away. Can feel my heart echoing through my body. And I’ve only got an audience of Ryan. Pull yourself together, Tommy. Look around one last time to make sure no one’s within earshot.
I go through the poem.
Ryan claps. ‘That was great, Tommy.’ Even though I know it wasn’t. ‘You only stumbled in a few places. Think you changed the odd word. And the pace was a bit fast.’
‘In other words, a pile of steaming cow pat.’
‘Stop panicking. It’s weeks till the wedding. You can go through it a million times before then. It’ll be perfect.’
I know what Ryan says is true.
But if it’s true, why do I feel so scared?
Teh worng raeding
‘Better gan too slow than too fast,’ I say, as we walk home.
‘Better to get it over with as quickly as possible,’ he replies, screwing up the paper and ramming it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Decide to try a few more things I’ve read about. I find Tommy’s reading online and print it out in bold with a much bigger type size. It’s so large it now runs to three pages. I buy a yellow overlay to help him see the words more clearly. I lend him a ruler to place beneath each sentence, so he doesn’t lose his place. Heard it helps to try visualising things, so I ask him to illustrate the text.
He shows me the little drawings he’s made in the margins.
‘Wow.’
‘You being sarcastic?’
‘My wow is 100 per cent genuine.’
He’s drawn the most amazing little pictures in pencil. Two hands, fingers interlaced. A couple leaning into one another. Two mouths about to merge. A man and woman using each other’s shoulders as head rests.
‘Do you think any of this will do any good?’ asks Tommy.
‘No idea. Let’s find out.’
‘We’re going out again?’
‘Yes, Tommy, we’re going out again. I’d like you to go through it a few more times, breaking up the tricky words the way you’ve been taught, and see how you go.’
Thought Tommy would push back. But he doesn’t.
It’s dark outside. We find a different place, underneath a street light. Tommy’s nerves have come too. He sits on a garden wall, his right leg jerking. Gets out his paper, puts his coloured overlay on top of the first page, places his ruler under the first line, and takes a large gulp of breath. I close me eyes and imagine I’m wearing a suit, tie, and sitting on a hard pew in a cold church.
He starts to read.
A moment later it’s all over.
‘That was brilliant, Tommy. In fact, if someone told me the person reading that is dyslexic, I wouldn’t believe them.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
Tommy has nailed it. Gone are the stumbles over difficult words. Pauses have disappeared in the steady flow. He’s neither too fast nor too slow. In fact, he’s word perfect. I pat his shoulder.
Proud of him.
Proud of me.
We head back.
At home we’re met by the smell of something spicy in the kitchen.
‘Where’ve you two been?’ asks Naomi.
‘Church,’ says Tommy.
Naomi folds her arms. ‘Guys, I don’t want to turn into the Secret Police, but I wouldn’t mind a bit of honesty once in a while.’
‘We went for a quick walk, Mum.’
Decide to build on Tommy’s lie. ‘Aye, our teachers say it’s good to take a breather when you’ve been studying, refresh the brain.’
Naomi’s eyes go from Tommy to me and back again. Hard to tell whether she believes a word.
Her arms finally unfold.
‘I’ve got some news for you, Tommy,’ she says. ‘About that speech Mark gave you.’
‘Yeah?’ he says.
‘Going to have to find you a new one.’
Tommy’s fists tighten. ‘What d’ya mean?’
‘You know my friend Hayley? Well, she’s getting married the week before us. Guess which reading she’s chosen? “The Art of Marriage”, by Wilfred A. Peterson.’
Teh dscieovry
I snap Ryan’s ruler, cut up the overlay, and tear the reading into pieces smaller than dandruff. What a complete and utter waste of time.
‘It’s okay,’ says Ryan.
‘What exactly is okay about it? Been working on that for ages. Going through it over and over.’
‘You’ll get another one.’
‘There’s a thing called time, Ryan, and it’s running out. Can’t study and work on a new reading. What if the next one’s long and complicated? Shakespeare, or Chancer.’
‘Chaucer.’
‘Yeah, him.’
Why couldn’t Hayley have picked Ryan’s reading?
‘You can have mine,’ he says.
‘Don’t want yours. It’s weird, old words. Don’t want to be in the spotlight. Don’t want any of this.’
Ryan walks out of my room. Wouldn’t blame him for giving up on me.
I was so up to speed on that reading. Knew it off by heart. Why did Mum have to go and change it? Most weddings are the same anyway. If Hayley picked a cake, would Mum go for a bowl of rice pudding? I was finally heading in the right direction, but my luck has done a handbrake turn, tyres squealing, dust flying.
I want to try and change Mum’s mind. But if I do she’ll know something is up.
Why are you making this such a big deal?
Because I’m scared of reading in public. Because I’m dyslexic.
As each day trickles by without her making her choice, it’s another day less to prepare. Another day to worry. Mum begins to notice.
‘You’ve been very quiet, Tommy?’
Because you stole my words.
‘I’m…okay,’ I say, in my least okay voice ever.
‘Is it the money you owe for the car?’
‘No.’
‘Have you and Ryan fallen out again?’
‘No.’
Ryan has been removed from my worry list. Since I asked for help, he’s got totally into the whole teaching bit. Think he gets a buzz out of hearing me read properly. Takes his mind off other things. Like his mam. Or soon to be Mom.
Can almost hear the cogs in her head whirring as Mum searches for other reasons for my grumpiness.
‘Is it your GCSEs?’
‘No, Mum.’
But this could quickly turn into a yes. Still feel like I’m studying at half-speed compared to everyone else.
‘If nothing’s the matter, would you mind doing a small job for me?’
‘What?’
‘Can you go through your things in the loft? There’s a ton of stuff we need to get rid of before we move.’
‘But you said we’re not moving until after the wedding.’
‘It’ll be here before you know it. Don’t want to do everything last minute. And bring the Christmas decorations down. We’ll need to put them up soon.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thanks, Tommy.’
And she gives me one of her ‘everything’s going to be all right’ hugs.
Don’t fancy going into the loft, but it’ll give me something to do. Go upstairs, grab a pole and open the hatch. Pull the metal ladder down and make my way up the steps. Scramble through the hole and search for the light. A flick illuminates the space. Haven’t been up here for ages. A quick sweep of the loft tells me why. It’s a mad jumble of boxes, papers, suitcases, old lamps, decorations, pictures, clothes, bags, and household junk. It’s like the back room of a charity shop.
Hard to know where to begin. I could ask Ryan for help, but that wouldn’t be fair. It’s a mountain that’s been built by Mum and me over the last seventeen years. None of it belongs to him.
Decide to leave the decorations till last. I stoop low under the beams, and make my way to the farthest corner, until I’m half-buried by the remnants of our lives. The first box I find is full of children’s books. They look as if they’ve never been opened. Guess someone bought them for me for Christmas or my birthday. Imagine me ripping open the wrapping with little fingers, eyes popping, hoping for something exciting. Conjuring a fake smile when I see it’s a book. Then dashing outside to play before they ask me to read and find I can’t. Wonder why Mum kept them.
I move the box near the mouth of the loft to carry downstairs later. Ease my way back into the tip and find some plastic bags full of clothes. T-shirts, hoodies, trousers, jumpers. Hold them up against me. All way too small. Most have designer tags. Wonder how Mum found the money to buy them, and why she bothered. Never been into labels. The bags of clothes join the books, waiting for their new home.
I crawl deeper into the eaves, like an archaeologist, exploring The Tomb of Naomi and Tommy Cavendish. But instead of treasure, this place is full of rubbish. Don’t know why Mum has kept half of it. Like the loft has become some kind of limbo. Too bad for the house. Not bad enough for the skip.
Find boxes and boxes of Halloween stuff. Mum loves that time of year. Even though I outgrew it years ago, it all comes out every October, and she covers the house in fake horror – skeletons, cobwebs, spiders, freaky faces. And she gets a ton of sweets in for the kids who come knocking. Think it’s to make up for the fact it’s just been the two of us.
Another box. It’s stuff belonging to Mum. Open a plastic envelope and find a stack of pictures. Flick through them. They’re glossy, like magazine covers, showing Mum years ago, about the same age as me now. I know Mum was a teenager once, but it’s hard to imagine. Here she is, young, bright eyed, long hair, laughing.
Go deeper. Find a framed degree from Nottingham University. 2:1 in Geography. Forgot she did that. Dive further. There’s a blue folder buried at the bottom. Open it. It’s full of letters. Know I shouldn’t look at them, but I’ve suddenly got into this. And now my reading’s getting better no harm in taking a peek at mum’s past.
I take out a couple of the letters and move over to the light to read them. Handwriting I don’t recognise.
My darling Naomi.
It’s that feeling I get watching those sites you’re not meant to look at. The ones everyone looks at. Know I shouldn’t go further, but there’s nobody here to catch me. Hold the worn paper in my hands. It gives me that buzz again. Like the one that started all the trouble.
