The Sound

  ‘Can I help at all?’ Jesse asks.

  I spin around. ‘How? Do you have a crane? Or a tow truck? Do you have the keys to these cars?’ I throw my arms out wide indicating the two cars on either side.

  ‘Nope,’ Jesse says, kicking the stand down on his bike. He drops to his haunches and ties a chain around it, attaching it to a lamp post, and then strolls towards me. I wonder what he’s going to do and my body does its usual thing – which is getting really annoying – of almost going into spasm. It’s as if Jesse Miller is the human equivalent of a one hundred and six degree fever. He slides past me, brushing my arm, and gets into the car. He presses the seat back to accommodate his longer legs and then he spins the steering wheel, eases off the pedal and frees the car in about three seconds flat.

  I officially hate him.

  ‘Get in,’ he orders, throwing open the passenger door.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get in.’ He gives me that look, the daring one that makes my blood boil.

  ‘It’s my car,’ I say, standing there with my arms crossed. ‘You get out.’

  He laughs. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘I don’t need you to drive me home,’ I argue. Who the hell does he think he is?

  ‘I know,’ he says, pulling a serious face. ‘I’d just feel better knowing you were going to get home in one piece.’

  ‘I can drive, you know,’ I say.

  ‘I know. I just witnessed your driving.’

  I glare at him but it is absolutely as clear as the fact that Eliza Thorne hates my guts and that Will dumped me for someone with smaller boobs, that Jesse Miller is not getting out of the driving seat.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, walking around to the passenger side, ‘but how are you going to get back here if you drive me?’

  ‘I’ll borrow your bike. The one you have under lock and key. I’ll drop it back early tomorrow before the armed guards notice it’s gone.’

  ‘It’s four miles to the Tripps’ house.’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘You are such a show-off,’ I say as I put my seat belt on.

  He shrugs, pushes the car into drive and steps on the gas. I glance at his hand on the wheel. The thumbs are calloused. He punched Tyler Reed with those hands. The thought is sobering. I sink back in my seat and keep my eyes on the road. But I can’t sit there in silence next to him. It’s impossible; if I stay quiet the energy tingling up my arms will make me spontaneously combust.

  ‘Why don’t you play in the band anymore?’ I ask. ‘You look like you really enjoyed playing tonight.’

  ‘I did.’

  I look at him sideways. ‘Then why did you stop?’

  He glances across at me quickly before fixing the road with a dark stare. ‘Last summer things . . .’ He pauses. ‘Some things happened.’

  I press my lips together. Should I admit I know what happened?

  He glances at me. ‘You’ve heard something right? From that girl? The one who came into the shop the other day after you? What’s her name? Sophie?’

  I shrug.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ There’s a note of irritation in his voice.

  I take a deep breath. ‘That you had a fight with Tyler Reed.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I see his jaw tense and his hands grip the steering wheel as though he wants to tear it off and fling it Frisbee-style through the windshield. I duck back in my seat, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

  ‘What did she tell you exactly?’ he asks through gritted teeth.

  I weigh up my answer and decide to keep it simple. ‘She told me that you put Tyler in hospital.’

  He nods. ‘Right. So now you think I’m a violent asshole with anger issues?’

  ‘Um.’ My cheeks are flaring like hot plates. He has hit the nail on the head. ‘I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that,’ I mumble.

  He punches the steering wheel with his fist and I shrink back against my seat and keep my eyes on the road. He’s not doing much to disabuse me of the notion that he’s a violent asshole with anger issues, that’s for sure. Silence overwhelms us – a silence amazingly no longer filled with electricity. The electricity has been well and truly grounded. I watch the strips of white on the road, praying for this journey to be over.

  A minute of eviscerating silence later, Jesse turns into the Tripps’ drive. He pulls up in front of the house and kills the engine.

  ‘So, thanks for the ride,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light. ‘I better be going. I need to get up early tomorrow.’

  ‘Breakfast at the Harbour Club?’ he asks.

  I turn around to him, my back pressed to the car door. There’s no humour in his voice, just a tightness around the eyes and mouth that makes him look meaner than he is – or than I thought he was.

  ‘Would you just stop that?’ I say, my irritation bubbling over.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Making assumptions. You saw me with Sophie and immediately assumed that I was a rah and now you won’t drop it.’

  A smile twitches on his lips, transforming the anger, wiping it away completely. ‘A what?’ he asks.

  ‘A rah. A preppie. Whatever you people call them. I’m not. I don’t go to private school. My family isn’t loaded. I don’t have a yacht or my own car or a trust fund or own any designer clothes. I’m the nanny, for crying out loud! I work for them.’

  I see a trace – the smallest glimmer – of guilt in his eyes.

  ‘Why’d you ask me to come tonight?’ I ask angrily. ‘Was it because you had some expectation that I’d be like them?’

  ‘No,’ he says quietly, and he’s looking up at me through thick black lashes, ‘because I had hopes that you weren’t.’

  ‘Well I’m not,’ I say, getting even more angry at the sound of disappointment in his voice. ‘You should take people as they are. Stop labelling them. You should get to know people before you start judging them. Get to know me before you decide whether you like me or not.’

  Jesse immediately starts smirking.

  I sigh loudly in his face.‘I meant like as in like, not as in like.’

  He raises an eyebrow, still smirking.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I snap. ‘I have a boyfriend.’

  Why have I just said this? I bite my lips together pondering how my tongue and my brain seem to lack an essential bond.

  ‘Yeah?’ Jesse says, no longer smirking, now just looking highly amused.

  ‘Yeah,’ I answer back.

  ‘And you’re telling me this why?’

  God damn him. I don’t believe there’s anyone in the world more cocky than Jesse Miller.

  ‘You know, Ren,’ he says now, and I look up because gone is the trace of mocking scepticism in his tone and in its place is the softness, the gentleness that I heard when he sang and which lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. ‘I could say the same to you.’ He pauses. ‘You’re making a lot of assumptions about me too.’

  ‘I am not—’ I start to say, then I remember American Psycho and shut up. He may have a small point. The sadness in his voice has reached his eyes but there’s a veneer of defiance over the top.

  He studies me for a moment and when I don’t say anything else he opens the car door and gets out. I follow after him. I lead him to the garage and unlock the bike. He takes it without a word and wheels it out into the driveway.

  ‘Thanks for driving me home,’ I say, grudgingly.

  ‘I’ll bring the bike back first thing,’ he says, not looking at me.

  He cycles off, standing up on the pedals.

  Show-off, I think. But I still stand and watch.

  20

  The house is dark and silent. The wooden floorboards creak as I open the front door and tiptoe across the hallway towards the stairs.

  ‘Was that Jesse Miller?’

  I jump almost out of my skin and let out a yelp. It’s Mike. He’s standing in the shadows of the study doorway. Behind him I can see a computer screen glowing
and it is throwing him into silhouette.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I say, gripping on to the banister.

  ‘Why is he driving you home in my car? Were you drinking?’ Mike asks and there’s no mistaking the tone of his voice.

  ‘No,’ I say immediately.

  ‘I don’t mind you having a few beers, Ren,’ he says, with a sigh, ‘I was your age not so long ago, but not when you’re in charge of a vehicle. My vehicle . . . also, you’re only what? Eighteen?’

  ‘Almost eighteen,’ I say sheepishly. I haven’t even had a beer tonight.

  ‘It’s illegal to drink alcohol over here if you’re under twenty-one.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I burst in. ‘I didn’t. I just had a Coke. I promise that’s all.’

  ‘So why was Jesse Miller driving my car?’

  ‘Because I got stuck in a parking space and he helped me get out and then he insisted on driving me back here and I couldn’t stop him.’

  Mike lets out a relieved laugh. ‘You got stuck in a parking space? How is that even possible?’

  I shrug.

  ‘OK,’ he says, and there’s a smile in his voice, ‘But don’t tell Carrie you let Jesse Miller drive our car, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say, relieved he’s not madder.

  ‘You better get to bed,’ he says, nodding at the stairs.

  I back away and he watches me.

  I’m halfway up the stairs when he takes a step forwards and rests his hand on the banister. ‘And Ren, you should really be careful who you accept rides from in the future.’

  I swallow. In the dimly lit hallway with his face in shadow, it’s like being given advice from the killer in Saw IV.

  Once in the safety of my bedroom with the chair parked in front of the door, I start pacing, trying to wrap my head around all the thoughts that are pinging off the sides of my skull like dummy bullets. All I can think about is how much I want to punch something, ideally Jesse Miller’s face, but I can’t work out why I’m mad with him exactly. I think it’s for judging me.

  But then again, maybe it’s because he called me out on the fact that I was judging him, which was embarrassingly true.

  But I have every right to judge him because the fact is he did beat someone up. And I am not a rah. I start listing all the other reasons I hate him: I’m mad at him for laughing at the idea of dating me and for then smirking when I told him I had a boyfriend, and I’m even more mad at him for mocking my attempt at moving the car. I’m also mad because obviously he flirts with anything with a pulse and a double X chromosome and for a millisecond I believed, and here I double over on the bed with a cringe, that he actually liked me. Yes, I think it’s very possible I might hate him with a hate I had thought was reserved only for Will.

  ‘I definitely do hate him,’ I say out loud to the room.

  And then I remember the way he sings and the way he looks – the soft smile playing on his lips – when he’s amused by something I say, the easy fluid way he strums his guitar, fingers flying along the frets. I remember his stomach and arms and the muscles working under his skin so angrily they made me want to reach out and still him – to ease the anger away.

  I flop face first onto the bed. This is so not good.

  But at least he thinks I have a boyfriend, I tell myself. It could be worse. If he thought I was interested in him for real then I would have to dig a hole and bury myself in it because the smug would be too much to bear.

  I reach automatically for my computer and open it up. I need some music to drown my shame in. Some people have tequila to send them into catatonic oblivion, I have music.

  I log into Facebook and straightaway the little red icon alerts me to the fact that I have messages in my inbox.

  One from Megan, one from Jeremy, as well as two friend requests. One is from Sophie and another from Paige, the latter of which is weird, but I accept both requests, wondering simultaneously whether Jesse has a Facebook account that he’s hidden. I checked two days ago, at the same time as I did a news search on his name. I couldn’t find him on Facebook and neither could I find anything online about him, other than a small piece in the Nan tucket Inquirer & Mirror about his arrest and sentencing. But it wasn’t like I searched that hard because I got distracted Googling for information on the nanny murder (a good journalist always checks her facts, particularly when the primary source is Sophie, a girl who spouts gossip like she’s auditioning to become the next Perez Hilton). It turns out however that Sophie was correct on all points about the murder, which isn’t that comforting.

  I dismiss all thoughts of Jesse and murdered nannies and check my inbox.

  Megan’s email goes something like Slapper, what’s up? Did you pull? And then goes on to beg details about the gig.

  Jeremy’s email is less demanding of my sexual activity. Instead he asks if I want to hang out tomorrow.

  I smile. I get a butterfly fly-by. Why am I even getting in a tizz over Jesse when Jeremy exists? I send a reply telling him that I’m in and I email Megan and tell her about the gig, leaving out everything about Jesse because in my head he no longer figures.

  In the morning I am woken by Brodie jumping on my bed.

  ‘What day is it?’ she asks.

  I have to think. ‘Friday,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Does that mean it’s the weekend?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I have to go to camp?’ she asks.

  ‘Yep, afraid so,’ I say, sitting up.

  She drops down onto the bed beside me frowning. ‘Oh.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Are you not having fun at camp?’

  She shakes her head, looking at me a little fearfully.

  ‘Do you want to talk to me about it?’

  She bites her lip and starts playing with the quilt, tracing her fingers over the patterns.

  I know this is about Noelle Reed. I’ve already mentioned my concerns to Carrie, but she laughed them off, saying that Noelle was just a little spirited but she was sure it was nothing to worry about.

  ‘Right,’ I say, figuring that I need to deal with this myself. I stand up. ‘I’m going to teach you something. Actually, two things.’

  Brodie’s head perks up.

  ‘Come here,’ I say.

  She climbs off the bed and stands in front of me in her pink flower pyjamas.

  ‘OK, we’re going to start with the Megan look,’ I say.

  ‘Who’s Megan?’ Brodie asks.

  ‘She’s my best friend from back home.’

  ‘What’s the Megan look?’

  ‘It’s this,’ I say and I raise an eyebrow, tilt my head and pull a snarky bitchface better than anything Eliza and her friends could ever do, not even after years of practice.

  Brodie stares at me in bewilderment.

  ‘This face,’ I tell her, ‘should only be used for those times that you need to show someone that you find their behaviour immature, pointless and totally pathetic. It’s the equivalent of saying Is that the best you’ve got? and, believe me, it works every time. My friend Megan pulls this one out of the bag daily and no one messes with her.’

  Brodie continues to look confused. I get down on one knee and look her in the eye. ‘The one thing I’ve learnt is that if you show a bully that you care and are scared by them, they just keep going.’

  Brodie just stares but I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. I pull the Megan face again and after a few seconds Brodie tries to copy it. We keep practising until she has it pretty perfect.

  ‘Cool,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Even Megan would be impressed.’

  Brodie grins at this high praise.

  ‘OK, one more thing,’ I say to her, pulling my computer across the bed. ‘When you pull this face you have to sing this song in your head. It’s like your soundtrack.’

  ‘What’s a soundtrack?’

  ‘It’s like a theme song.’ I am already opening my computer and sorting through my music to find the right one. ‘I find that hearing songs in my head at certai
n moments in my life helps me get into the right frame of mind.’

  ‘Is it like when Shrek sings to Princess Fiona?’

  ‘Yeah, exactly like that. Music can make you happy or sad, or make you feel like no one can mess with you – that you’re invincible. This is your soundtrack,’ I say, hitting play on a track by Pink (making sure it’s the non-explicit version). Brodie doesn’t need her vocabulary expanded upon by me – she has Noelle Reed for that.

  Brodie listens and by the chorus she’s even singing along.

  ‘This song will make me invisible?’ she asks, smiling toothily up at me.

  ‘Um no, not invisible, invincible . . . as in – unbeatable.’

  She looks a little disappointed but then shrugs and seems to brighten up.

  ‘You ready for camp?’ I ask.

  She nods and grins at me.

  On the way out to the car I pop my head into the garage and see my bike is back, propped up in the exact same place it was before. I have to admit I’m surprised to see that Jesse’s brought it back already and yes, a little disappointed too because I missed seeing him, though I fight that part. As I turn away, something catches my eye. I step closer, noticing that there’s a piece of paper stuck through the brake cables. I unfold it.

  You didn’t disappoint. I’m sorry I did.

  I read it several times. The wind drops out of my sails and for a minute or so I feel like a boat drifting on the Sound without a current. I wanted to stay mad at him. This undoes the mad which paradoxically makes me madder. Finally I fold the note and stuff it in my back pocket and head out to the car.

  21

  After dropping the kids off at camp and day care I run to the store (AKA the shop) and pick up a few things for Carrie and then I drive to the Harbour Club where Jeremy has arranged to meet me. As I turn into the driveway I duck down in my seat and pray that Jesse isn’t passing by. The irony of meeting Jeremy here for brunch has not escaped me after my little speech of Oscar-worthy outrage to Jesse last night.

  I try to banish all thoughts of Jesse from my mind as I walk through the door. I’m met immediately by the Maitre D’ of the condescending look who is holding her trusty clipboard against her chest like a battle shield. She stares pointedly at my Converse as though I’m wearing dog turds on my bare feet. I shrug at her, refusing to be patronised. Just then a hand comes around my waist. I jolt around. It’s Jeremy. He kisses me on the cheek, nods at the clipboard girl and leads us towards a table on the veranda.