The Sound

  Nantucket. Kind of like Gossip Girl: The Summer Months, I write. Then I hit delete.

  Puked on by an eight-month-old child yesterday in full view of an entire restaurant. Delete. As if my public humiliation courtesy of Will and Bex was not complete enough without me adding to it.

  Today I almost killed myself and two small children driving on the right-hand side of the road. Delete.

  In the end I add a link to a playlist I put together on the plane to mark my first day in America. I made sure there were no songs about breaking up or broken hearts because I’m not lame like that. At least, not publicly.

  And then a message pings on the screen from Megan.

  Boooooo

  Hey, I write back instantly.

  WU?

  Oh seriously, you would not believe how frequently that word is used here.

  That good, huh?

  No, it’s OK. It’s good in fact. It’s great.

  Hot boys?

  If Nate from Gossip Girl is your thing.

  W8. I’m jst booking my flght. Megan uses so many abbreviations, emoticons and acronyms in each sentence that by the end of every email conversation with her I’m reaching for my inhaler and a paper bag. My anal retentiveness over grammar is not just because I want to be a journalist and therefore have a thing for spelling words correctly and using grammar rules to formulate sentences, but also because for me words are like music and you can’t just butcher them with no consequences.

  No, seriously, I write. This place is wealthy in the way that you and I most definitely are not.

  How’s the fam?

  Cute kids. Nice parents. Amazing house.

  Did the dad hit on you yet?

  One-track mind.

  Did he?

  No. He’s nice. They both are. They took me for lunch yesterday at this posh yacht club and they’re even letting me drive their car. But the most exciting thing is that he works for the Boston Globe!

  Which is? . . . They let U drive their car? R they INSANE?

  A newspaper, dumbass. And, yes, they are insane. I almost crashed it. I think I have to hire a bike.

  And you’re excited about this why?

  If I lived in Boston I could get free backstage passes.

  You don’t live in Boston. And dn’t even think of moving there for good. I MU. It sucks without you here. And don’t ride a bike. Do you even know how to ride a bike? WTF?

  Just then a little red exclamation mark shows up on the top left of the screen and I click on it. It’s a friend request from Jeremy Thorne.

  I hit Accept. Then I wonder if he might construe that as overeager, like I was just sitting by my open computer waiting for the moment he found me on Facebook.

  Megan’s flashing at me: AYT?

  Yep. Here, I tap out, simultaneously clicking through to Jeremy’s profile page.

  What are you doing?

  Getting ready for bed. Accepting friend requests from cute boys.

  Seriously? W8

  I watch the ticking dots. In half a minute she is back.

  Holy mother of hotness. Who is HE?

  Some guy I met today.

  Does he have a brother?

  He’s a triplet.

  RU serious????!!!!

  I laugh under my breath. Megan thinks anything with a Y chromosome is hot. She’s perpetually in heat. Even she admits as much (with a tongue-lolling emoticon for emphasis).

  A message pings up on the screen alongside Megan. It’s Jeremy.

  Hey, he says.

  I’m busy scanning through the photos on his profile page – him in every picture with his arms around someone – and I have a sudden stab of stalker shame. I click off his page just in case he has some spyware that can tell I’m looking. Megan says that spyware is just an urban myth but until that’s proven otherwise to me I think it’s best not to cyber stalk anyone of the opposite sex. Actually, of any sex.

  Megan: AYT?

  He’s just messaged me, I write.

  What’s he saying?

  Do I want a ride?

  A ride? A ride? A ride where?? Answer him. Have you answered him?

  Yes , I reply, first to Jeremy and then to Megan, realising as I do that I haven’t even checked first with Carrie and Mike.

  Awesome, I’ll pick you up at 8, Jeremy replies.

  A RIDE WHR?

  4

  I hang out on the front porch. Carrie and Mike know that Jeremy is coming to pick me up and I’ve already caught several smirking glances between them. Brodie too got in on the action, sitting on the edge of the bath while I did my make-up, just before putting her to bed, asking questions about whether I was planning on kissing Jeremy Thorne or Matt Thorne or both of them at the same time.

  I’m feeling nervous which is ridiculous given that this is not a date. It’s just a ride to a party. And I’m not even interested in Jeremy like that. Even if my heart weren’t smushed into pieces and even if I didn’t think all teenage boys deserve to be contained on their own separate continent without sanitation until the point they can prove their decency and usefulness as human beings, I wouldn’t be interested in him because . . . I pause, unable to think of a good enough answer, and thankfully just at this point in time my thoughts are interrupted by headlights bouncing through the trees and cutting across the driveway, illuminating me like a moose or a deer or whatever kind of wildlife they have on this island. I hold my hand up to shield my face and hear a car door slam, followed by the crunch of footsteps on gravel.

  Jeremy is suddenly in front of me, holding open the screen door on the deck.

  Hi,’ he says, leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek.

  ‘Hi,’ I answer, feeling the pressure of his lips long after they’ve left my face.

  I am a little at a loss for words. I had, for some reason, expected Jeremy to turn up in a variation of his outfit from yesterday’s lunch – a blazer, shirt, rah trousers combo – but instead he’s in long shorts, a short-sleeved polo shirt and flip-flops. It takes me a few seconds to recalibrate my image of him. It’s possible, just possible, that Megan might be right and that Jeremy is hot. Still not my type, because he is, after all, still in possession of a penis. But hot nonetheless.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I spent a while panicking about what to wear before deciding to listen to my mother’s frequent proffered maxim: ‘take me as I am or not at all’. Admittedly this backfired with Will, but hey, I’m not a private-school-attending East Coast prepster. And I don’t have Blair Waldorf’s wardrobe. My wardrobe is more Oxfam stock room crossed with Topshop sale rack and manifestly free of designer labels. I’m me. They can take me as I am.

  Jeremy walks me to the car and opens my door for me which is something I thought only happened in movies and not in actual life – Will never so much as opened a can of Coke for me in our five months of going out.

  ‘How was your day?’ Jeremy asks as he climbs in beside me.

  ‘Well,’ I say, watching him easily reverse down the driveway and back onto the Polpis Road – something I failed epically to do this morning. ‘I didn’t get projectile vomited on in front of a hundred people. So I guess you could call it an improvement on yesterday.’

  He laughs, but has the decency to look bad about it.

  ‘I am now an expert at making spacemen out of dried pasta,’ I continue. ‘I’m also getting very proficient at changing nappies and pureeing peas.’

  ‘Sounds almost as much fun as my day,’ he notes.

  I shoot him a questioning glance.

  ‘I was studying all day.’

  ‘What for?’ I ask. ‘Haven’t you sat your exams? I thought you were going to Harvard.’

  ‘I am, but my father wants me to be ahead on the reading.’ His expression is grim as he says it. ‘I’m studying pre-med.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t have the same pressure from your parents?’ he asks, giving me a quick sideways glance.

&nbsp
; I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  I bite my lip and look out the window. ‘That sucks,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. I got a pass for tonight. That’s something.’

  ‘And Matt and Eliza?’ I ask, hoping that he’s going to say they stayed at home studying or even, one can hope, that they’re being projectile vomited on by a stray baby.

  ‘They’re already there. They went with Sophie.’

  I nod as though I know who Sophie is.

  Before long we are there. I thought when he said we were going to fortieth he was talking about a bar or a club, but in fact it’s a beach called 40th Pole. Jeremy pulls into a parking space and he’s out the car before I can unpop my seat belt. He surprises me again by opening my door to let me out.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  He closes the door behind me and then we begin to walk towards the beach. I feel the soft brush of his fingers against the small of my back which sends all sorts of alarming and conflicting signals to outlying parts of my body. My mind is telling me to walk faster but my body is defiantly slowing in order to have him usher me forwards. Disobedient body.

  We walk towards the dunes, following a path that I can’t make out but which Jeremy seems to know well because his footsteps are sure and don’t falter whereas I’m walking like I need a seeing-eye dog and keep stumbling over the bits of wood buried in the dune that are meant to stop you from stumbling. I can hear music blaring in the distance. We pass several people coming the other way along the path and Jeremy greets all of them but doesn’t stop to chat, rather he keeps us moving, his hand still pressed to my back, steering me towards the growing beat of music.

  As we get closer I can see the flames of the fire licking high into the sky. It’s about the size of bonfire we’d normally have for Guy Fawkes Night back home. Someone has driven their truck down onto the beach, parked it up close to the fire and is blasting the music through the speaker system. In front of the fire I can see literally dozens of bodies jumping around and dancing. Most of them seem to have their tops off – the boys at least – and the girls are nearly all wearing bikinis. I feel overdressed in my shirt and shorts, like I’m wearing a burqa by comparison.

  Jeremy seems to notice my reticence because he asks if I’m OK.

  I nod and try to smile. At which point a shape comes bounding out of the shadows to my right and nearly knocks me off my feet.

  ‘Jeremy!’ it yells.

  Jeremy puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder and holds him steady and at a distance.

  ‘Hey, Parker,’ he says.

  ‘Dude,’ Parker yells over the pounding beat of the (depressingly mainstream) rap music that’s started playing. ‘Where you been?’ It’s then he seems to notice me for the first time. He blinks, trying to focus. ‘And who is this fine piece of—’ he starts to say before Jeremy cuts him off by clamping his hand down on his arm.

  ‘This is Ren,’ he says, introducing me.

  ‘Hello, Ren,’ the boy slurs, swaying dangerously in my direction.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ready to leap out of the way in case he either a) falls on me or b) does a Braiden.

  ‘Do you guys want a beer?’ he asks, pulling his arm free from Jeremy’s hold. ‘We’re doing chasers,’ he tells us. ‘Wait up yo,’ he shouts and runs off into the crowd.

  Jeremy turns to me. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

  ‘No worries,’ I answer, glancing around. Couples are lying sprawled in the sand, some are making out as though they’re in a motel room with a locked door and a vibrating bed beneath them and not in actual fact lying in full view of several dozen people, but no one seems to be taking much notice and aside from the location it’s not that different from parties in London. From the dunes comes the sound of shouting and wild laughter but when I try to peer into the darkness I can’t see anything beyond a few leaping shadows. Jeremy leads me to a quieter space, away from the making out couples, close enough to the fire that I can see his face and we can catch the warmth of the flames, but far enough from the music that we can actually hear ourselves think.

  Half a minute later Parker returns clutching two sweating bottles of beer. Tucked under his arm is another bottle, which he pulls out once he’s handed us the beers. ‘Da-daaa,’ he says, displaying it right in front of our faces. ‘Tequila?’ he asks, twisting off the cap. ‘Shot, Ren?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say. Tequila and I have a bad history. We’re no longer on speaking terms. In fact tequila is the reason I’m now not much of a drinker.

  He glugs several shots’ worth down before throwing his head back and baying to the moon.

  ‘Jeremy?’ he asks, thrusting the bottle in Jeremy’s face, sloshing half the contents over the sand.

  Jeremy just shakes his head. ‘No, bro, designated driver,’ he says, pointing his thumb at his chest.

  ‘Man, what’s one drink?’ Parker asks.

  Jeremy shakes his head.

  ‘Well OK, dude.’ Parker winks at him, makes a gesture with his hand that undoubtedly has something to do with me and which makes me look quickly away and study the sand between my toes.

  I hear Jeremy telling Parker something softly under his breath and my cheeks and ears start to burn, though I tell myself it’s just the heat from the flames, that’s all and nothing more. I scan the crowd, my eyes drawn to the other side of the fire where a group of girls is dancing as though they’re on tryout for a lap-dancing club. I spot Eliza in the middle of them, arms waving above her head, hair whipping from side to side. She’s wearing a bikini top and shorts and sweat is coating her arms and making her body glisten in the firelight. She holds her hair over her shoulder and starts gyrating her hips and butt against a guy who has stepped into the ring of light. He’s tall and dark-haired, with a broad chest which I can just see peeking through his half-undone shirt. When he looks up the expression on his face makes me lean forward – unlike all the other guys whose tongues are hanging out and who are glassy-eyed from all the beer and chasers, this guy looks sober, his expression halfway towards intelligent. He’s regarding the scene almost like an outsider, even though he’s taking part in it. He’s dancing but there’s a slight ironic smile on his face as he scans the crowd. His hands, feeling their way along Eliza’s sides, are moving fluidly but he isn’t groping at her.

  He looks over then, straight across the flames towards me, and his eyes narrow slightly as he tries to place me but then he’s back in the moment as Eliza spins to face him and starts wriggling her way down him as though he’s a greased pole.

  He catches her around the waist with one arm and bends her backwards, taking a sip of beer with his free hand. Eliza then wraps her arms around his neck and leans pouting towards him but the bottle is in the way and she clashes her nose against it. Classy move, I think to myself, smirking, and turn back towards Jeremy.

  Parker has wandered off and Jeremy is staring across the fire at the dancers with what I can only describe as a dark expression on his face. I track his gaze and see that he’s been watching the same scene as me. He’s glaring at his sister, a frown line deepening between his eyebrows.

  And then without warning he’s on his feet. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he says to me, forcing a smile. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘Um, OK,’ I say, casting a glance around. I’m not about to join the sweating fray of half-naked dancers or start writhing in the sand solo so it’s a safe bet I’m not going to go anywhere.

  And then he jogs off. I watch him as he circles the fire but then he disappears into the crowd and as I try to peer through the crackling flames to see where he’s gone, someone drops down onto the sand next to me. It’s Matt. He too is out of uniform – wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He and Jeremy are so similar they’re almost identical but not quite. Matt’s hair is slightly longer and fairer. And where Jeremy seems more gentle and sweet, Matt seems to be permanently viewing the world through an expression of stoner cynicism, his lip always curled in a
smirk, just like his sister’s.

  ‘Hey,’ he says to me now.

  ‘Hi,’ I say back.

  ‘Whassup?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say and he laughs under his breath and turns his head towards the fire. God, I think to myself, I have to find out the right answer to that question.

  ‘You having a good time?’ Matt asks after a few seconds.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, taking a swig of my beer which is now warm and tastes of pee. Or what I imagine pee tastes like.

  Before I can add to this scintillating conversation, a girl appears out of nowhere and collapses straight into Matt’s lap. She giggles as he swipes her blonde hair out of his mouth and pulls her into a more comfortable position, still on his lap. I notice that he keeps one arm around her waist too.

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ he asks the girl.

  ‘Not much,’ the girl answers. She sees me then and, hiccupping, falls backwards off his lap. Matt grabs her before she topples completely into the sand and rights her. ‘Hi,’ she says, handing out a wobbly hand to me. ‘I’m Sophie.’ Hiccup.

  She is small and bouncy and almost fully clothed – though in a sundress that reveals a generous amount of cleavage.

  I shake her hand. ‘Hi – I’m Ren,’ I say.

  ‘Awesome,’ she grins. ‘Like, who are you here with?’

  ‘Um,’ I glance across the fire, ‘I came with Jeremy.’

  ‘Jeremy?’ Sophie says, her head jerking left to right. ‘Where is he? I don’t see him. Jeremy!’ she yells into the night.

  The act of leaning forwards seems to catch up with her. ‘Uh oh,’ she says, and sways violently backwards again.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘He said he’d be back soon.’

  ‘There he is!’ Sophie shouts, pointing. ‘He’s talking to Tyler!’

  I look over in the direction she’s pointing. Jeremy is on the other side of the fire, talking to the guy who was dancing with his sister a minute ago. Jeremy seems to be arguing with him. Tyler hears him out, shrugs, says something and then they do some weird fist bump which seems to signal agreement.

  ‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ Sophie asks Matt before collapsing into giggles.