The Sound (3 page)

I sit, make sure that Brodie is comfortable on the bench beside me and then turn to my other side.

A boy is sitting there. ‘Whassup?’ he asks, tipping his chin up at me in greeting.

‘Um, not much?’ I answer, uncertain if this is the correct response or not.

Someone reaches across him and offers me their hand to shake. I lean forwards to see better who it belongs to. It’s another boy. He’s about the same age as the first boy. I’m
guessing they’re both about eighteen – same as me (roughly – I’m eighteen in just over a month). They’ve both got light brown hair, thick and side-parted, and pale
blue eyes. They’re dressed identically, as though they’ve just been let out of some insanely posh boarding school and haven’t had time to go home and get changed. They’re
wearing dark trousers, white shirts (tucked in) and navy blazers over the top. A pair of Oakley sunglasses pokes out of the closest one’s top pocket.

They’re fairly good-looking – in a preppy prepster kind of way – the kind of boys who look like they spend their free time playing polo and learning secret handshakes. I like
my boys Indie boy band slash James Dean so there’s no piquing of interest on my part. But nor is there disappointment. I’m not looking. If Megan were here she would be in full-on quiver
mode but I’m not even allowing myself to go there.

‘Jeremy Thorne,’ the one shaking my hand says, introducing himself. ‘And this is my brother Matt.’

‘Hi,’ I say, ‘Ren. Ren Kingston.’

‘You’re English?’ Jeremy asks.

‘Yep.’

‘Cool,’ he says and he gives me a smile that makes me feel for the very first time in my life that being English may possibly create a veneer of attractiveness and not immediately
destroy any chance of being thought sexy. I thought you had to be Brazilian or Swedish for that effect.

‘You’re nannying for the Tripps?’

I glance up. Sitting diagonally across from me is a girl. She too has light brown hair, long and held in place with an Alice band, and startling blue eyes. Though she has a more angular face
than the boys I can tell she’s their sister. She’s wearing a pale green dress, belted at the waist, and she’s eyeing me with interest, though her expression is clearly meant to
imply BOREDOM.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Ren’s changing my brother’s diapers,’ announces Brodie.

Thanks for that, I think to myself, as Brodie smirks proudly beside me.

‘That’s Eliza,’ Jeremy says, giving me an apologetic eye-roll. ‘Our charming sister.’

‘Hi,’ I say, offering her a smile.

She doesn’t answer or smile back. Instead she turns to Carrie, who is fastening Braiden into a high chair by my side, and starts cooing over Carrie’s cardigan. Or perhaps over
Braiden’s Babygro. I can’t tell.

‘So you’re here for the whole summer?’ Jeremy asks and I can tell he’s trying to make an effort, to make up for the blatant rudeness of his two siblings.

‘Yeah, six weeks,’ I answer, feeling strangely grateful for his intervention.

I see the look Matt shoots Jeremy but Jeremy ignores it. ‘Cool,’ he says, ‘you should hang out with us some time. Don’t you think, Eliza?’

‘Sure,’ Eliza smiles at me and an ice cap somewhere in the Arctic Circle refreezes. ‘Unless, of course, you have too many diapers to change?’

I force myself to laugh. While simultaneously imagining throwing one of Braiden’s stinkiest nappies at her head.

Carrie is suddenly right there interrupting my daydream. She thrusts Braiden’s changing bag at me. ‘If you could keep an eye on the kids for me that would be great,’ she says,
already walking away. ‘And order whatever you’d like. Don’t worry, we’ve got the check.’

I feel my cheeks burning as Eliza stifles a snort across the table. In my head a Beastie Boys song starts playing. It comes complete with lots of graphic swear words.

‘OK, thanks,’ I murmur to Carrie.

A waitress has given Brodie some colouring pens and a picture of a whale to colour in, so she’s entertained with that, and Braiden is busy marvelling at his own digits, which means that I
have no choice but to turn back to the three people my own age at the table and attempt conversation.

Jeremy, the one furthest away from me, is talking to his sister, while Matt, the
Whassup
one next to me, lounges back along the bench seat and listens.

‘Tyler’s coming back tomorrow. Paige told me,’ Eliza announces.

‘Awesome. How’s he doing? Did she say?’ asks Jeremy.

‘He can’t play anymore.’

Matt sucks in a breath through his teeth and reaches for a bread roll. ‘There goes his scholarship to Vanderbilt.’

‘Man that blows.’ This from Jeremy.

‘It’s not like he needs a scholarship,’ Eliza says, lowering her voice and darting a glance towards the grown-ups. ‘And anyway, can’t Mr Reed pull strings at
Harvard? Who wants to go to Tennessee anyway?’

That’s when Jeremy turns to me. ‘What about you, Ren – are you going to college?’

‘You mean university?’ I ask.

They laugh. ‘Yes, university,’ Matt says in a faux English accent that makes Eliza snort and me think once again about whipping the nappy right off Braiden’s bum and chucking
it in their direction.

‘I hope so,’ I say with a polite smile. ‘It depends on my grades.’

‘I’m going to Yale,’ Eliza says, as though I’ve actually asked the question and care even slightly about the answer. ‘Jeremy’s going to Harvard. And
Matt’s going to MIT.’

I glance at Jeremy and he shrugs. He reaches for the bread basket and offers it to me as though it’s filled with apology.

I take a shell-shaped apology roll for Brodie and another for myself. Eliza stares at it sitting on my plate and I realise that I must have committed some monumental carb faux pas. I reach for
the butter and start to slather the bread with it, thinking
bite me.

‘Congratulations,’ I say to Jeremy.

‘That’s my three over-achievers.’

I’m glad somebody said it.

It’s Mr Thorne, their father. He has his arm slung across the back of Eliza’s chair and is grinning maniacally at all three of them. That’s when I do the maths. All three of
them are going to university at the same time which is odd, unless – I stare between them – they’re triplets?

‘We’re triplets,’ Jeremy says, bang on cue. ‘We’re very competitive.’

‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ Mike interjects, and everyone laughs politely, almost musically.

I tear the bread roll in half for Brodie and concentrate on helping her colour the whale’s blowhole, wishing wholeheartedly that I had a similar evolutionary perk for letting off steam.
This lunch is lasting a very long time and it’s only just started. I’m beginning to wish I had stayed home unpacking. My fingers itch for my iPod. I slip my hand into my pocket and
smooth my fingers over its glossy face, tugging at the earbuds. If only Apple could hurry up and find a way of hard-wiring the contents of music libraries straight into the brain.

The waitress comes and takes our order. I choose a Caesar salad, hyper aware, even though I don’t want to be, of the carb police on the other side of the table scrutinising me and the
empty bread plate beside me, and also, it must be said, of my thighs squishing on the seat beside Matt.

We’re halfway through lunch and I’m trying to spoon something green and mushy into Braiden’s mouth and cut up Brodie’s club sandwich so she can fit it into hers, when
Jeremy on his way back from the bathroom asks if he can help. Before I can even process the request, he takes the pot of green stuff out of my hand, pulls up a chair and starts feeding Braiden as
though he works as a manny in his spare time. Which I highly doubt he does.

‘Thanks,’ I say, staring at him as he pulls a funny face at Braiden.

‘You should get to eat too,’ he says, nodding at my wilting, slightly unappealing-looking salad.

‘Right,’ I answer and pull it towards me.

Preppy prepster just went up a notch in my estimation. His brother and sister not so much. Matt is tearing up bits of bread and chucking them across the table at Eliza who is glaring at him
while trying to join in the conversation her parents are having about real estate.

‘There’s a party tomorrow night at 40th,’ Jeremy says to me under his breath, as he spoons gloop into Braiden’s sticky mouth. He darts a glance in my direction.
‘You should come.’

‘Um, OK,’ I say, wondering what on earth fortieth is – a club? ‘I’ll think about it. I might have to babysit.’

‘Oh yes, right,’ he says, frowning at a splodge of green that’s landed on his sleeve. ‘Sorry.’

‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I mean, thanks for asking me.’ I hesitate. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Jeremy. He seems sweet. I just don’t really
want to hang out with his siblings. I weigh it up. I can’t spend six weeks with just two under-fives for company – and the Tripps, however nice they seem, are old. ‘If I
don’t have to work, I’d love to come,’ I say.

Jeremy’s face instantly brightens. ‘You’re on Facebook, right?’ he asks.

I nod.

‘OK, I’ll find you and shoot you my number. Call me if you need a ride.’

I’m about to say something else, murmur some kind of agreement, when Braiden makes a funny gurgling noise beside me. I turn, alarmed, and see that his eyes are bugging out of his head. I
feel utter terror that something is happening to him – that he is choking on a pea or stray crouton – and I’m leaping into action, jumping up from the bench, my hands reaching for
him, when suddenly a projectile stream of vomit comes shooting out of his mouth
Exorcist
-style and covers me almost head to toe.

I stand there speechless and frozen as the warm beads of vomit start to drip from the ends of my hair onto the ground. The entire restaurant falls so silent you could hear a pureed pea drop, and
everyone turns to stare. And then the endless moment is broken by Eliza’s high-pitched squealing laughter.

I stare at my Facebook page. I have set my status to single. The little red heart has vanished. I glare at the screen. At least I got there first, before Will could do it, I
tell myself, imagining the little red heart now glowing (fickle betraying emoticon) on Bex’s page. I have only had the nerve to scan the first few messages from friends who’ve posted on
my wall – most of them commiserating and calling Will all manner of things ending in -er. A couple though are kindly informing me of how they saw him last night with his tongue wedged down
Bex’s throat and his hand stuck up her top. Not for the first time I consider deleting my Facebook account.

My fingers hover over the status box instead.

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).