The Sound (21 page)

It will only cause more trouble
, Jeremy types,
We shouldn’t have been drinking a keg and we called the police and then left. Sophie doesn’t want to get into
trouble.

OK
, I type.

Want to come sailing at the weekend with Parker?

Who’s going to be there?
I write. I mean, I do want to go sailing but I do not want to be trapped in a confined space on open water with either Eliza or Tyler.

Just you, me, Sophie, Matt and Parker.

No Tyler?
I ask.

Tyler’s had to go back to Boston. He went early this morning with his father. Doctor’s appointment.

OK
, I write.

Thursday seems to take forever to come around. On Tuesday I had to give a statement to the police. Mike stood behind me the entire time as I mumbled and perjured myself in a
way that would have made Bill Clinton proud.

What was I doing on the beach?

True answer: Making out.

Answer to police: Hanging out.

Who was I with?

True answer: Jeremy.

Answer to police: Friends.

Did I see anyone on the beach that caught my eye, or that I was surprised to see there?

True answer: Hell yes, Jesse Miller.

Answer to police: No.

Did you hear anyone fighting? Any shouts or screams?

True answer: Yes.

Answer to police: Um, no.

Do you know who put in that call to the police or why?

True answer: Yes.

Answer to police: No, sorry.

By the end of the interview, the policeman was staring at me over the top of his notebook with eyes reduced to slits and an expression of such scepticism it felt like I was wearing thumbscrews.
I thought he might be about to arrest me on suspicion of being the attacker or at the very least drag me in to the police station and hook me up to a lie detector machine. I was a lying, stumbling
mess. I would not make a good spy. Even Mike seemed to grow impatient with me, telling me that I should try harder to remember anything at all that might help them. But truthfully the only thing I
could remember was Jesse’s face and his fist flying through the air. I wished I could remember more. If I had seen or heard anything else I would have told them.

On Wednesday I had lunch with Jeremy which was nice (a word my English teacher forbade us to ever use but which I find underrated). He paid for my chowder and we talked about school and how much
money he is going to earn as a doctor when he qualifies. I kept quiet on how much money I was expecting to earn as a music journalist because I thought he’d laugh.

And finally it is Thursday and the day of my guitar lesson. I jump out of bed as though it’s Christmas morning and I am six years old and a child of the Brangelina. I am in front of the
mirror fixing my make-up when Brodie waltzes in and plonks herself on my bed.

‘Why do you look pretty?’ she asks.

‘Thanks, Brodie,’ I say, making a note to self to abstain from ever having children.

‘Are you seeing Jeremy today?’ she asks, a sneaky smile on her face.

‘No,’ I say, putting on some lipgloss.

I catch Brodie’s reflection in the mirror. She is tilting her head as she studies me. She’s obviously inherited her mother’s knack for scrutiny.

‘How are things going with Noelle?’ I ask.

Her face lights up. ‘Good! I showed her the Megan look.’ She demonstrates.

‘And?’ I ask, turning to face her. ‘Did it work?’

‘She doesn’t want to play with me anymore,’ Brodie grins.

‘Awesome!’ I high-five her.

I get Brodie ready for camp and then drop her and Braiden off before speeding over to Miller’s bike shop. I am a little early so I sit in the car listening to some music and waiting.

Finally I stroll past the bikes and oars and push the door, which I notice has been fixed. The broken glass that had been taped over before has been replaced. The shop is empty of customers and
from the back room I can hear music. This time though it’s someone playing the guitar. I smile and get a horse kick of nerves in my stomach. I’m getting used to that feeling whenever
I’m near Jesse. Even though I keep wishing that I wouldn’t feel it, it’s kind of addictive too. I’m not quite ready to wish it away.

I tiptoe around the counter, wondering if I can sneak up on him a second time and wondering (OK, actually hoping) if like last time he will have his shirt off. I smile a little as I remember how
I startled him that first day and how he leapt to his feet clutching the spanner. It makes sense now I think about it – he probably thought I was Tyler coming to pick a fight.

Just as I get near to the door – the one with the sign on saying ‘Private – Employees Only’ – I hear Jesse start to sing and I pause to listen. He sounds like James
Blake, only even better, and the butterflies in my stomach start jangling. His voice is so haunting and melancholy and expressive that listening to him sing is like being given a glimpse of a
shadowy corner of his soul. It makes me ache to see the whole of it.

And then he stops suddenly and I hear the murmur of voices – another voice. A girl’s voice. It’s Niki – no mistaking that husky drawl. She’s talking softly,
sultrily, and I freeze. I am hidden behind the door just a few feet away from them. I could take a step, make a noise, let them know I am there but I don’t, instead I lean my body backwards
until I can see through the strip between the door’s hinges.

Jesse’s sitting on an overturned cylinder drum, unfortunately wearing a T-shirt, but perhaps fortunately I decide when I see that Niki is sitting next to him on another drum and resting
her head on his shoulder.

‘You OK?’ she asks Jesse.

He turns his head so his lips are buried in her hair and he kisses the top of her head. ‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. His fingers twang the guitar strings, summoning notes that seem to gather
and rumble like rain clouds above them.

‘I wish you’d join the band again,’ Niki says over his playing. ‘You could come with us to Boston . . .’ she says, ‘. . . at least when we record the demo.
‘Her voice becomes more cajoling, ‘We could really use you, Jess.’

Jesse’s face is bent, he’s staring at the strings, at his hands, and he’s frowning as he contemplates her words. But then he strums a loud, off chord that seems to be his
answer because Niki gets up and walks to the bench and picks up her bag. She turns and stares at the back of Jesse’s lowered head and I see the sadness in her expression, and the longing too,
and I look away because I feel guilty for bearing witness to it.

‘Hannah’s in Boston, Jesse,’ she says gently. ‘Don’t you want to see her?’

Jesse’s fingers stop picking and flatten against the strings. He stands up, walks to the corner of the room and leans the guitar against the workbench. ‘Nik, I told you
already,’ he says, ‘there’s no point in me coming to Boston or recording the demo or playing in the band. I’m not going to be around for much longer. So stop
asking.’

She stands opposite him, her lips pressed together so tightly they bleach beneath the red of her lipstick, and her eyes well up with tears.

‘Jess—’ she says but he cuts her off.

‘Don’t try to get me to change my mind.’ He says it gently but his tone carries a warning.

‘Fine,’ Niki says and she lays a hand on his arm and then kisses him softly on the cheek which I take as a good sign, because if they were dating surely she’d go for the mouth
. . . I know I would. She pauses to wipe the lipstick mark off with her thumb and I realise that any second she’s going to walk through the door and see me hiding here, spying on them.

So I take a step backwards, coughing and rummaging in my bag, and then come blustering through the door. Niki frowns when she sees me and glances back over her shoulder at Jesse who just nods at
me and says, ‘Hey, Ren.’

‘Hey,’ I say, the breath departing from my body in one rush.

Niki gives me a smile so painful she looks as if she has piles and then she brushes past me. She pauses in the doorway to scowl at Jesse and cut her eyes in my direction. I pretend not to notice
and wander into the centre of the room.

‘Hey.’

I turn. Niki is still standing in the doorway frowning at me. ‘Weren’t you the girl Jesse brought to the gig the other week?’ she asks.

Yeah,’ I say, wondering where this might be going.

Her frown is fading, gradually being replaced by a smile. ‘Did you write that blog post about us?’ she asks.

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling my cheeks start to burn. This is not what I expected to be asked. ‘Yeah.’

She smiles properly now, her whole face lighting up. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘That was so cool of you. It really got us noticed. You’ve got so many followers.’

‘Oh,’ I say, kind of stunned. ‘Yeah, you’re welcome.’ I glance quickly at Jesse. Crap. Does he already know? I didn’t want him to find out this way – or
any way – I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling the prickling weight of his eyes scouring me.

Niki nods in farewell, still smiling, and disappears.

I turn around slowly and find Jesse, as I suspected, staring at me quizzically. I shrug.

‘You write a blog?’

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘A music blog?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you didn’t tell me this why?’

I shrug. ‘It never came up.’

‘You told me you wanted to be a music journalist, why didn’t you mention the blog?’ He studies me, frowning but smiling too, his brown eyes dancing, and I get that quiver
feeling all over again and think to myself,
oh help, oh crap, Jeremy who?

‘Anything else you’re keeping a secret from me?’ Jesse asks, still smiling.

I shake my head, a gobstopper-sized ball of guilt getting stuck in my throat. Now would be the time to tell him about Jeremy but do I? Do I hell. I’ve already perjured myself to a police
officer. What’s one more person to lie to?

‘No,’ I say in the smallest voice, then turning the conversation away from me, I say, ‘though given that you have more secrets than MI5 it’s a little unfair of you to ask
me that.’

I’m thinking about the secret reason he wants to kill Tyler Reed and also about this girl Hannah that Niki mentioned was in Boston – who’s she? I can’t keep up with all
the women in his life. But Jesse just laughs under his breath and reaches for his guitar.

‘Were you listening for long?’ he asks, indicating the door.

‘I wasn’t—’

He arches an eyebrow at me. ‘OK,’ I say, hating myself for how hard I blush. ‘I heard a bit. Niki wants you to play in the band, huh?’

‘Yeah. They’ve been asked to do a demo by a record company.’

‘That’s amazing. You guys are really good.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, sounding thoroughly unthrilled.

‘Why aren’t you excited?’

‘I am,’ he sighs. ‘It’s cool for them. They deserve it.’

‘So,’ I say, shaking my head, ‘you would rather stay here and fix bikes up than become a famous musician with groupies throwing themselves at you every night? That
doesn’t sound like the Jesse I know.’

‘Hah.’ He grimaces. ‘I’ve got to stay here and help my dad.’ He indicates the workshop. ‘You know, he got a loan against this place to get me a lawyer. And
now we’re about to go under.’

There’s a silence. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

He looks at me curiously. ‘Why? It’s not your fault.’

I shrug. How do I answer that? I’m sorry that he’s obviously hurting. I’m sorry that he can’t do something that he clearly loves and wants to do.

‘And it was all for nothing,’ he says, his brow creasing. ‘I pleaded guilty. I
was
guilty. I didn’t care about going to prison. But my dad wanted at least to try
to reduce the sentence, see if I could get released on parole.’ His mouth tightens in a line. ‘But Reed’s father’s a famous lawyer. He probably plays golf every Sunday with
the judge who heard my case. It didn’t make any difference. Nothing would have made any difference. So now we’re in debt and it’s all my fault.’

He’s staring at the ground, his fingers gripping the neck of the guitar as though he’s trying to throttle it. It would make an incredible portrait for an album cover. I push the
thought instantly away and take a step towards him.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask.

He looks up sharply, his gaze lingering on my hand, which has somehow ended up, entirely of its own volition, on his elbow. Then he raises his eyes to my face. ‘Everyone keeps asking that.
No. There’s nothing you can do.’ His tone softens, his expression too. ‘But thanks for asking. That’s enough.’

And then he takes a deep breath and hands me the guitar. I sit down on the cylinder drum and he swings his leg over and sits behind me on the same drum, so my back is pressed against his chest,
his legs pressing either side of mine, and I think I might need to reach for my inhaler. Which would be insanely embarrassing so instead I just try focusing on breathing long and deep and trying to
fill my spasm-ing lungs. Jesse’s breath tickles the back of my neck as he leans forward. His arms are wrapped around me as he begins positioning my hands on the strings. I’m wondering
how he acts with the girls he’s actually trying to pull if this is how he behaves with the ones he’s classified as just friends. But I don’t say anything because he’s not
flirting directly. In fact he’s busy talking me through the different parts of the guitar, his fingers sliding down the body and the neck, and it’s me that’s not listening because
I’m too busy staring at his face in profile. His eyes are the most beautiful brown colour, dark at the edges and lighter, almost amber at the centres, and he has the longest, straightest,
thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen – like frayed velvet.

‘You listening?’ he asks.

I swallow and look at the strings, feeling the heat of his body magnifying the blush. My fingers feel clumsy and rigid, while his are deft and fluid. But before I know it I’m playing
guitar. Not very well admittedly but playing nonetheless. Jesse moves to sit opposite me on the other cylinder drum. He is nodding and smiling as I play, reaching forwards to fix my fingers
whenever I hit a wrong note, which is often.