The Sound

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Don’t try to take me on with sarcasm. I am the queen of it. I’ve studied it, perfected it. I come from a land where we own sarcasm and the use of it. There is nothing you can teach me about sarcasm.’ ‘OK,’ he says, grinning up at me, ‘Professor Emeritus Sarcastus. You can own the sarcasm. What I meant was you might learn how to change the chain on a bike, for example.

Also I kind of want to see what he looks like, because, frankly, his back is begging the question – what the hell does his front look like?

I can’t think about anything but kissing you… about being with you…’ He shrugs. ‘There, I said it. Need me to say it one more time?’ ‘No, I got it,’ I say in a weak voice.

Well good, I think, maybe he’s thinking that he’s being a total tool and reassessing the whole idea. Maybe he’s going to figure out that going to jail would be a dumb idea. And that kissing me would be a not so dumb idea. Goddamn all men. Goddamn them. They all have shit for brains. I think about what I’m going to tell Megan and then remember that I am sworn to secrecy. I will never betray Jesse’s confidence even if I think he’s being a total idiot with shit for brains.

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.

The music cuts out and suddenly my breathing sounds really loud. It also seems to amplify his whole nakedness. I stare at him. Actually I try not to stare at him but it’s kind of hard not to. I mean, he’s standing there topless in front of me and his stomach looks like it just walked out of an Abercrombie catalogue. Sweat has darkened the waistband of his jeans. He’s holding a spanner in one hand, the tyre in the other.

Why does he have to be so goddamn good-looking? And such a dickhead? What is with him?

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.

You Should take people as they are. Stop labeling 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.

I glance at the book he’s holding. It is American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis. There is a deep, dark irony to this and I wonder if he realises it or not. I want to ask him why he’s bought it but what if he’s bought it as a text book?

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.

He looks a bit like Robert Pattinson—if you genetically spliced him with Buzz Lightyear. He has dark, quiffy hair and wide-spaced eyes, though his skin is tanned as opposed to diamond sparkly white. He has a very square jaw with a dimple in the center of his chin but alas no jet 65 THE SOUND SARAH ALDERSON pack. I note that his eyebrow is cocked and the smile on his face is half sneer, half smirk as if he’s laughing at Eliza but she doesn’t seem to realize. I shake my head. I’m making a lot of assumptions here and the only two that I can safely claim are true are the ones about him being neither a vampire nor a space ranger.

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.