The Sound by Sarah Alderson Page B

further into my chair and try to twist out of view, he turns in my direction and heads towards the café
area. He doesn’t see me until he’s right in front of my chair then he does a double take and smiles as though he’s genuinely happy to see me.
    ‘Hey,’ I say, looking up at him from my curled-up position hiding behind my book.
    Hey,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder towards the street.
    ‘It’s not outside,’ I say quickly. I know he is looking for the bike, expecting me to either have totalled it or to have left it unlocked. ‘I came in the car. I left the
bike in the garage at home. Under lock and key. And an armed guard.’
    He turns back to me and grins and it’s my turn to do a double take. He looks way less like a violent offender when he smiles. ‘You drove? Did they warn the good folks at highway
patrol?’ he asks, still grinning.
    ‘Ha ha, that’s funny,’ I say, giving him an arch look.
    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 textbook? I notice the other book in his hand is a David Mitchell novel and there’s nothing that could be remotely construed as
ironic in the title so, to fill the awkward silence, I point at it and say, ‘I’ve read that. It’s really good.’
    He glances down at the book as though surprised to see it in his hand. ‘Oh yeah, I like his stuff. Did you read
Cloud Atlas
? That’s one of my favourites.’
    I stare at him and my jaw drops open. ‘That’s my favourite book,’ I say. I can’t believe he’s read it.
    He doesn’t smile, he just studies me, frowning as if he’s pondering something, then he says, ‘You like music?’
    I glance at him, to see if that’s a trick question, but he nods at the book I’m still holding – the one about dance culture in the 70s – and so I say,
‘Yeah.’
    He studies me for a moment longer and I feel myself squirming under his scrutiny. There’s something about him which is deeply unsettling – as though he has all this energy leaping
angrily around inside of him desperate to lash out, struggling to stay contained beneath his skin. It makes me feel like a ball bearing that doesn’t know if it has a negative or positive
attraction so instead just spins like a pillhead on the spot.
    ‘There’s a band playing Thursday night,’ he says, ‘at The Ship.’
    I stare up at him. Is he asking me on a date or is he just casually informing me that there’s a band playing at a place called The Ship?
    ‘OK,’ I say slowly, non-committally.
    ‘You should come. If you think you can cope with slumming it with townies.’
    I frown up at him. What is that supposed to mean? Is it because he saw me with Sophie? Does he now think I’m one of them? A preppie rah? Immediately I feel my hackles rise. It makes me
mad. It’s like when people think you’re an emo or an indie kid or a trancehead – why this need to classify? Why can’t you like all types of music and hang out with all
different types of people (OK, except the tranceheads)? So I hold his gaze and say, ‘I’ll see you there.’
    He nods, biting back a smile which is just enough this side of smug to make me want to kick him in the shins. ‘Cool, see you later then.’
    He heads to the counter and I gather up my things with slightly trembling hands (which I put down to the caffeine/sugar hit), not knowing what I just agreed to or why.

 
15
    On Wednesday Jeremy messages me on Facebook and asks if I want to hang out.
    I spend half an hour instant emailing back and forth with Megan trying to work out the subtext of these three small words and another hour figuring out what clothes to wear for hanging out in.
Megan tells me to wear something that doesn’t reek slut but doesn’t spell nun either. As that would define most of my wardrobe it doesn’t help narrow things