At the first ring, I got up and started pacing, unable to sit still. Abruptly, the ringing stopped. Had he cut the call? No, he wouldn’t do that. Why would he do that? Already adrenalized, I called again. This time, the phone rang only once, and then all I could hear was a rhythmically pounding sort of sound, dissonant and laden with static. It was loud enough that I could feel the speaker held up to my ear vibrate to its beat.

‘H-hello?’

‘Hello? Who is this?’

I could barely hear him over the pounding sound.

‘Hi, I—’

‘Hey, I’m in Rio. Can’t hear a thing. Can I call you back?’

I clicked off the phone without responding. He sounded so different from the boy outside the wedding. Short. Clipped. Matter-of-fact. Normal, really. A sexy-voiced normal, of course, but quite unlike the ephemeral presence at the water’s edge.

Though this was the first time I had ever thought the word ‘sexy’ in association with a real, living person. It was reserved for pop stars and actors, wasn’t it? Tom Cruise and Nick Carter were sexy, not real live boys. Real live boys were like the badly shaven specimens milling around outside my brother’s school grounds as Button and I waited in the car to pick him up. Lumbering and awkward, talking about cricket with their mouths full of Uncle Chips and Perk bars.

Maybe I had just imagined him after all.

Milka

6 January 2008

‘I called Jay last night.’

‘And you waited till now to tell me?’

Button and I had landed up at Cookie’s place after school, inviting ourselves over for what would definitely be a delicious lunch. Far beyond behaving like guests, we were sprawled side by side on Cookie’s bed while she chatted with her mum in the kitchen.

Even though their large house was crawling with maids and cooks and cleaners and chauffeurs, Aunty insisted on doing all the cooking herself, to everyone’s delight; she was one of that rare breed who could whip even abhorrent things like vegetables into delicacies. Every day, Uncle would take a break from presiding over his archipelago of companies—matchsticks, acres of prime real estate and prawn farms—to come home and have lunch with his wife and daughter.

‘Button, it was really bad.’

‘What happened?’

‘I hung up without saying anything.’

Button propped herself up on her elbows and glared at me. ‘Why?’

‘Well, he couldn’t really hear, and—I don’t know. It just felt stupid. To have called, I mean. He doesn’t have space for me in his life.’

‘You don’t know that.’

I shrugged, then got up and ambled over to Cookie’s dresser, peering gloomily at myself in the mirror.

Button came up behind me and pulled a face at her reflection. ‘Just look at my hair.’

‘Dude, please. Just look at mine.’

She glanced over at me. ‘Yeah.’

I snorted. ‘Bitch.’