Page 9 of Your Rhythm
“Matt?” Kyle prompts, filling what I realize has been a full minute of silence. “You still there?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, letting my head drop into my hand as I try to keep my voice light. “Cock blocker? Who am I cock blocking you from?”
“From the Montreal babes! Montreal literally has some of the hottest girls in the world. They’ve done studies.”
I laugh, glad for a change of subject as I work on pulling myself together.
“I should probably be concerned about what kind of studies you’re looking into, Kyle,” I warn him, “but you’re not wrong.”
I picture Kay Fischer crouched beside me on the staircase last night, tucking a lock of hair behind her glasses as she sized me up with those ray gun eyes of hers. I knew the second I saw her in Sapin Noir she was going to mean trouble.
First off, I’ve always had a thing for girls in glasses, especially girls with faces that make them look like angels of sin.
I’m almost certain ‘Angel of Sin’ was the god-awful title of one of our old Chained Souls songs, but it’s the only way I can come up with describing her china doll features and thick brown hair. Combine that with an earful of piercings and the hint of a tattoo, and physically she’s pretty much my dream girl.
There was more to her than that, though. She just seemed togetit. I’m used to reporters giving me blank stares when I geek out over music the way I did with Kay. Journalists seem to want catchy quotes, not passionate soliloquies, but when I looked at Kay after telling her what drumming means to me, I saw a blazing understanding in her. I wasn’t just spewing words to someone with a microphone; we were sharing a feeling.
“The girls here are definitely some of the hottest in the world,” I admit to Kyle, “and once you’ve reached the age of legal majority I’ll introduce you to as many as you want.”
“Cock blocker,” he fumes.
“For four more years,” I insist, “then I’ll be your wingman.”
He spends the next few moments grumbling about how unfair the world is before asking if he can start his research on me right now. I pull my phone away from my ear to check the time on the screen. I could sit here talking to him all night, but I’m going to start getting angry texts from the band soon, and usuallyI’mthe one sending those out.
“I’m really sorry, LB, but I’m already late for rehearsal,” I admit. “How about after school tomorrow?”
“Yeah, that works.”
“All right, I’ll talk to you then. And Kyle?”
“Yeah?”
I run a hand over my eyes. “This, uh, this means a lot. You wanting to do this project on me. I promise I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
We hang up after that and I bolt for the metro, riding the orange line up to Sherbrooke Station and hurrying across the street to our rehearsal space. It’s been snowing all day, and the tips of my fingers are numb by the time I make my way down the outside staircase to the basement.
The snow must have held the other guys up because only Ace is here, slumped over his guitar on one of the musty couches. He strums a few half-hearted chords as I stomp the snow off my boots and toss my coat down beside him.
“How was the interview?” he asks, pushing the sand-coloured hair out of his eyes. We look similar enough that most reporters ask if we’re brothers.
“You mean how wasyourinterview?”
He shrugs. “I said I was sorry. I forgot.”
“You’re lucky Shayla didn’t.”
If our manager hadn’t thought to check up on him and call me in as backup, we would have missed theLa Gareinterview entirely. I should push him for a better apology, but I let it go. We don’t just look like brothers; we act like them too. After so many years, Ace has gotten used to having Big Brother Matt around to bail him out.
It doesn’t seem to matter that the fucker’s two months older than me and pretty much the face of the band. If there’s a mess to clean up, I’m the guy to call. At this point I just consider it taking one for the team. Sherbrooke Station is worth the hit to my pride that comes with being Ace’s unofficial babysitter.
Speaking of which, he seems to be having some trouble sitting straight on the couch right now.
“God Ace, are you drunk? It’s not even six yet.”
“I’m not fucking drunk, man.”
As if to prove it, he runs his hands over the frets in a complex flurry of finger-picking that would make even an experienced player’s jaw drop. I’m not impressed, though. I know he could play that thing blind drunk, in the pitch dark, with one hand tied behind his back.
