Page 21 of Your Echo
6I’ve Got Your Fire || Jenn Grant
STÉPHANIE
“I mether in Sofia but her name was Alexandra...”
Ace Turner’s raspy voice is blasting in the kitchen of my apartment. It’s a strange feeling, like seeing someone you know on TV. I feel a weird, pathetic urge to start shouting, “I know him! I know him!”
I head out of my bedroom and into the tiny living area/kitchen I share with my roommate, Molly. After a few disastrous months of rooming with my best friend Jacinthe, I realized my bank account wasn’t going to be able to survive living in the kind of apartment a girl raised by successful lawyers considers ‘modest,’ and started looking for other arrangements. Molly and I found each other online.
“Morning,” I say, reaching for the kettle.
Molly spins around, her cloud of curly hair bouncing and a splatter of oatmeal flying off the spoon she’s holding up.
“Oh my god!” she shouts. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I thought you left the house already. I’ll turn this off. I’m so, so sorry. Did I wake you up?”
If Molly was an animal, she’d be something like a rabbit or a skittish deer. We’ve been living together for two months already, and she still worries that literally everything she does is going to offend me.
“Molly, it’s okay,” I assure her, as she grabs her phone and shuts the music off. “I’ve been up for awhile. You can leave your music on.”
“It’s fine. I don’t want to bother you.”
I shift the boxes around in our huge tea collection, hunting for the vanilla one I like.
“Molly, it’s fine. Seriously,” I try to assure her as I get out a mug. “I met them the other day, you know. That band.”
This time her spoon actually falls to the floor.
“YouMET SHERBROOKE STATION?”
This is the most emotion I’ve ever seen her show. The only time she talks above a mumble is when she’s apologizing.
“Yeah, I did. They came to my meditation class last Sunday.”
“WHAT? What did they do? What did they say? Oh my god, what were they wearing? Why were theymeditating? Did you talk to Ace?”
She doesn’t even take a breath. I let out a laugh, and she instantly turns bright red.
“Sorry,” she squeaks. “I’m being weird. I’m being so weird right now.”
I pat her on the shoulder, scared she’s going to try burrowing down under the floorboards if she gets any more flustered.
“Hey, I get it. I mean, Ihaveseen them in person. I get it,” I say suggestively.
Molly sighs. “You’resolucky. Can I, um, can I ask what they’re like? In person?”
“Ils sont vraiment beaux.” I wag my eyebrows. “Do you know what that means?”
Molly moved to Montreal for school two years ago, and she’s still working on picking up French. I offered to help her practice after seeing her completely clueless look when we signed our lease documents.
“They are very pretty?” Molly questions.
“I meant something closer to ‘hot,’ but sure, pretty works too.”
If this girl turns any redder, I’m going to get her some ice cubes.
“They were...interesting,” I tell her. “I did talk to Ace a bit. He’s kind of...brooding.”
Molly looks like she’s in actual danger of swooning. I’ve seen the Sherbrooke Station posters on her bedroom walls, and I know she’s been to a few of their concerts.
