Page 7 of Your Echo
The corner of his lip pulls up so slightly I’m not even sure I saw it, and then it hits me.
He’s Ace Turner.
Of course I know him. Everyone knows him. He’s the singer and guitarist for Sherbrooke Station.
Even if my roommate wasn’t completelyobsessed with the band, it would be impossible not to have heard of them. They’re Montreal’s pride and joy. Their songs play in every bar every single night of the week. Even my eight year-olds ask if we can warm up to their songs—which I always say no to, considering their music is totally inappropriate for ballet and half of it isn’t appropriate for eight year-olds.
They’re good; I’ll give them that. EvenIknow all the words to ‘Sofia.’ I nod my head along to their songs when Molly doesn’t realize I’m home and blasts the volume on her speakers. I remember they had some rough patches with the media a few months ago, but not even that stopped people from going crazy over them.
Ace is still staring at me. I blink and look away.
A few more trickles of sweat slide down my cleavage—or lack thereof—and for some reason thinking about my chest with Ace Turner staring at me brings a flare of heat to my cheeks. I sneak another glance at him. Now I know I’m not imagining it; he’s smirking at me.
He’s not eventryingto meditate.
As if he can read my thoughts, he raises one of his shoulders in a subtle shrug.
I snap my eyes shut. I have a class to teach.
“Now let’s bring our awareness back to our breath...”
I wind the session down until eventually I’m asking everyone to slowly begin moving their fingers and toes before opening their eyes.
“Thank you everyone for a wonderful session today. Feel free to take your time leaving. Since it’s such a sunny day, why not spend some extra time in the park,hein?”
I wince as my accent slips for a second.
“As always, you can feel free to leave a donation in the jar here.” I hold up the painted coffee can. “It’s pay what you can, and all donations are very appreciated. The Société de Méditation de Montréal is run completely by donations, and they help to keep our centre going. Speaking of which, the author ofMeditation for Modern Mindswill be speaking there next Thursday, so be sure to check out all the details online.”
The members of the group start shuffling forwards, dropping bills and coins into the can before rolling up their mats and taking off. Most of them thank me by name, and I get so caught up in small talk I don’t notice who’s at the end of the line until I’m face to face with Ace Turner.
He reaches out one tattooed arm and drops a ten dollar bill into the can.
“Thanks.”
Even when he’s speaking, his voice has the same smoky rasp I recognize from his songs.
I throw my shoulders back and flash him my brightest and widest smile, the one I save for parents at the dance school. He’s still staring me down like I’m an open book and he’s deciding whether the story is worth reading. That smile never fails to dazzle people out of trying to judge me.
“You’re welcome. It’s not every day we get a celebrity at this class.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
“Do you always watch your students like that?”
I glance down into the coffee can and then back at him.
“Like what?”
“Do you open your eyes while they’re meditating and watch them?”
“Not usually, no. I was having trouble concentrating today.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can consider them. Ace raises his eyebrows.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I snap. “It’s just hot out.”
I’m really not doing myself any favours.
