Page 63 of Your Echo
17Body Gold || Oh Wonder
STÉPHANIE
I climbthe metro station’s staircase and exit onto the street, bending over to retie the laces of my Keds once I’m clear of the crowd. I’m meeting Jacinthe for lunch today. She has back-to-back auditions, and I had to come all the way out past the Biodôme to meet her near some warehouse that’s being used to shoot a music video. We haven’t caught up in weeks though, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to see her. I haven’t even told her about Ace and I yet.
I make my way over to the building and stand outside, kicking pebbles off the curb and into the street. It’s September first today, but the weather hasn’t gotten the memo yet. I can feel myself sweating from just the short walk here, and I’m thankful I went bra-less today. I’m wearing a white sleeveless blouse that would have been a prime target for boob sweat stains.
The thought conjures up the memory of the day I met Ace, and I grin like an idiot. He still sticks out like a sore thumb every time he’s at meditation class or in the AMM house, but now instead of feeling that twisting uneasiness around him, I just feel a happiness that borders on bliss. Since the summer dance season has ended, I’ve got a lot more spare time on my hands, and we’ve seen each other almost every day.
We’ve also had sex all over his apartment, and I’ve started bringing him to my place when I know Molly won’t be home. We’ve yet to bring out the candles again, but there’s still a violent intensity to the way we fuck. I’ve never felt the kind of sexual connection we have with anyone else before; he seems to know exactly what I want even before I tell him.
I’ve cleared all the pebbles from an entire stretch of sidewalk when my phone buzzes with a text from Jacinthe.
Running a little late,chérie. Come wait inside if you want to get out of the heat.
I jump on the offer and push through the heavy warehouse doors. There’s an entryway inside, just some bare drywall and a desk with no one sitting at it. I loiter by the doors and try to figure out what the voice echoing from down the hallway is saying.
“Une, deux TROIS, les filles! Une, deux, TROIS!”
I smirk to myself. That’s definitely the choreographer talking. I listen to a few more shouted instructions, and then some rock music starts blasting.
And Ace starts singing.
“Once upon a midnight dreary...”
I know it’s just a recording, but I follow the sound anyway, stepping down the hallway like a moth being drawn to a light. I round a corner and almost walk straight into a huge, sectioned-off part of the warehouse. Lighting rigs and heavy black curtains hang down from the ceiling. Stepping back a bit so I’m out of sight, I watch as at least two dozen women dance along to the song, their bare feet crossing and re-crossing the length of the dusty floor. The choreographer shouts out the beats, and beside her, I recognize Indiana Jones from the loft party.
This must be the Sherbrooke Station music video.
I stand there spying until the end of the routine. For people who probably just learned the choreography an hour ago, the dancers do a fantastic job. I spot Jacinthe in the middle of the front row, moving with the same grace that’s won her a whole trophy room’s worth of competitions.
The dance itself is all wrong, though. The song is eerie—haunting, even, as so much of Ace’s music is. The movements of the dancers are too refined. Sherbrooke Station’s music calls for something much more raw.
“That’s it for today, ladies!” Indiana Jones calls out. “Great work. We’ll be in touch.”
I sprint back to the entryway just as the group starts heading right towards me. I pretend to be looking at my phone as the dancers file past.
“Stéph!” Jacinthe waves from a few feet away. “I’m just going to get changed, okay?”
I nod as she hurries away. After a few minutes, I’m left in an empty lobby again. I tuck my phone back in my pocket and peer down both sides of the hallway. When I’m sure the coast is clear, I speed-walk back to the room the girls were dancing in and pad over to the middle of the floor.
I can’t resist open spaces: gymnasiums, soccer fields, art galleries—it doesn’t matter where I am. If I see more than a few square metres of empty floor space, all I can think about is dance. I hum the tune of the Sherbrooke Station song, letting my arms twist like crooked tree branches and flap as if I have dark-feathered wings. My feet carry me through a few easy spins, and I’m just about to turn into a pirouette when I hear someone clapping.
“Bravo! Encore!”
I drop my arms to my sides and whirl around.
“Ace? What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He crosses the floor from where I just came in and walks up to me.
“I’m—I’m waiting for my friend,” I stammer, suddenly embarrassed. “She was in the audition.”
“And you weren’t?”
I shake my head.
