Page 23 of His Sound
“It’s just, I’m not always sure about it,” I admit, “but that’s nothing new. What BA student doesn’t consider changing their major every single term?”
He grins. “Or you could just drop out and join a rock band like me.”
“You dropped out of school to join Sherbrooke Station?”
“Ben, non,” he corrects himself. “I was already in the band when I left school. I dropped out because Sherbrooke Station started doing so well I needed to commit full time. So, no political science degree for me.”
I laugh harder than I meant to.
“Good one,” I manage to snort. “Political science.”
“I’m serious!” he urges. “That’s what I studied. For two years, at least.”
“You wanted to go into politics?”
Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know. Iwantedto want to go into politics. Does that make sense in English? I wanted to want?”
I nod. “I know what you mean.”
I know all too well what he means. I’ve beenwantingto want my degree ever since my mother sat me down at the age of twelve and told me she would do everything in her power to make sure I didn’t end up like her: unemployed, uneducated, and divorced in the middle of a recession.
That tends to make an impression on a twelve year-old.
“So,” JP interrupts my mental soliloquy, “as-tu mon truc?”
I squint at him. “That means, ‘Do you...?’”
“Do you have my thing?” he clarifies. “Mon truc.”
I slip my hand into my pocket and pull the little green ball out. JP extends his own hand toward me, and my fingertips brush the skin of his palm when I press the ball against it. I pull my hand back, tucking it under my thigh as I drop my eyes to the floor.
It’s just because of the Ferris Bueller sweater.
That’s what the tingles that shot from my fingers and all the way up my arms were for. That, and the fact that JP is part of the most famous band in Montreal. Whowouldn’tget tingles?
It’s not like him being here means anything. Talking to him is nice, but that’s all it’s meant to be:nice. He’s beingniceto me. He’s doing the weird, quiet girl a favour. His friends made it clear yesterday; he’s a flirt, and I’m just the newest beep on his very wide radar. I know better than to mistake the attention of popular guys for anything other than sympathy. It’s simple: if you’re a Molly Myers, you don’t end up with a rock star.
“What are you frowning about over there?”
I turn back to find JP watching me, and I realize I’m glowering at the dusty baseboard like it just personally offended me.
“Nothing.” I notice he’s rolling histrucaround and seize on the distraction. “That thing is pretty special to you, eh? You were in a hurry to get it back.”
He starts tossing the ball up in the air. “Yes, my littletrucand I have been through a lot.”
“Is it your totem or something?” I joke.
He just stares.
“You know, inInception? They all have little totems?”
His eyes light up. “Oh,Inception! To be honest, I watched it in English before my English was any good, so I didn’t really know what was going on, but the soundtrack is dope as fuck.”
I can’t help gushing. “I know, right? I have it on my ‘Music of Impending Doom’ playlist.”
He scratches his chin. “What’s ‘impending’?”
“Uh, like, approaching,” I explain. “For example, I play that music whenever I know my mom and dad are going to have to spend time in the same room.”
