Page 32 of His Sound
She babbles on about how great her first few days have been, and I hang on her every word. There’s something so compelling about her when she gets like this—when she forgets to keep her head down and her eyes locked on the floor, when she lets her voice rise and fall with excitement and passion instead of just dying in her throat. Inevitably, she’ll realize how the words are gushing out of her right now, and she’ll snap herself shut like a Venus fly trap, but for now she’s sticky sweet honey and I’m the insect she’s luring closer.
“...and they have team socials sometimes where they all go out to a bar together. Usually I’m allergic to anything social—”
There it is: the moment she stumbles and freezes. I watch her become suddenly fascinated in the edge of her shirt, fingers picking at the seam.
“But they sound fun,” she finishes quietly.
“They do,” I reply. “Metro Records threw us this big premiere for our first music video with them—you know for ‘Nevermore,’ the video Stéphanie danced in? Let’s just say this label knows how to party.”
“I love that video,” Molly breathes.
Right. Sometimes I forget I’m talking to a super fan.
“What are you working on right now?” I ask her, leaning over to inspect the complicated-looking design software open on her screen.
“It’s nothing,” she mumbles. “Just an idea.”
‘Nothing’ is one of the coolest pieces of design work I’ve ever seen. It’s a mock-up piece of cover art for an old Sherbrooke Station single. The track is called ‘Phone Tag.’ It’s a sultry, after-midnight kind of jam with a pulsing synth part I’m pretty proud of composing. The lyrics are clearly about sexting, but Ace, being the dark genius that he is, pulls it off like he’s some rugged bandit seducing a forbidden princess.
The dude has it way too easy when it comes to getting girls.
Molly’s artwork captures the hungry, take-your-panties-off-now vibe of the song perfectly. She’s drawn a pair of dark red lips, all puffy like a supermodel’s and glistening like they’re just dripping with dirty things to say to you. In between them, white teeth are clamped around the receiver of an old-fashioned telephone. Underneath, she’s written the name of the song in blood red, graffiti-style letters that match the colour of the lips. The whole thing has that edgy, grimy kind of sex appeal you see on tattoo parlour walls and the signs outside strip clubs.
Not exactly what I expected from Rabbit Girl. For some reason, the thought of her drawing it makes my dick jump.
“Ben, Molly, this isvraiment érotique.”
Her blush tells me I don’t have to repeat myself in English.
The drawing is more than that, though. It’s like seeing our song instead of hearing it. It’s like she’s turned all the sounds into colours and shapes, telling the same story but in a different way—taking something we made and bleeding herself into it until all the feelings are deeper and richer than they were before.
Or something like that. Either way, it’s dope as hell. I know if I was scrolling through Spotify and saw this, I’d want to listen to the song.
“JP, what did I say about leaving my employees alone?”
I look over to find Shayla pausing a conversation with someone a few desks away so she can throw me her evil eyes. I’d never admit it to him, but Paul wasn’t that far off with the whole Medusa thing.
“Yes,Maman,” I chime, jumping up from the chair. “I’m leaving now.”
Shayla doesn’t look any less unimpressed. “We’ve also talked about you calling me ‘Mom.’ Several times.”
She goes back to her conversation, and I point a finger at Molly’s screen. “That’s good. Really good. You should make album art full time. I have to go before Shayla comes after my man-bun with scissors, but I’ll see you around, right?”
“You know where I live,” she jokes.
I hold my hand out for a fist bump, and she presses her knuckles to mine. Even her fingers feel soft. I keep my hand in place until she lets hers fall away. We say goodbye, and I’ve already reached for the doorknob when I stop and spin around, striding back over to her desk.
“Hey,” I say, “I have a question.”
She looks back up from her computer screen and blinks.
“What would you say if I offered you a job designing the cover of an EP?” I ask. “I, uh, have a friend who is working on one.”
Molly looks skeptical. “Really? You think they’d like my stuff?”
“Yeah,” I assure her. “They’d think it was fire. I’m sure you could do a really good piece for them.”
She’s still hesitating. “I don’t have any real experience. I just do stuff like this for fun...”
“You work for Metro Records,” I remind her, “and they’re not looking for aprofessionnelle, anyway. They just want some cool art.”
“JP!” Shayla barks from behind me. “Let Molly do her job.”
“Think about it,” I urge Molly. “I’ll text you more details.”
Then I run out of there like I’m dodging the fires of hell, only I’m really dodging the Wrath of Shayla, which is several hundred times worse.
