Page 7 of His Sound
“This,” I tell her, glancing between her face and my hand, “is something that most people call a handshake. Have you heard of it?”
I was hoping the joke would make her feel more comfortable, but Molly keeps staring at me like she’s some kind of woodland creature deciding whether or not she should make a run for it.
Okay, let’s take this step by step.
“This is the part where you put your hand in my hand,” I prompt her, “if you want to, that is.”
She finally seems to snap out of whatever trance she’s in and her cheeks flush red as she raises her hand to mine and limply takes hold of it, watching our fingers wrap around each other’s palms.
“R-right,” she stutters. “Right. Shaking hands. Got it.”
“You ready for part two?” I ask, still hoping she’ll find the joke funny. “Now we’re going to move our hands up and down a few times, and then we’re going to let go.”
Her hand is barely clinging to mine. I make a few exaggerated shaking motions and then go still. She loosens her grip right away and draws her hand back.
“Look at you!” I encourage. “You’re a pro. A natural talent. You are the OG of hand shaking, Molly.”
She looks the opposite of encouraged. She’s staring at the ground again, and I see her hand flex and contract at her side a few times before she balls it up into a fist. Her bottom lip is shaking, and she sucks it into her mouth before taking a deep breath in through her nose and starting to speak.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Sorry for being so awkward. It’s just, I, um, I really like your music.”
Well that explains things; she already knows who I am. I figured she was just one of those Ace Turner Forever Sherbrooke Station fans, the ones who worship Ace’s sorry ass like he’s some kind of fertility god. I swear there has to be an Ace Turner cult out there by now, where women gather and pray that the spirit of Ace will visit them in their dreams to get them pregnant.
Truth be told, we’ve all got our share of crazy fans to deal with, but Ace is the face of the band. He’s the one magazines want to put on their covers. In the media’s eyes, the rest of us just show up and look pretty in the background, which is totally fine by me. Showing up and looking pretty is my speciality, and I wouldn’t want the kind of pressure Ace has to deal with. Plus, now that he’s spoken for, I do have a lot of broken-hearted Turnerheads to console.
Yes, they actually call themselves that.
“Well, thank you,” I tell Molly. “Are you talking about Sherbrooke Station, or my solo side project as Quebec’s premium francophone rapper?”
Her eyes spark. I’m definitely getting some crazy fan vibes here.
“You have a side project?” she asks, like I’ve just given her some kind of top secret government information.
“Yeah, it’s dope shit,” I tell her. “I wear a raccoon hatanda bandana. My first hot single is dropping soon.”
I pose like a gangster with my arms crossed and shoulders hunched, raising one hand in a fake gang sign. I lift my chin at Molly.
“Word,” I say gravely, “to your mother.”
She stares at me for a moment and then her face splits into a smile for the first time.
“You’re joking.”
I pretend to be offended. “Ouch, Molly!Tu me blesse comme ?a.”
She squints at me. “I’m not great at French. That means, ‘You...?’”
“It’s means you’re killing me, girl. Mortally wounded.”
She smiles again, and we both turn towards the sound of the door as Ace and Stéphanie step inside.
“Molly!” Stéphanie calls out, sounding surprised. “Was JP begging you to give him food or something?”
“I was just getting to that part,” I tell her, then turn back to Molly. “Molly, now that I’ve distracted you with my skills as a rapper, I’m going to steal all of the food from your fridge. Okay?”
Her smile is gone now and her eyes are going back to their almost impossibly wide and round state. She glances around the room like she’s looking for an escape route, and then makes that same nervous laugh in the back of her throat.
“I, ha, yeah, I—Studying. I should study. Bye, guys!” she squeaks.
