Page 98 of His Sound
“You excited for tonight?” I ask, as we make our way to a nearby food truck.
“Oh yeah,” he answers, practically bouncing up and down beside me. “I’m psyched! I’m pumped! I’m totally stoked, bro!”
He stops to high-five a random stranger passing by, and I just shake my head and laugh, marvelling at the unreality of it all. I, Molly Myers, am dating JP Bouchard-Guindon. Sometimes it still overwhelms me, not because of how insane the situation is, but because of how normal it feels, howright. Being with him is like trying on those jeans you’ve admired in a store window for months, certain they’ll never fit you, only to discover they’re the most comfortable things you’ve ever worn.
“I made you something,” I announce, as we’re sitting on a bench and finishing up our greasy burgers.
JP places a hand on his chest. “Pour moi?”
“Yes. Give me your phone.”
He looks confused, but hands it over. I open up a music streaming app and type my username in the search bar, smiling to myself when I see JP is already following a few of my playlists. I open up the newest one and hand his phone back.
I watch his face as he reads the title:JP + Molly.
“I have a playlist for everything,” I explain. “I figured it was time I made one for us.”
Serena Ryder’s Christmas song is on there. So is the Mika track he barged in on me listening to in my apartment months ago. Arcade Fire’s ‘Rebellion’ is featured, and of course Wheatus makes an appearance, along with a dozen or so other songs that never fail to make me think of him.
“Molly...” he murmurs, still scanning the track list. “This is perfect.”
He pockets his phone and pulls me into him. I wipe the burger sauce off the corner of his mouth before we kiss.
We part ways not long after that. I trudge to the bus station, and JP heads off to whatever several hours’ worth of pre-concert stuff he has to do. Justine and I get food truck crepes for dinner—it’s not a healthy eating day for me—and wander around the Plateau, soaking up the lights of the city, the energy and the art. The fading streaks of pink and gold in the inky sky look like one massive mural that’s been painted just for us.
We meet up with some people from Metro Records to watch the show. I make sure to get us there early enough to snag spots in the front row. The festival has a pop-up stage in a parking lot. We’re pretty much the first ones there, but as the sky gets darker, the crowd starts to file in fast. A group of girls who must be a few years younger than me press themselves up against the railing beside us.
“Oh my god, I amsoexcited!” I hear one gush. “Do you think the whole band is going to show up?”
“It’s supposed to be just JP, but maybe they’ll bring everyone out. Can you imagine? Look how close we are to the stage. You can’t get this close to Sherbrooke Station anymore. I think I might actually die if we’re this close toAce Turner.”
They all squeal.
“You guys!” another one shouts. “Let’s take pictures to post on Sounds of the Station.”
They all start piling up for selfies. I turn to Justine and we share a knowing smile. She handed off the blog’s reins to an assistant administrator a few months ago, blaming school as the reason. I think she was probably just weirded out to be running a fansite that worships my boyfriend.
We’re minutes away from the time JP’s due to come on, and the unmistakable crackle of energy that announces the start of a show zings through the crowd, leaving my arms covered in goose bumps despite the heat of the night. The spotlights flash over the audience and then fixate on the stage. Some sort of primal pack instinct takes over, and we all scream the same words, demand the same thing. We came here for music, and we’re going to get it.
A ripple of confusion starts to spread through the parking lot as at least a minute ticks by without anything happening. Everyone is worried something’s wrong, but I’m just wondering what stunt JP intends to pull tonight. He’s never one to resist making an entrance.
“Hey look, it’s him!” one of the girls beside us shouts.
I strain my eyes up towards where she’s pointing, and sure enough, JP is standing on a metal rail at the top of the stage rigging. He’s holding a microphone and wearing a purple sequined tuxedo jacket that’s almost blindingly sparkly, even from down here.
I shake my head as I press my hand over my mouth.
Only JP.
“Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs. I am Jean-Paul Marc Joseph Bouchard-Guindon, but—”
He starts scaling the rigging down to the stage. The crowd gasps as he spider monkeys his way over several levels of scaffolding and lets himself drop the last few feet, landing spryly before strutting to centre stage.
“...you may call me JP.”
I’m the first one to start cheering.
His set is somehow even more impressive than the last time I saw him play. He uses the looper to layer almost a dozen instruments together, weaving complex patterns of sound that feel newborn and ancient all at once. I sway and bounce to the rhythm, as entranced as everyone else is by the way he guides the music with his hands, feet, and voice.
