Page 15 of His Sound
He straightens up again and looks at me. “Are you gonna eat that, or did the whole dick thing freak you out too much?”
I realize I’m still clutching the plate of cake coated in peach-coloured frosting and set it down on my desk. JP is now gawking at the photo collage over my bed. I use the opportunity to really take the sight of him in.
Seeing him in person is like watching your favourite cartoon character come to life. I’ve stared at enough Sherbrooke Station posters and seen the band play so many times that JP’s tangled brown man-bun and the scattered tattoos stretching up both his arms feel familiar, but it’s as if he was only ever two-dimensional before. I didn’t know about the way he constantly bobs his head like he’s got his own mental radio station, or how he always seems to scratch his chin just before he’s about to ask a question.
I watch him squint and move closer to the collage. It’s a mix of my drawings, high school era photos of Justine and I, printouts of foreign street art pieces I’ve found online, and an entire disposable camera’s worth of shots of me posing in front of various Montreal murals. Justine took them after I forced her into going on a street art walking tour with me when she came to visit last summer.
“This is cool,” JP appraises. “This isverycool. Hey, I know that painting! That’s on Saint-Laurent. I love that one.”
He points to a photo of me standing next to one of my favourite murals in the city. It’s a huge piece on the side of a building that shows a funky old woman wearing a dress covered in graffiti designs, unleashing a can of orange spray paint.
“Yeah, the graffiti grandma. I love it too,” I tell him. “ASHOP does amazing stuff here. Have you seen that giant art nouveau piece they did in NDG? I could stare at that for hours.”
I turn to see him giving me a blank look and instantly feel heat rising in my cheeks for what must be the fiftieth time today.
“Sorry. I’m an art nerd.”
JP shakes his head. “Why are you sorry about that?”
He goes back to looking at the collage before I can think up an answer.
“I like that one,” he says, pointing to another piece. A girl painted in greyscale on a brick wall leans on one of her arms, her skin covered in multi-coloured, zig-zagging lines. “Where is that?”
“In London. I’ve never been there; I just printed it out,” I admit. “It’s by this guy called Ant Carver.”
“Cool name,” JP comments. “Do you do any of this yourself?”
I balk. “What? Street art? No. No way. I’m just a fan.”
He nods, and without warning, he turns around and plops down on my bed, patting the mattress beside him as he gestures for me to follow suit. I find myself taking a seat on the very edge of the comforter.
“The party’s getting loud again,” he comments. “I think we’re leaving soon.”
I know what’s coming next. He’s going to ask me why I’m not out there. He’s going to ask me why I’m hiding in my room. He’s going to coax and question until I’m a flustered mess just desperate to be left alone, and then he’ll finally sigh and makes that stupid, pointless statement of the obvious:Oh, you’re shyyyy.
It’s what always happens when extraverted people decide to take the quiet girl under their wing, like all I need is a little shove into the centre of the room and suddenly I’ll turn into this fascinating socialite. It just ends up being awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.
JP doesn’t do any of that, though. Instead, he twists to face the string of photos behind us and asks, “Which one is your favourite?”
“Of the—the paintings?” I stammer.
“Yeah.”
I turn to face them as well, letting my eyes roam over the images as I forget all about the party for a moment. There are paintings from artists whose work I haven’t seen in person yet: Collette Miller, Alice Pasquini, AntiGirl, ABOVE, and of course an inevitable Banksy or two. There are photos of the giant murals Montreal is famous for, and some of the smaller gems you really have to pay attention to find.
“That one,” I say, pointing to a photo just over JP’s shoulder. “That one is my favourite.”
The piece is on the very top of a building along Sherbrooke Street, right at the edge of the McGill Ghetto. I pass it almost every day going to school, and it still makes me stop and smile.
“This one?” JP asks. “Thispetit chose?”
It’s a simple design: just white block letters that spell out the words ‘You Go Girl’ followed by three tiny hearts. To me, it’s always felt like a little piece of encouragement, like a message left for anyone who finds themselves standing on that street corner, staring up at the sky in despair.
“Yes, that one,” I tell JP. “I know it’s not much, but...to me, it sort of represents why I love street art so much. You can stumble across a piece that changes your entire day. It’s art you don’t have to go looking for. It’s art that findsyou, sometimes when you need it the most.”
When I turn to find JP grinning at me, I realize I’ve just said more than five words in a row. As if to make up for it, my brain starts freezing up again.
“S-sorry, I know I get, like”—I stop and swallow—“weird about this stuff.”
