I’ve said, texted, and thought the phrase ‘JP’s ball’ way too many times today. I hold the little green sphere under my palm as I ride the Metro home from McGill, rolling it against my thigh like JP did when he sat on my bed. He apparently asked Ace to ask Stéphanie for my number, and I woke up to a text asking me to look for his ball under my bed. We’re supposed to meet up at some point today for him to get it back.

I can see how having this thing with you all the time would be soothing. All day, I’ve been driving myself insane replaying yesterday evening in my head, and it’s oddly comforting to work the tiny piece of rubber against the muscles of my leg.

I still can’t believe last night happened. I felt so awkward the whole way over to the bar, trailing at the back of the group and wondering if I should have just turned around and left. No one really seemed to notice me, but thanks to all the doubts that have some kind of permanent residency in my head, I couldn’t help thinking everyone secretly wanted me gone.

Things were better while the band was playing. I always feel the same way when I go to a show. I’ll stand in the crowd, arms wrapped tight around me as the jostling bodies press in from every side—too close, always too close, the smells of sweat and beer rolling off them and filling my nose and throat until I think I’m going to choke.

Then that first guitar chord rings out, that first snap of the drumstick, the inhale of the singer’s breath in the microphone just before they start the first song. Suddenly the crowd isn’t full of people waiting to judge me or trod me underfoot; it’s made up of people whose heart’s all ache and swell to the same tune as mine, people who have come together for just a few hours to forget and remember, to hurt and to heal, to seek and to find.

Music, like all art, transforms people. It lets us shed our masks, our disguises, all the layers we wrap ourselves up in to get through day to day life. It lets us be all the raw, ugly, and beautiful things underneath. It lets us be who we are.

At least for a little while. I want to hold onto that person so badly, to let the version of me that isn’t afraid of things claw her way out of all the worries and insecurities I keep her buried under, but I know what happens when you lay yourself on the line. I know how fragile we all really are, how even concrete hearts can crack, and I just can’t seem to forget it.

The metro car grinds to a halt, and I pocket JP’s ball, cringing at the phrase. I step out onto the platform at Berri-UQAM. It’s a big station where three metro lines connect, even more packed than usual at this time of day. I jog up the stairs to street level. Stéphanie and I’s place is still a ways away, but I usually just walk from here to avoid the hassle of switching lines.

One I’m out from underground and back in reception range, my phone pings with a few alerts. JP wants to know if I’ll be home in the next fifteen minutes. I shoot him a quick confirmation.

Stéphanie has already left for a night teaching classes at the dance studio, so I after I get home, I dock my phone in the kitchen speaker and start blasting the rest of my ‘Walking Home From School’ playlist through the apartment. The music is so loud I don’t hear the knocking on the front door until it intensifies into a constant thrum of heavy rapping, timed to the beat of the song.

I cut the music and lunge for the door. JP’s standing there in a straight leg jeans and an oversized, tribal-printed sweater that would make Ferris Bueller ooze with envy. He should look ridiculous. I mean, he does look like he just stepped off the set of Macklemore’s ‘Thrift Shop’ video, but he’s got the sly smile and no-fucks-given attitude to pull the outfit off like Mr. Bueller himself.

I’ve always had a gigantic crush on Ferris Bueller.

“Sick beats,” he greets me. “Can’t go wrong with a little Mika.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. “I swear it’s a guilty pleasure.”

I step back so JP can come inside. He walks right past me and flops down on the couch, landing in a ‘paint me like one of your French girls’ pose. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the idea of drawing him lying like that in his groovy sweater.

“Mika has some bangers,” he assures me. He shifts himself into a sitting position. “Sorry. I think I landed on your backpack.”

I chuckle. “It’s okay.”

He pats the couch beside him, and I hesitate for a second before taking a seat. It’s not like there’s anywhere else to sit down in this cramped excuse for a living room. My whole body hums when I sit down with my leg just a few inches from his, and I blame it on my usual being-around-people nerves.

He clasps his hands together and speaks in a sing-song voice. “So, Molly, how was school?”

He says my name the same way Stéphanie does: Moe-LEE.

I find myself imitating his saccharine tone. “It was good, JP. I learned lots of things.”

We both chuckle this time. He leans into the arm of the couch.

“Really?” he asks.

I shrug. “I guess. Sociology isn’t always...thrilling.”

His eyebrows contract. “That’s your major? You don’t like it?”

“I mean...I like it.” I trace the seam of the cushion with my finger. “I do like it, it’s just...”

My voice trails off when I realize how much I’ve been talking. There are moments with JP when I forget he’s in my favourite band. There are moments when I forget he’s still a stranger to me. He makes everything feel so easy, like our conversations are a piece of flawless machinery, instead of the clunky, rust-caked gears that refuse to turn when I talk to almost anyone else.

“Just what?” he prompts.

“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. I wanted to 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 been wanting to 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. Who wouldn’t get 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 being nice to 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 his truc around 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 little truc and I have been through a lot.”

“Is it your totem or something?” I joke.

He just stares.

“You know, in Inception? 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.”

I start to worry I’ve said something too personal, but JP laughs.

“I should play that music whenever my dad spends time in the same room as anyone.”

It’s hard to catch, but his next chuckle has the trace of something bitter in it. Normally his laugh is like an extra large latte with double the foam: sweet and heady, with just enough kick to make you feel like you can take on the world. Now it’s got the tang of burnt coffee to it.

I want to ask him about his dad. I want to pat his hand where it’s covered by the floppy cuff of his sweater. Instead, I just sit there with my own hands tucked under my legs.

JP gives his man-bun a tug and glances at the screen of his phone. “Speaking of playing music, I should probably go to rehearsal now. Matt’s gonna kill me if I’m late.”

“Oh, I know. He’s like the Mamma Bear of the band.”

The words are out of my mouth before I realize my mistake. That’s not something normal people know. That’s an opinion based on cyber-stalking every Sherbrooke Station interview and social media post ever made. JP doesn’t realize he’s sitting next to a girl who already knows when his birthday is and that he prefers the Rolling Stones to the Beatles.

“Yeah,” JP says, looking amused rather than freaked out, “he is.”

He moves to the edge of the couch but doesn’t get up yet.

“Before I go, I just have to ask you—that poster under your bed, are you sure you got it at a show?”

Turds.

He knows. He knows I’m pathetic enough to DIY my own posters of his band.

“I, uh, I’m pretty sure,” I stammer. “It’s kind of old. It—It’s just been kicking around under my bed forever.”

JP bobs his head. “That’s too bad. I showed it to our label’s owner. She’d never seen it before, but she loved it. She’s looking for a temporary graphic designer, and she said she’d hire whoever made it.”

His voice is even. He’s holding out on calling my bluff.

“Huh,” I manage to reply.

He’s rolling his ball between his hands now, watching me from the corner of his eye.

“It’s also too bad, because I told her I know the person who made it.” I can hear the amusement creeping back into his faux-regret. “And then I got that person an interview with her on Friday at three o-clock.”

I suck in a breath. JP finally pushes himself off up the couch and stands.

“I’ll send you a text with the address. You know, in case you remember who made the poster.” He reaches over and gives my shoulder a little bump with his fist. “You should also tell them they’re really, really good. Une vraie artiste.”

I don’t know how to respond. By the time I actually process what just happened, he’s already said goodbye and let himself out into the hall.