4Benevolence Riots || Gang of Youths
MOLLY
I have my headphones on,but I can still hear the Beyoncé song blasting through the wall and the shouts and thumping sounds of people dancing. I thought about staying late at the McGill library tonight and avoiding this party altogether, but I didn’t know what time Stéphanie and her friends would be leaving. Accidentally walking into an apartment full of people is not something I felt the need to put myself through. I can just imagine my awkward dash to my room, avoiding everyone’s invitations to join the dance party and overhearing their whispers about ‘that weird girl’ once I was gone.
There’s actually a part of me thatwantsto be out there, a part of me that’s fearless enough to throw my door open and complete the simple task of saying hello, but the weight of everything that could go wrong if I did keeps me glued to my chair.
So instead, I turn the volume on my computer up louder. The Gang of Youths track I’m blasting becomes my personal theme song as I update one of my several Tumblr pages. I have one for music, one for street art, one for graphic design, and one very NSFW page full of sexy GIFs that not even Justine knows about.
What can I say? I’m a child of the internet age.
Justine and I used to run a Sherbrooke Station fan page together that got so popular we turned it into its own website. Sounds of the Station is still going strong, but I’ve taken a leave of absence from my role as co-webmistress. It just felt too pathetic to sit at my computer fangirling over Ace’s crazy sex hair when my roommate was right next doorgivinghim crazy sex hair.
I’m in full-on re-blogging mode when I hear the knock on my door over the sound of my music and freeze.
Turds, I think.Turds, turds turds.
I take a moment to fight back the instinct to crawl under my bed. When I finally rip my headphones out and pad over to the door, the person is knocking a second time. I swing it open a few inches and find JP Bouchard-Guindon standing there, his hand still raised in a fist and a plate held in his other hand.
“Want some dick cake?” he asks.
I try to remember how to breathe.
Sure, he’s not Ace Turner, but he’s still amember of Sherbrooke Station, and despite my recent lag in enthusiasm over my love for the band, standing face to face with someone whose music I’ve obsessed over for years is still enough to make me feel like I’m short-circuiting.
I almost cringed myself to death replaying my last interaction with him about ten thousand times after it happened. He saw me in mygranny panties.
“Uhhh...” I manage to mumble.
JP glances at the cake in his hand and then back at me.
“It’s just a dick cake because it was shaped like a dick. It actually tastes pretty good.”
He holds the plate out to me, and I somehow have the presence of mind to take it.
He peers over my shoulder into my room. “Look’s cozy in there.”
I follow his gaze to the strings of mini lights I have hanging from the ceiling, casting a soft glow on the tapestry and photo collage that cover my walls. Combine that with my macramé plant holders and thrifted knitted throw pillows, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a stereotypical Tumblr girl bedroom. Itispretty cozy, though. Being in here feels like crawling inside a safe and comfortable Molly nest.
“Ben là, is that a vintage Linn?” JP exclaims.
I end up pushing the door open a bit wider when I turn to face my record player. “Um, yeah. It is.”
“You mind if I look at it?”
He’s already stepping past me and approaching the spindly little table I keep the record player on. I glance into the living room, but no one seems to be paying us any attention. My heart jumps into my throat when I realize that not only is Ace in the room, but Matt Pearson and Cole Byrne have also shown up, meaning all of Shebrooke Station is currently hanging out in my apartment.
I let my door swing shut, blocking out most of the noise of the party. I’ve got to focus on something else or I’ll start hyperventilating.
“This is the shit,” JP proclaims, hovering over the record player’s dust cover.
He looks like a kid staring at the window of a toy store, and I don’t blame him. It’s a beautiful piece, with a dark wooden base and glossy black top. My uncle got it as a birthday present back in the 80s and never used it much, meaning it was in great condition when he passed it off to me a few years ago.
My record collection is stacked on the shelf under the player. JP stoops down to read the band names on the spines.
“This isn’t bad either,” he announces. “You have good taste.”
I feel myself blushing. “Thanks.”
