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 asanyone.”
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,reallygood.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.
