“Hey, Molly!” he’d shouted from across the street, just after we’d parted ways outside my building. “You go girl!”
He remembered the words from my favourite piece of street art. My stomach settles a little as I think about the dopey-looking grin on his face.
“So this would be your first graphic design job?”
Aaaand there goes the bottom of my stomach again.
“Uh...yes.” I know that’s not a sufficient answer. I swallow and try again. “It would, um, be my first graphic design specific job, but as you can see on my resume, I’ve v-volunteered as part of the design team for some McGill events. I, uh, also worked on the yearbook committee in high school.”
Shayla nods. “Yes, that’s useful. And you’re studying art history, I see.”
“Minoring in it, yes.”
She appraises my resume again. “You seem like a great student, Molly. However, I think you’ll understand when I say I’m more interested in seeing some of your actual work than I am in looking at a piece of paper with some bullet points on it. Did you bring a portfolio?”
I almost forgot to bring my laptop with me. I give a mental sigh of relief when I pull it out and open up a folder on my desktop.
“These are some of my most recent designs,” I tell Shayla, passing the computer over so she can click through the images. Her face doesn’t give anything away until she reaches a picture that makes her pause and hold up a finger.
“You’ve worked with Sounds of the Station?”
I included a few website banners in my portfolio, but I didn’t think the site name would mean anything to Shayla.
“I started it,” I admit, feeling myself flush. “Well, a friend and I did. I know it’s not a very professional thing to include in my portfolio, but I just wanted to show that I’m, um, comfortable with, uh, basic web design...”
I trail off when I notice Shayla grinning, her dark lipstick a sharp contrast to her white teeth and the silver gleam of her septum piercing.
“It’s definitely professional,” she assures me. “I make sure to check your website out at least once a week. I was on it every day when I was Sherbrooke Station’s manager. You guys seemed to know what was going on with them beforeIeven did. I’m pretty sure your site gets more hits than the actual Sherbrooke Station website. It’s impressive to have a following that big and that strong.”
I haven’t looked at the website’s stats in ages, but she might actually be right. There are fans who check Sounds of the Station like normal people check the weather. Still, it’s just a fan site. It may have tens of thousands of monthly visitors, but they’re mostly visitors who want to talk about Ace’s hair.
Really, though, anyone in their right mind should want to talk about Ace’s hair. It looks like it was sculpted by divine hands and blessed by a chorus of heavenly angels.
“I remember when I first showed Sounds of the Station to the band.” Shayla gives a sigh that’s almost wistful. “Their debut album had just dropped, and it was doing better than we’d ever hoped it would. They were so excited to have an actual fan site, it was almost pathetic. I think they were happier about that than seeing their name in the charts.”
I blink a few times. “The band knows about Sounds of the Station?”
The image of them looking at something Justine and I made just doesn’t compute.
“Of course they do. Hell, the PR team treats your website like it’s the Rosetta Stone—like if they study it hard enough, they’ll learn the secret language of the fans.”
She waves her hands around like she’s mockingly trying to channel some kind of mystic energy. I just sit there, unable to process the fact that I’ve had an actual impact on Sherbrooke Station’s career.
“Really,” Shayla urges, when she notices my reaction. “Your site is great, and so is this portfolio.”
She hands my laptop back, and I tuck it away in its case. The shock is wearing off now, and I’m struggling to keep a giant, obsessive fangirl smile off my face. Shayla folds her hands on top of her desk, interlocking fingers that are all adorned with thick metal rings. The look like they’d be as good for punching people as they are for looking stylish. She really is intimidating.
“We can get into the specifics of the job after,” she tells me, “but before we go any further, I just have one question for you, Molly.”
“Y—Yes?” I stammer when she doesn’t go on.
“Why do you want to work for Metro Records?”
“I...” My throat goes dry. Shayla just sits there, staring. “I...I like music.”
I like music? Seriously?
Shayla tilts her head to the side, like she knows I can do better than that. She’s right; I can.
