“Ilovemusic,” I correct myself. “I need it. It’s part of everything I do. Seriously, I have a playlist for every possible occasion you can think of.”
Shayla chuckles. I can’t look at her as I continue, or I know I’ll back out on everything I have to say next. My voice is getting stronger, and I push through before it can fail me.
“When I draw, it’s like there’s a song in my head, only it comes out through ink and pixels instead of an instrument. When I look at art, sometimes I swear I can hear it. Music always makes sense. It’s a home you can always come back to. I think that’s why everyone at Metro Records works here, and if it’s not, then—then it should be. It’s whyIwant to work here. I know it won’t be easy, but...I want to help build that home for other people, because I know what it’s like to not feel at home anywhere else.”
I still can’t look at Shayla. There’s no way she’s going to give me the job after I spewed all that word-vomit on her. She’s just looking for someone who knows how to use Photoshop, not a basket case who might as well walk around with a sticker on her shirt that says, ‘Hello my name is Low Self-Esteem.’
Everyone here is miles above me. They’re the kind of people I re-blog photos of; they’re not the kind of people I actually talk to. I don’t know why I thought I could do this.
“Molly? Hello, Molly? You still here?”
Shayla’s peering into my zoned-out face with a mix of curiosity and alarm.
“Yes. Sorry. Yes,” I assure her.
She seems like someone who uses her smiles sparingly. When she flashes one at me, it feels like a gift.
“I want you to help build that home, too. I’d like to offer you the job.”
I don’t know how I make it through the rest of the interview without screaming, but as soon as I’m outside the Metro Records office, I punch Justine’s’ number into my phone and greet her with a sound that can only be described as a squawk.
“You got the job!” she shrieks, easily interpreting what my exotic bird noises mean. “Molly, that is insane! You’re a graphic designer forSherbrooke Station’srecord label. You’re living the dream, girl!”
“I’m living the dream!” I repeat, throwing a few punches into the air. “I’m living the dream for ten hours a week for the next three months!”
Not exactly a triumphant battle cry, but I shout the words like that’s exactly what they are.
“Here’s to Molly the hot tamale!” Justine shouts into her phone. “I’m toasting you with imaginary champagne right now.”
“Justine, Queen of the Scene, I’m pouring imaginary champagne all over my body in the street right now.”
There’s no one in sight on the sidewalk, so I use my free hand to hold up a pretend bottle and pour it all over my face and chest—exaggerated porno style. I’m whipping my imaginary-champagne-soaked hair around and laughing into the receiver when a flash of movement over my shoulder catches my eye.
I’m still standing in front of Metro Records, and a guy using the photocopier by the window is laughing at me like I’m prime time TV. He raises his hand in a wave. I jerk my head in a nod, and then I bolt out of sight down the street.
“Oh my god,” I pant into the phone, only slowing down when I’ve reached the next block. “Someone at Metro Records saw my sexy champagne show. It was mortifying. My career is off to a great start.”
Justine cackles. “Oh, Molly. Only you. Relax about it, okay? Maybe we can video chat tonight and celebrate with some real champagne.”
“I’d like that,” I admit, still panting.
When I hang up, I find a new text from JP on my phone
How did it go?
A warmth that has nothing to do with sprinting creeps from my chest, up my neck, and into my cheeks. He was thinking about me.
I catch the vapid, teenage girl grin spreading across my face and mentally slap it right off.
No. Bad Molly.
Text-induced cheek warmth is not something I should be feeling for this guy. Whatever happened in my apartment today was a fluke. I was nervous, stressed, and blinded in one eye. I can’t be held responsible for taking comfort in the nearest hot male body. It was a temporary lapse in judgement I know better than to make again.
People like JP don’t go for girls like me. They have girls like Stéphanie waiting for them backstage—beautiful, leggy blondes who shine as bright as they do. I belong with the other faceless groupies down in the sticky, sweaty crowd. I learned that the hard way long ago.
I have to let him know I understand that. He was probably too polite to push my hand away when I laid it against his chest, probably too full of pity to flat-out tell me I was reading the signals wrong. He’s just a sweet and silly guy who, for some reason, seems to want to be my friend. I can let myself have that with him, at least.
I type out a text that will make it clear I know where I stand:
I got the job!!! Thanks for getting me the interview. You’re a good guy, grill master. I think this officially makes us friends.
