9Animal || Miike Snow
MOLLY
“What even is your life?”Justine demands, her pixilated hands gesticulating wildly on my laptop screen. “In the past few weeks, you’ve gone to a bar with all four members of Sherbrooke Station, gotten a job as a graphic designer at one of the hippest up-and-coming record labels in Montreal, and now you’re just casually going to discuss making some album art with JP freakin’ Bouchard-Guindon. Whoareyou?”
“I’m Molly the Hot Tamale,” I answer. “Extra spicy edition.”
Spicy is a good word for how I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve been hanging around the Metro Records office way more than I actually get paid for, but every day there has been better than the last. My coworkers all go crazy every time I show them some of my design work. We chat about bands we’ve seen and give each other advice on projects. Everyone knows everyone’s coffee order, and each day, someone new gets to be the resident DJ and control the stereo. I stayed up until two in the morning creating the perfect playlist the night before my turn came up. It was totally worth it. Everyone said I have great taste.
Sometimes I forget all about being the awkward new girl. At Metro Records, my work speaks for me, and that makes it so much easier to actually speak for myself.
“Muy caliente,” Justine agrees. “Oh, and I forgot to add your handsome young suitor to that list.”
I have my laptop sitting on my bed as I go through the drawers of my dresser, searching for something to wear to my meeting with JP and his friend. After several pleading texts from JP, I finally decided to give designing the EP cover a go. I pause with my hands on a slouchy, oversized grey sweater.
“JP isn’t mysuitor,” I protest.
Justine lets out a pointed cough. “I, uh, wasn’t talking about JP, Molly.” Her expression turns sly. “Should I have been?”
Right. Of course. She was talking about Paul.
“No, sorry, I’m just distracted.” I go back to digging through clothes. “I don’t know if I would call Paul ‘handsome.’ He’s more...sufficiently good-looking.”
Sufficiently good-looking Paul has been taking an interest in me that even I can’t deny is anything other than flirtatious. He’s funny and encouraging, albeit with a weird fondness for jazz hands. He was the first person I actually talked to at Metro, and he helped integrate me into the team without making things forced or obvious. His smile doesn’t make my heart race or leave me dreaming about him for days, but flirting with him is fun. It’s safe. Paul is within the league of people I can actually see myself dating.
“I can’t believe you’re going to settle for ‘sufficiently good-looking’ when you hang around famous rock stars now.”
“Nothing has happened between Paul and I, so it’s not like I’ve actually settledfor anything,” I remind Justine. “Besides, you know how I feel about guys. I have a bar that’s been set, and I don’t go above it.”
Justine sighs. “It’s been several years since we were in high school, Molly. Is that really how you want to live your life? Just because some dumb boy didn’t—”
“It’s not abouthim,” I hiss, before Justine can say his name. “What happened with him is just an example. There are people in this world I’m supposed to date, and there are people I’m not. Bad things happen when I ignore that. I mean, just look at the whole Ace Turner situation. All I did wasthinkabout him, and he ended up dating my ridiculously pretty roommate. It’s just asking for trouble to get involved with anyone who’s out of my league.”
“Well, I think you’re selling your ‘league’ a little short.”
We’ve had this argument a dozen times before. I know it’s not going anywhere, so I let the subject drop. It’s easy for Justine to say I’m being ridiculous. She’s not exactly a social butterfly, but on the rare occasions she trades studying for house parties, she never has trouble catching a hot guy’s eye. She’s hooked up a few times, and I’m sure she’s got lots of dudes who’d be willing to be her boyfriend if she wanted one.
Meanwhile, the only man who’s ever seen me—mostly—naked was a shy guy who sat next to me in one of my first year sociology classes. I finally accepted one of his bumbling invitations to study together after I decided I wasn’t going to let what happened in high school keep me a nun my whole life. We had sex a few times over the course of several months. I kept the lights off and my shirt on. When summer vacation came along, we broke things off.
It didn’t even hurt when we said goodbye.
“I should wear my denim jacket, right?” I ask Justine. “That says, ‘I’m a casual and stylish graphic designer.’”
I leave the apartment wearing the jacket over a pair of black leggings and my slouchy grey sweater. It’s still a little too warm for that many layers, but I love fall clothing too much to hold back. We’re meeting at a cafe on Saint-Laurent. The street is one of the main hubs of Montreal, lined with trendy restaurants, cute boutiques, dozens of bars and nightclubs I’ve never been to, and some incredible pieces of street art.
I’ve only been to the cafe we’re meeting at once before. It’s a narrow little space, with dusky red walls and threadbare armchairs. Some of the table-tops have chessboards painted right on them, and a few grey-haired old men concentrate on moving their pawns around. Other than that, the place is empty.
“Bonjour,” I greet the woman behind the counter. She’s young and elegant-looking, with a dark, shoulder-length bob and a sheer black top on. She looks like she just stepped out of an old European film, and for some reason, her face looks familiar. “Je...um...a latte?S’il vous plait?”
I do know how to ask for a coffee in French, but I always freeze up when I’m ordering. I have an embarrassingly bad accent.
The woman gives me a sympathetic smile. “One latte, coming up.”
I’m sitting in one of the sagging armchairs by the window when JP’s face appears in the glass in front of me. He presses his nose right up against it and waves.
Seeing JP smile is like watching other people yawn: you’re copying them before you even realize it. I set my mug down and wave back. The bell over the door chimes as he walks in, stepping over to the cash register and hopping up to take a seat right on the counter.
“?a va,Roxy?” he asks the woman behind it.
