Your Rhythm

by Katia Rose

  Shayla spends the next twenty minutes grilling us on all things Sherbrooke Station. As tedious as it can be, I still get pumped up when I realize we actually have things like contracts and a PR department to talk about. We’ve already come so far from starting with nothing but a basement and a dream.

  I try to set an example by staying focused on what Shayla’s saying, but we’re all zoning out by the time she wraps things up.

  “...and in case you weren’t listening, which I’m sure none of you were, I already forwarded all the information to your phones. Please take the time to look at it, and do whatever you have to do to stay on top of this.”

  She locks eyes with each of us in turn.

  “I’ve gotten you boys this far. I’m not planning on stopping until you reach the top. Got it?”

  We nod like kids who’ve been threatened with detention.

  Shayla pops up out of her seat, all smiles now that she’s had her daily scare-the-shit-out-of-the-band moment.

  “All right, I’m off. Have a good rest of your day.”

  She shrugs herself back into her coat and heads out.

  “We leaving now?” JP asks. “I told Youssef we’d be his roadies, so we should be there by eight-thirty.”

  We’re all going to see a friend of JP’s perform tonight. He’s doing an electronic set at a bar up on Avenue Mont Royal.

  “Sounds good. I just have to make a phone call first.”

  I shut myself up in the stairway again and dial Kay’s number. It rings a few times before going to voicemail.

  “Playing hard to get, huh? It’s Matt. I guess you’re busy journalist-ing. I’ll be doing something for the next hour or so, but I’ll call you again when I can.”

  We head over to the station next door. We’re only one metro stop away from the bar, but if there’s a way to stay off the streets in winter, it’s usually worth taking.

  I hang back from the guys as we make our way to the staff entrance, where Youssef’s already hauling stuff in from his van. I got a missed call from Kay while we were on the Metro, but she didn’t leave a message. I try calling one more time and get her voicemail again.

  “It’s Matt. I guess we’re playing phone tag now. I’ll be at a show at Café Cléo for the rest of the night. I’ll check my phone if you want to text me, or you could stop by if you’re around. The guy playing is actually really good.”

  I doubt she’ll consider showing up, but it was worth a shot.

  We get Youssef all set up and he buys us a round for the favour, joining us at a table before he’s due to go on. There’s still half an hour to kill before show time and the place is already packed. Youssef DJs at a big club most nights and plays his own stuff on the side. He’s got a dedicated cult following, and at a venue as small as Café Cléo, I’m sure they’ll be turning people away at the door before his set even starts.

  Once our beers are finished, Youssef heads off to get ready. We grab ourselves a place to stand and watch him perform. I check my phone every few minutes, but nothing from Kay shows up. After shoving my cell back in my pocket for what must be the sixth time, I look up to find Cole smirking at me.

  “Don’t worry,” he says with mocking concern, “I’m sure she’ll text you back.”

  “She’s not a girl,” I defend myself. Cole raises an eyebrow and I try to clarify. “I mean, yeah, she’s a girl, but she’s not like, a girl girl. She’s just a person who happens to be a girl, but she’s not a ‘waiting for a girl to text me back’ kind of...girl...”

  I trail off when I see Cole giving me his signature ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ stare.

  “She’s a reporter!” I blurt. “She’s the one Ace was supposed to meet. She has some more questions for me and we’ve been trying to get a hold of each other all day.”

  “I see,” Cole muses. “So she’s that kind of girl.”

  He flashes the exact same smirk as before.

  “Oh fuck off, Byrne.”

  Youssef makes his entrance a few minutes after that, raising two fists in the air to greet the crowd that rushes to fill up the floor the second he appears. He doesn’t waste any time getting right into it. A pair of oversized headphones rests around his neck as he cranks out a trippy, acid house intro that builds into a fist-pumping beat everyone goes crazy for.

  It’s not my usual kind of music, but I know talent when I see it, and I’ve never seen anyone work a crowd quite the way Youssef does. I’m always amazed that he’s not more popular than he already is. The guy should be crushing it at Tomorrowland and selling out concert halls across Europe.

  JP’s already going wild, leaving the three of us to stand on the sidelines as he rushes into the crowd, high-fiving everyone he passes before getting swallowed up into a group of people near the front. He can buddy up with complete strangers like he’s known them for years.

  I tap out the rhythm of the song on the side of my pint glass. The rush of energy pounding through the speakers and inside the chests of everyone here distracts me from anything else for a moment. Next to playing music myself, hearing it live is probably my biggest addiction.

  There’s nothing like losing yourself in a crowd, like letting the sound-waves wash over you and sweep away everything but the moment you’re in. You give yourself up when you let go like that, and in return you get to be a part of something bigger than you could ever be on your own. Music can make you feel like a single drop and an entire ocean all at once.

  I close my eyes for a moment, letting the bass rumble through me, and then I swallow down the last of my beer and follow after JP. I don’t repeat his high-fiving routine; instead I duck my way between the people jumping up and down in synch until I reach him at the front.

  “MATT!” One of his doped-up looking grins spreads across his sweat-slicked face when he sees me. “ҪA VA?”

  “ҪA VA!”

  He gives me a thumbs-up and starts jumping around again. It’s not long until I’m doing the same, throwing my hands in the air along with everyone else as the song starts building up to a bass drop.

  JP starts chanting beside me.

  “YOUSSEF! YOUSSEF! YOUSSEF!”

  A few people around us pick it up, and in the next instant it’s the only word coming out of anyone’s mouths. The music gets more and more shrill until there’s a split second of silence before Youssef drops the beat, and everyone loses their shit. Arms start flailing around me, and think someone spills half their drink down my back, but I can’t even bring myself to care because the only things in the world right now are the pulsing lights and the mind-numbing bass that seems to seep through me like a slowly spreading high.

  JP’s face swims into focus beside mine, his teeth stained blue by the strobe lights. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and turns us towards Ace and Cole, still standing to the side on a small platform a foot above the crowd. They hold their beers up in our direction and we wave back. Just as I’m turning away to face Youssef’s booth again, my eyes catch on someone standing alone a few feet to the right.

  She’s hidden by the semi-darkness and rows of writhing bodies that keep blocking her from my view, but I recognize Kay Fischer when I see her.

  From the way she’s staring straight in my direction, I’m pretty sure she’s seen me too.

  “I’M GOING!” I shout to JP, even though he’s probably not paying attention anyways.

  Getting out of the crowd is just as hard as getting in, and I’m panting by the time I reach Kay. She greets me with a wry half smile and says something I can’t make out.

  “WHAT?”

  I watch her lips move but still can’t tell what she’s saying.

  “WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

  “I SAID,” she yells, standing on her toes to get closer to my ear, “ARE YOU HAVING FUN?”

  “OH! YEAH! ARE YOU?”

  She gives me a look that questions my sanity and then motions for me to follow her down to the far end of the room.

  “Better?” she asks.


  My ears are still ringing but it seems like we might be able to have a somewhat normal conversation now.

  “I was in the neighbourhood, and since you weren’t answering your texts I figured I would try stopping by.”

  “Right. Sorry. Got kind of carried away.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  I expect her to be pissed off but she looks amused.

  “How long were you standing there?”

  Her half smile turns into a full one. “Long enough.”

  “Like my dance moves?”

  “I don’t know if I’d consider that dancing, but it was...entertaining.” She clears her throat. “Anyways, I’m sorry to interrupt your night, but my article’s already late. Do you mind if we just go over the quotes really fast?”

  “We can go somewhere else,” I offer. “Somewhere that doesn’t have a raging techno party going on in the background might be better for an interview. There’s a Thai place right across the street.”

  “Here’s fine.”

  I wasn’t suggesting a date, but somehow it still feels like I’m being shot down.

  “I’ll just read you what I remember you saying, and you can correct me if it’s wrong,” she continues.

  “Okay, but you’re going to have to come a little closer. I still can’t hear you very well.”

  I can hear her perfectly fine, but if we’re not getting any more time together tonight, I’m making the most of this moment.

  Taking a step nearer, she pulls her phone out. She reads a few sentences off the screen, stopping in between to ask me if I want to change anything. I tell her everything sounds fine, only somewhat listening to what she says as I let my gaze drift to the tattoo I noticed last night.

  I can only see the very edge of it, two thin horizontal lines tapering to a point just below her clavicle. My fingers are itching to pull the fabric of her shirt to the side and see what’s inked on the delicate skin underneath.

  “...and you’re okay with that last bit too?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what I said, or close enough.”

  “Cool. Then I guess we’re all done.”

  I glance away from her shoulder just as she lowers her phone.

  “When’s it printing?”

  “Monday,” she replies, “that is, if they haven’t already fired me for being late and got someone to write something else.”

  “You don’t want a picture of me? For the front page?”

  She lets out a bitter laugh. “More like the second to last page. Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not exactly working with La Gare’s prime reporter.”

  “I’ll frame it anyways.”

  She laughs again and starts buttoning her coat. “I better head out now.”

  “You’re not staying for the rest of the show?”

  “Late article, remember? Plus, I need to get back to my place out in Verdun.”

  “You live in fucking Verdun?”

  She nods. “Yep. Fucking Verdun.”

  “Jesus. Well, safe travels.”

  “Thanks. Enjoy dancing the night away.”

  She moves past me towards the exit and walks away without looking back. I wish I could say I do the same, but I stay standing there watching the front door long after she’s gone.

  I may have lied to Cole, but I can’t lie to myself: I am definitely interested in Kay as a girl girl.

  5 Sick Muse || Metric

  KAY

  “You look like a zombie.”

  “That’s not a very nice way to talk about your Work Wife, Pierre.”

  Pierre shrugs in his desk chair. “Honesty is the best politic.”

  “Policy, Pierre, policy.”

  “Whatever. You thought ‘chicken’ in French was ‘chicon.’”

  “I still think that’s an understandable mistake!”

  I can act as offended as I want, but I know his zombie comment is accurate. Monday morning hit me like a freight train. Weekends are always busy for me since that’s when most things ‘Arts and Culture’ are going down in the city, and I never caught up on my sleep after hurrying to finish my Sherbrooke Station article on Friday night.

  I keep wondering whether Matt has read it yet. I can’t get the picture of him in the crowd at Café Cléo out of my mind. He had his head thrown back, his hair dark with sweat, and all his features were brushed with a breathless kind of bliss. I knew exactly what he was feeling in that moment: the kind of freedom that only comes from letting go of yourself, from giving up your hold on reality and letting the music create a new one for you.

  I used to feel like that when I went to shows. I remember walking into the bright lights of the lobby after the first real concert I ever went to, head swimming with sound as me and my friends replayed all the highlights together, buzzing with that post-show energy that sometimes lasts for days.

  Even then, at just fifteen years old, I realized there were stories in those moments, and that I wanted to be the person to find them, to give them a voice. Music is one of the most powerful things we have; it takes over us to change the way we think and feel. I knew something that could shape so many lives was worth investigating and keeping a record of.

  I don’t think the vision fifteen year-old me had in mind involved sitting in a decrepit office full of even more decrepit co-workers, but here we are.

  If anyone could fit the phrase ‘how are the mighty fallen,’ it would be me. Not even a year ago, I was rising up the ranks at the Montreal headquarters of Last Bastion, the most successful music magazine in the country. I worked my ass off getting a journalism degree and building my portfolio in Ottawa, before taking an internship with a blog in Montreal. I was working two jobs on top of that to pay the bills when Bastion picked up a freelance editorial I submitted. They offered me a regular position soon after.

  For awhile, everything was perfect. I had a tiny but gorgeous apartment downtown, a stupidly hot boyfriend I was crazy about, and it was literally my job to go to concerts all the time and interview my favourite bands. I worked sixty hour weeks sometimes, but I loved every second of it. That was before a clash with Atlas Records sent my career down the drain.

  I keep my head bent over my keyboard for most of the morning, trying not to fall asleep. I’m just about to give in and drift off for a few minutes when Marie-France’s sharp voice rings out behind me.

  “Kay, à mon bureau en cinq minutes.”

  “D’accord!” I answer, whipping my head towards her and doing my best to look conscious.

  I wait for the five minutes she mentioned before following her order to report to her office. I take a seat in front of her desk, glancing at the view of Boulevard René-Lévesque out the window behind her.

  “Your story today was good, Kay.”

  I try not to let my eyes widen. Mary-France isn’t very forthcoming with praise.

  “I sent you on that interview as an experiment. Ma nièce can’t stop talking about Sherbrooke Station. She says all the young people love them. I wanted to see what would happen if we shifted our focus a bit.”

  Now my eyes really do go wide. ‘Experiment’ and ‘shift’ are foreign concepts around here.

  “The truth, Mademoiselle Fischer, is that this journal is failing.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “I don’t mind telling you that; it’s no secret. Our sponsors are pulling out, and the ones that are left say I need to do something and fast. I don’t know how long I can keep us going, but I won’t give up without a fight, Kay. I’ve worked with the people here for a very long time, and I respect them, but I also know that if they lose their jobs they probably won’t find anything else. I owe them enough to at least try saving La Gare.”

  I’ve always found Marie-France kind of comical, marching around the office in her pantsuits and old lady loafers, but there’s a dignity, an iron resilience in the way she sits in front of me now with her hands clasped and her jaw set.

  “So,” she continues, “I’m going to take a chance, Kay. I have six months to
turn things around. I’m going to expand your section of the paper. I’ll take Pierre off sports and he can help you. I want you to cover your usual range of topics, but I’m personally assigning you to another story on Sherbrooke Station. Your interview was very popular. I want you to prepare an article to coincide with that big show you mentioned they’re doing in Montréal this June. As long as there’s no major news we need to cover at that time, I want to give you la une.”

  “La une?” I repeat.

  Literally it means ‘the one,’ but I don’t know what she’s actually referring to.

  “‘La une’ is what we call the front page.” She gives me one of her rare, grimacing smiles. “I want this to be big, Kay. I want a story everyone will be talking about, and I think you’re the one to write it. Give me controversy. Give me an angle no one has done yet. Here”—she taps a copy of La Gare on her desk that’s opened to my article—“you hint at some tension within the band now that they’re with these Atlas Records people. I think you should start from there. Get the whole story.”

  Red flags start going off in my head, blocking out the vision of my name on the front page of La Gare. Mentioning Atlas Records in a two paragraph story at the back of the paper was one thing. A front page feature on their relationship with one of their bands is something else.

  “With respect, Marie-France, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” I pause to come up with a way of explaining that doesn’t dive too deep into my past. “My experience in the music journalism world showed me that Atlas Records is...not somebody you mess with.”

  “I’m not asking you to slander them. What would happen if we got ourselves a lawsuit now, Dieu seul le sait!” She leans forwards over her desk, catching and holding my gaze. “But you are une journaliste, Kay. We both know there is a story here, and that you can get these Sherbrooke Station people to tell it to you.”