I Kissed a Boy [complet]

The Studio

— Ma, I'm out!

Marc was about to open the door to his parents' mansion to leave. His family was well off but he had been trying to live on his own for almost two years now. Yet he returned every week to see his parents in the large suburban mansion. This house was his, more so than the small town apartment. His father had made his fortune in the mid—range textile industry and had married a wealthy heiress. Marc was the eldest of a two—year younger sister, Judith. The four dogs barked between his legs, begging for attention. His mother came out of the room adjacent to the parlor, a smoking stick of incense in her hand.

—But you've only just arrived! At least stay for the meal.

—I have to rehearse with my band, Ma. I told you.

—Can't it wait an hour or two?

Marc smiled at the little woman who seemed immense to him.

— No, Ma. But I would like you to prepare me a sandwich.

Marc knew that letting his mother take care of him was the only way to reassure her. With a smile, she poked the incense into the pot in the prayer room and hopped, yes that was the word, hopped toward the kitchen. Marc readjusted the strap of his guitar case to follow her. As he passed the open hall, he paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and quickly prayed to the clay Buddha. He put his guitar down at the entrance to the kitchen, then sat down on one of the high stools. His mother was busy. Marc crossed his arms on the counter to look at her. How not to love this person full of love and understanding? She was still beautiful. He took a lot from her, even if his lips were his father's as well as his stature. She had been successful in the industry growing up.

— Ma, just a sandwich is enough!

—You're not eating enough! I'm sure you've lost weight.

Marc shook his head, touched by his mother.

— I have not lost weight, I have resumed the sport.

She glared at him and groaned inelegantly. Marc pursed his lips to keep from cracking. She resumed.

—Does... SHE still can't cook?

Marc sighed. His mother didn't like Amy. She had explained to him that it was not the right one. That he shouldn't get too involved, she felt. It was like that. Marc had remained skeptical but his mother had always prided herself on having a particular sensitivity.

—Amy is too busy with her work to have time to...

—Amy can't have butter and butter money.

—It's not like your days, Ma. Now a woman can put her career ahead of everything else.

She put a well—stocked bag in front of her son.

— I know what I say. Believe in your mother!

Marc took the bag, kissed his mother's cheek and greeted her.

Marc parked his vehicle in the parking lot in front of the studio. The cold was biting and he pulled up the collar of his jacket to protect himself from the gusts of wind and put his hat back on his ears. He grabbed his guitar, the satchel full of sheet music, and the bag of lunch. He looked at the clock above the reception as he passed. It was a somewhat dated building with walls painted in faded colors ranging from khaki green to mud brown. It also housed a small local radio station that promoted artists from the studio on demand. The radio took up the entire third floor. Below were two meeting rooms and a break room, while on the ground floor the management offices were next to the toilets. The two recording studios were located in the basement. The one reserved for the Red Pandas was always the one on the right. The first room was quite large with instruments and mixing devices. On the other side of the window, was the room reserved for the singer with the microphone and the various filters for the voice. The thick walls were soundproof, which further reduced the space of the two rooms. When Marc pushed open the hermetic door, he was greeted by two of the four other members of the group. Nelly was the only girl in the band and handled keyboards and Jordan was on drums. Simon and Henri were respectively guitar and bass. According to the songs other instruments came into play like the sax or other. Each of the musicians had several strings to their bow. Marc himself played the guitar and the piano in an average way. He had taken lessons to improve his voice and took more depending on the difficulty of the song. As usual Nelly was slumped without any grace on one of the ottomans in the room. Her bare arms, despite the low temperatures, were covered in tattoos from the wrists to the shoulders and these went up her neck. They were sticking out of the red turtleneck. She also wore black and red plaid pants and a pair of motorcycle boots. Besides, her helmet was on the shelf. She made a bubble with her chewing gum.