"Cameron, why on earth are you settling for part-time stints?" Dad’s voice rises. "This internship is full-time and will look good on your resume once you graduate. Employers will be impressed. I would rather you focus on one internship that’s only for the summer, so you can focus when you start Uni."
"I’m not out to impress employers right now. I haven’t even started Uni."
"Would you just think about it?"
"Okay," I say.
Tamara clears her throat. We all turn to face her.
"I was thinking of getting a part-time job, too, once I finish Uni for the summer," she says.
I glance at Tamara, grateful for her intervention. She’s got a week or so left until she joins the freedom brigade, but even then, she has summer classes aside from mooting, and now she wants to add a part-time job in the mix?
"Aren't you gonna say anything?" she teases me after breakfast as we take the dishes back to the kitchen.
"I love ya, but you’re a beast of an overachiever. Stop making me look bad." I throw a crumpled napkin at her.
She catches it, chuckles, and in a softer tone, says, "You're not bad."
"Tell that to Dad."
#
I stare at the tiny Blackberry screen in front of me. I’m not normally glued to it, but now it holds something valuable: digits of a girl I met. I’ve been staring at it for most of my fifteen-minute break.
My thumb circles near the keys. I want to call her, but I don’t know what to say. Agh. If only I had more of Eric’s charm when it comes to the ladies.
Seven minutes left until the break is over. I groan at the thought of re-entering the looming factory building with its dull, grey exterior and menacing concrete walls.
I’d rather be playing the guitar or mucking about at URadio.
Imagine having three more years of revising to plow through to land a job such as this? Now Dad wants me to apply for the managerial internship as well.
Fantastic.
I huff and slump against the wall.
Playing music and creating music is something I’ve learned I cannot live without. I make time for it every day, no matter what. When we were at The Hush Society the other night, it set off the realisation that music is more than a sideline to me; I want it to be my life.
To have a bunch of people, a community like that, support each other through music is inspiring.
So inspiring that I want to chat up the girl who thought of this amazing community.
Five minutes.
My thumb hovers at Cassie’s number.
At least if she answers, it’ll make my day better.
Don’t think. Just do.
I hit the call button.
It rings thrice and my heart speeds up.
She doesn’t pick up.
Is it because it’s an unknown number? Or….
I send her a message instead.
Hey, Cassie. It’s Tokyo Drift Cameron. I’d love to chat about The Hush Society when you’re free!
It sounds absolutely naff, but it’s the best I can come up with under pressure.
I’m about to re-enter the pit of doom when the mobile in my pocket vibrates. I jolt in surprise. If I take the call, I’ll be late.
Ah, fuck it.
I pick it up without looking at the caller ID.
"Tokyo Drift Cameron?"
She called back! A warm sensation fills my chest. I smile. "I’m sorry, he’s out at the moment. Would you like me to take a message?"
"Ha ha. Sorry I couldn’t answer your call," she says. "I was at my studio."
"Recording?" I ask, hopeful. If she plays an instrument as well, damn, I’ll be head over heels.
"No, silly. My art studio. I was working on a few sketches."
Silly.
"You’ve got your own art studio?" I repeat in astonishment.
She laughs before continuing. "At home, yes. On the days I’m not busy running The Hush Society, I like to sketch and play around with different art materials. I’ll need all the practice I can get before I start my first term at Uni."
"What are you studying?"
"Fine Arts, but I’m thinking of doing a few photography classes on the side."
"Intriguing! Do you play an instrument as well?"
"I love to organise gigs, but no, I don’t play."
"If ever you change your mind, I could give you guitar lessons. It comes in a package deal though."
"What kind of package deal?" is her cheeky reply.
"Dinner and a couple of drinks."
"I’ve got my hands tied up with these fabric pieces right now. Then there’s prepping for Uni and everything."
Ouf.
Was that her way of saying no?
"I understand," I say, even though it’s a lie. "If my mates and I were interested in going to another gig of yours, how would we know?"
"We don’t release details until the day of the show. Keep tabs on Twitter"—I make a mental note to tell Benji—"something’s bound to come up. I’m sure you’ll find out about the next one."
"I’m not at all tech-savvy, but I’ll tell Benji to keep a eye out."
"You better."
I take it as a sign that she wouldn’t mind seeing me again soon. That’s enough to fuel my hope and continue our conversation before she hangs up to finish a sketch.
This time, I push the metal door with renewed energy. I don’t care if my supervisor’s going to harp at me for extending my break.
CHAPTER FOUR
The following morning, after a rather quiet breakfast, I head out to URadio.
I pass cottages, brick-walled shops, pubs, and restaurants. Advertised on chalkboard standees outside or at the windowsills are open mic nights, but each one brings a bitter memory of my failed garage bands. I want music to be my life. But after five bands, is it still possible? Something always tends to go awry, personalities clash, and we cut ties. Most of the time, I’m the one who winds up leaving, seeing the writing on the wall. I’m a musician with no band. Ha…
Even as I reach one of Beverley’s many parks—a place where I’m in my own world with only my guitar—my shoulders slump further. The crisp forest air
