"Cameron!" Timmy beams at me. Should have known. The little bugger. I grin. "You’re back! You’re back!" He tells me everything I’ve missed since I left—leaving out the part about Mum moving out—as he helps me up and leads me to my room. "You must have had such an ace time." He sits on my bed as I unpack. "My mates say that you must have had a brilliant time touring, meeting loads of people and chatting it up." His eyes are shining. "I’m so happy Dad’s let you come home."
My little brother talking about flirting. My, my! "Lots has changed around here," I say.
"Tamara says one day you’ll be playing at the O2—that’s a prestigious music venue, as I researched."
I hate to disappoint him, but who knows if I’ll ever play again.
"We have tickets to your music festival in Manchester," Timmy brags.
I’m off colour. "Mum and Dad paid for ‘em?"
He shakes his head. "Some girl rang Mum a few weeks ago and asked her if we wanted tickets. Said she was the organiser and could get us in for free."
Cassie.
My chest tightens and my shoulders slump.
"She was really nice," Timmy says as if she’d spoken to him too. Maybe she had.
I clear my throat and this stops him from rambling.
"Sorry. You must want to get a kip before dinner," Timmy says and slides off my bed. "I’ll be back to wake you." He shuts the door and I’m left alone with the person I loathe the most.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A couple of days later, I leave for the factory in a button-up and tie. It’s an uneventful bus ride to the factory and when I arrive, the sky lights up. This reminds me of the time Cassie and I walked around Brighton until the dawn caught up to us. I’ve left her a couple of messages and rang her mobile, but to no avail.
I sigh. A puff of smoke materialises in front of me. I can’t move on knowing things may never be sorted out with her. I regret how I wrecked my relationship with Cassie. More than being able to call her my girlfriend, I miss her friendship. She is a good person to be around.
At least I’ve got a job?
Ha. One step forward to society’s mould of the perfect plan.
The factory looks as it did, but older and smaller. I never thought I’d be this desperate to go back here, but given the circumstances, I’ll take what I can get. URadio could have been an option, but I have no desire to show my face there. No doubt they’ll have heard about my fall-out. It’s a small town and word goes around fast even if I’m certain neither Benji or Eric would spread the news.
Aside from Benji asking me if I made it back to Beverley, I haven’t talked to either of them in days. Enough for me to be able to know that there is no more future with The Fortunate Only or being involved with Ear for Music, since all I’ve been getting is radio silence. Who knows if my foul-up not only means a fall-out with my band, but with my best mates, too. Benji’s worst fear come true. At the same time, I’m too ashamed to try to see anyone face-to-face right now.
With my head high, I walk inside the factory. I can’t believe how fast they let me back here—and this time as a management trainee. I guess it helps that I have experience with them.
Starting today, I trade stacking cargo boxes for a cubicle.
Bloody friggin’ brilliant.
I stare at my hands, think about carpal tunnel and wonder if I’ll ever play music again.
Once inside the factory, I go straight for orientation and listen to one of the Human Resources lads drone on for the rest of the morning as he briefs me on the training, the rules of the program, and what’s expected of me. One thing good about this training program is the money I get: the most I’ve ever earned. At least I’ll get to save up for Uni and contribute more at home. URadio may be able to match my salary if I go back, but it’s not an option I’m willing to consider right now. I don’t want to have to face the shame of being a failure there, too.
As my lecturer drones on, my mind wanders. Song lyrics and melodies pop up at the most inconvenient times. I even have a beginning of a song about nine-to-fives before his monotonous voice is replaced with stiff silence. I may have given up on music, but it has a strong hold on me.
"You’re on break for forty-five minutes and then we turn you over to your supervisor," the lecturer says.
"Sure, thanks," I reply and head out to the park to eat what mum prepared for me: a turkey sarnie and crisps.
After exhausting all forty-five minutes, I’m introduced to my supervisor—a bulky lad whose office reeks of pine air freshener to combat the smell of sawdust, wood, and body odour that permeates our workplace. He explains the training module: half of the day is for lectures and the other half is dedicated to on the job activities—mostly administrative items.
Five hours later, my mind is mush from the overload of information. My super gave me the management training manual, which is about more than two inches thick. How did I give up on going to Uni, but still have to do revisions?
I probably look pissed as I wait at the bus stop. I sway a little to the left and right, trying to exert the least effort possible in moving any part of my body. Even if my mind did most of the work, my body is drained of energy. When the bus comes, I plop onto it, thankful for whoever invented chairs, set a mobile alarm for twenty minutes, and drift into a kip.
I awake to violent
