My world is a blur and my head is pounding. "Hngg."
"Oi! Kid!" The voice sounds familiar. "It’s the last stop. Time to get off."
That alone sends my body into an electric shock. My eyes as wide as they can go. I curse.
The bus driver guffaws. "Not the first time this has happened to me."
"My alarm!" I accuse the inanimate object for the inconvenience. My hand flies to the pocket of my trousers. I slide it out. Like me, it’s zonked out.
The bus driver sees my mobile’s black screen. "Ah, the culprit." He tuts. "Where were you supposed to get off?"
I tell him my stop and he whistles. "Seven stops ago."
My face falls. I only have enough cash—which I again had to loan from Mum—to get to and from the factory.
"The next bus in that direction comes in"—he checks his watch—"six minutes."
"Thanks," I reply, my shoulders dropping low, like a deflated punching bag.
There’s no way I’m telling him I’m out of money, but he gives me a strange look as if sizing me up. "Do you need to top up your card?" he asks.
I nod.
He opens his wallet and hands me his bus card. "You can have it. Looks like you been in the wars."
My eyes go round for the second time in a couple of minutes as I stare at his card. "Thank you," I say. "Really."
"Keep your head up, mate. A bad day only lasts…for a day."
I want to tell him I believe him, but this is going to be my life until I’m able to save up before I go back to Uni.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It’s only been a little over a week since I started, but it’s enough for me to know what it’s like to be a deflated punching bag for days in a row.
Get up. Shower. Get dressed. Brekkie. Bus. Work. Tea. Work. Bus. Dinner. Sleep.
Tonight, there’s something stirring in my chest. On instinct I reach under my bed. Then I remember I’ve lost both my guitars and slump back on my bed. I huff. I haven’t touched a guitar in almost two weeks, and it’s like a limb is missing.
Even if I told myself I’d give it up for good, I can’t deny this craving to be reunited with a guitar. It’s not even about performing in front of anyone. It’s just being able to play. I’ve never gone this long without touching a guitar ever since I first picked it up.
I jump off my bed with newfound zest. I’m off to tell Mum or Dad I’m going out. A lad can only stay cooped up for so long.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself ringing Eric, standing in front of his door. There’s no point in prolonging this; I need my mates back. I may have pushed my career in music away, but I’m not going to let my pride or bitterness push away my best mates any longer.
Eric’s mobile goes to voice mail. No one’s answering the door. I ring him again.
My bones crack and my muscles are like concrete as I stretch. As I complain aloud about my aches and pains, the door opens.
"Nan, you look horrible!" Eric says.
"Like utter shite," Benji agrees, beside him.
At their comments, I know they’ve forgiven me even if they haven’t said it yet. I crack a smile. "Can I come in?"
"You’ve gone this far for me not to let you in," Eric says.
"Come to your senses, then?" Benji asks.
I nod. "Something like that."
"We’re holding an overdue band meeting," Eric announces as we walk into the basement.
I gasp at the sight of their new gear. I bet the first thing they did when they got back was replace what was nicked.
"Wicked, innit?" Benji says and caresses his new guitar.
"Right," Eric says, looking as serious as he can be. "First things first. Our agenda."
Benji stifles laughter. As do I.
"We’re assuming you came to apologise," Eric begins.
"I came to use your new gear," I say.
They smile.
"Well, are you sorry or not for being such a twat?" Eric says.
"You were a massive arse," Benji puts in.
Leave it to my best mates. "All right. I know I was," I admit. "I am sorry."
"Good," Eric says. "Now that’s off the plate…when were you planning to practice with us? In case you forgot, tomorrow’s The Hush Society music festival."
The music festival! I gasp.
"You forgot?" Benji asks, amused.
"Of course not. I thought we weren't playing anymore, what with Cassie’s statement of ‘don’t bothering coming,’ unless I misheard."
Eric gives me an incredulous look like I’ve just said I hate The Gramophones.
"We tried practicing without you, but it didn’t feel right," Benji says. "Eric even tried to sing."
"I was terrible," he says.
"We can’t play without you."
After everything I’ve done, they still want to play music with me. I came to ask them if they wanted to go to a pub and muck about. Part of me was hoping we’d maybe do a jam session again, but that was it.
"I don’t even have enough cash to buy a guitar," I say. It’s a pathetic excuse, but I’m ashamed of my outburst at Willowfields and I’m not sure what else to say. "How was I supposed to practice?"
"Use one of my old ones, then," Eric proposes, pointing to his collection of guitars hanging on the wall.
"You made a mistake, a massive one, but you can still sort it out," Benji says. "It’s never too late."
I stare at them, torn at what I want and what I should do. I said I’d give up music for good because it brings out the worst in me…but it also brings out my best.
"I can’t do this again," I say finally.
"Bull!" Eric says. "Why’d you come here, then?"
"Come on, mate," Benji says. "Play for the music festival at least and then tell us if you still want to be in our band."
"You both are brilliant musicians. But you saw what does to me. Don’t let me drag you down."
"What’s one more gig if you’re really quitting then?" Benji
