The Hush Society Presents...

by Izzy Matias

  "I'm Cameron," I say. I shake Ella's hand and nod at Dan. "Yeah, I found this place by accident."

  "There are no such thing as accidents." Ella smiles as if she's hiding a century-old secret.

  "Don't chase the newbie away with your otherworldly wisdom, Ella. Now's not the time or venue."

  I like this place. No one is afraid to be who he or she is.

  Ella flips Dan off and flashes him a boyish grin as another gal from across the room calls for her. "Tune with you later, Cameron," she says slurring the words out. "I’m coming, Lily!"

  Her colourful skirt sways as she saunters away.

  "Is The Hush Society a record label or something?" I ask. It's been boggling my mind all night. It's not a band, that's for sure.

  "It's a movement," Dan answers. "Cassie, the girl over there"—he points out the beautiful gal with deep red lips, the one I’d been staring at earlier—"is the mastermind behind all this."

  "This is amazing."

  "Yeah. It began in someone's house with an aim to back local musicians starting out and promote their music."

  "Now you're at the basement of Tokyo Drift," I finish for him. I spot Eric and Benji milling with the crowd, as if we've belonged here our whole lives.

  "The girl works magic."

  "Does everyone know each other?"

  "There are some regulars," Dan says. "Then they start bringing their friends and the reach grows. We've become more than spectators of this musical bonfire; we're friends."

  "I brought my mates along. They're up front talking to the lads in black." I point them out individually. "I'll introduce you later."

  "I see they've meet The Psychedelic Glitch," Dan says. "The Hush Society celebrates individuality and positivity." He looks around before continuing. "So as long as you've got an open, accepting mind, and don’t bring any bad karma or negativity in, we welcome anyone who loves music the way we do."

  "Where has this been my whole life?" I exclaim and Dan laughs.

  "Come on, let's get a good spot. The Rioteers are up next."

  As we make our way to the stage, Benji and Eric approach us. Benji saunters while Eric bursts into a run and reaches me first. I introduce them to each other. Benji and Eric tell me they've met The Psychedelic Glitch, who gave them free copies of their EP. Eric waves his copy of the EP with pride, beaming at me.

  "Hiya, we're The Rioteers. Thanks for coming down to The Hush Society's thirteenth episode. Don't worry, folks. We don't believe in that unlucky number, so you shouldn't either."

  "We make our own luck." The lady with blazing auburn hair seated on the cajon winks.

  The band starts a youthful folk melody. Within the next few seconds I'm convinced I love them.

  I decide to approach Cassie, standing beside the refreshment booth.

  She doesn't see me coming. Her body moves to the rhythm of the upcoming chorus. Fix you, Amelie. I'm chasing rubies tonight.

  "They're fucking brilliant," I say.

  She turns her head slowly, but doesn't look surprised to see me. She's braided her hair on one side of her head revealing an ear full of piercings, and is wearing a black leather jumper over a colourful printed skirt. "I'm so proud of them." She beams at me. "I was out in Milton Keynes for a gig one time. When I heard them, I knew they had to play for us."

  "I'm Cameron Evans," I say.

  "Officially Cassandra Cavern, but please only call me Cassie." She tilts her head to the side of her shoulder. Her nose scrunches up. It's cute. The left side of her jumper falls with the sudden movement and reveals a bit of skin. She has a gold henna tattoo of a bird in flight on her shoulder.

  "How did you find this place?" she tests me. Her bracelets rattle as her arms circle the space around us. "This gig is a word-of-mouth thing."

  "I heard the music from upstairs."

  She looks confused.

  "If you're worried about the volume, it's barely audible."

  "The music called to you." She smiles.

  "Lured me in and trapped me."

  I peek at the table to see what refreshments they offer, but Cassie beats me to it.

  "We don't serve alcohol, only coffee or tea."

  I would have been devastated, but here I was talking to an artistic wild spirit. "What is this hipster place?" I tease.

  "Take it or leave it," she asserts, and this reminds me of Dan's little spiel earlier.

  I turn my attention back to the music. The Rioteers have transitioned to their next song. The keys of a xylophone accompany their quirky, upbeat sound. Cassie's positivity spills over to me. She's one with the energy in the room. And I am too.

  I stand there and let the feeling of being alive sink in.

  These are the moments I live for.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They say a musician's day starts at noon. Not in this household.

  Tamara summoned me at seven-thirty in the morning to help her cook breakfast. Such an unholy hour.

  It’s been a couple of days since I finished my A-levels and the initial awe and grandeur of celebrating a milestone has come and passed. Never mind that I’m on summer holiday. Summer only means that I have more hours to earn at my part-time jobs.

  My head is heavy and my body a deflated punching bag. It’s been two days since my mates and I went to a Marmont gig at our local neighbourhood pub, and almost a week since I discovered The Hush Society, but my body’s still recuperating.

  It doesn’t help that I stayed up last night tinkering with my Fender classic design acoustic guitar, even after Tamara told me to shut it.

  I would much rather be getting some more shut eye, but when the big sis wants something, she won’t shut up until she gets what she wants.

  At least we're tuned in to URadio, my favourite radio station. Listening to music makes getting up this early in the morning bearable. I tap at whatever's good enough as a makeshift drum kit: the countertop, Tamara's arm—she waves me off—the plastic containers. I hum along to an Arctic Monkeys song as we finish frying bacon.

  The smoke creates a languid haze—a contrast to the bacon’s sharp aroma.

  "Hand me the eggs and cheese, would you please?" Tamara says without looking up from the pan. The sizzling overpowers the music. Every now and then there’s a cackle and a pop.

  I open the fridge and am hit with a burst of cool air. Tamara labels each area for specific types of food: dairy, raw meat, vegetables, sauces, you name it. She even colour-codes the labels, so it’s easy to spot the ingredients I need.

  "Where are they?" Tamara says, turns around quickly, and one of the spoons on the counter falls.

  "No need to fumble," I say as I hand her the eggs and cheese then pick up the spoon on the floor. "Bob’s your uncle." The spoon clatters as I drop it in the sink.

  "No wonder you’re the songwriter in this family," Tamara quips.

  I exaggerate a bow. Tamara giggles and her left hand moves with the motion. A few wisps of egg white colour the air.

  "Oi!" I shout and jump back.

  "Sorry!" Tamara says, still laughing.

  "You sure you know how to use that thing?" I point at her spatula.

  "I’m a horrible cook, I know." She instructs me to set the table as she fusses over the toaster.

  Dad’s sat at the table, reading, as I begin arranging the utensils.

  As I finish placing the last knife on the table, Tamara comes in with plates full of food.

  "How’s your paper coming along, Tamara?" Dad asks. His gaze shifts from The Financial Times to her.

  "I’ve gone through the case over and over," she says. "And identified all the applicable laws, but I’m not done." Tamara plops on the chair beside him and throws up her hands. "It’s due next week!"

  As if it isn’t enough that she’s on full scholarship at The University of Oxford, she’s also an active member of Oxford Law Society.

  "So that’s why you cooked breakfast," I note and pour myself a cuppa. Her definition of taking a break is doing chores.
r />   "I’m sure it’ll end up all right," Dad says, diving back to his paper. "You always find a way."

  "Good morning, my dears," Mum says as she descends the stairs with my little brother Timmy trailing behind her. She gives us a big kiss each.

  Timmy yawns as he sits beside me. He pushes his round spectacles back in place and buries his nose in a science book. Don’t ask me what about. He’s only nine, but the books he reads are beyond me.

  "Now, Timmy dear, what have I said about reading at the table before we eat?" Even as Mum chastises him, it sounds more like a song.

  Dad looks up from his paper, his expression grim.

  Timmy gives Mum a sheepish look, shuts his book and slides it away.

  "My good boy," she says and takes the seat opposite Dad. They haven’t resolved a fight, then. They think locking their door shields the noise, but the thin walls don’t hide the slamming, stomping, or their clashing high-pitched voices.

  "Tamara, why on earth did you cook up a feast?" Dad scowls seeing the eggs, toast, sausages, baked beans and bacon.

  "No reason," Tamara answers, unfazed. "Isn’t nice to start the day with a big, hearty meal?"

  "Don’t worry about it, love," Mum assures her. "It's well within our budget."

  Every single thing we spend our money on, Dad jots down in the tattered lime green notebook he carries in his back pocket.

  "There’s no need for extravagant meals. We had a massive one last week," Dad says, referring to my party.

  "Jim," Mum chastises.

  It's a constant frustration of his that we have to live under such a stringent (note: self-imposed) budget for everything. Benji and Eric are lucky they don’t need worry about this sort of thing.

  "It's okay." I stick up for Tamara. "She wanted to do this."

  "Okay," is all he says.

  As we dig into our food, Tamara and Mum discuss a light topic in hopes of quelling the tension.

  "Cameron, did you use the computer last night?" Dad asks, referring to the computer in our living area that we all share. "I can't access my files because there's a virus." He sneaks an accusatory glance at me.

  Someone’s in a good mood.

  "I clicked on something when I was researching about the evolution of man," Timmy confesses with his head low. "It was still okay last night…"

  "That's all right." Dad's tone softens. "You be careful, okay? We can't go on replacing computers every year."

  "So it’s my fault again? I wish you wouldn’t pin down every little thing that goes wrong in this house on me," I say.

  Timmy's big eyes bounce between Dad and me.

  "If you learned to follow what I tell you, then you'd give me no reason to suspect you," he says.

  "Cameron isn’t a nuisance," Timmy pipes in.

  I pat his shoulder and thank him in a whisper.

  "That's enough, honey." Mum touches Dad's arm.

  I look away.

  "What are everyone’s plans for the summer?" Dad asks.

  "I start debate class next week!" Timmy announces, excited. He has two summer classes: debate and football.

  "Following in your sister’s footsteps…Good!" Dad beams. "What about you, Cameron?" He looks at me, expectant.

  "I’m keeping my part-time jobs at the station and the factory," I say. I don’t tell him that gig-hopping or jamming with Benji and Eric are in the mix.

  Benji and Eric don’t need jobs, but they each have one just the same. I used to think they got their first jobs to keep me company, but later on I realised it was their way of rebelling against what was expected of them.

  "It’ll be good to apply for the factory’s managerial internship program," Dad says. "It pays well and it’s great training. I could give in a good word for you."

  "It’s all right, Dad," I reply. "I’ve got it sorted with URadio and at the factory. They’ve both extended my hours, so the pay’s good."

  I spend at least four hours at the factory every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Between the admin tasks and heavy lifting, it’s more than enough for me.

  "No harm in applying for the internship," Dad continues. "Why don’t you give it a go?"

  Mum eyes us like a tennis match, ready to umpire if need be.

  "No, thanks, Dad." I try to stay calm. My foot taps fast, releasing the building anger on the floor.

  "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 h
ead 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…