Page 45 of The Alternate Captain
The pickup zone outsidethe railway station is busy, but everyone falls into a deathly silence as my brother’s car comes screeching around the corner like it needs a new exhaust. If I slowly back away from the curb, I can sink into the depths of the station, and he’ll never see me—except I’m far too slow. Mike honks his horn and sticks his head out the window.
“Jump in then, Kel,” he says, resting his elbow on the window frame. “I can’t afford to get another ticket.” He’s grinning, revelling in how embarrassed I am.
I hang my bag over my shoulder and grab my cello case, careful not to swing it at anyone, then I clasp the handle of my suitcase so I can wheel it behind me. Mike’s car is a three-door hatchback so, ideally, I’d put my cello in the front seat, but I’m keen to get the hell away from here. I open the passenger door and stuff it into the backseat, careful to wedge it in just enough to stop it rocking during the drive.
“How was the journey?” Mike asks as I climb in next to him.
At least he waits until I’ve buckled up before speeding off toward the town centre.
“Probably more relaxing than this,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road. His driving is erratic, and if I look away, I know I’ll vomit.
He taps the dashboard impatiently as he waits at a red light.
The route from the railway station to my new student house would usually take a full ten minutes in the car with this amount of traffic, but Mike squeals to a stop outside in eight minutes flat.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” he asks, cutting the engine.
It’s a Victorian townhouse, which has seen better days, and because Tom and I left it until the last minute, hoping I would need to live closer to the music college, we were left with the dregs of available accommodation. Luckily, Sally and Marie, two girls from our orchestra, were also looking for a place, so we pitched together and wound up with this.
“Yes. I know it’s not a palace, but it’s a good price—and within walking distance and all that, so I don’t need my car.” I wanted my car, of course, but it wasn’t practical to be paying out to keep it going when I didn’t actually need it. Besides, Tom is bringing his car because he refuses to use public transport.
Mike helps me inside with my things and scrunches his nose up when he navigates the entrance hallway to my bedroom, which is at the very front of the house. It was clearly a sitting room at some point, with an aged bay window. But the room itself is large and bright, so I was happy that I picked it out of the baseball cap Tom had commandeered.
“Do you have your landlord’s number handy?” he says, moving towards the hearth. It doesn’t serve as a real fireplace, but Mike peers at it sceptically.
“Why?”
“I need to call him.”
“It’s a her.”
“Don’t care.” He moves over to the window. “Someone needs to sort this out—it looks likeit’s leaking.”
I sigh, flinging my suitcase onto my bare bed so I can unpack. “It’s fine.”
“No. It’s not. Did you even view this place?”
“Yeah. We all did.”
He makes an audible ‘hmph,’ then scratches his head. “Does Mam know?”
“You’re done here. Thank you for the ride,” I say, ushering him out the door.
“Wait—I thought you needed me to take you shopping? How are you going to manage for bedding and stuff?”
Damn him to pieces.
We spend three hoursin IKEA, and by the time we’re emptying his car of things, I never want to see another giant blue bag again.
“You’ve got my schedule, right? Because if you need anything, I can get over here in, like, fifteen minutes, depending on traffic,” Mike says after he dumps the last of the shopping bags on my bedroom floor.
It’s at least twenty minutes by car back to his place, but I don’t correct him.
“Yes, but I’ll be fine, honest.”
He gives me a hug, squeezing my shoulders, before thumping me in the ribs. Finally, he agrees to leave me to the mammoth task of unpacking, making my bed, and getting my kitchen stuff put away.
I finish making my bed up when the front door clatters open and Tom’s sing-song tone calls out.
