The Hush Society Presents... by Izzy Matias (best desktop ebook reader .txt) 📕

I struggled with the most," Amber says and puffs a ring of smoke. "A lot of people were saying that to me, but I never believed it. I’d grown up with this lie that I wasn’t good enough… I had to learn how to believe in myself first."

Her last line hits home. Benji’s words to me that day we agreed to form a band echoes Amber’s revelation. You have to learn to believe in yourself again. Have I?

"If you can’t," Cassie says, "that’s what we’re here for, so you have to trust that when we believe in you, it means something." She looks at Amber and then glances at me. "I wouldn’t lie to you about your potential."

Even if she says this as a general statement, I can’t help but feel that she’s also directing it at me. She believes in me. Just as Benji and Eric does.

"We have to face our demons sometime." Amber sighs. "It’s the only way to become stronger, more alive, true to ourselves."

Cassie’s eyes shine with excitement. It must be gratifying to know that her passion for music has affected others in a positive light.

We sit in silence and let the moment sink in. Chatter surrounds us, the noise of people walking and the cars passing. I inhale deep. My chest soars—motivation awakens after a long subdued rest. I want to be better.

"I’ve got an idea," I blurt out. I don’t wait for Amber or Cassie to reply before I continue. "Are there any good busking areas round here?"

Amber perks up and grabs her purse. "I know just the place. I wish I could go, but I’ve an appointment in half an hour. Cassie is more than familiar with it anyway…" She explains the location to Cassie, who nods with recognition.

Amber’s spiel makes me think about my demons—how I’ve been comparing myself to other musicians. Now that I think about it…even at home. I compare myself to Tamara and Timmy. How they make our parents proud and I constantly disappoint.

Benji’s told me about that nasty habit of mine time and time again. And now, to see living proof of someone who’s able to overcome that nagging voice in her head…it’s amazing. It makes me want to push myself to be better. I want to believe in me again.

I’m hoping that busking can somehow ease my obnoxious fears, rid me of self-doubt, and hopefully not an encounter with those damn tomatoes.

Even though my heart hammers against my bones, I know this is the right thing to do if I want to grow.

I have to put myself in uncomfortable experiences to grow, to learn to become stronger. Even if it means baring myself in front of strangers.

What can go wrong?

…

A lot, apparently.

Cassie and I arrive at Market Street—a huge stretch of pavement cluttered with food and umbrella stalls selling knickknacks in contrast to the massive, well-known shops towering round. It’s late afternoon. Like all centres of shopping, it’s packed with tourists and locals walking along the street. There are buskers, artists, traders and activists loitering about. It’s an overwhelming sight.

I grip my guitar strap hard, twisting and untwisting it as I keep an eye out for the spot to claim my own.

Ed Sheeran was a busker himself. I’ve got to start somewhere. I’m no stranger to performing in public, but there’s a riot in the pit of my stomach. What if they think I’m horrible? What if someone pelts me with tomatoes?

Commit or quit, I remind myself.

"What about here?" Cassie says, standing near the exit of one of the shops. It looks like it’s the centre of the stretch.

"Not at all visible, ey?" I say and set my guitar case on the ground.

"Not an inch." She squeezes my shoulder and I freeze for a moment. "Play when you’re ready. You can do it."

I look up at her, crouched on the ground, then take her hand and squeeze it back. "Thanks."

I pull out my guitar, pass the white strap over my head, leave my guitar case leaning against the wall, and stand up. Most buskers prop their case open, have a box or hat for spare change, but money is not what I am here for.

Cassie smiles at me a couple of meters away, giving me the space I need to get in the zone and leave my fears behind. I appreciate the way she’s showing her support.

I can do this, I try to convince myself. No one knows you here. If they hate you, they’ll never have to see your face again.

My hands shake as if they’re holding ice. My fingers brush against the wooden board, bumping against the dents and scratches.

Judy and Nate would have used this opportunity being in a crowded street to do one of our outrageous dares. I think of what they must be doing back at the station, and how in only a few hours since leaving Beverley, it feels as if URadio and my Dad kicking me out of the house was ages ago.

After warming up my fingers, I inhale deeply and start off with a simple cover of Mumford and Sons’ "Little Lion Man."

I imagine the song with a full band in an arena. I close my eyes to tune out the images around me. There’s music everywhere—the way the people talk, cars honking, activists chanting and the other buskers. I zoom in on the metallic sound of my guitar. My voice quivers as I sing the chorus.

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes are the three people standing in front of me, capturing the moment on their mobiles. Years ago, this would have made me stop and hitch, but I have learned to continue a performance amid shocks and distractions.

Cassie moves closer. She’s beaming. She’s enjoying my performance! My stomach turns to mush. I grin at her as my vocals strengthen and soar through the bridge.

"Hey! That’s my spot!" A thin lad in his mid-twenties with bleached hair flares his nostrils at me. I continue