Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter Nineteen - Who's Number Ten?

"How many have you done now?" asks Jamie, leaning over and peering at my screen. I'm sitting on the couch with my laptop, reviewing the interviews so far. I count them up. Grandpa Cookie... Fat Kid... Tired Mum... Thing One... Thing Two... and finally Batman.

"Six out of ten," I say proudly. "Pretty good, huh?"

"You've only got two more weeks, though," he counters. "You'd better get a move on. I bet Charlotte Finley's finished hers already."

I've been complaining about Charlotte a lot to Jamie, and now he uses her at every given opportunity - I bet Charlotte Finley knows how to make a salad. I bet Charlotte Finley would be able to find the suncream in the Greenway. I bet Charlotte Finley could pour lemonade without spilling it all over the table... you get the idea.

"Four more to go..."

Suddenly, I realise something.

"I've got Doritos Guy, Headphones Girl and Homer Simpson to go. That's three, isn't it? Three out of four."

I'm dying. The little bit of panic that usually hibernates somewhere in my stomach has woken up, and is breeding fast.

"I have to have ten. I've only got nine people to do. How the hell am I going to stop people on the street? I can't do that. I'm going to die, Ryan. It's all stupid Miranda French and Mr Clifford's fault."

"Don't forget Charlotte Finley," Jamie says. He's still grinning.

"Seriously, Jamie. It's important. Not a laughing matter."

"It's no big deal," he shrugs. "Just turn in nine instead of ten. Nobody's going to mind."

I turn to him. "Mr Clifford will!" I hiss. "And Miranda French. AND Charlotte Finley! It's my first project! If I can't even get that right, I'll never be promoted! NEVER!"

I'm shouting now, and he backs away a little on the sofa. "Okay... okay. Don't shout at me. It's not my fault that fate decided to put only nine people in your train carriage."

Nine people? But there are ten seats in the carriage. And all of them are full...

I count through them again and again. Every time it totals nine people. It makes no sense...

Aha.

"Myself," I whisper.

"What?"

"Myself!" I say, more loudly. "I'm the tenth. Everyone in my carriage... plus me."

"Well, you can't exactly interview yourself, can you?" Jamie's snapping at me. He's still annoying about me shouting at him.

Interview myself...

"YES!"

I leap up and punch the air. "Yes, yes, YES! Thank you, Jamie! That's exactly what I'll do! I can interview myself! Mr Clifford will love it! Miranda French will love it! Charlotte Finley... well, Charlotte Finley will hate it, but she hates anything I do. That is genius, Jamie!"

"I know," he says, looking pretty pleased with himself. I don't remind him that his exact words were actually 'you can't interview yourself'. I'll leave that for when he tries to get me to give him some credit in the article.

I fling my arms around his neck, then rush off to the kitchen to answer my own questions.