𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 (𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴)

❛❛chapter one: bike❜❜

❧July 6, 1957☙

(a/n: bear with the first chapters, it gets less cheesy as it goes on.)

I was at a festival with my father, at St. Peter's Church in Liverpool. I had heard there would be a band playing, so I was pretty excited considering I had loved playing music. It was a way of being creative for me. I loved hearing people play too. My mom and I both, but she couldn't join us today. Suddenly people started clapping as six boys energetically came onto the makeshift stage. They had a few guitars, a banjo, a washboard, and drums. It looked very amateur, but I wasn't going to judge too harshly; They might be the next best thing. 

The one who looked like the leader told a pretty humorous joke, and then they started with a song called Puttin' On The Style. Distant cheers were made out for the name 'Lennon.' My leg bobbed up and down as I listened. The lead sang in a very nasally voice, which I liked.

My father looked at me with a grin, "They're not bad, y'know."

I nodded, "Not a bad cover, but I don't think he knows half the lyrics."

Father looked away from me; still, a smile spread on his face.

"Go, Johnny boy!" A few women cheered.

Little kids were dancing all around, messing with each other. I leaned back in my chair and sipped on my lemonade. It was a hot day, especially for Liverpool. Normally it was cloudy and cold. I hated our weather so much. I couldn't begin to count how many times I've walked home soaked in the rain. My dad always scolded me that I'd get a cold one of these days. Of course, I haven't which only proved him wrong.

Soon the band finished the song, so I clapped. My father did his whistle where he'd put his index and middle finger in his mouth. It seized to amazed me how loud it was. The lead, or who'd I assume is 'John', made eye contact with me. I smiled at him to be nice; I'm sure it's very nerve-racking being up there and all.

"And for our next song, I'd like to play Come Go With Me," John kept his eyes on me.

I squinted at him. His gaze lingered too long on me for my liking. The band started singing the beginning, which insisted of mainly, "Dom-dom dom-dom dom-de-doo-be." I sang along, but not loud. John would keep flicking his orbs back at me, and I was becoming concerned I had a hideous mole growing out of my face like the wicked witch of the west.

He adverted his eyes to the microphone in front of him, "Well, I love, love you, baby. Come and go with me. Come home with me way beyond the sky. I need you, baby, so come go with me!"

"He messed up the lyric again. Does he know the song?" My father laughed.

I jested in queen's English, "Poor lad can't catch a break, wouldn't you say, father."

He chuckled as I brought my hat to my heart, acting swooned. I liked messing around with my dad. My parents were where I got my humor from, but especially him. He would always get the newspapers with the funnies in them. We both liked Popeye a lot. Dad and I used to act out the comics for my mom in the mornings before school. I missed doing that, but I was older now and it was childish. After a while longer, everyone started clapping again.

"Thank you. You're all great," John narrowed his eyes at some of his friends not on stage, "At least some of you."

The crowd laughed, as did I. After he cracked the joke, he looked at me again. Did he have an eye problem? Why was he always looking at me? I glanced at my dad, who was sipping on his beer and then turned back to smile at Lennon. I could see his eyes light up. He wasn't bad-looking. He had the DA (Ducks Arse) hairstyle, quite like Elvis. The lad looked like he was trying very hard to be him.