𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 (𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴)

❛❛chapter two: f sharp minor❜❜

I don't know what made me say yes, but it was probably the best decision I ever made in my life. Who would've known this was the moment where my life changed for good. 

❧July 16, 1957☙

It's been a week that I've known John. He's most definitely a strange lad. Today he invited me to hang out with him, and I couldn't quite say no. He had some sort of charm that made it nearly impossible. I heard a few knocks on the door, and I started to panic. I had yet to grab my own guitar. I aggressively snatched the neck and slung the strap over my chest. As I trampled down the stairs, I saw my dad had beat me to it.

"Shite," I said under my breath.

Knowing the type of person John was, he was probably going to be a smart arse. He liked getting a rise out of people.

"Hey!" I said, coming by my father's side.

"Ello Liza," John straightened up his posture.

My father looked at me, "This the guy from that one concert, ay?"

I nodded, "Yes, sir, John, and his band are goin' to play for me. Do ya mind?"

I sort of lied about the whole band bit, but I wanted to steer clear from any unpleasantness. I took a deep breath as I watched my father's brows knit together. He was always wary of boys hanging around me. Fatherly instinct.

"Right then, ya have fun, be back for dinner," He side-hugged me.

As I headed out, he called after me once again, "Don't be stirrin' up trouble!"

"Don't worry, mister. We won't get caught." John walked backwards to face my dad.

"Oh, stuff it, Lennon." I swatted his chest, "Till dinner, dad!"

I waved, and we walked off. My feet clicked on the pavement, annoying the heck out of me.

"Hang out with the band?" He laughed somewhat amused at my lie.

"Shut up. I didn't want him pesterin' us. He worries 'imself sick, y'know?"

"What, he's worried I'll bite you?" He showed his teeth jokingly.

"And I'm a wee bit scared you might too."

John threw his head back laughing at my joke. It felt once to have people find you amusing. He sped up a bit, walking so he could look at me better. 

He looked me up and down, "I like your outfit, love."

I was wearing a collared yellow shirt tucked into my high-waisted palazzo trousers. My cheeks reddened slightly from the compliment. That always happened, it wasn't because of him specifically.

I raised my brows and brushed myself off, "Thanks, Lennon."

He spoke while messing with the tuning keys, "Fancy guitar, ay?"

I brought my Gibson, the one my mom bought me. I took the strap off of my shoulder and let John hold it. He put it on and started strumming while humming.

"Wanna hear a song?"

I sarcastically said, "Nope."

"Ahh too bad, missin' out."

I poked his side, "Awe, c'mon then, show me what you got, Lennon."

What he was saying was incoherent because of how dramatically he was singing it. I laughed as he continued on. Once John finished he bowed his head.

I clapped for him, "Good lungs on ya."

He clicked his heels, making me laugh even harder. He was really funny. I think that's why I actually enjoyed hanging out with him. I've never met someone quite like that Lennon.