And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 44: Short Skirts And Sharpie Markers

"Beatles! Beatles! Beatles!"

The cry echoed throughout the Aintree Institute, echoing off the ceilings, bouncing back to the elevated stage where we all stood. Two inches from my feet were some lightbulbs strung on the floor for decoration. I stood next to John, holding a bass, poised for singing into the mike, a thin, old-fashioned thing which was smaller than a regular mike. The cords were strung into a bulky machine which separated me, Paul, George, and John from Pete.

Through the cries, Paul took a sideways glance at me. I mouthed sorry and he turned away, glancing at the crowd, flashing a boyish grin at the crowd, lacing his hand through his hair in an Elvis-like impersonation. I was about to make a joke of him in front of the crowds but my morals stopped me. Paul wasn't in the best position tonight, thanks to me, and I swallowed my joke.

Several adoring eyes glanced up at my boyfriend, staring at the crowd with a serious expression on his face. He let something loose with a smile at the corner of his mouth. Black leather jacket, gray turtleneck, white pants and his Rickenbacker slung over his shoulder. I smirked over at him on my other side; he leaned close and whispered, "Close your mouth, dear, you're drooling."

I leaned close to him, sticking out my tongue, whispering back, "We'll see who's drooling at the end of the night."

"Beatles! Beatles!"

I heard the twang of a guitar next to me; John leaned his face in closer to mine suddenly, causing me to lick his cheek momentarily and I recovered quickly to Paul's starting beat of In Spite Of All The Danger. I closed my eyes, my fingers feeling the hardness of the strings on the bass, feeling the energy of the crowds.

I'll do anything you want me to, if you'll stay true to me.

***

"C'mon," Paul had said earlier shortly, tossing his leather jacket on the amps. One of them made a loud, angry buzzing noise in protest, George snickered and Paul turned off the amp, rolling his eyes. "Something funny, Geo?"

"Only you," George shot back. I could sense some of his pent up frustration at the seating arrangement back in the van. He gently put down his guitar case on the ground, unzipping it carefully and taking out his prized Gretsch. Running his hands down its neck, he plucked away at a few notes, a twangy version of "Happy Birthday."

"Don't play that to yourself, Geo," I teased. "It's vain on your own birthday."

The melody was overlapped with clashing tritones as he raised his eyebrows at me. Its song ended abruptly; Brian Kelly the manager walked into the room. The boys came slowly to attention like mischievous schoolboys called into assembly. By the jokes some of them made one would think they were still in grade school.

"How are we doing tonight, boys?" he asked, smiling, shuffling his hands in his pockets and coming closer to us so we all made a circle. I stepped out of the picture, headed to the ladies' bathroom. I didn't want to be a nuisance to the band. I was the girlfriend, not the band.

"I heard some of your recordings in Hamburg—" Brian started, and then he heard my retreating footsteps. "Hey, where are you going?"

I didn't think he was talking to me until George called out, "Hey, Cora!"

I turned around. "Geo? You need something?" He gestured towards Brian, who smiled again at me. "Cora? I'm Brian Kelly." We neared each other and sealed the interaction with a handshake.

"Hello, Mr. Kelly," I said, confused at why he wanted me.

"Just Brian will do. You'll want to stay for this. As I was saying, I heard some of your recordings in Hamburg and you were playing on some of them, yeah?" He took out a cig and lit it, offering the packet around. I declined, and answered his question, "Yes, that feminine voice you heard was probably me."