Author: Rose-McCartney PM
"Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet."-Bob MarleyRated: Fiction K - English - Chapters: 11 - Words: 16,283 - Reviews: 46 - Favs: 15 - Follows: 23 - Updated: 03-19-13 - Published: 07-24-11 - id: 7214955
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Okay, I've had a couple people ask me in past how old Rose is. I think I mentioned it in chapter 6, but just to clarify, Rose is YOUNG. She's 14, almost 15. I'm starting her off this young in an attempt to set myself up for a sequel *winkwink*. So don't get on to me for making a grown man fall in love with a kid, because that's not what's going to happen! So just buckle your seatbelts and hang in there, guys! All righty. Chapter 9. Whoah.
Disclaimer: Meehhh. Back to these. XP Die. Die in a hole, whoever requires these!
"You sure you're not coming, kiddo?" Paul asks, opening the hotel door.
"Are you kidding? Press conferences are bloody nightmares," I say, rolling my eyes. "Have fun though. Bye!" Paul chuckles at my use of the English expletive (they're rubbing off on me, I guess) and ruffles my hair before heading out the door. The others follow suit, besides John, whom I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever have a good relationship with. George waves a last goodbye before shutting the door behind them. I breathe a sigh of relief, plopping down onto the sofa in front of the TV. I was being completely serious: press conferences are absolutely awful, and they bore the living heck out of me. All the reporters asked the same questions over an over again, and they only hear the answers they want. Ugh! I've been through enough of them to know that, given the opportunity, I would much rather be left alone in the room with the television, radio, and food.
Except it's been half an hour now, and none of those can seem to help the fact that I'm bored, and I'm about ready to stab a fork in the toaster just for something to do. Honestly, it's just as bad here as it was at home!
Home. I turn on the TV in an attempt to distract myself from the flood of memories and emotions that threaten to emerge at the word. And, just my luck, it's some tea commercial with a man and his wife in their house. I turn on the radio, louder than the television, but, of course, they're playing Beatles- the only thing they ever seem to play.
You're coming home,
You're coming ho-ome!
I slide to the ground, clamping my hands over my ears as the floodgates break and I'm engulfed in the thoughts and feelings I've been trying to suppress for weeks. Home, home, home. The word repeats itself in my head over and over until I can get my thoughts sorted. Which, it turns out, means starting with my last memory of home. Waiting for hours in that empty parking lot in the rain. Waiting for a foster family that never came. I wonder what they thought when they finally got there, and I wasn't. Did they think I'd run away? Or been kidnapped? Were they looking for me? What will I tell them when I get home?
Woah woah woah. Who said anything about going home? As far as I'm concerned, I'm not leaving any time soon! I mean, why should I? It's not like I have anything waiting for me back home! My real family's gone, whether I'm in the past or the present isn't going to bring them back! And my foster family… Let's not get into that.
Of course, I did have my friends- people who actually knew me. Here… I'm not even sure I know me! I keep my used-to-be long blonde hair cut short, with side bangs, and it gets darker with every passing rainy English day. I'm not even wearing my own clothes! I mean, I've got Ringo's jeans and George's button-up shirt, and the only thing that's mine I have to keep hidden! By that, I mean my guitar-pick necklace with Paul's face on it, which thankfully no one has seen , because I always keep it under my shirt. And my love for Paul is really not something I want to discuss with them, of all people. Neither is the copyright date on the back, which is about forty-some-odd years from now… So, hidden it stays.
Don't get me wrong, being with the Beatles? Absolutely fab. But… I feel like I'm still kind of a stranger to them. They've kept their promise and all, so I do see them a lot now, but touring life is just SO FREAKING HECTIC! I think that the largest conversations we have are in between sets, which isn't saying much.
One fell swoop of homesickness comes crashing down upon me. Okay, I'm not the type of person to get homesick. At all. But I think that the feeling of utter alone-ness, combined with my inability to actually do anything about it, makes it almost overwhelming. So I sit here, trying to stay calm, trying to keep my thoughts together, and-
GAH! I'm honestly going to go crazy if I just keep sitting here, thinking about things I can't freaking change, thinking about being lonely, thinking about how nobody knows me- I'M NOT A FREAKING LOST PUPPY GOSH DARN IT!
I have to distract myself, because I'm sick of thinking about this crap. And, apparently, the TV, the radio, and the food just aren't cutting it. My mind flashes to the spare guitars in the boys' rooms.
Waitwaitwait- WHAT? Am I trying to get myself killed? It's, like, an unspoken law-by-pain-of-death type thing that I absolutely do NOT go into their rooms. I mean, I know I was talking about forks in toasters and all earlier, but that would legitimately get me killed! Crazy or killed? I weigh them in my head for some time before coming up with an answer.
Killed it is. So, let's pass the point of no return and get it over with. I jump up, stretching my legs out from sitting for what feels like an eternity, and sneak over to the hotel room door. I open it, spy-like, and peek around to see if anyone is coming. Nope. I've still got a couple of hours before they're supposed to come back anyways, I note from a glimpse at the clock. Still, I creep, quiet as a mouse, down the hall and to Paul's room, which is first on the right. I hesitate for a moment with my hand on the doorknob, then turn it slowly. Each tick of the big clock down the hall is the door opening and the boys coming home, every creak is the floorboards as they walk in. But no, I'm still alone in the house. I push open the door carefully, like there are explosives or something behind it, slip in, and close it behind me.
I made it. And I'm not dead yet! I flick on the light, and I'm taken aback a little bit by how clean it is. I mean, you can obviously tell a guy lives in here, but there aren't crumpled bits of paper everywhere, his clothes aren't all strewn across the floor, there aren't random food articles in obscure places, as I'm sure there might be in some of the other guys' rooms. I take a step forward to where he has his guitars temporarily set up. I chuckle at the irony of his ownership of a Les Paul, and let my fingers drift across the strings of his old acoustic, but I'm focusing on his spare bass, the one he hardly uses. I pick it up gingerly, afraid to break it. As an afterthought, I unclasp my necklace and hold the pick in my hand as I slip the strap of the guitar over my head and, without a second thought, I tear through the bass line of "All My Loving", the first song I learned on my own bass, and I sing along, not loud enough to be heard through the walls, but loud enough to still be fun to sing.
I suppose I should mention this- I'm kind of a musician. As in, been in band for years, used to play the violin, and can currently play numerous instruments, a few of which I have strung left-handed. So, even though I technically am not lefty, playing Paul's left-handed bass is like second nature to me. When I finish, I carefully take the strap back off and put the guitar back in its place. I'm about to move on to look at another guitar, when I see it. Paul's ukulele, tucked behind his other instruments. I take it out, holding it in my arms where it fits perfectly. I run through the standard starting chords (C, G, Am, and F), and narrowly avoid singing through "Let it Be", which I'm afraid might cause some wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey mess to happen, and strike the C chord again as I sit on Paul's bed. My frustrations and recently-fed anger come out as I open my mouth and randomly start singing.
I guess you think you know me, that much is plain to see,
But when you get right down to it, there's more than you'd believe!
Nu-uh. WAY too corny. I try again, hitting another C chord, and start singing.
I may be blonde, but I'm not dumb
Well, I guess it's almost brown now, but I keep going.
I may be short but I'm still fun
Not fully true either, but compared to the guys I'm short, so there.
There's a whole side of me
That I haven't let you see.
Now THAT is true.
I may be here, but not all the way,
I may be there, but I won't stay,
Not sure where those came from…
There's so much you never knew
That I'd be happy just to show you…
And that's where they stop coming, and try as I might, I can't get past those lines. In frustration, I hit a random chord, which makes me think of "Till There Was You", a song that I used to fawn over hearing Paul sing, an old personal favourite to play on the ukulele, and, most importantly, a song my brother and I used to sing.
Struggling to remember all the chords, I slowly make my way through all the verses, sort of humming along. Once I've got through it once, I do it again with way more confidence, closing my eyes and pretty much belting out the lyrics, even the high ones that I'm not so confident with. I smile when I finish, opening my eyes to look the instrument over appreciatively.
"Whatcha playin' there?"
I whip around to see John, who is casually leaning against the door frame, apple in hand, and is smirking amusedly like a parent finding their child doing something naughty. Instinctively, I clutch the ukulele behind my back, trying vainly to keep it hidden. My mouth shuts with an audible click, and I know my eyes are probably as big as saucers. John, ever-cool, swaggers into the room and takes the chair from the desk, placing it across from the bed and sitting in it.
"Well?" he asks, one eyebrow quirked.
"I um, it," I stutter, trying to find the best response. "Nothing."
Wonderful, Rose. Absolutely brilliant, you are! Not suspicious at all! I mentally hit myself upside the head, but John doesn't seem phased. He's still got that stupid smirk on his face.
"Why are you here, anyways?" I deflect, "Aren't y'all supposed to be at that press conference?"
He shrugs. "I got outta there early. It was borin' me out of me bloody mind. What are you doing with Paul's ukulele?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I squeak immediately, though I feel a blush giving me away.
"Right," he replies sarcastically, "Just like you didn't know about calling me while you were asleep in the hospital. Now, care to tell me what that was about?"
I purse my lips, not really wanting to tell him. I mean, how do you tell a guy that you were calling out for your dead brother in you sleep? And it just so happens that your brother has the same name as him! I take a deep breath before answering.
"You really want to know?"
He nods, eyebrows lifted expectantly.
"I wasn't calling you," I hold up a hand when I see him open his mouth to object, "I wasn't calling you, I was calling my brother, who… My brother's been gone for a while."
He looks like he doesn't believe me for a moment, but I think he sees the pain on my face, the pain of losing someone so close to you, and he nods. And then he smiles.
"Do you want to know something?" he asks, leaning in conspiratorially. I lean forward to, so that our eyes are level.
"The press were asking about you a lot today." I lean back, now avoiding looking him in the eye.
"What did you tell them?" I ask, not entirely wanting to know the answer.
"Oh, nothing much," he replies casually in his usual nonchalant-Lennon way. "Just that you were my little sister, and that I was gonna be takin' care of you for a while."
I stare at him, my jaw dropping open. Now I see why he was smiling. He casually takes a bite of his apple as he waits for me to respond.
"Wait, you WHAT?" I ask incredulously.
"Yeh, I said you were an 'illegitimate' kid of me mum- or maybe it was me dad?- and that you were gonna be travelin' with us for a little." He shrugs, apparently oblivious to my bug-eyed shock look.
"But… but WHY?" I sputter. He finishes his apple before he replies, tossing the core into a bin in the corner of the room.
"Because I wanted to get them off our backs, and you haven't really told us anything about your past so it seemed as good an excuse as any." He studies his nail, seeming to be very laid-back about it all, but I can see the crease in his brow, and I watch him look at me from under the brim of his leather hat, which I notice he's still wearing, and see him waiting on my reaction.
"What?" he asks, defensive.
"I- John…" I bite my lip, looking for words. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," He replies gruffly, standing up to walk away.
"No, John, really," I grab the sleeve of his jacket to stop him. "I mean it. This… it means a lot to me."
And, on an impulse, I stand up and throw my arms around his middle, holding tightly.
"All right, enough of that! I may be your big brother now, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be all mushy to you, ya hear?" He replies, but still puts his arms around me for a hug.
"Now about that song you were singin' earlier. Would you play it for me?" he asks, sitting us both down on the bed, "Because I saw that ukulele."
"Oh, yeah. Well, umm, okay. I guess," I reply, blushing furiously. "It's like this…" I play him the chord, which I suppose he's used to seeing backwards, and start the song again.
I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I'm disoriented, and the pitch black of the room doesn't help me any to remember where I am, until I hear another person beside me, breathing with the measured breaths of someone deeply asleep, and I remember I am in Paul's room, with John. I smile, remembering how we ended up here, as I turn over and shut my eyes. I'm just about to fall back asleep when I remember what awoke me in the first place- it was seeing my brother's smiling, animated face… But it wasn't just that. It was something else…
It was a voice. A clear, distinct voice that was most definitely NOT my own, saying two words:
A/N: I got it done in earlier than 3 months this time! Whoot! So, I was going back and forth between "Alice's Restaurant Massacre" and "It Won't Be Long" for the title on this one, because they both came up in my head when I was writing this. XD Anyways, I see these authors complaining about it taking them a week to update a chapter, and it made me feel like a terrible person DX Luckily for you, the past, like, 4 chapters have been leading up to this one, and the next, I dunno, FOUR or FIVE chapters are PROLLY gonna be pure Beatles fluff. It's what you've all been waiting for, I know! Anyhow, I'll be updating a lot after I get this chapter up, so buckle your seatbelts and get ready for the Magical Mystery Tour to begin! Oh, and before I forget, REVIEW! I KNOW you're out there. Plus, they've made it a billion and a half times easier to do it, too. So do it. Review. There is a direct correlation between how many reviews I have and how quickly I upload, so if you want me to write faster, REVIEW. And tell me if you liked the whole present-tense thingy, so I know whether or not to keep doing it. Okay, bye! Also, I'm going to put up a poll, so y'all should check it out! Okay, now I'm done for reals!