Chapter 2: Dear Fate, You Sent Me The Wrong Beatle

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"Barely September and I'm bloody sick of school." June's french manicured nails curled around her can of Ribena. She lifted the drink to her lips, allowing the purple grape liquid to pour into her open mouth.

"S'pose your honeymoon phase of year twelve is over, then?" I commented, briefly looking up from my mathematics, my gaze landing on her nails. June had spent her weekly allowance on her French manicure. This was a procedure she had initialized in the beginning of the summer when her mum had lost her job—spend her expendable work money on one treat this week. This meant this week she had perfect nails but a lack of lunch for the next few days. "Soon you'll be absolutely dying to do mathematics," I continued as my CD player caught her interest and her index finger made contact with the play button.

I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me, it rose to life and started to sing.

"That's Lennon, right?" she asked, and I nodded without hesitation. "Y/n. Y/n." I tore my eyes away from the math problems on my page to see her holding up her phone, a british pop star with wavy brown hair and green eyes smiling up at me. "And this?"

"Um... Niall?" I took a guess.

"Harry, y/n, Harry Styles, he's arguably the most recognizable One Directioner of them all, please try and know your onions." June dramatically shook her head and drank the last of the Ribena, putting the glass back on my desk table next to the newspaper clipping of All About Paul McCartney. "Honestly, I don't know how you do it in school."

"Without you, you mean," I told her, playfully flicking my mechanical pencil at her. "I don't know who I would hang out with besides you."

She shook her head, her long blonde hair moving with her head. "People like you, you know."

"They talk to me. I'm not sure they would voluntarily hang out with me."

"Ryan talked to you the other day," she told me, climbing onto my bed. "Something about that tune you're always going off about. Dear Prudence, or something."

"That was nice," I said, putting down my pencil. "Yes. I didn't know he was into the Beatles."

"Bit posh, he is. Tell me, y/n," she said, changing the topic. "What is Paul McCartney's height?"
"Five eleven in American terms," I told her without batting an eyelid. "And around one hundred eighty three centimeters in English."

"You're a nutter," June said. "Now you have to tell me—"

"Six foot. Harry Styles is six foot."

June, if one hadn't guessed already by now, is obsessed with One Direction. Harry, Niall, Zayn, and two others I can't remember. I really should. She's my best mate, always has been even though we've gone through a few tangles. She's comfortable with herself and knows what she wants in her life and how to tell people she wants it. We play off of each other, her with One Direction, me with the Beatles, and one Beatle in particular—James Paul McCartney, love of my life, prettiest left-handed bassist I've ever seen.

Lord, those doe eyes.

And as a result my walls look like America's pop culture of 1964 threw up all over it. As in, the walls are covered in Beatles posters, Beatles newspaper clippings, Beatle... Beatle stuff. I don't show people my room. Besides, June, that is.

"Is that a Paul McCartney poster?"

I could feel red spreading to my cheeks. "Erm..."

"Oh, y/n, I'm so glad you have the twenty-two year old version instead of the seventy two year old one hanging over your bed. Can we go now?" she asked. June was like the weather, changing constantly, liking this, liking that, disliking that, picking this. "You've done enough math, Einstein. It's a bloody Friday. Let's to the shops." I gave her a smile and grabbed my coat, to which she responded, "You are really something."

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