Chapter 2: Dorothy, You're Not In Liverpool Anymore

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"In an emergency, the first thing to do is to check your surroundings..."

    A man in a gray suit. School, 2012.

    The memory flashed through my mind. Year eleven. Assembly. It was titled something like What to do in an Emergency.

    I was brought back abruptly into the present situation. Check your surroundings.

     I was alive. Check. I was capable of thinking and my brain was working fine. Questionable, but check. One teenaged John Lennon lying on my bed.


    I crawled out of bed and shuffled over to the other side of the bed, each step feeling like a sinking step into unreality. I think I got right up in his face, looking him over, and then I reached out my hand to touch his shoulder.

    He grabbed it instantaneously. "Don't touch me," he said, looking annoyed. "I take it you weren't happy with last night?"

    "Your accent... You're from Liverpool." I could place it immediately from all the press interviews I had watched the boys give on YouTube.

    "Congratulations," John said, sounding more and more annoyed. "You've figured it out." I was still staring at him. "Posh, aren't you? You're from London. What's a girl like you doing in Germany?"

    "We're, uh, we're not in Germany."

    John looked around for the first time; before he had seemed relaxed and fine wherever he woke up, like he always woke up somewhere unfamiliar and enjoyed it.

    "Shoes off the bed," I said automatically, staring at his dirty leather boots.

    "All right, Ms. Posh," he said and bowed his head to me sarcastically. My mouth was hanging open. "Where are we, anyway?" he asked.

    "Chiswick," I told him automatically. I cleared my throat, determined to get to the bottom of this. "Wait, you're John Lennon, correct?" If this was an act, it was great. Fantastic. Fooled a Beatlemaniac. If not, well...

    "Yes," he said, looking at me with more curiosity than before. "Come to think of it, I don't remember you... I did drink quite a bit last night, though..."

    "You don't remember me because you weren't here last night," I said, strangely unfeelingly. "You were in Germany, probably 1961—"

    "1960," he corrected me. "Germany in 1960."

    "And now you're here in London in 2013."

    He stopped talking, and roared with laughter. "What? Don't be daft." He yawned again.

    I stood up. "I need a breather. You stay here," I said. I exited my room quickly and pulled down the ladder to the roof. My mum and I lived in a small two story house which we shared with another family, but the second floor gave us access to the roof, which I enjoyed climbing to when I felt stressed.

    And boy, this was a time to be stressed. He certainly seems real enough, I thought to myself as I climbed the ladder. I touched him, before he grabbed my hand. I felt his face. It's just so strange. It's like he was cut out of a magazine and thrust into our modern world.

    Or maybe I was in a dream? Everything looked the same, though. Still, this couldn't be right. Oh lord. This was not right. John Lennon was dead, not on this planet anymore. He was shot in December 1980, at just 40 years old. Married to Yoko, divorced to Cynthia, had two sons, in the middle of another album. But this wasn't him. He looked, what, seventeen? Eighteen? I thought as I made my way to our chimney and sat on the brick. And he was so sassy.

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