And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 4: Weed, And Why It's Good to Say No

"Quality of life... that's debatable," said a third voice, and John jumped in surprise. I was used to June unexpectedly walking up the path to the porch. She was wearing a red sundress and that neon raincoat we had bought at Martin's, despite the fact that the forecast was bright with no thunderclouds in sight. "Cora, who's this? Don't tell me he's from our shithole of a school. He's much too much of a fit bloke for that."

"Ha, no," I responded. My smile grew as I realized June would freak if she knew who this was. "June, this is John. John Lennon..." I let his last name drag out so she would recognize him. She had to.

"Nice to meet you, I'm June," she grinned and extended a hand towards his. He looked up, amused, from behind a layer of auburn hair, the fag hanging from a corner of his mouth. "Smoking kills," June commented airily and fluffed out her blonde hair, sitting down beside us.

"So I've heard from that one," John said, pointing at me, and took another drag. "Cora doesn't like 'em. S'pose you do?"

"Blimey! What an accent," June remarked, wide eyed. "Where's he from? Where did you meet him?" She nudged me.

"He came in through my bedroom window," I said, hoping she would get the reference; I had gone through my Abbey Road rant several times with her. She didn't. She just kept talking. "Did he really? I would've kicked him out. No offense, mate. Where ya from? Scotland or something?"

"Dear old Liddypool," John smiled, the fag tilting up with his smile.

"Ahh, the lad's a scouser!"

A famous scouser!

"June, doesn't John remind you of someone famous?" I asked, cocking my head to one side and raising an eyebrow.

She looked at him squarely for a good minute, and then shook her head. "Nope. Doesn't look like any bloke I've ever seen. Why? Who does he look like to you?"

"Yes, Cora," John said, smiling at me with the corner of his mouth, careful not to let the fag slip out of his mouth. "Who do I look like?"

"Winston Churchill," I supplied quickly, thinking of two nights ago. John and I burst into laughter, and June rolled her eyes. "He's as much of a nutter as you are," she said, addressing me. "Hey, you don't like fags, and I don't either, but I bet you two will like another kind of ciggy. Let's go get skunk."

***

I didn't want to get skunk—weed—pot—whatever it was called.

But here I was, in the back of June's car, sitting with John, who was looking out of the window, his hands folded in his lap, looking excited about it. He had commented, "Sounds like the classic posh-bird-tour. Skunk," and laughed. June was driving, her window down, her blonde hair flying in the wind. "Da's given me the keys again. Let's celebrate."

Back at the house, she didn't give me a chance to speak. It was all, "Cora, you're really going to enjoy it. It's like you lose control, and the world makes sense under different colors. I know a bloke who can get this stuff at a decent price." I had said "No, but—" when she interrupted me and dragged me into the car with promises of a good time.

"You ever been high before, Lennon?" June addressed John. I nearly choked. Ask him that say, four, five? Years from now and marijuana would be his middle name. "By the looks of that fag, I think yes. Listen, this way you get experienced, and you don't die forty years early from bloody lung cancer." Our car came dangerously close to a truck, and June and the driver exchanged some nasty hand symbols.

The Beatles' marijuana period came after Help! and was a major influencer of the album Rubber Soul. John's nickname would become Dr. Robert, as he was often the main supplier and holder of any drugs the boys took after their encounter with Bob Dylan, who introduced them to the drug, after he thought the lyric from I want to hold your hand was I can't hide instead of I get high.