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

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Just one more day.

I opened one eye and gazed at the sleeping John beside me. He looked so peaceful while he slept. When he was awake, his mouth did a lot of the talking, but when he was asleep, I got to take him in, like a renaissance painting.

"Just one more day," I had told him, the second his eyes opened slowly.

"Shit, y/n, you scared me," he said, stretching his arms to the ceiling and turning back around on his other side. "Goodnight."

"Get up," I said. "We've loads to do today. It's already ten in the morning."

All I got was a snore.

"If you don't get up..." I told him, "I'm eating your breakfast."

"What's a lad got to do to get a good breakfast around here?" he asked, but slowly put his feet on the ground, sitting up amongst a pile of cushions.

"Get up on time," I told him. "C'mon."


I checked my phone. Two in the afternoon. John and I had spent a pleasurable afternoon sitting in my mum's room, playing some of my dad's vintage vinyls and commenting on the music. I loved the way his eyes lit up when he talked about music. Strangely he had pointed this out in me as well. I had smiled and said, "Guess we're twins, then."

The smell of cigarette smoke wafted to my nostrils from my left. John was sitting next to me on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette. "I need a ciggie after lunch," he had whined to me, and I had to resort to desperate measures, after giving him a CDC-worthy description of what exactly cigarettes did to your health. After ending with "well, don't blame me if you get lung cancer," I hunted all around the house until I found an ancient pack in my mum's closet.

"Quality's gone down," John said after blowing a smoke ring into the air.

"Quality of life has gone up, then," I responded.

"Quality of life... that's debatable," said a third voice. June was unexpectedly walking up the path to the porch, wearing a red sundress and that neon raincoat we had bought at Martins, despite the fact that the forecast was bright with no thunderclouds in sight. "Y/n, who's this? Is he from Riggs?" Riggs was our secondary school.

"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 ciggie hanging from a corner of his mouth.

"Smoking kills," June said airily and fluffed out her blonde hair, sitting down beside us.

"So I've heard," John said, and took another drag.

"Wow, what an accent," June said, wide eyed. "Where's he from? Where did you meet?"

"He came in through my bedroom window," I said, hoping she would get the reference. She didn't. She just kept right on talking. "Did he really? I would've kicked him out. No offense, John. Where ya from? Scotland or something?"

"Liverpool," John smiled.

"Never heard of it," June said.

Never heard of it?

"June, doesn't John remind you of someone famous?"

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

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