And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 7: I Didn't Want To Spoil The Party

"Stop bloody smoking," I said, choosing not to comment on his neck. "What is this, your fifth?"

"I smoke when I'm nervous," Ryan explained, stubbing it out on an ashtray on the side table.

"Thank you," I said. "Why do you smoke? It's bad for you."

"I'm not sure," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "My grandfather did it, everyone back then did. I caught on. Anyways I'm not dead yet."

I laughed at his stupidity. "Is it all right if I ask," Ryan said quickly. "How do you feel about this whole thing? I feel like it's a bloody cock up. I've lost the plot; I'm guilty. I'm also—it's the bee's knees, you know, about Jane," he laughed, a valiant attempt at disguising his words. "I really like Jane. She was my celebrity crush who was born fifty years too early."

I was frowning while he spoke. "S'pose you could call it the same thing, except I was liked Paul, which is funny now that you mention Jane. I was obsessed with Paul. And then along comes John. I don't understand it.

Ryan shook his head.

"Wait," I requested, my head spinning; Ryan interrupted me, singing quietly, a little out of key, "But if your heart breaks, don't wait, turn me away." I couldn't help but giggle. "Blimey, it's good to hear a Beatles reference again. The whole thing has been so trippy. These past few days—I kept thinking June was going to come through and say, Of course, Cora, John Winston Lennon, of the Beatles, he's alive? but she didn't. I asked her about it tonight. She really didn't know. I felt so alone."

"So tell John," Ryan said.

I was appalled. "I couldn't possibly! How could I tell John that he would be incredible? Conquer the world, be bigger than Elvis, possibly the best rock band in history? I can't do that!"

"Sorry, y/n, I forgot," Ryan said. "I've talked to Jane about my feelings about this whole thing. She wanted to go back home at first, but I convinced her to stay a while. She has a curious soul. She said she'd go back in a few days once we had figured it out. It was a right miracle, that; she'd had some kind of argument with Peter that day when she wound up in my room. Anyway," he continued. "You should just be able to talk to John about the general feelings you have about this. He seems like a bloke who would be open to talking to you."

I traced the pattern on the bedspread I was sitting on.

"You found John in a book, right?" Ryan asked me. I nodded. "You as well?"

He looked uncomfortable, and then I saw an expression flash in his eyes—ecstasy, guilt. "Yes. Party Cakes with Jane Asher. The normal book is yellow or something. This book had a maroon cover and it was a photo book—"

"That was you!" I interrupted. Something in my memory jogged; a boy with cropped red hair, the one who said excuse me at Martin's, holding another maroon book.

"That was me," Ryan said. "You were that girl at the bookshop. I watched you through the window as I paid. You and June. I knew you were friends of Danny's, and we talked once, and I saw your Beatles coat, but I didn't say anything." Fireworks were exploding in my head. "Okay," I said weakly. "So we saw each other. Continue."

"And then, one night..." he trailed off. "The same night that I bought the book..."

"And then?" I said so quietly that it could barely be heard above the muffled sounds of the partygoers outside the room.

"And Jane.. my Jane was in my room. I still remember. She was lying on my rug, wearing one of those tiny cardigans from the early '60s and a tweed skirt. Sheer stockings, like the ones you have on now." He pointed absently to my outstretched leg. "She asked in this little voice what was going on. And I remember not being scared that she was suddenly in my room." Ryan had previously been sitting cross legged on the bed, and now he was lying on it, that guilty, excited look on his face.

"I said, Jane? Like I knew. How could I have known? I have no idea. My little brother was sleeping right next door to mine. She was quiet. She looked a little scared for a moment and I think she was about to faint or scream but I was suddenly hugging her, kneeling next to my bed, holding her, and I thought she was going to fade away... like a dream, like smoke. But she didn't. Instead she asked me who I was and I suppose now she's just riding along with the dream. You know, I still think it's a dream. It can't possibly be real. And then I thought it was my fault that all the Beatles stuff disappeared all around town and no one knew who they were, but I... I suppose that's you."

I told him about John and how we met that night when I took the Beatles book home. In fact, I was so busy telling Ryan about the whole thing that I didn't notice the door open. I didn't notice the fact that from an outsider's point of view, Ryan and I were both lying on someone's parents' bed, I with a slip dress and stockings and Ryan with his shirt unbuttoned. I didn't notice John come into the room and stride across it towards the bed. What I did notice, however, was Ryan's eyes growing wide, and the start of my sentence "Ryan, what is—" and then a slap against the side of my head, pushing me against the rose patterned quilt that lined Marty's parents' bed, and I heard a slight feminine yelp, and then my eyes closed for the second time that night.