Yesterday.

America was a complete blur, it went by almost too fast. It mostly consisted of screaming fans, the press, and a very thick, unpleasant atmosphere. I, of course, was still angry at John. How could I not be? And he, being as stubborn and pigheaded as he was, was still mad at me. I didn’t understand why in any way. It’s not like I beat her. I would never. She looked like porcelain, so that’s what I considered her to be.

The plane ride over was a bit worse than the plane ride back, though. When we were going to America, Brian had to lecture us about immaturity, and how we were best friends. The tension was so thick, I could cut it with a knife. On the plane ride back, John was in the back with Ringo, and George and I were having a jolly time in the front, playing cards and smoking.

Yes, John was my best friend. I knew that I understood him more than anyone, and he understood me more than anyone, or else he wouldn’t have guided me through my reckless teenage years the way he did. I don’t know if I could have taken myself any longer if not for him. It was fate. My mother died when I was 12, and I never thought I could forgive myself. I blamed myself, for not taking care of her, and not being there for her all the time. I ignored her when she absently complained about the pains in her chest, not knowing it was serious cancer.

Two years. I survived two years of not being able to talk to anyone, of keeping all of the strong, painful emotions inside me bottled up, only coming out to torment me when I was sleeping. It’s hard not having a mother to guide you through life. Then came John. I’ll never forget that day. It was boiling hot, the local ‘fair’, but it was just a gathering of kids and adults. One of my close friends told me about a new skiffle band that was blowing everyone’s socks off. He also mentioned the ambitious lead singer, one of his friends, who dressed like a complete teddy boy. Curiosity filled my head like smoke, so I showed up at Woolton, on July 6th, 1957. The Quarrymen sounded terrible, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. The lead singer, especially. He was wearing almost crudely tight pants, had a baggy flannel shirt on, and his hair was greased high. I always wanted to dress like that, but my father would grab the side of my shirt collar every time I did, and drag me back up to my room, forcing me to change.

I was almost scared of meeting him, in a way. He was a year and a half older than me. He was 16, almost 17, and I had just turned 15. He looked about 20, though. He teased me a little when I walked in and was introduced to him after the gig, in the church, but he sat and watched quietly as I tuned, and played his guitar. The next day, he caught up to me in town and asked me to join the band. After that, I can hardly remember doing anything without him. We would sit in his room for hours, playing guitars, listening to records, and just talking. He was always there for me, and I could pour my soul out to him. He’d listen, and help me through it. He was the only person. He’d tell me I was being an idiot, or I was a genius, or that my pants made me look like a girl. Everyone else knew him as a jokester, and a sinister teddy, but I knew a much different John. I don’t believe he ever showed that to anyone but me. The most meaningful of which would be after his mother died. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t see him for a couple of days, so I went to his house. Mimi let me in the front door (for a change), and once I reached his room, I was in shock. His room was completely torn into pieces, papers, songs were everywhere, ripped into tint strips, all of his posters were scattered, pencils, paper, everything. I didn’t see him at first, but when I walked in, it was obvious. He was curled in a small ball on the other side of his bed, on the floor. He wasn’t crying, but you could tell he was before. His face was read, and his eyes looked out over his knees into space. It wasn’t any kind of pain I’d seen before, such torment, such hurt. I’d never seen it before, accept in myself, 4 years previous. I sat on the edge of his bed, and waited. It must have been an hour, or two, until he spoke. His voice was small, but he poured the entire contents of his soul out to me, and by the time he finished, I was holding him against me as he sobbed onto my shoulder, sullying my school uniform. I understood him, he understood me, we couldn’t be any closer.

That’s why I hated being mad at him. Truthfully, I wasn’t mad at him, much. John was John. He’d get over it, I’d get over it, we’d move on. We’d been through too much together.

My mind drifted back into place, and the vision of clouds and earth drifted back into focus.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty, we’re landing.” George nudged me hard in the arm, and I stirred.

“Bugger orf.” I swatted the air, my eyes straining to see out the sunny window, adjusting slowing to the light.

‘Temper.” He shook his finger in my face, and grabbed a piece of bread, shoving it in his mouth, his thick brown hair flinging down over his eyes as he chewed in concentration. I yawned, and squinted at him, my eyes watering from the sudden light. Wow, I didn’t know that dreams could trigger your conscious as well. I felt a sick pang in the bottom of my stomach, thinking it was anger. I soon realized it was guilt. Yesterday all I wanted to do was plant a hard punch in his face, now I just wanted to hug him. How could I stay mad at him? How?