Margaret Lacey is a Lesbian

When rehearsal was deemed over, and the boys deemed completely done with music for the rest of their lives, they collapsed on the cool pavement of the cement, around Margaret Lacey’s feet. They panted and they swore, and were generally pretty endearing.

Stu closed his eyes and lit up a cigarette, before glancing around at his friends and a vaguely uncomfortable Margaret Lacey. He talked around the cigarette, making half-assed introductions.

“That’s Paul, and he dragged along George, they’re the babies. John and I started the band, and Pete was with us all along. We’re the Quarrymen,” he said, vaguely gesturing at his band mates for introductions.

“Yeah, but who is she? You can’t just drag a beautiful bird like her in here and let her stay anonymous,” said Baby-Face Paul.

“Stu, where’re ya hiding any beautiful birds? I only see this one,” John scoffed.

“If there’d been any girls worth mentioning I would’ve hunted them out and practised the kama sutra on her so I could stop listening to your dreadful music,” Margaret Lacey returned. “So who were you talking about, Paulie?”

“He was referring to himself, as if it warn’t obvious,” George said so quickly that he’d clearly been waiting with baited breath for the opportunity. Still, it was funny. The Quarrymen and their audience of one all chuckled.

“Well now you know our dirtiest secret,” John said, propping himself up with his elbows to crane his head up at Margaret Lacey, his eternal squint in place. She was beginning to wonder if he has sight problems, or was a cowboy enthusiast, from that narrow-eyed stare.

“I do?” she had a faint idea where he was going with this, but didn’t want to make a fool of herself by jumping the proverbial gun.

“You know that we’re right amazing and going to be famosos any day now. You invest right with us and you’ll make it big, then, won’t you?” He was smirking, now, much like his bespectacled companion.

“Are you asking me for money, John the Sixteenth?” she asked, incredulous laughter punctuating her sentence.

“Well I wouldn’t be opposed to a few quid here and there, but that’s not what I’m asking presently. Now you owe us.” He sat up fully, in order to light another cigarette which had shook itself out of his clothing during his statement. The younger lads and Pete were looking at him in askance, and Stu had his inscrutable smirk.

“I owe you for that…er, breathtaking performance? What am I owing you, then?” She was getting more and more puzzled as this conversation went on, and she was fairly confident she was losing ground.

“You owe us some big secrets,” he concluded. A grin lit his face, and he closed his eyes, as if begging for applause.

“Howabout I give you an investment tip instead,” she countered, with a snort of disdain that she’d learned from her distinguished biology teacher. She vaguely wished for the impressive mustache to back up the snort. “What sort of secrets would you even care about? I’ve got knickers on, if that’s what you were after.”

Stu laughed, and laid back again, hands under his head in a classic cloud watching pose. The only clouds he could see were the ones billowing from the end of his cig. Margaret Lacey shot him a sharp look, as if trying to ascertain whether or not he thought she was lying. If he gave away that sometimes she “forgot” to put on that particular clothing item, then she’d be having to deal with skirt flips for decades to come.

“Humour me, babe. Who’s dick do you want to sit on more, here? Out of the five of us.” Ah, yes, the mating dance of the douche bag commences.

She paused, and brought a hand to her chin, as if thinking long and hard about this difficult question. She could hear Stu chortling to himself, and chose to ignore him. “Hmm,” she murmured, feigning indecision. “Normally I’d go for the bass, but that drum set is just so damned sexy. If it asked nicely, I’d be on it in a second,” she finally said, and proceeded to make what she presumed would look like bedroom eyes at the set in the back of the basement.

“You’re an asshole, Lennon,” Stu managed, through his laughter. The rest of the lads joined in at the beginning of her seductive faces towards the instruments in the back, and even the offended John was roused to a chuckle.

“That’s a unanimous opinion, mate,” Pete said with raised eyebrows.

“What, the drum fucking, or the John being a rectum opinion? Both sound valid to me,” Margaret Lacey replied. She, in an attempt to be cool and coy, pulled out a cigarette from her coin purse, and snatched little George’s lighter from his hands. She was ever so pleased with herself.

“Both, I’d say,” piped up Paul. George hooted laughter in reply, and conversation died for a little bit as everyone smoked and recovered from mirth and/or bruised vanity.

The afternoon turned into an evening, and Stu & Co. decided to go out for a bite to eat. Margaret Lacey paused at the doorway as they began to trek down the street. She hadn’t been officially invited, but she hadn’t been bid ado either. She watched their choice asses walking away from her, and decided that she was probably too cool to hang out with such twats anyway. She shivered in the slight cold of twilight, and turned away from them, starting to walk home.

“Aye, where you goin’?” George called back to her. The group of teenage boys turned and looked at her, and she slowly rotated towards them.

“I was going home,” she returned.

Paul galloped over to her and grabbed her arm, dragging her back in the direction of the Quarrymen. “No you’re not!” he admonished.

He kept his hand on her upper arm until they got to the little pizza place, upon which time he abandoned her for his real love interest: the juke box. The boys crowded around it, and bid Margaret Lacey order for them. She shrugged and did the task, quietly grateful to be included. Even if they were a bunch of misogynistic twats. She whistled at them when the food was ready, and picked a table with enough seats for the lot of them.

She sat next to Stu, and Pete settled next to her. On the other side of the table were George, Paul, and John, who seemed to be trying to get as far away from Margaret Lacey as possible, while still sitting at the same table.

Conversation revolved around politics, trying to best each other in humour, and the joys of sex. Being in a public place, Margaret Lacey did her best to keep mum, though she came near to bursting when Paul tried to boast of his sexual conquests.

“How old are you, anyway? Like 12?” she exploded, massaging her temples in an attempt to repair her mental images of the inaccurate pictures he painted with his words.

“I’m 15,” he retorted, offended.

If Margaret Lacey hadn’t been about to bash her face into the table, she might have seen John and Stu share a sharp look and a wink. If Margaret Lacey had been capable of reading minds, she might have felt a tingle of a beginning of a competition based on humiliation. Instead, she just groaned.

“What, like you know anything!” Paul began to scoff, before he stopped in his tracks. “Would you?”

Still with her face lying on the table, she growled, “Of course not. I’m a girl. Girls don’t have sex until marriage, because the sex drive is exclusive to people possessing a prick.”

Her statement made everyone (except for Stu, who was impervious to anything that Margaret Lacey said) a little uncomfortable, so the subject changed, and she eventually regained her composure and posture. The conversation flowed smoothly after that, as long as Paul and George didn’t claim to know things about the act of coitus. The night of food and generally amiable company stretched on, until Margaret Lacey glanced at the wall clock and let out a muffled shriek.

“It’s eleven at night! Fuckshitfuck shit oh dear!” she lurched to her feet, and started scrambling to the door.

“What’s up, Margaret?” Stu asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I was supposed to be home ages ago, and my parents don’t forgive easy,” she panted, nervous. She wanted to leave, but she was fretting her return so badly that she ended up doing a nervous dance in the entryway of the pizza parlour.

“Get moving, girl!” Pete said, laughing. He was one of the few who understood restrictive parents.

She darted out of the door, and John groaned to his feet. “I should make sure she doesn’t fall and die in the dark. She’s an idiot bird; someone’s got to look out after her.” He sighed heavily, as if dreading going after her.

He jogged a little to catch up with her, coughing and panting by the time he arrived at her side, and started grooming his hair the second he was back to a walking pace. She glared at him for a second, and continued to scurry through the streets. He tried to make small talk, but she kept apologizing and muttering, “No, really, I have to go.”

Before they turned onto her street, he pulled back on her arm, and turned her to face him. Her face was a picture of impatience, and she went as far as to tap her foot at him.

“Come on Maggie, you’re going to be late no matter what. A few extra minutes isn’t going to help you at this point,” he said, laughing.

He pulled her closer to him, and made as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, but he could feel her stiffen under his grip. He brushed her hair away, and she flinched.

“Can you not?” she asked in a flat voice.

“What is it you don’t want me doing?” he asked, teasing her. His breath was on her neck.

She yanked her arm away from him and took three steps back. “Okay, I get it. You’re hot, you’re semi-talented, and you’re clever. It’s super great. You can’t get everything you want just based on that, you little shit head! Go stick it in Paul, he’s prettier than me anyway,” she spat. She turned away, and walked faster and faster until she was basically at a run, her heart in her mouth.

When she got to her door, it was locked. She knocked tentatively, not sure what would happen if no one came to the door. However, the door was opened almost immediately. Her dad, slightly overweight and balding, stood there in his bathrobe, and his expression translated into absolutely no nonsense. She averted her eyes, and accepted her fate even before he began on his lecture.

She was grounded for the next month. No after school activities, no wandering around on weekends, and no telephone calls. The usual. She sighed, and sulked up to her bedroom, and eased off her tight shoes and dress. In her slip, she brushed out her hair, took off her glasses, and crawled into bed.