"Wh-what?!" You stammered. "Mum! You can't be serious!"
Her gaze was as cold as the first time she laid eyes on you.
"But I am."
Your shaking mascara-rimmed gaze shakily moved to the tall, handsome, sickly Englishman in the doorway.
"Ello, Luv!" He said, his voice melodic as honey. "Looks like you're my property, by gum!"
You were at a loss for words.
As you weren't like most girls, boy bands didn't interest you. Whenever your best (and only) friend, Sandra, of whom you had been best friends with since nursery, dragged you to those rock n' roll concerts, you'd always stubbornly burrowed your nose in a book. Often times, bad boys would approach you, with a "wow! You're not like other girls!" But being even more so unconventional than that, you had ignored them.
You didn't listen to "The Monkees" or "The Beach Boys" or "The Rolling Stones" or any other English or otherwise band who didn't know how to spell the names of animals correctly. You were born in the wrong generation, instead lusting and squealing over the likes of Gene Austin, Al Bowly, Henry Hall, and Russ Morgan. Real music, before this awful decade, where everything sounded like garbage.
You didn't even know the Beatles by name. Whenever you saw their records in shop windows, you turned your head the opposite direction, only to the detriment of being hit by a car twice. (Different cars).
But gee, looking at him now...
"That's right, you ungrateful bitch." Your mum spat. "I'm tired of paying for your ungrateful ass. For eighteen years you have drained my fun-money! It's about time I got some use out of your existence!!"
You would've cried, but you could've seen this coming. Of course, you didn't expect this exact scenario... but it wasn't as if she were a loving mother to you all these years. Since age five she had told you the story of your conception. It had been in the bleachers of a Nine-Inch-Nails concert, and the condom had broken. Perhaps a nail had pierced it.
Your mom took a long drag from her cigarette. Beatle Paul McCartney was still grinning very cheekily.
You turned to him, pink in the face.
"You're Paul McCartney, of that Beatles band?" You said.
Lustful... wasn't he the cute one? Maybe you were seeing things.
You were staunchly uninterested in any modern music, nor modern celebrity affairs, so you knew very little of the gossip, or the boys themselves. However, looking at him properly and up close for the first time, not to mention in person... well, he looked quite a lot like Clara Bow. And you thought she was hot.
"You sold me to a musician?" You hollered at your mum.
She took the cigarette from her lips, looking tired.
"Yeah." She said.
"How?"
"Posted an ad on Craigslist." She said.
You turned to McCartney.
"You bought me?" You said, incredulous. "On craigslist?"
McCartney was grinning cheekily.
"Yuh."
He winked.
Your hands shot to your head, trying to process this. You were going to be late for your English class.
"You were on Cragslist one day..." You began. "And... oh... I don't know. Decided to buy a person?!"
Paul McCartney licked his lower lip.
"Yess..."
You glowered at him.
There was a beat of silence.
"Whatever for?"
Paul made this face:
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Your mouth fell open, but you were no closer to the truth. You turned to your mum.
"And how much, pray tell, did you sell me for?!"
"Ten Pound fifty cents." Paul said, winking.
Your jaw flew open, more offended than before.
"Ten Pound fifty?!" You shot.
You turned to your mom.
"Mum!"
She shrugged.
"It's worth more in the sixties. Paid off the mortgage" She said. "Got me these Gucci pumps."
She pulled the hem of her gown up, revealing her eroticly discreet ankle. Paul whistled.
You sighed in defeat, slumping over.
"Groovy!" McCartney said, pleased. He rubbed his delicate, yet masculine, hands together. "That's settled then!"
He walked through the doorway, grabbing you by the arm.
"Let's go then, wench!"
You hesitated, stubbornly in place.
"Wait a moment!" You said.
Paul rolled his eyes, as if fed up with the dramatics, his transaction proving difficult.
"What?" He said.
"What about school?"
Your kanken backpack (with an Al Bowly pin on it) was still slung over your shoulder. Sandra would be waiting for you, worried you hadn't shown up to the bus stop that day. (In England the busses were red).
"I called you in sick." Your mum said. "You're off for Thanksgiving holiday."
She flicked her cigarette ash off with a flick of her finger, putting it out with the toe of her gucci pump.
"Cor, Mum!" You said. "How could you!"
Beatle Paul McCartney came (Not in that way, you pervs! xD) between the two of you in a huff.
"Well, ladies!" He said, not winking. "I've had it up to 'here with your bickerin! I've got my two fivers right here, and have come to complete my purchase! If it's all the same to you!"
You blushed, his firm tone making you quiver.
You sighed.
McCartney nodded. You let him drag you out by the arm, out of the only home you'd ever known.
