Paul McCartney Is My Teacher

I'm Only Sleeping

I walked in to homeroom with a smile on my face and my two best friends by my side. It was our first day as high schoolers at Frentin High, and we had almost every class together and couldn't be more excited to start the new year. My group of best friends consists of Gail, Tanner, and I.

Gail is pretty shy, and so am I I guess. She is really one of the sweetest people you'll ever meet. You know that saying that if you haven't fought with a friend you can't be best friends? Well, that saying can kiss our asses. She has dark hair, eyes, and features, and her lips are ever-smiling.

Tanner has a crude sense of humor, and it's what sort of makes us work as a group. He's been my Viola Buddy since the seventh grade when he and I were the only two violas in our period (and the year after that, the school), and we're always fighting. But it's all in good fun. He has this speech impediment and it makes everybody ask him if he's British, and he'll get so mad and Gail and I find it hilarious. Tanner's different- goofy and lanky, but different is always welcomed where I'm concerned.

And then, speaking of me: I have greenish brown humongous eyes with big black glasses to frame them. I usually come to school with my dark brown hair loose and end up with it in a pony tail by the end of the day. I love teachers and the Beatles, and the Beatles and, in case I forgot, teachers. I know, I sound like a nutcase. (That's it. There's no 'but').

Gail likes the Beatles too, a little bit. Our seventh grade pre-algebra teacher and I helped get her into it. Her favorite is George, because of his mustache I believe- the one on the Abbey Road poster. Tanner is pretty indifferent towards them, but that's cool by us.

"Ladies first." Tanner stepped back and allowed us to enter through the doorway.

"Thanks." Gail and I smiled and we looked up at the projector to see a message across the screen:

Mr. McCartney's Class

Pick your seats, please wait quietly for further instruction.

Mr . M

"Who in the bloody hell is Mr McCartney?" Tyson asked as we took a table of three desks in the front left corner of the room. I giggled.

"No wonder everyone thinks he's British." I whispered to Gail. Tanner reached over and jabbed me in the side, something that we started in the seventh grade and has been a constant battle raging since. This only provoked more laughter from Gail and I.

We met up with a few more of our friends from middle school, comparing schedules and all that first day jazz.

"The teacher is coming!" One kid shouted, I guess the talkative kids assigned a lookout to ensure maximum chatting time. All the students scurried into their seats and it went quiet just as the teacher walked in the room. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't think of anything as I watched him take attendance so I decided to let it go.

While talking to Gail and Tanner, I happened to glance down at my Abbey Road shirt. Then it clicked. I looked from his name on the board, to my shirt, to the teacher and back to the name again. Then I remembered something I'd seen vaguely in the news last week.

I reached on both sides of me and shook each of my friends vigorously.

"Guys, Paul McCartney is our teacher."