Candy [MCCARTNEY]

ONE

A SILLY LITTLE CRUSH

  ✞

 

"I don't want to keep going to that goddamn church."

I'd only muttered it, but Mum's face hardened all the same. "You're going and I don't want to hear about it any more."

"Last year was the last time I—"

"You're going!"

Crossing my arms at her hiss, I frowned. "You keep treating me like a baby. I'm not 12. I'm not Louis—"

"What?" Louis shouted.

Mum put her coffee on the table and rubbed her knuckles against her closed eyes. "Can you please just come along. It'd make everything so much more easier."

I pursed my lips. "Fine. But don't expect me to come next week."

Mum didn't say anything as I walked back up the stairs to my room to get dressed, stomping. Okay, maybe that was a bit too childish.

Inside my room, I gently closed my door and sat on the edge of my bed, deciding what to wear. Surrounding every corner of my room was pink and lace, which was fine, I guess, but I didn't want my mother to keep considering me as her little girl — I didn't want her to keep holding the leash so goddamn tightly. It had gotten to the point where I had to start keeping my rock record collection in a box, under my bed, because the music was a bit too ". . .promiscuous".

My eighteenth birthday was coming up in a few months, and I wondered how she'd react. If she'd react all.
When I turned fifteen, I expected her to toss me from the cradle and focus on Louis - the real baby in the family - but the tradition continued. Life felt like a time capsule; we were stuck in a frozen frame, where I wasn't allowed to grow up.

It pissed me off; I wanted to go out partying, and drinking, and blowing all my money on records.

But no. I still had to go to church.

I grimaced.

Irritably running my fingers through my hair, I stood up and went over to my closet to sort through the dresses I owned, when I heard a sharp knock on the door.

"Wear something. . . churchy," I heard Mum say.

I scoffed. "Churchy?"

I waited for my Mum to say something else as I pulled a pink-checkered dress from the closet and turned toward my mirror, but she had apparently walked away.
I held the dress against myself; the hem fell to the middle of my thighs, and the sleeves were short. I suppose it was okay for church, even if it was a little hot. Mum wouldn't mind, I guess, but I could just see her eyes looking over me and freaking out about grown men looking at me.

I stuck my tongue out at my reflection and got dressed.

✞

The wooden pew felt cold against my skin and I pulled at a loose thread on my dress, already feeling uncomfortable. There was no way I wanted to keep doing this for two hours, every Sunday, for another whole year. It was so unfair.
I remember back when Dad preached that one day Louis and I would be old enough to decide what we got to do. That day couldn't come sooner.

And yet, if I still don't get to decide my own actions and past times at seventeen, then when?

Beside me, Mum lightly smacked my arm.

"What was that for?" I hissed, turning to look at her. She had her short, black hair pulled up into a bun, and was wearing a red blouse, with pressed, white pants. She looked softer under the light, pouring in through the coloured panes on the walls, but her expression told me she was irritated.

"Did you brush your hair?" She asked, her voice hushed.

Behind us, people were filing into the church, all dressed very pristine and clean cut. They chattered among themselves, as we had a few minutes before service began.

"I can't remember," I replied, shrugging her off. Mum put her hand on my arm again and I ignored it, turning to look at the people behind me, when a family walked in: the Harrison's.

I stared, almost in awe at them — more specifically, the Harrison's son.

"Oh look, there's George," Mum said, leaning over me to wave to George's mother, Louise, as they came closer. "Doesn't George look nice — he always looks very nice at church. Every Sunday."

I rolled my eyes and watched as Louise waved back to my mother, directing her family toward our direction. They settled in the pew in front of us and as they shuffled in, George's eyes turned to mine and he grinned, almost embarrassed. I could imagine his parents had said the same about me.
I felt myself blush and grin back, both of us silently reveling in the mutual distaste of having to go to church.

I'd never exactly spoken a whole deal to George Harrison, but we've both gone to the same school since forever. We were apparently friends as little kids, but grew up and diverted ways. Mum, however, always seemed to act as though George and I were still six years old and still best friends, but. . . I mean, I guess he's cute.

My hands clasped in my lap as I looked down at my fingers, suddenly nervous. Why?
The atmosphere of the room shifted. I felt my skin begin to flush.
I raised my eyes and looked to the pulpit of the church, where there now stood a man.

My heart skipped a beat.

Large, doe-like, eyes moved around the room, washing over the people.
Rose-bud lips that pressed together and parted slightly.
Hands that gripped the sides of the wood.

Mum leaned over to whisper as the church quietened down. "That's Paul - the new Preacher."

I pressed my thighs closer together and blinked in astonishment. Holy shit.

✟✞ ✟✞