The Attic

Four

            John said I was a good guitar player today! I’m kind of ashamed that it made me that happy, but I can’t help it! I’ve impressed him, finally!

            John chuckled almost nastily, flipping another page greedily, wanting badly to see what else Paul wrote.

            We’ve gotten into the habit of writing songs together these days. I’ll be going to John’s so often that it feels like I live there. Today, though, John said he was busy. I wonder why?

            He’s usually putting the band first. I suppose it’s because of some bird, or something, but still. John can be a right shit when he wants. I asked him when we could meet up later, and he told me to fuck off and stop being such a bloody bird.

            You know, I was upset the first six or so times he’s pulled that one on me, but I suppose I’ve just stopped caring. John Winston Lennon is currently the worst thing in my life. But also the best. Shit, I really love him. And I shouldn’t.

            Yeah, that’s the first time I’ve written that down. I don’t think Dad will find this notebook, I’ve hidden in under my mattress and he never comes near my bed and I don’t think he knows there are even such things as household tasks, like making the bed.

            The next page was blotchy with… tears? John immediately felt guilt broil inside him.

            I told John… He didn’t react well.

            I knew he wouldn’t. Why’d I have to go and tell him? I knew he wouldn’t want a queer for a friend. This is going to ruin everything. John’s rung me three times, but I’ve told Mike I’m busy and to tell John I’m not home.

            Shit, I think I just heard him tell told John that I wanted him to think I wasn’t home. Oh, Mike, that little shit. Now John’s going to be here soon. I’d better hide this book.

            John smiled because, of course, he knew what came next.

            Oh my god. John came by and apologized—and I think we’re together! I… just wow.

            *   *   *

            Paul was sitting in his armchair, staring unblinkingly at the wall, when Stella ran in front of him.

            Paul jumped, before relaxing into his chair again. “Hi, love. Why aren’t you outside?” he questioned.

            Stella rolled her eyes, acting remarkably like a huffy teenager for her nine-year-old self. “James is spitting up again.”

            “Oh,” Paul grimaced, getting up.