Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

25. Raggedy Ann Pooley

Authors Note

Hey guys, just a heads up- I suggest you grab a nice hot (or cold) brew while you kick back and read this chapter because it's a very long one, sorry. 😂 Hope you enjoy it! As always, thanks for waiting and reading. On we go...

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Oh, C'mon, Celia. You can't ignore me forever. I said I was sorry."

"I'm not ignoring you forever, Penny; I just don't want to talk to you right now."

"So you're not gonna tell me what happened to your cheek, then?"

Celia shook her head. For the fourth time that Monday morning, she reluctantly spooned up some porridge and let it splatter back into her bowl.

"You've barely touched that," Penny commented, nodding at the porridge that Celia was now sloshing about with her spoon.

"I'm not hungry," Celia mumbled, pushing the bowl away from her. Eating it was unbearable. Eating anything was unbearable. School Porridge was never nice anyway; it was either too globby or too milky and looking down at it now, the porridge resembled a bowl of sick—runny with a few oaty clumps. It only added to Celia's nausea, and she gagged, pushing the bowl closer to Penny, so it was out of her sight.

"Aww, is Ceeley-Weely a little hungover?" Penny cooed.

Celia groaned and dropped her head onto her arms which were folded on top of the canteen table. A little hungover was an understatement. Celia was nauseous and liable to vomit at the slightest provocation. Her mother had forced her to eat a slice of marmalade toast, and after one bite, Celia heaved and threw up into the kitchen sink. One appalled look from her mother was enough for Celia to pick up her school bag and speed out the door. She'd made a mental note to profusely apologise to Nora when she got home later. The last thing Celia wanted was another parental bollocking.

"Don't call me Ceeley-Weely," Celia said, her words muffled into the sleeve of her blazer.
"And yes I am hungover, so leave me alone."

Penny 'aw'd' and stroked her fingers through Celia's hair, or at least she tried to. Celia hadn't properly detangled it. She couldn't—it hurt her too much. Brushing it had felt like there was a a balloon slowly inflating under her cranium, the pressure mounting with each brushstroke.

If this is the result from drinking, then why does anyone bother doing it? Celia wondered.

"How much did you actually drink last night?" Penny asked.

"Lots."

And Celia was sure as hell feeling it. Every movement she'd made so far had been painful and slow. She felt like a sloth tight-roping through time.

"When did you get home? Your mam phoned."

"Six."

Penny gasped. A grin soon spread across her mouth, and she pushed Celia's shoulder. "You dirty stop out, Celia Pooley!" Celia responded with a disgruntled groan. "Cor, my mam would scream bloody murder if I came home that late!"

"I've had an earful of it," Celia replied.

"Who is this rebellious blonde sitting next to me? I don't recognise her."

"I didn't stay out on purpose," Celia snapped. "If my friends hadn't abandoned me, I wouldn't be like this in the first place."

Penny frowned. "Oh, Celia, would you just forgive me already? I'm gonna have to start apologising in french so that I don't sound bloody repetitive. Je suis désolée!"