But I wasn’t interested. My heart belonged to someone else. “Both skuzzes compared to myPaul.” I loved saying Paul’s name like I was a Brit. It sounded sensual.
A stack of teen magazines lived on Livy’s bedside table. I reached over and grabbed the whole lot, then plopped it down on the bed. I sorted through till I found the one I wanted—the June issue of16 Magazinewith the headline:McCartney: His Hidden Life Top Secret Pix.Having read the article a hundred times, I flipped right to it.
My heart exploded at the sight of Paul’s baby face. I held up his picture, pressing my lips against his. Almost every night after my parentshad gone to bed, I had the same ritual with my own photos. Paul was my imaginary boyfriend. I wasn’t allowed to date. From the magazines, I knew his real girlfriend was Jane Asher, so I pretended to be her. I even got bangs like hers.
Livy pulled another magazine from the stack, the February issue ofTiger Beatwith giant color portraits of the Monkees and Davy Jones on the cover. She smashed her lips on Davy’s face, then shifted a squinty-eyed gaze toward me. We both cracked up. Me kissing Paul, her kissing Davy. She vacillated between wanting to marry Davy and wanting to marry George. At first, she’d wanted to marry Paul, but she decided to let me have him. Only a best friend does that.
“Two. More. Weeks!” she squealed. “Will it ever get here?”
“I’ve never wanted time to pass so fast in all my life,” I said, grasping her arm. “Don’t be surprised if you look over during the concert and I’m gone.”
Livy put the magazine down. “Gone where?”
“I’m thinking of jumping onstage with them.”
“The police would never let you do that,” she said.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t try.”
Livy sat up straight, gaping at me. “We should go to the airport when they land!”
I scrambled up to face her. “Yes!” Why hadn’t I thought of it first? Girls in other cities were doing it, walking away with autographs. The idea of Paul a foot away from me was enough to drive me wild. With a hand on my heart, I leaned in close to Livy. “Please don’t let me scream in Paul’s face. I must talk with him calmly.”
“I wouldn’t dare let you scream in his face.” She pointed a finger at me, even though she knew it was rude. “And you better not wet your pants.” We’d read all about the girls who’d left their seats wet at Beatles concerts.
“Ew, Livy. I’d never do that.”
“Just making sure,” she said, then went back to reading the magazine.
Memphis was the only Southern stop on the Beatles’ USA tour. We had tickets to the four o’clock show. Good seats to the eight-thirty concert had gone in a flash. It had taken me forever to convince my parents. Anything normal people thought to be groovy, they were against. The Beatles were no exception. My parents were afraid I’d lose interest in the Bible and worship the Fab Four instead. Their hairstyles didn’t help. Young men weren’t supposed to have long hair.
But all the kids from school were going to the concert, even several from church. So I decided not to take no for an answer. My parents endured months of me leaving little notes in their drawers. Some in my mother’s purse. More in my father’s shoes. “Please Please Me,” I wrote.Send Suzannah to the Beatles concert for her birthday, “She Loves You.”Or “Help!”I need Beatles tickets for my seventeenth birthday. “P.S. I Love You.”
After begging and pleading for months, I won. Although Dad didn’t approve of rock and roll, he made an exception. He bought good seats too. On the floor. One for me, and one for Livy. He even paid for a third ticket for Mrs. Foster, who had called Mama and volunteered to “chaperone.”
“You’ll sit through all that screaming?” I heard Mama say to her on the phone. “That’s well worth the extra five fifty.” What Mama didn’t know was that Mrs. Foster wasn’t offering to chaperone. She wanted to see the Beatles herself. With her daughter.
I scrambled off the bed and over to Livy’s record player. Her albums were kept in a messy pile, so I shuffled through till I foundMeet the Beatles!, then gently placed the needle down on the first song.
As soon as she heard the first chords of “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” she yelled, “Turn it up,” then joined me on the dance floor in front of the bed.
Using our fists as microphones, we sang along, knowing every Beatles song by heart. During the second verse, we shook our shoulders and leaned into one another. Smiling and laughing, we leaned back, shaking even harder. I held my nose and twisted to the floor. Livy held her nose and crawled across the room.
We were masters of every dance move, having learned everything we knew from watchingAmerican BandstandandShindig!—at Livy’s, of course. But it wasTalent Party, the local Saturday-afternoon dance show, that had turned us into pros. Our fondest dream—besides marrying a Beatle—was to become a WHBQutie onTalent Party. The Quties wore go-go boots and miniskirts and darling hairstyles. They were the envy of every Memphis teenager.
When “I Saw Her Standing There” played, we ponied all over the second floor and into Livy’s little sister Kim’s room. During the slow song, “This Boy,” we rested. But as soon as I heard the opening chord of “All My Loving,” I fell back onto Livy’s bed, slipping into my fantasy world. Paul was singing about me.
Through slits in my eyelids, I happened to notice Livy’s mom in the doorway, holding the evening newspaper. Normally she would have bopped in and danced along with us, but she moved over to Livy’s record player with an odd look on her face. She turned down the volume and sat on the edge of the bed. “I think you girls should read this,” she said, holding up the paper.
Livy yanked it out of her mom’s hands. “Read what?”
Mrs. Foster pointed to the front-page headline, and Livy read aloud. “‘DJs ban the Beatles for Lennon remarks.’”
A strong sense of foreboding flooded my veins.
“‘Dozens of rock ’n’ roll disc jockeys have banned the Beatles from their turntables because of John Lennon’s comment in a teenage magazine that the mop-haired foursome is more popular than Jesus.’”
I gasped. My heart slipped down into the cavern of my belly.
