Chapter Text
When the school bell rang to signal the start of first period, John jumped in his seat at the sound; they hadn’t had a bell like that at his last school. He had chosen a seat in the front of the classroom and hoped he hadn’t taken anyone’s spot. Some people had a thing about spots, he knew, and didn’t want to start anything on his first day. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tugged at the collar of his shirt, which was rubbing uncomfortably against the skin of his neck.
“Find your seats, ladies and gents,” the teacher called from the blackboard, his back to the class. The students who were milling about settled into their chairs, stashing their belongings inside their desks. Even these were new to John – the tops opened up and provided storage space, instead of just having an open area for books and pencils as the desks at his old school had.
“Welcome to spring term, everyone. Hope you enjoyed the exam break,” the man at the front of the class said, writing his name in blocky chalk letters on the board. “I’m Mr. O’Malley. Some of you will have had me last term for introductory English literature, and for others, 19th-century literature will be the first course we’ve been together for. This is a new course for all of us, so you’ll need to bear with me as we work out the kinks.” John fiddled nervously with his tie, waiting for the teacher to start out with the typical “stand up and share about yourself if you’re new” spiel.
“I’m going to hand out a scrap of paper to each of you, and I’d like you all to write down three things,” Mr. O’Malley explained. “First: the name of a book you’d recommend to someone your age. Second: a writer you admire. This can be an author, a poet, someone who writes music, whatever. Just someone who writes something you like. Third: The name of a ‘literary classic’ you’ve heard about but never read.” He walked between the rows of desks as he spoke, dispersing coloured slips of paper onto each desk.
“Should we write our names on them?” someone asked at the back of the room.
“First and last, if you can spell both,” Mr. O’Malley replied with a soft chuckle. “Only you and I will see these, so feel free to be honest.” He paused in front of a group of boys sitting at the back of the class, all who were wearing their uniforms in a fashion against the regulated style. “Even if the only book you’ve ever read is Green Eggs and Ham, write something down,” Mr. O’Malley instructed. This got a laugh from a few people.
When he reached John’s desk, he waited beside him, watching as John scrawled his name across the top. With an approving nod, Mr. O’Malley moved on, seating himself behind his own desk. The scratch of graphite against paper filled the room for the next few minutes, slowly dying down as they all came up with answers.
“Mr. Deacon, would you mind collecting the papers?” Mr. O’Malley asked. John’s head snapped up at his name.
“Me?” John asked, glancing about the room to see if there were any other Deacons in attendance. It appeared that he was the only one.
“Please.” John stood up, buttoning his blazer as he tucked his chair in. Beginning at the front of the room, he made his way through the rows. He felt a blush creeping up his neck as he met the eyes of his classmates. Whispers started behind him; he had been recognized as being new to the school.
“Thanks,” one boy smiled as he handed his paper in. To John’s surprise, the boy’s skin was darker than that of the other students. Although the population of Indians in Britain was rising, it was still not terribly common to see non-white students in secondary schools. The boy’s dark eyes watched John curiously, recognizing him as the odd one out. John nodded in reply. He placed the stack of papers onto Mr. O’Malley’s desk and returned to his seat, crossing his legs at the ankles beneath the desk.
“Thank you, John,” the instructor acknowledged him. “I’ll run through the syllabus for the year, which Susan will kindly hand out, and then we’ll head to the library for a quick orientation on the updated organization system that’s being instituted this year.” John’s mind began to wander, but he stared up at the front of the room in an attempt to be seen as paying attention. He flipped through the syllabus when it was handed out, doodling in the margins as Mr. O’Malley went through each section.
As the students stood up from their desks for the library orientation, John moved towards the outside of the pack of students. He rolled the sleeves of his grey wool jumper up to his elbows, matching the other boys in the class. Following the students ahead of him, John turned a corner and walked down a long corridor. Their footsteps and voices echoed loudly, drawing the attention and ire of several teachers whose classroom doors were open.
“Hey, John, was it?” a voice asked behind John. He turned to look over his shoulder and recognized the dark-eyed boy from the back of the class.
“Yes, John Deacon,” he replied, slowing to walk beside his classmate.
“First day?” the boy guessed. His hair, much shorter than John’s, framed his face nicely. John nodded slightly, not wanting to seem overly enthusiastic, and therefore odd.
“Freddie Bulsara,” the boy introduced himself, holding out a hand. John shook it, noting the stark contrast between his pale fingers and Freddie’s.
“Good to meet you,” John murmured, shuddering slightly as he realized how nasally his voice sounded. Freddie’s, in comparison, was prim and proper, melodic, even.
“You’re not from London,” Freddie guessed, pressing his lips together as he tried to place John’s accent. “Where did you live before this?”
“Leicester,” John answered quietly. “What gave it away?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever heard an accent like yours,” Freddie admitted. “It’s not a bad thing, just…different.”
“Oh,” John mumbled, glancing down at his feet. Different was the last thing he wanted to be. It had been one of the main reasons he’d protested this move when his mother had insisted on it.
“I like different,” Freddie said softly. “I’m sure you can see that I’m not exactly your typical English secondary student.” John glanced up at his new acquaintance, unsure of how to reply. “Are you always quiet this, or is it just nerves?” Freddie asked. He was smiling, so John figured he wasn’t making fun of him.
“I tend to be a bit shy,” he shrugged. “Being nervous doesn’t help.” As the girl in front of him slowed, John followed suit. The library doors were open ahead, and students were slowly making their way in. As John and Freddie passed through the doors, they both glanced around the room.
“It didn’t use to look like this,” Freddie said, looking about the room in awe. He looked as though he had just entered heaven. “It’s like a completely new place.”
“Close your mouth before your teeth jump out, Paki,” snarled a voice behind them. John and Freddie turned to see a tall, heavyset boy standing in the doorway. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, and two boys wearing similar expressions flanked him on either side.
“That’s a new one,” Freddie acknowledged sarcastically. “Glad to see you did some reading over the holiday, Michael.” The boy scoffed, his mouth twisting into an angry scowl as he attempted to stare Freddie down.
“Watch it, you nancy fucking faggot,” Michael growled. “Roger’s not here to stick up for you now, so I’d shut your mouth if I were you.” Mr. O’Malley chose that moment to walk up behind the straggling students in the doorway.
“Michael,” he said firmly, “why don’t you go stand up near the front. I’m sure you could use a refresher on locating library resources.” The boy’s eyebrows knit together, and he opened his mouth to lip off, but finally, he stomped off towards the library desk.
“Everything alright, boys?” Mr. O’Malley asked, putting a hand on Freddie’s shoulder. He seemed genuinely concerned for them; John wasn’t used to teachers caring about such things.
“Just admiring the new layout, Mr. O’Malley,” Freddie answered calmly, as if nothing had happened. John realized that Freddie had not even flinched when that boy got in his face – he was used to it.
“Let me know if you have any…concerns,” the instructor said slowly, looking at both of them to make sure they understood.
“Will do, sir,” Freddie replied, raising his fingers from his forehead in a lazy salute. John noticed now that Freddie wore a bowtie instead of a traditional tie. It was not technically against school rules, but certainly served as a form of self-expression.
“Who was that guy?” John asked after Mr. O’Malley had wandered off towards the other students. Their would-be bully glared at them from the front of the group, but John avoided his gaze.
“Just some insecure asshole and his loser friends,” Freddie remarked, shrugging as if he couldn’t care less. “They shouldn’t be much of a problem.” He led John towards the circulation desk, where the librarian had begun her presentation. John watched Freddie from the corner of his eye, admiring his confidence in spite of his differences from the other students.
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll have a friend before the end of the week, John thought to himself.
* * * * *
Freddie held the door to the music room open for John, who nodded his gratitude as he walked past. The room had begun to fill with the awkward sounds of student musicians attempting to tune their instruments.
“Only complete dorks take chamber orchestra,” Freddie explained, looking around to ensure no one was paying attention as he made the comment. “Jazz band, however, is very cool.” He swept a hand out in front of himself, indicating the small group of students who were settling into their seats. “It runs at lunch hour three days a week.”
“What do you play?” John asked, noticing that Freddie had not walked in carrying a case.
“The piano’s a pain to bring on the bus,” Freddie quipped, “so I usually leave it here.” John let out a breathy laugh. “Anyways, we’ll get you seated over with Brian for the day. You can bring your instrument on Wednesday, once you’ve got the lay of the land.” He led John to the back of the room where two boys were leaned against a set of counters, having what looked like a tense discussion.
“Freddie, tell Brian to quit being such a tosser,” the blonde sighed crossly, biting his lip angrily. His blue eyes were hard and steely as he glared at his friend.
“Roger thinks we should just go ahead without a bassist,” the tall, lanky boy explained, his tone snippy. “What do we look like, the fucking Doors?”
“Now, now, darlings,” Freddie soothed, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “There’s no need to fuss about that. We’ll sort it all out in a week or two, once we’re adjusted to the new classes.” He waved John forward, bringing him into the circle. “This is John Deacon, from my English class. He’s new here, so I brought him to sit in on jazz band, see if he likes it.”
“Do you play anything?” Brian asked politely, tilting his head to the side as he looked John up and down. He observed that boy’s trousers were tailored nicely (his mother’s handiwork), and his shirt had been pressed well.
“Bass guitar,” John said, “bit of acoustic as well.”
“Are you any good?” Roger questioned, leaning forward in his seat behind the drum kit. He wore a pair of lightly tinted, round glasses, which were perched on the end of his nose.
“Roger!” Brian and Freddie both exclaimed. The drummer threw his hands up, clutching a stick with each thumb. His expression was of incredulity, as though he had just been falsely accused of wearing women’s stockings.
“Fuck, I’m just asking,” he defended, “no need to get your knickers in a twist.”
“I’m decent,” John shrugged coolly. “Played in a band back in Leicester for a while.”
“Good to meet you, John,” Brian smiled, extending a hand. “I’m Brian May, and this here’s Roger Taylor, also known as ‘Shit for Manners’.”
“Brian’s a damn good guitarist,” Freddie piped up, “and Rog could keep up with the likes of Ginger Baker and Mitch Mitchell, I reckon.”
“Well, I’m no Redding or Bruce,” John smiled, responding to Freddie’s reference, “but I figure I can keep up with things pretty well.” Roger’s eyes flickered up to meet Brian’s.
“We have a bass on loan to the school,” Brian mentioned casually. “If we take it out, would you give it a go today?” Freddie put up a hand to protest, wanting to give the boy time to warm up to the new environment before throwing him into it, but John nodded.
“Show me where it is,” he grinned.
* * * * *
“John, you’re coming over to my place after school with us,” Roger informed him as they walked to chemistry. “Call your mum, do whatever you need to, alright?”
“What are we doing?” John asked cautiously. Freddie and Brian were walking up ahead of them, chattering about something he couldn’t hear.
“Drinking root beer floats and playing with my dollhouse,” Roger said, rolling his eyes. “What do think? We’re going to jam in my garage.”
“Oh. I’ll have to stop at my house and pick up my bass,” John answered, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. Roger’s own hair was chicly dishevelled, likely with the help of some sort of hair product, John thought.
“We’ll give you a ride,” Roger promised. “My dad and I built a car together last summer, so I’ve got plenty of space to take you and the boys.” A group of girls huddled together outside a classroom door giggled as Freddie’s entourage passed by; Brian glanced over his shoulder and waggled his eyebrows at Roger.
“What’s that about?” John asked, confused. Roger was shaking his head, but his lips were pressed together to hide a smile.
“Some of the girls fancy Brian,” he replied, snickering quietly. “They like his hair or something.”
“Fat chance, Rog,” Brian called out. “It’s your mysterious eyes and that blonde poof you insist on calling a proper hairdo.” Freddie’s shoulders shook with laughter, and John couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m stepping out for a smoke, boys,” Roger informed them as they arrived at the door of the chemistry lab. He pulled a package of Marlboros and a lighter from his back trouser pocket and clutched them in his hand.
“McIntyre will have your head if you’re late for his first class,” Brian cautioned him. “Have you got a watch on?”
“John does,” Roger answered, grabbing John’s arm and holding it up on display. “We’ll be back in five, boys.” John allowed himself to be dragged out the side door into the schoolyard. They chose a spot beneath the classroom window and leaned against the brick wall.
“Want one?” Roger asked, holding the pack of cigarettes out to John.
“Sure,” John accepted, placing a cigarette between his lips. From his own pocket, he pulled a book of matches. He held his hand up to shield the brisk January wind as he lit up. The metallic scritch of the lighter’s flint wheel caught John’s attention, and he watched, mesmerized, as Roger held the flame to the tip of his own cigarette, which he held expertly between his lips. He looked cooler than that famous American actor, James Dean, with his messy hairdo, cigarette in hand, John thought.
“What do think of everything so far?” the blonde asked, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “Living in London, I mean.”
“S’alright, I suppose,” John mumbled. “Still not used to all the noise, though.” Roger took his cigarette from his mouth and held it between two fingers.
“Fucking loud even at night,” Roger shook his head. “I grew up in Truro, where you can hear a stone hit the ground 10 kilometres down the road. London is just something else.” John observed Roger thoughtfully. He had noticed earlier the way the boy stuck his tongue between his teeth when he laughed; now he focused on the way he set his brow when he was thinking. They were adorable, really, these expressions of his.
“Do you miss it?” John wondered, taking a quick drag and tapping his ashes onto the ground. “The quiet, the stillness of it all?” He didn’t want to admit to his mother that he was homesick, but John had felt every day since the move that the city streets were garish and ugly in comparison to the grassy knolls of Leicester.
“Sometimes,” Roger frowned, angling his head towards John. “I reckon there’s a lot more to do here in the city than there is in Cornwall. It’s not all bad, I guess.” A loud tapping sound came from the glass window beside John’s head. Roger leaned away from the building to get a better look, and saw Freddie pounding away at the window with his fist.
“Shit, McIntyre’s coming,” Roger cursed, throwing the remains of his cigarette on the grass and stomping it out. “Let’s go.” John followed suit, hurrying back into the building. As they reached the classroom door, a tall, grim-looking man stepped out of the toilet across the corridor.
“Found a new smoking buddy, I see, Mr. Taylor,” the man’s voice boomed. “I hope he’s better at telling time than you.” John hoped the scent of tobacco wasn’t too strong on his clothes; his mother would kill him if she found out he had smoked, always insisting it was a dirty habit.
“Won’t be a problem this term, sir,” Roger assured him, his voice colourless without his previous confidence. They stepped into the classroom and quickly found seats. Freddie and Brian had set their bags on the stools of the lab desk in front of their own, saving a spot for their friends.
“Looks like we’re partners for the semester,” Roger whispered as they tucked their bags beneath the desk. “Are you any good at chemistry?”
“Not terrible,” John answered hesitantly; he had always been better with physics. Roger laid his head against his forearm and groaned loudly. Mr. McIntyre, the chemistry teacher, was still busying himself with setting his things in their places on his desk, keeping him distracted enough to not comment on the volume of Roger’s voice.
“That’s it, I’m fucked,” Roger announced, muffled by his shirtsleeve. “How am I supposed to get into college if I can barely pass chemistry?” Freddie patted his back reassuringly.
“Brian’s got to be my partner, so I really think he’s much worse off, wouldn’t you say, Rog?” Freddie asked. “I’m repeating this course, after all.”
“You two have just got to apply yourselves, that’s all,” Brian insisted. Freddie sighed, rolling his eyes at his friend’s optimism.
“You sound like my dad, Bri,” he complained, opening his textbook. “Expects me to go to medical school or something ridiculous like that.” The teacher tapped on the board with a metre stick, calling the class to attention. John eyed Roger, who was drumming patterns on his desk with his index fingers, only half listening to Mr. McIntyre as he droned through the course outline for the semester.
“This is bollocks,” Roger huffed softly, leaning closer to John. “This man could bore the history teacher to death, I swear.” The boy adjusted the knotted tie at his throat, loosening it just a tad. John felt his cheeks heat up as he realized he was staring, but Roger didn’t seem to have noticed. He was caught up in his general distaste for chemistry as a subject.
“Might not be so bad,” John mumbled, glancing away. He allowed his mind to wander, thinking through the list of things he wanted to get done that week. His bass strings needed to be changed, he reminded himself, because his hands were starting to smell metallic and rusty after playing. The strings oxidized after enough exposure to air and sweat, and reduced the sound quality. If the boys wanted him to jam with them, it was vital that he deal with his shitty strings sooner rather than later.
“John Deacon,” McIntyre called out, attendance sheet in hand, his words falling on deaf ears as he glared at the new student. “Taylor, give your neighbour a tap there, he seems to be dozing off.” Roger put a hand on John’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze, pulling him from his thoughts.
“Deac,” Roger said, shortening John’s surname, “wake up, mate.” John’s eyes whipped to the front of the classroom. “Attendance.”
“Sorry, sir,” John apologized quickly. “I’m John Deacon.”
“Best pay better attention in the future, Mr. Deacon,” the teacher said bluntly. “And I expect you and Mr. Taylor to be on time, as well.” John nodded, wishing he could melt into the floor and out of the classroom. Clearly, this was going to be a long term.
Other students were staring at him, wondering who the lanky new kid was, exactly as the students in his English class had done. One girl at the front of the class gave him a quick wave, which he promptly pretended hadn’t happened; his interactions with girls of his age were minimal, and in his experience, it was more trouble than it was worth to entertain the idea of making female friends. Things always got awkward if they expressed an interest in him, and he had to explain that he wasn’t partial to girls.
The rest of the class, and the afternoon in general, went by quickly. John and Brian were in the same physics class last period, which allowed them to walk together to the car park when class ended. Roger and Freddie were waiting at the vehicle, which was surprisingly the only vehicle in the lot that wasn’t a rust bucket.
“Brian’s got to sit up front so his giraffe legs will fit,” Freddie explained, climbing over the forward-tilted seat into the back. “You can come back here with me.” John obliged, tucking his knapsack beside Freddie’s in the centre of the back seat. “So, John, tell us how you found your first day!”
“Oh, um…” John mumbled, trying to think of a short summary. “Was alright, I guess. Managed to pay attention for most of it.” Roger laughed, meeting John’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He had gotten a kick out of Mr. McIntyre putting the boy on the spot, even if it was only because he wasn’t the student being picked on for once.
“That’s a win most days, innit?” the blonde grinned. “At least you seem to keep up with everything. Are you one of those fellas who don’t have to revise for tests and such, like our Brian here?” Roger pulled out of the lot and turned onto a residential street.
“Oh, shut up,” Brian retorted. “It’s not that I don’t have to revise, it’s that I’ve absorbed the information well enough the first time around, unlike you. Really helps if you show up to class on time.”
“I resent that implication,” Roger sniffed, shooting a dirty look at his friend stretched out in the passenger seat beside him. “I’m nearly always on time, except for when the class is bollocks.” John peered out the window, recognizing a few houses that he passed on his way to school that morning. He had given his address to Roger earlier in the day so that he would be able to pick his bass up and let his mother know where he was off to.
“You think they’re all bollocks, darling,” Freddie reminded him. “All except music, of course.”
“And biology!” Roger defended. “I’m not an idiot, Fred. I just don’t like to be bored, or be stuck listening to some shite I’ll never need to know in the future.”
Roger stopped the car in front of John’s house, where John’s mother and younger sister were sitting on the front step, chatting away about her first day at school. Brian stepped out onto the street and leaned the seat forward, allowing John to exit the vehicle. The boys bickered good-heartedly among themselves while John grabbed his instrument, and gave his mother Roger’s address, just in case.
“Don’t stay out too late, love,” she requested, waving at him as he returned to the car. “It’s a school night, after all!” After tucking his bass and small amplifier into the boot of the car (it just barely fit), John clambered back in and tapped Roger’s shoulder.
“We’re good,” he told his new friend. “She’s fine with it.” Roger put the car into gear and pulled slowly forward, waiting to push the speed limit until John’s family was out of sight.
* * * * *
When they arrived at Roger’s, he pulled the car up in front of the house, and the four boys piled out onto the sidewalk. The place was of a decent size, and the front garden appeared well-kempt.
“Think your mum’s making something decent for supper, Rog?” Freddie asked hopefully.
“Not likely,” Roger snorted. “She’s been on this health food trip lately, ever since she and my dad saw some documentary on the telly or something. But if you like Brussels sprout salad, I’m sure she’ll have you sorted.”
“I’ll pass,” Freddie shuddered, his expression sour. “Maybe after we’re done here, we could go back my house. My mum’s making Sali Boti tonight, and I’m sure there will be enough for everyone.” Roger whooped, excited at the prospect of enjoying Mrs. Bulsara’s cooking.
“Has that got meat in it, Fred?” Brian wondered, putting an arm out to shepherd John ahead of him on the walk up to the door.
“She’ll have something vegetarian too, Bri, don’t you worry,” Freddie assured him. “I know you’re not so interested in lamb.” Roger swung the front door open and kicked his trainers off, the clatter of his shoes against the wall serving as an announcement to his family that he was home.
“Be a little louder, will you, Rog?” Brian grumbled, clicking the door shut once they had all made it into the house. “Your mum’s going to make us leave before we’ve even done anything.” At the mention of her name, Roger’s mother poked her head around the corner.
“Hello, boys,” she greeted them from her place behind her ironing board, “come on in.” John noted the similarity in her teased, voluminous hairstyle to his own mother’s, the only difference being the colour. Roger – whose hair John had learned only minutes ago was dyed to be sandy-blonde – likely had the same natural colour as his mother, based on the colour of his eyebrows.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Taylor,” Freddie greeted her amiably. “We’ve brought a new friend you’ll want to meet.” He introduced John, who gave Mrs. Taylor a shy wave.
“Welcome here, John,” she beamed, arranging a button-down shirt on a hanger. “There’s snacks in the kitchen if you’re feeling hungry. Roger can show you where to find dishes, but please help yourself. Toilet’s down the hall on the left.” John nodded, thankful for the brief introduction to the house. It was never ideal to wander around an unfamiliar home in search of a toilet, only to push open a to find a mate’s sister half-dressed in her bedroom. That wasn’t a situation John wished to repeat.
“We’re going out to the garage, Mum,” Roger informed her, grabbing an armful of fruit from the metal basket on the kitchen counter. “Have Claire give us a shout if you need anything.”
“The neighbours have complained a few times lately about “the racket”, but I’m going to ignore them,” his mother smirked. “I rather like hearing the fun you boys have together. Better than you lot hanging around the park smoking pot, I tried to tell them, but they didn’t seem to agree.”
“That’s what we do when we aren’t here,” Freddie jested, receiving a laugh from the woman. Having been an adult during the beginning years of the popularity of LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs, Mrs. Taylor had a healthy understanding of the temptations facing teens her son’s age. She chose to face it with good humour, trusting that she and her husband had done their best to encourage their children to be responsible with their decisions.
“Your father should be home in about two hours,” she reminded Roger, “so I’d get out there and get your practising done before he starts clanging around the garage. He’s got to fix some floorboards, and I’m certain he’ll have to dig to the bottom of his toolchest to find anything, knowing him.” She waved goodbye to her son and his friends, expressing again to John that it was “a pleasure to meet him”.
The boys set up in the garage and got straight to work. After hearing John during the lunch hour jazz rehearsal, the boys had recognized his proficiency on the bass. John cited bassists such as The Who’s John Entwistle, and Chris Squire of Yes as players he admired, and their influence was evident in his sound, the way he held the instrument, and in his technique.
Freddie explained while Roger tuned his drums that he and Brian were both amateur songwriters, and that they had written a few original pieces to play. John already knew many of the licks and chord progressions to the cover songs his new friends liked to play, but it would take him some time to learn Brian and Freddie’s originals. They were quite patient, though, admiring his tenacity and willingness to learn. Being a shy and quiet person, Freddie instantly demanded that John turn up the sound on his amp, insisting that he couldn’t hear him otherwise.
“If you love Entwistle so much,” Freddie told him, “you’ve got to know that a bassist should play loud and proud, and ignore the vocalist when he insists you turn down.” John laughed at this, recalling an interview he recently read in a music magazine, where the famous Who bassist commented on his lead singer’s annoyance with the volume of his bass amplifiers. Freddie, it seemed, had a better attitude than Roger Daltrey when it came to his bandmates’ volume.
The four of them spent the better part of two hours jamming on whatever songs they felt like playing. Not having scheduled any gigs lately, as they had recently lost their bassist, Tim, they didn’t have any specific numbers they were eager to practice. John was able to enjoy himself the entire time without any stress or worries; all three of these boys seemed very laid back. At one point, Roger and Brian narrowly avoided a row related to Brian’s tendency to insist upon guitar solos, but Freddie came to the rescue and diffused the situation.
Throughout the practice, John couldn’t help but peer at his blonde friend from the corner of his eye. Playing his drum kit with great fervour, Roger’s face became red and a bit sweaty after a time, with droplets of perspiration accumulating on his forehead. He wore a pair of sweatbands on his wrists to prevent his drumsticks from slipping out of his fingers, which John thought was both a smart idea and an unfortunate fashion choice. Halfway through their jam session, Roger unbuttoned his shirt, baring his pale chest. Again, John’s face flushed, unnerved by the sight of the drummer’s bare skin. Hearing John miss a few notes, Freddie glanced over to check on the boy, and noticed with a sly smile that Roger was proving to bed a distraction. He made a note to chat with John about that later, not wanting to discuss such a personal topic in front of the other boys.
When Roger’s father appeared in the doorway of the garage, he gave a thumbs-up to his son and his friends, but ultimately brought their practice session to an end. Roger kept losing track of the timing, and Brian was feeling both tired and hungry, which influenced his own playing.
“Time to call it a day,” Freddie said decidedly when Roger smashed his sticks against the cymbals to end the song they were playing. “I’ll give my house a ring and let my mother know we’re on our way. John, darling, will you be joining us for dinner?”
John glanced up nervously as he detached the patch cord from his guitar and wound it into a series of loops. It was tempting to accompany the group, he thought, but his mother would much prefer if he was home for dinner. He also had some things to think about, and would need to be alone to give them the attention they deserved. For one thing, he found himself both delighted and unnerved by Roger’s presence. It was unlikely Roger was interested in anything but pretty girls, he knew, so it was important that he work past the physical reaction his body was having to his friend’s presence.
“I think I’ll have to take a rain check,” John replied, his voice almost sad. “Mum and Julie will get lonely if I’m not home for supper, especially since it’s our first week in the new house. I really should be there.”
“That’s fair, mate,” Roger acknowledged with a gentle smile. “Brian’s probably not going to come along either, I can see it in his eyes. He’s got his mind on other things.” Brian scowled at his friend, but his cheeks went bright pink.
“Ah yes, the new issue of Men Only comes out today, doesn’t it, Bri?” Freddie teased. “There’s sure to be some nice photographs in it. Maybe John will want to have a look when you’re finished with it?”
“Shove off, Fred,” Brian groused, pulling his guitar strap over his head. “That’s Roger who likes to read that sort of thing.”
“Ah yes, our Brian would rather fawn over National Geographic,” Roger said fondly, his comment targeted at John. “A naturalist at heart, this one is.” John nodded politely, still focused on the mention of the soft-core porn mag Freddie had mentioned. He himself had a few issues stashed away in the bottom of his sock drawer at home, and was getting a bit warm at the idea of flipping through photographs of scantily clad models. Since his father had passed away when he was young, John had never had discussions about sex or anything of the sort with an adult role model; his mother certainly wasn’t about to talk to her son about such things.
“Our Johnny-boy’s already picked it up from the petrol station, evidently,” Freddie joked, seeing the far-away look in John’s eyes. “It’s alright John, we’re all friends here. You can tell us anything.”
“Um, that’s alright,” John choked out, his gaze flickering to the floor at the idea of sharing those kinds of thoughts with his new friends. Maybe once they’d known each other a while, but certainly not today.
“Let’s get these starry-eyed fellows home,” Roger told Freddie, continuing with the joke. “They’ve got business to attend to, as do we. Can’t let your mother’s cooking get cold; it would be a terrible waste.” John and Brian packed up their instruments and carried them out to the front of Roger’s house, where the car was parked at the front kerb. Roger ducked his head into the house as he walked past, shouting to his mother that they would be taking supper at Freddie’s.
When Roger pulled up in front of John’s small house for the second time that afternoon, John removed his equipment from the boot and gave the boys a quick wave before walking up the path towards the front door. Freddie cranked the handle on the door to roll down his window and shouted after him.
“See you tomorrow in class, Deacon!”