She Loves You (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)

by Ann Hood

  “Sleepover,” I said. “I told you.”

  “That’s right. Nora’s. Lucky you, sleeping in air-conditioning.”

  “Remember, I told Mrs. Lombardi, and she’s going to bring you dinner and visit,” I reminded her.

  Mrs. Lombardi was our ancient neighbor, always complaining about how old she was, and how much her legs hurt, and how she had no one to cook for anymore. Poor Mom would have to listen to all of the complaining, but she’d get lasagna or chicken parmesan or maybe both.

  “Oh dear,” Mom said. “I’ll never be able to get rid of her.”

  I floated back out of the room to take the soup cans out. Sure enough, my hair fell perfectly straight. I smiled at my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “My name is Trudy Mixer,” I said softly. “Pleased to meet you, Paul McCartney.”

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 18, 1966

  12:45 P.M.

  OFFICIAL COUNTDOWN TO MEETING

  PAUL MCCARTNEY BEGINS:

  PLAN GETS SET INTO MOTION

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nowhere Man

  We stepped off the local bus into chaos. Announcements crackled over a loudspeaker and people rushed past us, fast, with briefcases and shopping bags and hats and high heels and a swirl of perfume and aftershave.

  “Now what?” Nora said.

  For some reason, she had gotten her hair cut into bangs again and she looked even more ridiculous than usual. The bangs were too short and uneven, which didn’t help her overall look, which was, as Mom would say, untidy. Also, she’d worn jeans, even though it was a million degrees. The jeans had ripped at the knees, and she’d sewn a red felt heart onto each knee. “My mom thought they were cute,” she’d told us when we were waiting for the first bus. They weren’t.

  “Trudy?” Nora was asking, and although she said Trudy her voice was actually saying Help.

  “Now we get the bus to Boston,” I said with fake confidence.

  Peter pointed to a board that hung from the ceiling.

  “Boston. Three p.m. Gate three,” he said.

  At times like this, I wanted to hug him.

  “Right,” I said. “Gate three.”

  I went to buy the tickets while they went to get in line. The lady at the ticket counter frowned at me.

  “You going to Boston alone?” she asked me.

  “Oh no! I’m going with the Beatles Fan Club!” I smiled at her, showing all my teeth.

  “Really?” she said, impressed. “You going to the concert tonight?”

  I nodded.

  “Now that is something you will remember for the rest of your life,” she said, sliding four round-trip tickets to Boston toward me. “How about that.”

  I thanked her and got away, fast, in case she asked me more questions or changed her mind. As I made my way to gate three, I noticed that Penelope was nowhere to be seen. This was definitely the best bus to take to get to the concert on time, and I felt bad that my instinct had been right: Penelope wasn’t going to the concert. If I had a fifth ticket, I would have found her somehow right then and given it to her.

  Peter, Jessica, and Nora were all looking at me expectantly, so I held up the bus tickets before I even reached them, and such great relief swept over their faces that I waved the tickets in the air and did a little dance, just for effect.

  In no time, we were boarding the bus and sitting two by two—Peter and me, Jessica and Nora—across the aisle from each other. I had the sign we’d made at our fan club meeting rolled up and I patted my pocketbook again, just before the bus pulled out of the station, just checking that the tickets were still there. They were. I could feel the points of the corners of the envelope, the slight bump of the four tickets inside.

  “Trudy,” Peter said softly, “even if we don’t actually get to meet Paul McCartney, even if the Beatles don’t play any of the songs I want them to play, this is already the best day of my life.”

  “Mine too,” I said.

  I looked out the window, watching Providence disappear and the bus cross the border into Massachusetts.

  “Trudy?” Peter said again.

  “Mmm?” I said, without turning around to look at him.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  That was okay with me. I didn’t really feel like talking. Already the traffic was getting bad, all these cars with all these people moving toward the best day of their lives.

  * * *

  * * *

  If the bus terminal in Providence was bustling and confusing, the one in Boston was a million times worse. So many people rushing about. So many buses groaning into and out of the gates. Announcements and signs and the smell of stale popcorn and stale people. All of it swirling around the four of us as we stood there, paralyzed.

  Once again, Peter came to the rescue.

  “The T,” he said, pointing to a sign, which was in fact the letter T.

  We all stood still, getting our bearings, catching our breaths, and maybe even patting ourselves on the back. We had made it to Boston. The plan was in place, moving along just as we’d envisioned.

  “We want the Green Line,” I said, and I started toward it, the others following close behind. This was the trickiest part of our journey. We needed to take the Green Line to Government Center and then transfer to the Blue Line. From there it was seven stops to Suffolk Downs. I’d studied the MBTA map in a book at the library, carefully copying down the stops: State, Aquarium, Maverick, Airport, Wood Island, Orient Heights, Suffolk Downs. I even knew the Blue Line was called Blue because it runs under Boston Harbor, a fact I knew my father would have liked to hear if he wasn’t in Japan.

  “I’ve never been on a subway,” Nora said, and I wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement that was making her voice shake.

  “Neither have I,” Jessica said. “This is so cool.”

  We were swept up in the crowd of people going to the Green Line, carried along with them. I stood in line at the booth to buy our tokens, carefully counting out four dollars and taking the tokens the grumpy man in the booth dropped into the tray. Then we put them in the slot and went through the turnstile, feeling very sophisticated. Or at least, I felt sophisticated. Nora looked pretty terrified. Jessica looked wide-eyed, full of wonder. And Peter . . . well . . . I couldn’t read what Peter felt. But as we followed everyone down a ramp and onto the platform, I felt worldly and sophisticated, like a person who rode subways and buses with great ease.

  In no time a train pulled up and we crowded onto it. Luckily we all found seats, but not together. Like any city person, I held my purse close to my chest in case of pickpockets working the train. I saw that Nora, who was sitting across the aisle from me, had put her purse down on the floor at her feet, a very dumb thing to do. Anyone could grab it and get off at the next stop. Then what would we do?

  “Nora,” I called over to her.

  The woman next to me frowned. Were subways like libraries? No talking allowed?

  “Pick up your bag,” I said when Nora looked up.

  I showed her how I was clutching mine. But she just stared at me, blank faced.

  The train wheezed to a stop. Boylston Street.

  I realized I should have written down the Green Line stops too. On the map, Government Center had looked close to Park Street where we got on.

  Just like that the train was moving again, and just like that it stopped again. Arlington Street.

  “I think our stop is next,” I said kind of loud so they could all hear me.

  The woman next to me glared.

  The train took off and in no time pulled into Copley Station.

  A wave of anxiety rolled through me. I thought for sure that Government Center was closer, that our transfer was easy. I’d studied the maps, after all. But mostly the Blue Line.

  This time the train seemed to go quite a while befor
e it stopped at Prudential Station.

  Four stops and no Blue Line.

  “Trudy?” Peter said from somewhere behind me. “How many more stops?”

  “I think we’re next,” I said hopefully.

  But the next stop was Symphony Station, not Government Center.

  Suddenly, we were stopping and going like crazy. Northeastern University. Museum of Fine Arts. Longwood Medical Area.

  “Do you know when Government Center is?” I asked the woman next to me.

  She tsked at me and shook her head. “That’s Inbound,” she said. “You’re going Outbound.”

  “Outbound?” I repeated. I had no idea what that meant, except that we had done something very wrong.

  The woman was standing, gathering her big Jordan Marsh shopping bags.

  “Get off here, walk around to the Inbound side, and go back the way you came. Nine stops.”

  “Nine? The other way?” I gasped.

  “You need to pay again,” she said, tsking and shaking her head.

  I stood, too. “Come on,” I told the others. “We went the wrong way.”

  “What?” Nora said, and it looked like she was about to cry.

  “We just have to go back. Nine stops. No problem.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. I’d gone from sophisticated to country bumpkin in a matter of minutes. Probably everyone on this train could tell I didn’t know what I was doing.

  The train stopped. The doors opened.

  As I stepped onto the platform, I heard Nora gasp. “Oh, no! Someone stole my purse!”

  The train pulled away and all the people who got off rushed toward their own lives. Not the Beatles Fan Club. We just stood there looking at each other, lost and robbed and scared.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away

  Nora wanted to go to the police. But if we did that, I was afraid we’d miss the concert. It was almost six o’clock and we had to backtrack nine whole stops and then transfer to the Blue Line. Our plan was already starting to crumble. If we had to find a policeman and report a theft, who knows how long it would take?

  “Was there anything important in there?” Jessica asked Nora.

  She looked worried, but I wasn’t sure if it was because one of us had been robbed or if, like me, she thought we might not make it to Suffolk Downs on time.

  Instead of answering, Nora burst into tears, which made Peter terrified.

  “Uh-oh,” he said helplessly.

  “Did you have a lot of money in there?” I asked Nora, but she only cried harder.

  “Do you want me to try to find a policeman?” Jessica asked.

  But Nora didn’t answer her either. She just kept crying.

  Jessica rubbed her back, the way a mother might soothe her baby, except I could tell Jessica felt kind of weird doing it.

  Time passed. A lot of time.

  I knew this because there was a big clock right in front of us, reminding me how late it was getting.

  “Maybe we should just go?” Peter finally said. “I mean, stick with the plan?”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I said, grateful to him once again.

  “Well, if it’s okay with Nora,” Jessica said hesitantly.

  Even though Jessica had a million Girl Scout merit badges that claimed she could do stuff like administer first aid, identify birds, sew, bake, repair a bicycle, do chemistry experiments, knit, babysit, and all sorts of seemingly useful things, when push came to shove—like right now—she honestly had no idea what to do.

  “Nora?” I said, trying not to sound impatient. “Should we just go to the concert?”

  I swear, that big clock had become my enemy, standing there ticking away the minutes.

  Nora’s crying had turned into whimpering.

  “Are you worried that you’re going to get in trouble?” Jessica said.

  With that, a whole new torrent of crying began.

  “Your mother will understand,” I said.

  Honestly, I had no idea if her mother would be mad or not. I was just being selfish, trying to calm her down and get us all to the concert.

  Nora turned on me, her eyes wild and her voice sharp. “How do you know what my mother will do? I don’t even know.”

  “If there wasn’t anything valuable in there—” I began, but she cut me off.

  “Only the most valuable thing I own,” Nora said. “The one picture of me with my mother.”

  This did not make any sense. I knew that Nora and her mother were really close, that she was always running home to be with her or talking about how great she was. But maybe her mother still had the negative for that picture and they could print out a new one. For certain they could take a new one, and that might be even better than the picture that was lost.

  Nora wasn’t giving me a chance to say any of this logical stuff, she just kept saying, “You have no idea. You have no idea.”

  Peter started pacing back and forth on the platform. Maybe he was trying to think of a solution. Maybe he was walking off the nervous energy like I had bubbling up inside me. Maybe he just didn’t know what to do.

  All of a sudden Jessica shouted, “Officer! Officer!”

  Sure enough, a Boston policeman was walking past in his navy blue uniform and hat. He was tall with broad shoulders, like a football player. His badge said OFFICER MURPHY.

  He strolled over to us, looking kind of amused.

  “How can I help?” he asked Jessica.

  “We . . . I mean . . . she has been robbed,” Jessica said, pointing to Nora, who was sniffling and crying softly.

  “Ah! Were you hurt, miss?” the policeman asked, the amusement replaced now with concern.

  Nora shook her head no.

  “What was stolen?” he asked.

  “My purse,” Nora said in a soft pathetic voice.

  “Were your life savings in it?” he asked.

  Nora shook her head again.

  “Did you see who took it?”

  “No,” Nora squeaked.

  “I told her to hold it instead of leaving it on the floor,” I said.

  “Did you?” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “Good advice that’s not going to help anyone now, is it?”

  The policeman kneeled down so that he was eye to eye with Nora.

  “The sad truth is you’re not going to get that purse of yours back. We have no suspects. No fingerprints. Nothing. You just have to take a deep breath and continue on your way home.”

  “Oh!” Jessica said. “We’re not going home. We’re going to see the Beatles.”

  The policeman looked surprised. “You’re taking the T out to Suffolk Downs? You’d better get going then. You’ve got a ways to travel. You know you need to exit and enter over there,” Officer Murphy told us.

  I nodded.

  “Who’s your favorite one?” he asked, already starting to walk away.

  “Paul,” I said.

  “The Cute Beatle,” Officer Murphy said with a chuckle. “Me, I like George. He’s a deep thinker.”

  Of course I didn’t tell him that no one liked George best. I just half-smiled at him and Jessica, said thank you, and off he went.

  “I’m sorry your purse got stolen,” Peter said.

  Nora looked miserable, but at least she’d stopped crying, which I took as an opportunity to start turning ourselves around. Luckily, everyone else had the same idea, and soon we were pushing through the turnstile, exiting the station, only to reenter on the other side.

  “Your mom probably saved the negative of that picture,” Jessica said.

  “That’s what I think, too,” I said. “She’ll make a new one tomorrow.”

  To my surprise, Nora burst into tears again.

  I looked at Jessica and Jessica looked at Pet
er and Peter looked at me.

  “No she won’t,” Nora managed in between sobs.

  The train arrived, but Nora was crying too hard for us to actually get on it. The doors opened, paused, then closed. Then the train went off without us.

  “She can’t,” Nora said.

  “Why not?” I asked, confused.

  “Because she’s gone,” Nora blurted. “Mom left back in January and we haven’t heard a word from her since then.”

  “Left?” Jessica repeated. “Left where?”

  “San Francisco,” Nora said. “She went there to find herself.”

  Another train pulled into the station. But this time, too shocked by what Nora had said, none of us could move.

  * * *

  * * *

  There was exactly one kid in the entire school whose parents were divorced. Linda Emmett. Everyone knew that one day, way back in first grade, her father left to pick up milk at the corner store and never came back. It was a tragedy, that’s what my mother said. Poor Mrs. Emmett—that’s how everyone referred to her—had three kids under the age of six and had to get a job to support them. Linda wore an air of sadness, and embarrassment. Even her house, a little Cape a few streets from ours, looked kind of sad and embarrassed. There was no father to fix the peeling paint or patch the roof, no father to cut the grass or shovel the snow. Poor Mrs. Emmett did her best, but somehow she never caught up with chores and homework and school projects. In elementary school, Linda was always the one whose colonial diorama never got finished and whose book reports were always too short. She had more tardies than any other kid in school.

  So when Jessica whispered, “Your parents got divorced?” we all understood how terrible a thing that was.

  “No!” Nora said emphatically. “Mom just left.”

  “Will they get divorced?” Jessica persisted.

  But I realized that was beside the point. Your mother leaving was in some ways worse than your parents getting divorced. It meant that Nora’s father had to do all the mother things—hair combing, hem darning, bath supervision. That explained why Nora looked so untidy.