Luckily, I was told that I didn't have to work on the floor the Beatles were staying on, so I could avoid seeing Paul after the incident the day before.  

However, during my lunch break, someone told me that Mr. McCartney had requested that I be their maid their entire stay.  After that, I lost my appetite.  

I brought new linens, pillows and everything they could possibly need.  The boys ran out of the hotel shampoo almost everyday, so I brought two extra bottles.  

Paul greeted me at the door, asked how my day was and how my evening played out the night before.  I didn't say much with each answer; I just wanted to leave the room as fast as possible.  Very quickly I changed the sheets, vacuumed the floor and swept up the bathroom tile.  When I was bending down to empty the garbage bins, I could tell he was staring at my backside.  If he were someone from my neighborhood, I would tell him to get lost.  I was almost tempted to, but I wouldn't dare after shouting at him.

He seemed to read my mind once I had finished cleaning.  "I-I don't mean to stare, love.  Has...has anyone ever told you that you are pretty?"

People had.  But no one like him would dare saying something like that.  

"Sir, this is very inappropriate.  Surely you know that."  I prayed that he did know that.  

"I know that.  But, can't I just talk to you?  There aren't any laws against that, are there?" He took a step towards me, but I instantly jumped back.  "Please don't be afraid.  I don't want to hurt you." 

By that time I was back up against the door.  "Your career will be ruined if I'm seen with you.  My aunt's house was set on fire just because she was seen in a wrong part of town.  I've got a family to look after, sir.  I can't risk them being hurt."  Why wouldn't he just leave me alone?  Didn't he know that if my manager walked in, seeing us like this, I could lose my job?  

Suddenly, Paul grabbed my shoulders.  My first instinct was to pull away or hit him, but if I did that it would be the end of me.  

He lightened his touch on me, feeling me tense.  "It's not 'Sir.'"  Then he pressed his lips against mine.  I gasped, and my eyes went wide.  However, his were closed, and the hands that originally rested on my shoulders where holding my face.  

It was so wrong.  I could be killed for that.  My family could be killed for that.  How could I explain this to someone if they found out?  Even if Paul told the truth, the fact that he kissed me, no one would believe him.  They would say that I forced myself on the poor Beatle, who didn't know how filthy I really was.  

But if he really was angry with me, why wasn't he trying ot hurt me?  If he wanted to, he would have already.  After all, he had locked the door, preventing anyone from seeing us.  

One thing that puzzled me most of all were these two questions: Why wasn't he afraid to touch me?  

And why did I enjoy his touch?

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When he pulled away, I sighed, my eyes still closed and relaxed.  "Paul, that was..."

He smiled, and went into to kiss me again.  But I stopped him.  "Wrong.  That was wrong."  Oh, God, what have I done!  

But then I remembered what my dad said.  I needed to give him everything he wanted.  But before I could do something else, he said, "I'm sorry, but I really liked that."  Then he pulled something out of his pocket, and reached for me again.  I let him, even though I startled when he tucked something into the breast pocket of dress.  He withdrew his hands quickly, and then put them behind his back, showing me that he didn't want to touch me again.  

"Open it when you get home." 

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In the little bundle of paper was the fifteen dollars.  I gave all of it to Dad, who gave a dollar to me to save.  I was worried he was expecting more where it came from.  

But there was one thing that I didn't dare show him.  

Paul had written me a little number on the paper, the phone number to his hotel room.  For an hour so I debated with myself whether or not to call him, but with shaking hands I dialed the number.  

And he didn't answer.  

I tried again.  

No answer.  

Frustrated that he had wasted my time, I was about to turn back to my room when there was a knock on the screen door, and I nearly had a heart attack.  

I ran outside and pulled Paul the side of my house.  "What are you doing here?" I demanded.  

He was dressed in all black and was wearing John's cap to hide his hair.  Even though he was trying to hide it, I could tell he was frightened and felt horribly out of place.  "I-I saw you leave and I followed you home.  I really just wanted to talk."  

Looking around, I hoped that no one had seen him yet.  "You're not safe here, and I'm not safe where you belong.  You need to go back to your hotel."  Forget the hotel; he needed to go back home.  To England.  The boy who gave me strange feelings needed to get out of my life.  

"Can't we go somewhere that no one will find us?  Isn't there any place we could go to hide?" he pleaded, watching me look around.  I sighed.  Though I knew this meant horrible trouble if we were caught, I did know a place.  I told him to stay in the dark where he was while I got my coat.  

However, my dad caught me before I got out the door.  

"It's late.  Where do you think you're going?"

"Mrs. Washington asked me if I could come over to her house tonight.  She needed some help washing her laundry."

Dad sat up in his chair and examined his newspaper.  "If it's too late, you stay over there.  I don't want you walking around alone."  

I thanked him, said goodnight and then left.  

We went around the back, hiding and running through the shadows, avoiding porchlights.  There were men around here who wouldn't take to kindly to Paul.  They'd claim he was kidnapping me, or hurting me, and he would pay dearly for it.  

There was an abandoned house that the kids were told not to play in, but in the hot days of summer teenagers would go there to smoke.  Thankfully no one was there that night, but I nearly died in fright when a car drove by, its lights passing my the windows.

I brought him up to the second level, just to be safe.  He took off his cap, and shook his hair to fix it.  I sat on the floor.  He sat next to me.  

"You shouldn't call me 'Sir' or 'Mr. McCartney', Maura.  I'm in your neighborhood now.  We're equals."  Maybe in his head we were, but anywhere besides that creepy old house that was not true.  

"Paul, this is dangerous.  Don't you realize that?"

He turned towards me.  "Can I ask you something?"  I didn't reply, but he spoke anyway.  "If there were no laws, or no prejudice, would you admit that you enjoyed our kiss?"  

Our kiss.  

What did that mean?

I began to get angry again.  "I don't know if you're really brave or really stupid, Paul.  Maybe both!  You don't seem to care that you're risking your life to be here tonight, and that I'm possibly risking mine!  If anyone sees us tonight, I'll be torn apart by your fans and admirers, because a Negro kissed you and touched you.  They won't care that you allowed it, and they won't care that you touched me in the first place.  They just want to have another reason to throw a black girl in jail and toss the key."  His expression was one of confusion and sadness.  "You're so naive to everything that's going on around you!  Sure, you delight the white population of America, but all you seem to care about is your image!  'Oh, look, that old man was just beat up by a policeman, but my cheeks still look rosy!'" 

Paul stood up, and for a moment I thought that this was it.  He was waiting until now to corner me and beat up the unworthy maid.  But after a minute, he said, "That's what you think of us?  Do you remember that business about the venue I was telling you about?  We're arguing against the owners because they want to segregate the audience, but we don't.  We're not supposed to have real voices, just singing voices.  We're supposed to appeal to everyone and not voice opinions.  I want to stop this, but if I say something, it will ruin it for my entire band.  They feel the same as I do, but we...we all, including you....have something to lose if we did say something."  

Turning towards me, his eyes grew wide as he spoke.  "I know what it's like to be hungry and not have the means to pay for food.  I know what it's like to be tired and unable to rest.  I know what it feels like to lose a part of your heart.  But I can't say I know what it's like to be you, and I don't pretend to know what you're going through.  I've worked for what I have, Maura, and I know you have too.  That's another thing that we have in common."  

After his little speech, I was lost in thought.  When I first saw him, despite his kindness, I thought he was just another clean-cut handsome man that all teenagers sought to be.  A pretty-boy.  

I was doing the same thing that everyone did to me.  They thought I was dirty and lowly, yet they never said a word to me to find out otherwise.  I had never asked Paul about himself to know that he had thoughts in that handsome little head of his.  

I had to stop calling him handsome.

Quietly, I said, "I'm sorry." 

He had his back to me, not responding.  "Paul?" I said, softly.  

No reply.  I got up off the floor and walked over towards him.  When I put a hand on his shoulder, he turned, and I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  "I want to know more about you."

"I want to know more about you." he replied, making me smile.  

"Trust me.  There is a lot to know."