A/N: Y'know, it's been almost two week . . . I blame FIFA . . . and I have good reason to blame them because this totally would have been up yesterday. First, my brother started playing FIFA and at first I honestly didn't care because he usually starts yelling at the TV. But then he started playing with Liverpool . . . then Chelsea . . . then Barcelona. And after 10 minutes I was like "Oscar shoot it! Go(forty o's later)oal!" So, I obviously have a football addiction. Anyways, after that football ramble I'd like to thank Macca40, PurlyandGirly, ThisBirdHasFlown, anakinbridger541 on Wattpad and MaccaandGeorgie on AO3!

"Please Buddy, please? Georgie—"

"Are you just using George to get whatever you want when he's not around?"

"No. You just like him more."

Buddy sighed and looked away from me. Even without looking at him, I could tell that he was rolling his eyes.

"What did you ask me again?" Buddy asked after sighing quietly.

"I asked if you wanted to go to Carson Beach with us. We'll have a little picnic there and we could play some sports like volleyball or something. We'll probably be going around mid-June," I told him with excitement running through me.

"Carson Beach? Are you—?"

"Yes, I know about it! It isn't dirty . . . anymore! I've read up on it. So the only beaches you should be worried about are the ones near Lake Michigan!"

"I think you should be worrying about that class we need to teach instead. Thirty six year olds in one room all asking questions or having snot drip down their nose or hyper from God knows what . . . this'll be fun. You have the guitar?" Buddy asked, looking around crazily for the thing.

He was looking in the wrong place though, so it was really funny to see him act like Martha trying to chase her tail.

"I brought it to the class yesterday. See? I can be very prepared."

Buddy didn't say anything else after that but continued to walk with me down the hall to the class we were assigned to teach. Ours was a bit farther down from the rest so we were the only college kids walking down the elementary school. That definitely gave us some odd looks.

The odd looks—and random children—all diminished when we got to the class. I couldn't hear anything, but that could be because the wooden door was pretty thick.

Slowly opening the door, a child instantly ran to my feet. I remember the loss of sensation in my feet anywhere . . .

"Hey, isn't that the little guy who wouldn't let go of you on New Year's Eve?" Buddy, laughing at the scene, questioned.

Mason scowled, pouting and grasping onto my leg all the more while he looked at Buddy.

"I'm not little! I'm in first grade! Kindergarteners are little," Mason corrected. It only made Buddy laugh even more, opening the door all the way and seeing the other 'little kids'.

The teacher that was there instantly jumped up, looking at us like we were some sort of hero saving us from something. When she started talking, that's when I knew it was true.

"Thank goodness you're here! I almost thought you wouldn't come," the teacher sighed as she picked up her things. "Mr. Robinson said that you guys would be doing this until the end of the day so good luck."

The she practically ran out and we could even hear her screaming that she was finally free. Okay, definitely a little scared of these guys.

First job on the list was rounding them up to the rug.

"Hey guys we need to go over to the rug now!" Buddy shouted over the noise.

No one paid attention to him in the slightest.

"Guys, I think you could get a sticker right now if you went to the rug! Like now!"

Again, they continued playing with Legos and running around.

"Who wants to see Paul play guitar? If you get over to the rug now, he will!"

They instantly stopped moving, all looking at each other as if they needed to get conformation on if what they heard was true. After they got that yes from their child telepathy, every single one of them went to the carpet immediately.

"Are you serious, Buddy?" I hissed angrily as they looked up at us with hopeful eyes. "I don't even know what to play! And what am I going to sing?"

He shrugged, looking around the room for the cruddy case I put my Fender Squire in. Buddy pulled a few overdramatic near falls as he continued to look, giving the kids a bit of entertainment so they wouldn't start running around again.

"Found it! Now kids, what's your favorite song?"

One girl instantly shot up her hand, looking like she knew her answer was the best. Please be Chuck Berry . . . Please be Chuck Berry . . . Please be—

"What about this Justin Bieber song—?"

"No!" Buddy instantly shouted. "Your suggestions are now invalid because of that disgrace to the human race. C'mon Paul, play something . . . anything but that."

Instantly the kids laughed as Buddy shivered in disgust and obviously the little girl who suggested Bieber wasn't too happy. I slung the guitar strap onto me and started to play a bit through the strings to see if it was still tuned. Yup, still perfect.

"Hey, you're playing the guitar just like—"

"Kid, if you bring up Beaver one more time, I will honestly cry. Or go insane. Maybe both . . ." Buddy moaned.

Starting into the opening of "I'm A Believer", he instantly cracked a smile. We planned singing the whole lesson to them maybe a day ago—yeah, very good planning on our part. I read an article that said kids learn better if they're taught by music and we're both really good at music, so why not?

"I thought math was only for the grown-ups," Holly started out. "Meant for someone else but not for me. Adding was out to get me, that's the way it seemed.

"Mathematics haunted all my dreams . . . but then I counted it out and got the answer! Not a trace of doubt in my mind! I know math! Now I'm a believer and I can't forget this if I tried."

We continued to sing that song over and over and over again until they slightly got bored of it. And like when I first met some of them, they were singing some of the same lines on repeat.

"Hey, wasn't that song from Shrek, Mr. Holly?" a little boy asked.

"No, it was from The Monkees," 'Mr. Holly' answered as he tickled the same girl that was talking about Bieber.

"There are singing monkeys? Cool!"

"No! It's by a band called The Monkees. Y'know, M.o.n.k.e.e.s," Buddy said slowly, spelling it out. The little boy laughed.

"You don't know how to spell monkey! It's ey not ee!"

"Children these days . . ."

"Mr. McCartney! Since school's almost over, they let us do what we want. Can I draw?" Mason asked quietly, touching my guitar lightly. I guess that's the end of me watching over the possible fight about spelling.

"Yeah, I'll come watch you draw. But why don't you go play with the other kids?" I asked as we walked over to a spot in the back of the room. It certainly helped me see if any of the kids were acting crazy.

"It's because I might get hurt. So I do safe things, like drawing. And it's fun too!"

"But why do you need to not get hurt?"

He shrugged, looking down at his page, which wasn't so covered in green like the last time he was drawing.

"It's because—"

"Paul! They're rioting! And I think I heard Mr. Robinson's loud shoes . . ." Buddy yelled as he tried to stop kids from hurting themselves and . . . Buddy.

"Promise me you won't try to be a teacher with one of your friends, Mason. Seriously," I muttered. I got up quickly from the small chair and it practically sighed in relief.

"I won't. Try not to hurt anyone, Mr. McCartney!"

And with that I went into the fiery pit also known as 'playtime'. Thank God school was ending in a few more days.

. . . . . . . . .

"I swear if George doesn't get into this car in five minutes, I will go out there and personally drag him in by his greasy hair," John growled. He slumped into his seat and flipped through the pages that were in his lap.

"It's because of Pattie. She'll be coming too, so you don't need to worry about greasy hair any longer," I muttered as I tried to look for him amongst all the other kids.

"Great, I get out of the hospital not even two weeks and I'm already going back because of those two lovebirds," Ringo said miserably from the back. "Just don't let her in. He was doing just fine with those jelly babies."

"Too late. She's coming and wow! How did George get a girl like her? Wait . . . she has a gap in her teeth. Cynthia's still better."

Pattie was wearing yet another one of her scarfs and she was laughing wildly at whatever 'funny' thing George just said. Whatever he did to get her away from Eric and into his arms, I kinda wanted to know.

"Move faster! Some of us have to study for a final that we're going to fail!" John yelled out of the window. He tried honking the horn for extra measure, but I kept slapping him away.

"George! Seriously, talk about prom and getting into someone's—"

"John, I'm right here. You don't need to yell," George sighed as he opened the door for Pattie, climbing in right after her.

"Just calm down, being angry isn't good for the skin," Pattie suggested, sandwiched between Ringo and George in the back.

"John doesn't do angry, he sulks actually," I corrected, taking a quick turn on a busy road.

"He does a whole lot of pouting too. It's a sort of order really," Ringo added lightly. John slumped farther into his seat, rolling his eyes and just staring out the window.

"You don't need to talk about my skin, I think I'm doing just fine."        

"She's going to be a model when she grows up, she'll be the best out of all of them," George said with as much mushy, teenage love as I could take. Okay, maybe a little more.      

"Thanks Geo," Pattie said back with even more of that love. She hugged him as if a reward for that compliment, which quickly turned into cuddling. "That's why I have to ask, why do you want to go to a barber shop anyway?"

I'd say so, but it'd only create a very boring story and everyone would fall asleep . . . I'll say it anyway though.

My dad, even though we lived in Chelsea (not the one in England), would always take the whole family every once in a while to Boston to go to this barber shop called University Barber Shop. It would take almost half an hour to get there even though Chelsea had more than enough barber shops. The place looked like it came straight out of one of those old black and white movies, with the little pole on the side too.

Along the way he'd always take a detour to the college that I go to now, Emmanuel College. And he'd always say the same story about how he met mom there, along with saying how he'd want us to go there too so we could probably meet our true love there. Dad always did tell stories that people would wish were true.

"This isn't just a barber shop, it's the barber shop. Don't worry, the people there are friendly," I reassured her, making one last turn and driving up to the place.

"It looks small," John said, moving up from his slumping position and getting out of the car.

"It's a family owned business, the place is just fine," I said back, totally protecting the place.

The second George and Pattie got out, they kept clinging to each other like it was the end of the world. John and Ringo lingered behind, pretending to puke over the two. With the growing nauseous feeling I was getting, I'm hoping they'll continue to pretend.

With the little ding of the bell, we all walked in and got everyone that was in there to look at us, even though there weren't that many people. A silence fell and everyone continued to stare . . . until one of them cracked a smile.

"Paul! Long time no see, yeah?" one of the older barbers asked.

"Definitely, Nino. Think you can give us a haircut like this?" I ask, pulling out a picture of George with his hair matted to his face. It looked a lot like bowl, but . . . swept to the side and nice-looking.

He studied the picture for a moment, looking up at each of us for a moment and then down at the picture again.

"It'll work, but I'm not too sure about the young lady—"

"No! I don't want a haircut! They won't even show it to me, they say it's a surprise," Pattie yelped, hiding behind George from all the scissors that might come her way.

Nino laughed the whole while that he was guiding us to the chairs where we would be doing our hair and took Pattie to a separate part of the shop. Probably in the back, where they kept al the gossip magazines.

"If someone comes in with one of those big brooms and starts sweeping all the hair away, I'm going to call your car the TARDIS because this is really old school right now," John murmured near me. I turned around in my chair to see where he was sitting, but I couldn't find him.

"That's odd . . . can't find John. Where'd you think he'd be?" I asked the others, but apparently I was talking to thin air. They weren't around either. Maybe Nino needed to talk to them about something that had to be discussed immediately like . . . fringe for all I know.

A pair of scissors started snipping by my head, along with the sound of a blow dryer and what had to be slight chatter.

"Oh, this simply doesn't do," a high-pitched and very unfamiliar voice said. "These simply must go! They're far too long and very shiny." My hair flopped toward my face and I heard the scissors start snipping again.

"Uh-oh. George, you weren't supposed to do that! It was supposed to be away from his head!"

"Sorry, but my hand slipped! I'm sure he won't notice a little off his hair, John."

"What?" I screamed and jumped off the chair. I ran to the nearest mirror, looking at the 'little' bit of my hair that was gone. At the least, it had to be an inch.

Nino came out from whatever he was doing in the back and the second he saw me he started laughing. The evil three standing behind me accompanied him with a weak, awkward chuckle.

"That certainly makes what I have to do easier," Nino joked as he tried to control himself. I merely glared at everyone, since what I wanted to do would send me to jail. 

A/N: While I was typing, Hazel (one of my dogs that acts a lot like a cat) starting running across my laptop and this is what she wrote: ;p. I don't know whether to keep a close eye on her or laugh. Anyways, if I don't say anything by Paulie's birthday, you can assume it was all Hazel. Hope you liked it though, and after the birthday chapter for Paul, there'll be a baseball chapter for George so we see how he's doin'. See ya!