A/N: Now, I know what y'all are thinking. 'But BeatleGirl, why a new story? You already have two others, what with the George and the mall and the Hot Topic and –has an aneurism-' I know guys, I know… I just can't help it! Every time I have a new idea I can't wait to write it. But I will keep writing my others, don't worry!

PS: -oOoOoOoOoOo- is my scene separator. I don't know how to do the grey ones (if anyone could tell me, that would be fab) so this will be mine for now. (:

I slammed a coffee cup into the dishwasher as I argued with my mother, Cindy.

"Oh my god, mom! I've had these tickets for months now and you think you can just out of the blue say 'Nope, you ain't goin'!'"

"Hunter, I said we're going to see our family and that's final! Paul McCarthy will be back in St. Louis some other time and you can go then..." she replied, nonchalantly. My face turned bright tomato red as I tried not to go off on my mom.

"Okay, first of all, it's McCartney not McCarthy and you know that and second of all, how do you know he'll be back? This is the last stop of this tour and he's getting older. I don't know how much longer he'll tour! And lastly, do you realize how long it took me to save up the money to get the tickets? How much puke I had to clean up in those horrible theater bathrooms? Because let me tell you, it's-!" I was cut off.

"This is not arguable! You're going to Kansas City with us and that's that!"

My grandmother, Julia, walked into the kitchen and grabbed some coffee. She's lived with me and my mom ever since grandpa passed on. She was never the same and my mom thought it'd be good for her to stay here.

"Why are you so flushed, sweetie?" I stared at my mom in rage and then turned to her.

"Mom," I spat. ",is making me give up my Paul McCartney tickets to go with you guys to Kansas City to go see aunt Pam and uncle Bill." She snapped her head to my mom, looking horrified.

"Oh c'mon, Cindy, let 'er go! How could you deny this child the opportunity to see her idol?" The thing about my grandma was she was cool. She was around in the 60s and was an original Beatle maniac and didn't judge my taste in music, unlike mom.

My mom crossed her arms and raised a slender eyebrow.

"See, that's what creeps me out! She has a crush on a 68 year old and you encourage it!" I had no idea why, but my mom had the most intense hatred toward him. I'm pretty sure the love of the Beatles and Paul McCartney skipped a generation in this family.

"I don't have a crush on him now! But in the '60s..." I fanned myself to annoy her. Grandma chuckled at that and went out the living room.

"Well Hunter, I don't think I can convince mom. Looks like you're going to Kansas City with us!" she called back.

Mommy dearest beamed a triumphant grin. I think she found some sadistic pleasure in my misery, but I knew how to really set her off.

"FINE!" I stopped and stared at her face in fascination and let a cheeky smile spread across my face. "Y'know mom, you have the same kind of eyes as Paul McCartney... And the mouth! Oh that mouth!"All of that is was true too. Strangely, she did resemble him in some ways. Her face was on fire as she looked over at grandma and back at me.

She fumbled with her words and then stormed out of the kitchen, enraged. Mission accomplished.

I wallowed in my victory and strode into the living room. I plopped on the couch and laid my head on my grandma's shoulder, remembering I was still screwed for the concert.

"Sigh," I said out loud. ", why does mom have to be so... herself sometimes?"

"She has her reasons for deciding not to let you go and you should respect that." My eyes shot up at her in confusion and she shook her head once.

"Not really." She whispered back. I half grinned and then pulled myself up from the couch.

"Guess I should go pack for the trip." I declared, unenthusiastically. "I should be going to decide what to wear for the concert…" I muttered to myself.

-oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo-

"We're leaving NOW, Hunter!" Mommy Dearest called from downstairs. "I hope you realize you're holding the rest of us back!" God I wanted to slap her sometimes.

"Oh my god, mother, I'm coming!" I stomped down the steps, suitcase in hand, and gave my mom a nasty look. She looked at me with an 'I-know-you're-miserable-that's-why-I'm-happy' smile and then pointed at my shirt.

"Why aren't you wearing that lovely sweater Pam made for you?"

Last Christmas, my aunt gave me a horrid, embroidered cat sweater that I was forced to wear on any occasion I saw her.

"It's right here in my suitcase." I lied.

"Well you should wear it there. It looks very nice you." She shot back.

"We don't have time for her to change now, Cindy. Let's just get out of here." Once again, my grandmother had saved me.

"Fine, let's just hit the road then."

We all piled into the car and drove out into the exciting highways of the Missouri plains. I took out my mp3 player and turned it up full blast so my mother could clearly hear the lyrics to the Band on the Run album, just out of spite.

I kept my eyes open for about an hour, but it became impossible after a while. I fell asleep in the back of the Celica while thinking about how I should, but won't be in the Savis Center tomorrow singing along with Paul McCartney to Hey Jude. Boy, do I hate my mom.