Thank you for the reviews! :)

Also, to reply to Cassiemania's review, since it was an anonymous review: I don't think that my character is particularly Mary-Sue-ish, there is a difference between being likable and Mary-Sue-ish, but since I did create her I guess my judgment would be biased. Tell me what specifically you think I should change about her, because I would hate for Leah to be a Mary Sue. :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize.

Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night

Chapter Four: The Quarrymen

The rain had let up after two steady days of drizzling. Leah glanced out of the window, which was still stained with track marks of raindrops: it was going to be evening, and her first day at her new job had just ended. Waiting on tables in a café wasn't ideal, but it paid okay, for now. It was pretty tiring though. And people were not so polite to a girl with brown skin: Leah had to remind herself that it was only 1959 and of course people would tend to be a little racist to non-whites. She lay down on the mattress, suddenly feeling down: here she was, in Liverpool in the late fifties, with no idea about what she wanted to do. Stevie had always been so sure about she wanted to do, but then Stevie was most comfortable in a large city in the twenty-first century ... Leah frowned, she didn't know what had come over her. Maybe she was having her period tomorrow. All she knew was that, all of a sudden, her life felt like crap.

Well, her life was a lot better than other people's, Leah decided. She needed something to cheer her up.

She needed a night of fun.

'Get yer butt on stage, Harri,' called John, deliberately keeping the mic near his mouth so that his voice was magnified and everyone could hear him. The audience chuckled, and George quickly downed his beer, taking his guitar on stage. 'Alright then,' said Paul, grinning happily. The stage was smaller than a double bed; there was barely enough place for them all to stand. On top of that, the sound system was terrible and the mics did not have stands, so John and Paul's girlfriends had to sit cross-legged in front of the stage and hold up upside-down brooms to which the mics were tied. Not ideal, George thought, but still, it was a gig, and gigs would get them recognition. The money and fame would come later, right?

They started off playing, and George messed up a few chords in the beginning, but it was alright after that. He did his whole stage-performance thing with John and Paul, all of them leaping about as best they could in the limited space. He could see people in the audience dancing, looking like they were having a good time. George did his little knees-dance thing, winking at a dark-haired girl who wasn't dancing, she was just watching them. He noted that she was dressed pretty weirdly: girls being under the regime of Brigitte Bardot at that time, they all wore those uniforms of clingy jumpsuits, curvy dresses and high heels, which totally worked because George thought that looked pretty hot. He thought fondly of Meg, who always looked so gorgeous, although she wasn't here tonight, which was weird. She had dressed up earlier though, in that skintight green dress. Maybe she was going to come here soon.

So this girl wasn't wearing a pretty dress like all the others, but that's what made George look twice: she wore strange pants that weren't loose but clung to her legs, almost like pantyhose, and black boots, and a leather jacket. Since when did birds wear leather jackets? Was't that, like, a bloke thing? Underneath that she was wearing a tank top. Wait a second - he knew her. That bird from upstairs - Leah. He grinned at her and her lips curved slightly in return. He had to admit that the leather-jacket-black-pants look kind of worked on her, though he preferred the Bardot style - much more revealing.

The performance continued. George felt his shirt getting sticky with sweat - it sure was hot up on stage. He wriggled uncomfortably. When it was over - two hours later - he was more than happy to get off stage, tired but satisfied. Shouldering their instruments, the Quarrymen made their way across the room to the bar counter and began their nightly routine. Well, not all nights - their after-gig routine, more like. Girls surrounded them, and though George flirted with them, he wouldn't go any farther - Meg would be here any minute. He glanced at Stu and Pete enviously: they were sizing up their admirers, trying to see which one they should take out. Not that George didn't love Meg, but with so much choice, it was hard to resist, wasn't it? He exchanged glances with Paul, who was glancing between his girlfriend, Abbot, across the room, and the pretty green-eyes trying to get his attention: he was facing the same situation.

George spotted a green-dressed figure with blonde hair walking outside on the street, broke quickly through the wall of girls and tried to catch up, before realising it wasn't Meg. Oh, well, now that he was outside he could have a smoke. He saw Leah talking to somebody outside. 'Hey,' he said, to get her attention. 'Hey, George. That was really good, I liked Roll Over Beethoven best,' she told him. George beamed. 'Thanks. Fancy a ciggie?' Leah accepted a cigarette, which he lit.

'Thanks for letting me sleep over at your apartment yesterday,' said George.

'You're welcome.' Leah took a drag of her cigarette. 'Okay now?'

'Yeah,' said George. 'What about you? I mean, settling into the apartment and all?'

'It's going fine,' replied Leah. 'I managed to get a job. Waitress at a café, but it's better than nothing, right?' She grinned. George nodded - his job as an electrician did not pay much more.

Leah crushed the stub of her cigarette under her heel. 'Let's go back in,' she suggested. George followed her back into the club, where another band was now playing, and considered whether he should ask her for a dance or not. Within seconds, another guy had come up and asked her. She disappeared into the crowd with him without a backwards glance. George decided to have another smoke and headed out of the club, walking down the street, and was just passing a back-alley when he heard a cry. It sounded female - he hastened to see if it was one of those drunkards harassing a woman again, but upon reaching, he saw that it was just a couple making out. He was about to turn back when he recognized the girl. 'Meg,' he gasped. She broke away from the man, lipstick smudged from her lips. 'Problem, mate?' sneered the guy, attempting to slip his hands up Meg's dress. She slapped his hands away. 'George,' she said imploringly, but George just turned on his heel and walked away. A blank, buzzing noise filled his ears. How could she cheat on him? Hadn't he always been so good to her?

Meg caught up to his side by the time he was striding past the dockside. She slipped her hand into his. 'I'm sorry, baby, I made a mistake. Please don't be mad at me, I'll never do it again. I love you George,' she crooned, kissing him. George tried to stay motionless and unresponsive but after a minute gave in. 'Don't ever do that again,' he mumbled. 'Okay?'

'I promise,' said Meg, her fingers reaching for his shirt buttons.

'Let's get home.' George took Meg's hand happily and they started on their way home. 'Crap, I forgot my guitar!' exclaimed George, when they were almost there. 'I gotta get back and get it.'

'Come on, George,' said Meg irritably. 'I'm sure Pete or Stu will bring it back for you, can't we just go home?'

George hesitated, torn. His beautiful, precious guitar. Then he glanced at Meg's impatient face. He didn't want to give her an excuse to be mad at him. 'Alright, let's go home.'

Thanks for reading! :) -Jen.