John Lennon sat hunched on a sun-bleached park bench, Affliction tee clinging to him in all the wrong places. It had cost him $38.99 at the mall — his entire allowance — and he hated the way it made him look thick around the middle. The tribal skull design stretched awkwardly over his belly whenever he sat, which meant sitting still, hiding in the shade, was preferable to skating or joining in the roughhousing where Paul, George, and Ringo hollered like half-crazed teenagers under a July sun.

They were lean. Sharp-cheeked, with jagged elbows and bony knees. Paul looked like he belonged on a pop-punk magazine cover — mop of perfect hair and that smug grin that made girls giggle when he passed. George moved like liquid, quietly confident, already better than everyone at everything — skating, guitar, not giving a damn. Ringo was the clown, of course, but even he was light on his feet, his hoodie riding up to show ribs, not rolls.

But John? He was 17 and weighed a little over 265 pounds. Obese. Not that the word mattered. All he saw in the cracked mirror above his sink at home was fat. His stomach folded when he leaned forward. His thighs stuck to cheap vinyl seats. His face, round and flushed, never looked the way it should in selfies taken on his blurry, outdated Canon PowerShot. Acne dotted his forehead like an accusation. He didn't smile in photos anymore. Not really.

He’d grown his hair shaggy to hide the softness of his jaw, and he slouched to make his body smaller, hoping people wouldn’t notice him as much. But John Lennon was never good at being invisible. Even doing nothing, he had a presence — a simmering energy like a bottle rocket on pause. His sarcasm was sharp, his thoughts even sharper, and while the other boys were out there trying to land tricks, John was scribbling song lyrics into a battered notebook he kept tucked into his cargo pocket.

Sometimes he wished he was like them — thin, easy, effortless. But mostly, he wished he could stop wishing.

The bench beneath him creaked as he shifted, arms crossed over his stomach like he could somehow hide the body he carried with him every second of every day. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw her.

A brunette guy. Beautiful, no question. Fitted tank top, distressed jeans, hair catching the sun like he was pulled out of a teen movie. But Asher wasn’t looking at the others. He was looking at John.

He blinked.

He walked toward him — slow, purposeful, like he didn’t notice the sweat on johns brow or the way his shirt clung to his sides. Guest said nothing at first, just sat on the bench next to him, close enough to make his throat tighten.

John looked down at his hands, picking at the worn fabric of his sleeve.

Fat boys don’t fly, he thought.