Disclaimer: Obviously, I don�t own Queen or any of their songs, videos, pictures, etc., so don�t even think about suing me.  Also, this is purely fiction - none of this ever really happened (with the exception of Roger being shot by accident when he was young.  I read that on a different Queen site), only in my screwy, super-insane mind.

More than a Friend - Prologue - Meeting the Taylors
� Lunar Queen Karima (Nienna20035)
Two years ago...

	The year was 1962.  I was only thirteen years old, and a much-bullied thirteen-year-old at that - I had absolutely no friends, not even what you�d call a close buddy.  One hundred percent of the students at my middle school considered me a freak and a heinous jerk... that was, until Roger Taylor came here.

	It was 6th period of the first day of my 8th grade year.  Sunny days were always a symbol of happiness for me, but I dreaded ever coming to school.  Knowing the consequences of trudging around the schoolyard, I sat at my favorite bench in front of the east doors of the school.  It was the same thing today as any other day; a chorus of snarky insults and jeers such as �Hey, there�s the freak!� or �Hey, is that �Brace Face� over there?� , the whole bit.  I screamed and recoiled suddenly as a small rock flew past my head.  Just a split second later, I heard an unusually friendly voice behind me.

	�Are you all right, miss?�

	I was shocked - I�ve never seen or met anybody with a British accent in this small Illinois town of Paris.  However, I remained still and  said, �Yeah, thanks.�

	�That kid shouldn�t have done that to you.  I�d have beat him up for you, if only I knew who he was.�  I felt very uncomfortable as the boy sat next to me.  I didn�t turn my gaze, but I could see a few locks of long, blonde hair out of the corner of my eye.  I finally decided to turn my head around to look at my... dare I say, friend in the eye.

	�Why are you not... insulting me and taunting me like the others?� I asked, confused as I looked upon my friendly visitor.

	�Because... I don�t know you, and I�m just not that type,�  the young man said.

	�Y�know, you�re just covering up.  You�re just covering up so you can stab me in the back later.� I snarled angrily at him.  My face suddenly turned stony, even though his expression seemed terribly hurt.

	The young man turned and thought.  Suddenly, he looked back at me, put a hand on my shoulder, and asked quite sympathetically, �You don�t have any friends, do you?�

	I got frightened right then and there.  I slapped his hand away and shouted, �No!  I don�t!�  I got up and darted off in the opposite direction.  I could hear the boy following me, so I turned around, my eyes ice cold.  Just before I thought he was about to crash into me, he stopped and stared up at me.  My, he was a short one.

	�What do you want with me?�

	The boy said, �I - I just wanted to know what�s wrong with you, like, why does everybody treat you so badly.�

	�Okay, you wanna know?� I asked. I continued, �They all hate me because 1.) I�m ugly, 2.) I�m a totally pretentious fart, and 3.) I�m... me!�

	�Oh, come on!  That�s no reason to treat someone badly.  I mean, yeah, maybe the second one, but not the first and third reasons for sure!  I could pretty much say... I like you for that third reason, and I totally disagree with the first,� he said.

	�You mean... you don�t think I�m ugly?� I asked with a soft, meek voice.

	He stood up on tip-toes to kiss me on the cheek and said, �No, absolutely not.�  I stood there, paralyzed with shock.  Sure, it felt nice to be kissed by a really cute guy like him, which was enough to make me want to trust him, but I still didn�t.

	�You�re lying!  I don�t believe a word you�re saying!�  I shouted as I ran away from him.  



	That was not the last of him I saw that day; he was in all of my classes, and I found out that he would be riding my bus.

	I was hoping that he would not want to sit with me, but the adrenaline started pumping as I felt something hit my seat which looked to be his backpack.

	�Well, I didn�t know you were going to be riding my bus,� I said to my �friend�.  I didn�t even bother looking at him, for fear of his incessant talking.  God only knows I had a bad enough day.

	�It seems as though you�re not happy to see me.  I was only trying to be nice, make friends, y�know,� he said.

	We didn�t say anything to each other until the bus got to my house.  I didn�t turn my head, let alone reply, when I heard the boy say, �Well, see ya� later.�  I turned my head to look back at the bus, and I saw him wave to me.  I groaned to myself, but out of common courtesy, I waved back.  The bus pulled away, but it stopped in front of the house next to mine - quite unusual.  I was surprised to see the blonde-haired guy get off there.  How could I have not known he was my neighbor... unless, he was new around these parts.  I shrugged off the past couple of seconds and went into the house.  My mother was in the living room watching TV.

	�Hello, Mom,� I called out.  My mom got up out of her favorite chair and walked into the foyer of the house.  She was wearing her usual bleached jeans and a very ratty, old Elvis Presley t-shirt.

	�How was your day at school?� She greeted in her naturally cheery manner.  

	My mom�s always cheerful and very social, unlike me.  She actually has friends, and she is respected around town.  In the small town of Paris, there are lots of older people, and very few people around my age.  Maybe that�s why I�m not so popular with the younger generation of Paris residents - I�m always surrounded by adults and older people, making me attracted to their �customs� and the things they enjoy.

	�Eh, quite the usual.  I did meet someone new, though.�

	�Oh, new student, eh?�

	�Yep.  He was weird.  The lad had really long blonde hair.  And he was really nice to me, although I think he was just trying to cover up so he could stab me in the back later.  I saw him get off at the house next door... y�know, the house that was deserted a couple years ago.�

	�Well, you might think about going over there and visiting with them, get to know them better.�  I groaned, knowing darn good and well that I didn�t want to make friends with the blonde-haired freak of nature.  However, I agreed to it and made the short walk next door.  I timidly knocked on the door, and a woman answered.

	�Hello.  Are you one of the neighbors?� the woman asked.

	�Hi.  I�m Laurie Greene.  I live next door, just over there.� I pointed to my house.

	�Nice to meet you.  I am Winifred Taylor.  Do come in.�  I followed the woman inside.  It was a very nice house.  I saw three other people sitting on the large couch in the living room; there was someone who looked to be Mrs. Taylor�s husband, a small girl, and the other was the boy I met at school today.

	�We have a visitor from next door,� Mrs. Taylor announced to the room at large.  The long-haired boy jumped off the couch and came over.  I was almost ready to croak, but I maintained all control of myself out of courtesy to the Taylors.

	�I�m sorry, I forgot to properly introduce myself earlier today,� the boy said, �I�m Roger Taylor.  What�s your name?�

	�Laurie Greene,� I said.

	�Pleasure to meet you,� he said, taking my hand and kissing it.  I gulped, wondering if he always did that with every girl he met.

	Mrs. Taylor cut in and said, �Ok, Roger. Enough flirting.  Anyway, Laurie, this is my husband, Michael Taylor, and this is my daughter, Claire Taylor.  You, of course, already met my son, Roger.�  Roger purred like a cat as his mother patted him on the head.  Mr. Taylor and the girl, Claire, said their hellos.

	�Hey, you wanna go in my room?� Roger asked excitedly.  I stammered.

	Mrs. Taylor said, �Don�t close the door now, Roger.�  Roger pouted, telling his mother not to embarrass him in front of me, but she clucked something at him, to which he reluctantly agreed.  

	Roger and I then darted upstairs and into a room filled with a drum kit, a guitar, and practically zillions of pictures and records of Elvis Presley and Jimi Hendrix.  It was a large room, but it still looked cramped, what with the drums, guitar, pictures, radio, dirty clothes and tennis shoes everywhere (I might have seen a pair of Nikes or Reeboks in there), and even an amplifier for the guitar - not to mention the bed, of course.

	�Cramped, huh?� Roger remarked as I walked over to the drum kit.  Man, how does this guy get around in here? I thought to myself.

	I picked up the two drumsticks lying on the small snare drum and sat down on the stool, trying out the kit.  Roger watched intently as I did a couple rolls on the snare and the cymbals.  He smiled and clapped a couple times.  I got up and picked up the guitar, which was sort of small for my taste, but still perfectly playable.  After plugging the guitar in, I played a few chords and notes.  Roger went over to the drums.

	�I guess it�s a jam session, then?� Roger asked, smiling evilly.  I could tell he was wanting to get me to help him piss his �rents off.  Apparently he gets a giggle out of making his parents mad... I like him, I thought as I tested out the guitar.

	�Yeah,� I said, grinning from ear to ear in this Cheshire Cat-like smile that would look kind of painful to the naked eye.  All of a sudden, my fingers flew across the strings of the sleek beauty that was Roger�s guitar, Roger�s drumsticks crashed against the hard surface of the drums and cymbals, and the room echoed with guitar screams and drum beats.  I could hear a faint �Turn it down� coming from downstairs, but Roger, still keeping his beat, whispered, �Ignore it.� The uncontrollable racket continued on for about three minutes until I made the final chord on the guitar and the drumsticks made the last cymbal crash.

	�WOO!� I screamed at the top of my lungs. �That was awesome!�

	No reply came from Roger.  All he could do was breathe heavily as his forehead and wrists dripped with sweat.  Finally, he regained his energy and was able to speak.

	�That was great.  Where did you learn to play guitar like that?�

	My eyes rolled in that famous �Laurie Greene Confused Look� and I said, �I don�t know.  My fingers are just really fast, I guess.  Like my older brother always said, �Follow your fingers - they know the way.��  I set the guitar down, unplugged it, and sat on the bed.  It was slightly larger than the one in my room; in fact, it was big enough for Roger and me.

	The door quickly opened, and Mrs. Taylor said, �Laurie, you are keeping Roger in line, aren�t you?� She continued, �Roger Meddows-Taylor, keep it down.  Your father can�t hear the telly!�

	�Sorry,� Roger said indignantly, �We were just having a jam session.�

	�I could have figured that out on my own.  Now keep it quiet.�

	With that, Mrs. Taylor left the room.  Roger pent up a bit of energy and slammed a drumstick on the snare drum, resulting in a really loud, crisp * BANG *.  Roger mockingly shouted at the door, �OOPSIE-DAISY!  I MUST HAVE FORGOTTEN THAT LAST DRUM BEAT!�  I doubled over in a fit of giggles.

	�Telly?  What in the world is a telly?� I asked awkwardly.

	�It�s what you Americans would call... a television set.�

	�Oh.  I see.�

	I flopped down on the bed, letting my head fall back onto the pillows.  Roger hopped onto the bed and sat cross-legged next to me.

	I rolled over so I could directly face Roger, and I said, �So, I never really got to know you very well.�

	Roger looked up to the ceiling and replied, �What�s to know about me.  I�m just your average British thirteen-year-old kid moving to America and living in a small rural town full of old ladies, although I�ve got to say, it�s not everyday you meet a kid who was shot on accident and lived to tell the tale.�

	I gasped with shock.

	�You were shot?!�

	�Yep.  They were able to get the bullet out, though.  I�ve got the scar to prove it.�  Roger pulled his baggy t-shirt up a little bit, and lo and behold, there was the ugliest looking scar imaginable.  Seeing the look of pure shock on my face, he let the shirt fall back to where it was.

	�Gods, that must have been scary for you,� I said with uncharacteristic sympathy.

	�Yes, it was the scariest thing that ever happened to me.  That was the closest I ever came to death.  I never, never want to relive that day ever again.�  I sat up, and I noticed that Roger was shivering and shaking, trying his best to keep from an emotional breakdown.  I wiped a stray tear from his eye, and I ran my other hand through his soft, long hair.  Without thinking, I reached out and hugged him, and he reacted by leaning on my shoulder.  I sat there, Roger in my arms, for a minute or so.  Suddenly, he pushed away from me.

	�Oh, I�m so sorry you had to see that.  I�m so embarrassed,� Roger said.  I could see him blushing.

	�Roger, it�s all right to cry.  I wouldn�t make fun of you for it.  In fact, I happen to cry all the time.�

	He smiled at me and said, �I know... It�s just unlike me to break down like that.�  I chuckled, he did the same, and our chuckling soon turned into mad giggling.  We wound up hugging each other again, this time out of laughter, happiness, and newly discovered friendship.

	I was so happy right then.  It was now my turn to cry.  I did not let go of Roger - instead, I kissed him on the cheek and rested my head against his neck, my arms still wrapped around him.  The feeling of having a friend was new to me, and Roger seemed to make this experience even more special.  He was not just a friend; to me, he was something more.

fin for now...