Three Day Summer (15 page)

chapter 50

Michael

I glimpse the time on Amanda's watch. It's past five a.m. when the real Roger Daltrey saunters onto the stage.

As the night has gone on, some space has cleared up (I guess some people actually want to get sleep or something, the idiots) and we've all managed to get pretty close to the stage now, so I can see Roger clearly in all his glory. He looks like a scarecrow with a mop of wild blond hair. He's wearing an open jacket with long, fringed white sleeves, and no shirt underneath, his taut belly on display. The band starts to play and he actually prowls onstage, walking it from one end to the other like he owns every fucking audience member.

And you know what? I think he does. He sings and gyrates, exuding some crazy confidence and something else. Let's call it raw manliness. I can practically hear the sighs from all the female, and probably some male, concertgoers around me. I think Amanda is turning to putty beside me. And I'm sure everyone else not completely beguiled by him just wants to be him.

I know I do.

I can't help it. I turn my head slightly and seek out Cora's face. She's been completely wrapped up in Rob this whole time, ignoring me at every turn. But she must feel me looking at her and, this time, she meets my gaze. She looks up at the specimen of testosterone on the stage. And then she looks back at me again. Then she laughs quietly.

I should feel hurt or like my own manhood is being mocked. But the truth is, she's right. I ain't no Roger Daltrey. And the fact that anyone would ever mistake me for him is pretty hilarious. So I start chuckling too.

I decide to risk it further. “You think the suit dropped some brown acid too?” I yell over to her, referring, of course, to the executive who mistook me for Roger.

Cora glances at the stage one more time before turning her gaze back to me. She just smiles enigmatically and I smile back.

But then she returns her gaze to the stage again and she doesn't look toward me anymore, even though I keep waiting for her to. I think I've lost my moment. And her.

Eventually, I give up and focus on the band again. I see Keith Moon freaking out behind the drums, probably tripping out on something. Or maybe just the music itself. It is that good. I see Pete Townshend with his guitar, his dark, close-cropped hair and long face in direct contrast to Roger's bright demeanor. Pete is in all white. When he plays, he plays angry, like he's seeking revenge from the strings.

Between them—and let's not forget the fantastic bassist, John Entwistle—there is so much palpable energy radiating from that stage. At five in the fucking morning.

It's beautiful. And for a moment I let myself realize that being a fake part of that for even just a minute in some stuffy corporate dude's eyes is absolutely priceless.

I bang my head just a little bit harder and move around just a little bit more as they play. At one point I begin to realize I'm mimicking Roger's moves a little. But you know what? I don't care. I had rock star confidence for an hour today. And if I can somehow get that back, I'm pretty sure I can rule the world.

chapter 51

Cora

Ten songs in and Roger Daltrey continues to slither around onstage like some sort of sexy snake. I've never had much of a rock star complex—at least not before Michael's earth-shattering kiss today—but this guy makes it hard not to feel just a little bit flustered. And you know what, I have to admit that Michael
does
resemble him. They're both long and lean, with a similar mess of blond, wavy, shoulder-length hair; I don't think the suit was that far off.

Seeing Mr. Daltrey now, I can't help but smile at the perfectly magical, one-of-a-kind experience Michael and I shared thanks to him. I break my eye-contact rule with Michael just long enough to try to convey that.

The band is in between songs when a man with dark curly hair climbs up on the stage. I vaguely recognize him. I think he might have been one of the extra guys who was helping out in the medical tent this morning.

He grabs the mic that Pete Townshend (Rob reminded me of his name) was using while the guitarist is turned away fiddling with an amp. “I think this is a pile of shit while John Sinclair rots in prison.”

There is some confusion in the air, but I also hear the crowd applauding, Rob included. Because of Wes, I vaguely know who Sinclair is—a political activist who was recently sentenced to ten years in jail for selling a couple of joints to undercover cops.

But now Pete Townshend has turned around. He brings his guitar up like an ax and the mic picks up most of his words. “Fuck off my fucking stage!” he yells, and brings the guitar down on the curly-haired man, who either falls or leaps off the stage. I strain my neck and look for him, to make sure he's not on the ground, injured, but he's disappeared into the crowd.

Something heavy and almost silent hangs in the air now. We just witnessed a moment of violence in what has, until now, been a dreamy couple of days of peace and music—just like the posters promised. It's a jarring reminder of the world outside our bubble. The world of war and racism and assassinations. I can tell I'm not the only one who suddenly remembers how thin that bubble's skin is.

In my disturbed mood, I think about my father. I can't believe I cursed in front of him. Or called him a dumb hick. I'm not sure I'll ever forget the look in his eyes when I stormed out, like I ripped his heart and his voice box out at the same time. Speechless through and through.

I may not always agree with him, and sometimes he makes it so easy to disregard him with his outdated views. He trusts the US government completely, but not young people. He gets behind the word “democracy,” but not Wes's passion for carrying his sign. It's like he wants so badly for the world to be black and white when it's not. It's not even shades of gray. It's every color in the world: all the beautiful ones, the grotesque ones, and everything in between.

I have to remind myself that my dad hasn't had it easy. His own mother refused to talk to him after he married Mom. And then she died within a year. And even though I can see his chest puff up every time he brings up his wars, I've never really asked him about what that experience was actually like. He did get shot, for God's sake.

And I know he loves us. I knew it when I was five and he saved my favorite pig from slaughter even though he had told me time and again not to get attached. I knew it when he made sure to buy Wes not just the toy soldiers but the exact ones he asked for, even though he had to drive to another town fifty miles away. And then when he taught all three of us how to drive with an astounding amount of patience, especially in light of Mark's propensity for hitting our mailbox every other time he parked.

Today, when he came at me, he expected it to be like all his other histrionics and, surely, he thought he was in the right since I had blatantly broken the rules. He never expected me to talk back. Never expected me to say
that
.

I feel ashamed.

Now the Who are playing “My Generation” and all my dark, murky thoughts are further mucked up by Ned. I wonder if he's here to hear his favorite song, and suddenly I feel completely exhausted. The ping-pong of today's emotions has been almost too much to bear.

So when the Who play one more song and then bid us good night, I know it's time for me to go as well. I need to sleep. Maybe, as my mom is always fond of saying, everything will look better in the morning. Maybe my dad will get a miraculous bout of short-term amnesia.

“I have to go,” I tell Rob. “I'm so sleepy.”

“Just stay and sleep here,” he responds. “We have bags.”

I shake my head no. “I can't. I have to go back to work tomorrow.” As long as I'm not chained to my room when I wake up. “They need me in the medical tent.” Except they don't really. Nobody needs a seventeen-year-old candy striper.

God. Apparently the self-pity comes on strong when I'm beat.

But truly, I have to go.

“Good-bye,” I say, and this time I look directly in Michael's face when I say it. I'm preparing myself to never see him again.

Still, we had one really excellent day together. So I can afford to give him a smile before I get swept up by Rob, who gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks,” I say, before I turn around and leave, not even looking back to examine the jealousy likely scrawled on Michael's face. That's not how I want to remember him.

chapter 52

Michael

After the Who's epic twenty-five-song set, we all realize we need to get some sleep. It seems like they're breaking down equipment anyway, so I'm not too upset when the girls suggest we find a place to hunker down for the night.

We walk away from the stage until we find an unoccupied bit of land near the top of the big hill. I have my backpack again, and the sleeping bag along with it. Amanda crawls into it with me with barely a word and passes out right away.

But I can't sleep. Not too long ago, Cora said good-bye to me like it was for real, like it was the last time we'd ever see each other. But I won't believe that to be true. Not in a place as magical and epic as Woodstock.

Suddenly the sleeping bag and the girl crammed into it with me are stifling and I know I have to get out of it. As quietly as I can, I pull the zipper, move Amanda's arm off me, and roll out. She shifts a little but doesn't wake up.

For good measure, I move a little farther away before I lie back down on the grass. It feels better out in the open, but still not quite right. I look up at the stars that seemed to hold so much meaning for me just a couple of nights ago. They're inscrutable now, nothing but balls of gas burning billions of miles away. They tell me nothing about what I should do or who I should be.

My eyelids feel heavy and I know I'm drifting in and out of sleep because the sky seems to be getting lighter each time I open my eyes. At some point, I hear a faraway voice announcing, “This is morning maniac music!”

And then the music starts up again. It doesn't take me long to recognize Grace Slick's distinctive growl.

I close my eyes and try to feel everything. The slick, dewy grass beneath my back. The morning breeze that tickles the little hairs in my nose. The distinctive smell of mud and skin. And, of course, the sound of Jefferson Airplane rocking out just down the hill from me.

The only thing I know for sure is that it's technically the last day of the festival. I need to make it count.

chapter 53

Cora

The house is quiet and dark when I approach it again. I'm not terribly surprised. I honestly don't expect to see my dad around now, not after what I said and my storming out.

It's almost six a.m. and I'm pretty tired. Still, I decide to hop into the shower before I grab a couple of hours of sleep. The lake can't really count as bathing, can it? I try not to think about that time in the water too much as I quickly lather up and rinse off. I try not to remember Michael's face or the way his eyes sparkled with reflected water and desire for me. I try not to feel the ghost of his hands around my waist.

I say I try. I don't say I succeed.

I set my alarm for ten a.m. and go to sleep with my hair wet. I don't sleep well. The damp pillow doesn't help and neither do all the day's events running through my mind. Both the sublime (riding in a helicopter with Michael) and the shameful (yelling at my dad) parts of it.

Still, I'm dead asleep when the alarm finally buzzes, and I get out of bed red-eyed and groggy. My hair has curled messily and there's nothing to do but braid it. I dress quickly, slipping into one of my comfortable floral summer dresses, leaving the red flying pig bandanna hanging from my chair. I don't have time to think about looking hip today.

I'm glad I took a shower last night so that I won't have to take one this morning. My plan is to make it from my room to the front door in one shot and see if I can get out without seeing my dad. I'd like to get to the festival without a scene. By ten thirty in the morning, he should be out on the farm already, three hours after breakfast and two away from lunch. With any luck, my mom won't be in the kitchen either. I'm not sure what he told her last night, but I'm in no mood to find out. I will deal with it all later. When the festival has left and I am prepared to face the consequences. I can't miss this last day of being in the middle of the only thing the country's talking about. It'll probably never happen to me again.

My luck holds out and I make it out of the house without seeing anyone. I haven't eaten anything, but it doesn't matter. As I told Michael, we can survive without food for a long time, and I now know where to get water. I wonder if the army's going to drop off sandwiches again too.

I make it to my medical tent at around five to eleven. From a few feet outside it, I hear some screaming and quicken my pace.

I walk in and search for the distressed patient. She's easy to find. She's in a corner with Anna and she's in labor.

Anna quickly looks over at me and says, “Could you get some towels?” by way of greeting. I do so right away, happy to be busy.

When I walk over to the patient, I suddenly recognize her and the bearded man sitting with her. They were the couple with the oranges on Friday. I smile at them warmly, remembering their kindness. Despite her pain, the mother-to-be smiles back at me.

For the next hour, I spend a lot of time trying to soothe her with cool towels, tea, and—more often—by allowing her to squeeze my hand as tightly as she wants. I can tell by her husband's face across her stomach that both of our fingers might be useless after today.

One of the doctors in the tent keeps glancing nervously at me. I don't recognize him—he must be from another hospital—but I hear him ask Anna if she's sure it's a good idea to have “the girl” dealing with the pregnant woman.

“I think you'll find us girls know a lot on the subject,” Anna says to him coldly. “Now, I think there are some bloodied feet you can tend to in that corner over there. Doctor.” I smile into my hair.

Twenty minutes later, Anna comes over and takes a peek at my patient's dilation status.

“Okay.” She nods to the mother. “There's a helicopter here to take you to the hospital and I think you're good to get on it.”

“We can't have the baby here?” the husband asks.

“It's going to be safer at the hospital,” Anna says as they help the mother up.

I walk out with them and watch them get on the helicopter, all the time trying not to think too hard about helicopters. Or oranges. I find I'm swallowing a lot.

After they've safely taken off, Anna walks back to the tent with me. “How was your day yesterday?” she asks.

“It was fine,” I say.

“Did you have fun?” she asks.

“Yes. It was great,” I say. And then, thankfully, we are hit with another influx of patients, and neither of us has any time for more questions.