Three Day Summer (7 page)

chapter 22

Michael

Water does wondrous things to white clothing. I'm not sure I realized that before. There's no way Cora hasn't caught me checking her out but I can't help it. She's a medical person. She must understand the afflictions of a teenage boy to some extent.

I'm also glad she's here because, truthfully, I'm a little freaked out about the acid. Under no circumstance can I even remotely remember what color tab I took. Cora said it wasn't blue, but she hadn't looked so sure.

Then again, it has led her to stay. I reach out and lightly hold on to her wrist for reassurance. I also silently will it not to sprout more feathers.

In between sets, I catch a glimpse of Cora's brother again. He's with a small group, holding up signs. His once read
END THE WAR NOW
in a patriotic red and blue, with stars and stripes decorating the corners. It hasn't fared too well in the rain, though; its edges are curled over and some of the paint on the words has started to run. But only the red paint, for some reason, which means that the word “war” is now a dripping, barely legible mess.

“End the Blob Now!” I say.

“What?” Cora asks.

“Oh.” I've just realized I said that out loud. “Nothing. Just your brother's sign.” I point over to it. “The rain. And the word ‘war' . . .” I drift off. The explanation sounds even dumber than the outburst.

But Cora laughs. “Yeah,” she says. “Might as well be a blob though, huh? The way it's going over there in Vietnam. The way nobody seems to know what the hell they're doing.” She takes in a sharp breath. I guess the antiwar thing runs in the family.

“It does seem like a mess,” I offer.

Cora nods. “My other brother is over there,” she says softly. “Mark.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” she agrees with a sad smile but then, thankfully, seems to have nothing more to say on the subject. In my experience, nothing good ever comes out of me getting into a deep discussion about the war. I feel too ambivalent about it to contribute much and I always somehow end up offending whomever I'm talking to—no matter what side they're on.

Before I know it, the singer known simply as Melanie is being introduced and is warbling gently through the rain about beautiful people she hasn't met before today. Which leads my mind to much more pleasant subjects. Like the one beautiful person with hair like silk who is standing next to me, holding my hand, now studded with raindrops sparkling in the moonlight.

Melanie sings about never meeting her beautiful stranger again. I look over at mine and hope it won't be true.

chapter 23

Cora

I'm surprised my watch is still working, considering all the rain that must be getting into it, but I actually see the minute hand move from 11:19 to 11:20. Wow. I really need to get home.

I take my sodden hair in one hand and twist it around to wring the water out, knowing perfectly well it's futile. But turning my head gives me a good guise for looking over at Michael. He's watching the singer onstage in raptures.

What am I going to do with him? I've already tried to leave him once and couldn't. But if I don't get home soon, my father will literally send out a search party. That blond guy making the announcements will be up there at the mic, calling my name, telling me to go home. And I will actually die of embarrassment. Really. I can just picture the rain mixing with the waves of humiliation radiating off me to create a toxic gas that will kill me and everyone within a ten-foot radius of me. It'll be Woodstock's great tragedy. A morbid smirk spreads across my face.

I peek again at Michael and in my haze of insane thoughts, another one takes hold.

It's absolutely crazy. I don't know if he'll even entertain it. And even if he does, I know for a fact that the logistics of it will be a nightmare.

“Hey, I have to go home,” I find myself saying to him. But before his eyes fully dilate to puppy dog, I blurt out, “Do you want to come with me? I could get you something to eat and a bed.” I flush immediately at what I've seemingly just offered. “I mean, your own bed. Well, more likely a couch. Just . . . a place to sleep. Is what I meant.”

Lovely.

Michael opens his mouth and then turns to look longingly at the stage. I can see the word “no” forming on his lips. And then, to my surprise, he turns back to me and says, “Yes. I'll walk back with you.”

He smiles and I smile back, despite the fact that my stomach is now doing flip-flops at the prospect that a) I have just asked a strange boy back to my house where b) my father lives and c) I will have to think of a way to sneak him in and out of there and d) also feed him.

He squeezes my hand as we turn around and slowly make our way through the crowd.

“I can't wait to finally see this farm,” he says. “You've been going on and on about it for ages.”

“Yes,” I counter. “All six hours we've known each other.”

“Hey! I thought we met this morning. It's been at least twelve hours.”

“I don't think those first six hours count, since I'm pretty sure you thought I was a bird or something.”

Michael goes a little red. “I said something about that?” he says in a small voice.

I laugh. “Don't worry. It was all very charming. And complimentary,” I can't help adding. “Anyway, I like birds. We have chickens at home.”

“Delicious,” Michael says.

“Don't let me catch you saying that in the henhouse. They are very sensitive.”

Despite what my miraculous watch continues to tell me, we don't hurry while making our way out of the concert grounds. The singers have changed again by the time we make it to the edge, and someone I actually recognize is now onstage: Arlo Guthrie.

“I don't know, like, how many of you can dig, like, how many people there are, man.” Arlo's voice is fading out. “Man, there are supposed to be a million and a half people here by tonight. Can you dig that? The New York State Thruway is closed, man.” He laughs. “A lot of freaks!”

A million and a half freaks. In Bethel. Unreal. And absolutely fantastic. I
can
dig it.

chapter 24

Michael

Holy Christ. I don't know what happened in the last day, but if I thought my car was the only one pulled over on the main road, I was dead wrong. There are rows upon rows of empty cars, joyfully abandoned in the middle of the street. It looks like an alien abduction scene from
The Twilight Zone
.

“That's a first,” Cora says as she points down the road.

“What? Bethel isn't normally a parking lot?”

“Definitely not. But I was actually talking about the little market that's down there.” She points down the street, where I can see the lights on in a small building with a long line snaking out of it. It looks like someone is at the door, monitoring how many people enter and leave.

“Is it usually open this late?” I ask.

Cora laughs. “Nothing in Bethel is open this late. Until this weekend anyway.”

We are on the other side of the street and, as we pass it, I glance into the shop's windows. Rows upon rows of empty metal shelves gleam in the moonlight.

“Wow,” Cora says, eyebrows furrowing with worry. “I hope everyone will be okay. With food and everything.”

“How long can people survive without food anyway?” I ask her.

“Well, technically, a few weeks. Water is a different issue, though,” she responds.

“I think we might be okay on water,” I say, holding my hand up and letting raindrops collect in it.

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” She pauses. “Of course, then there's the matter of catching a cold. Or pneumonia.”

“You medical people are just a garden of optimism, eh?” I tease.

“Just prepared for all eventualities,” she says. “It's a fine quality to have in a doctor, trust me.”

A couple of buildings past the market, we make a right, and walk down a large stretch of farmland dotted here and there with big houses. She holds my hand until we see a large gray house come into view. Then she takes her hand back and wipes it nervously on her dress.

“So . . . about getting into my house . . . ,” she starts to say as we walk under a big leafy maple at the foot of the driveway.

But then the screen door slams open and I hear a gruff voice call out, “Cora Eloise Fletcher. That better be you out there and you better have an outstanding explanation as to why you're coming home at
midnight
.”

Cora looks at me in mortification. I immediately sink back within the shadows of the tree trunk and try to nod at her encouragingly, telling her to go.

She nods slightly, takes a deep breath, and steps into the light spilling out the front door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Dad? That's it? That's all you have to say to me?”

“Things ran really late at the medical tent and there were people that needed help . . . ,” Cora starts.

“And there were medically trained
adults
there to help them. What business does a seventeen-year-old girl with a curfew have being there this late? With all the drunken, drugged-up louses desecrating our land? Are you out of your mind, girl?”

“Technically, it's Mr. Yasgur's land,” I hear Cora grumble.

“What?” her dad says sharply.

“Nothing, Dad. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”

“You can bet your bottom dollar it won't happen again,” he says as Cora slowly trudges by him. “This is unacceptable, irresponsible behavior and I won't stand for it.” The door slams shut behind them, but I can hear his voice fading away as he must be following Cora down some sort of hallway. “Just because Max Yasgur thinks it's okay to invite the entire country to destroy our farms doesn't mean my kids get to suddenly do whatever they want. . . .”

Yikes. Suddenly I'm a little glad my father is the silent type.

The tree shades me from the rain at least, but I'm not sure what to do. Obviously, I have to get back to the festival soon, but if I leave now, I won't have said good-bye to Cora at all. What if I leave and she comes back out here looking for me? On the other hand, it doesn't sound like her dad is likely to let her out of his sight soon. And on yet a third hand—foot?—how long will I have to wait before I'm certain she's not coming?

I don't have a watch so I decide to count slowly to two hundred. If she doesn't get out here by then, I'll just call it a night.

At seventy-three, I hear the click of a latch. Cora stands in front of a fence, about twenty feet to the right of me. She puts her finger to her lips and waves me over.

Walking as quietly as I can, I keep a nervous eye on the front door of her house.

She takes my hand, reopens the latch on her fence, and takes me through to a barn that's standing on the far side of her backyard. We go to the side that's facing away from the house before she speaks.

“I'm really sorry about that,” she whispers.

“Please, don't apologize. Parents. I've got them too.” I smile.

“Yeah, of course. Still, I'm sorry.” She furrows her brow again, which I'm starting to recognize as her worried-nurse look. “Listen, I would totally let you stay in here.” She points to the barn. “But the animals will cause a ruckus and then my dad . . .”

I grab her hand. “Hey, it's okay. I totally understand. And anyway, I wasn't going to spend the night here.”

“You weren't?” she asks.

“No. I just said I'd walk you home. I can't miss the festival.”

“Oh,” she says. “Right. Of course.” She almost sounds disappointed but I can't figure out why. Wasn't she just trying to get me out of here herself? Women are confusing.

“But look, how about we meet tomorrow? What do you think?” I say.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, were you still planning on being there?” I just assumed she would be but maybe that wasn't so bright.

“Yeah, I'm working the medical tent again.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe I can just come see you there? Just to say hi?” That sounds stupid.

But she smiles. “That would be nice. And actually, I start work at eleven. Do you maybe want to meet up earlier? Like around nine?”

“That would be great,” I say, a wave of relief washing over me. “At your medical tent?”

Cora nods and then pulls up one of her hands. In it is a half-filled bag of Wonder Bread and a solid bit of something wrapped up in waxed paper.

“Dinner's on me,” she says.

I take the papered package and peek inside to find a hunk of cheese. “And will I ever meet the lady that produced this?” I ask, pointing to the barn.

“Maybe someday. If you're good,” she says without missing a beat.

“Seriously, though. Thank you so much,” I start.

“Don't. It's nothing.” She hands over the bag of bread. “I have to go, though. Otherwise, I won't be let out of the house for a nine a.m. meeting with anyone over the next ten to fifteen years.”

“Thank you,” I say again and then, before I can change my mind, I lean down and lightly kiss her lips. It's quick, a peck at most, but I feel my pulse speed up as I back away and look at her.

She looks surprised but gives me a shy grin when she says, “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” I say as I quietly go back through the fence, my hands heavier with glorious food, and my head lighter with the electric touch of her lips.

chapter 25

Cora

I don't take any more chances after Michael leaves me at the barn. I hurry back inside, and I'm in my nightgown and in bed less than ten minutes later so that in case my father checks in, there won't be anything more he can grumble about.

I sigh at the thought of my dad, still feeling a little embarrassed at everything Michael heard. I don't know what I expected, though. I couldn't have scripted that conversation any more accurately if I'd tried. Why didn't I give the lecture a thought when I invited Michael back to the house?

Maybe because it all felt so . . . nice. To have someone look at me like that, listen to me. I haven't felt like the center of someone's attention in a long time, probably since the first few months with Ned. Plain and simple, Michael is fun. Between worrying about things like the future, or disappointing my parents, or Mark, maybe I've forgotten what it is to actually have fun. Not that Mark can ever be too far from my thoughts, really. The idea of him being blown to smithereens is imprinted on my brain at this point, and no boy—no matter how cute, or scruffy, or charming—can entirely wipe that clean.

And yet, the thing that should have been most fun of all—that sweet little kiss—is the one thing that's bringing on all sorts of overwhelming memories. About Ned.

That's right: Michael kisses me and all I can do is think of my ex-boyfriend. How unfair is that?

It's probably because Ned is the last person I kissed, just two hours before he broke my heart, and the touch of someone else's lips on mine now floods my mind with memories of that entire night.

The sound of crickets and cicadas in the air, the smell of mown grass mingling with fireworks. Smoke hanging in the air from the Fourth of July celebrations, streaking the sky like fingerprints on a car window. We were right under the maple tree in my front yard, only a few steps away from the barn, when he started talking about how difficult things would be when he was away at college in the fall and I was still stuck here finishing up my senior year of high school. He didn't think that it made sense for us to put ourselves through a long-distance relationship when we both had other things we should be focusing on. He told me that we needed some time apart.

That's how he said it: “
We
need some time apart.” Not just him. Because that's the way things work in Ned's world: What's right for him is right for everyone. And I know that about him, and it's irritating as all get-out. So why, then, am I lying in my bed and missing the feel of his lips on mine, when someone new and exciting, someone whose annoying habits I haven't yet gotten to know, has just had his lips there too? Why do I feel pangs of longing for the way Ned's glasses slid forward and touched the bridge of my nose when he leaned into me, a piece of glass and plastic that suddenly felt so intimate between us, like it was imbibed with our heartsong?

I roll over and let out an angry huff of air. This is childish and unproductive. Instead, I should think about what sort of food I can bring with me tomorrow to help out. Maybe I can hard-boil some eggs. We have at least two other loaves of bread that I can take, and I can bake some more to make up for it. There is plenty of cheese in the pantry that my father won't miss.

I drift off as I make a checklist of things to do and the last thing I think about is, in fact, Michael. I wonder if he will actually find me tomorrow morning at nine. And then I think about him in the rain and hope he'll be okay.

I'll make sure to save some extra food just for him.