Three Day Summer(16)

“So who are you excited to see?” I ask her, finding the most readily available topic.

“Umm . . .” She hesitates. This whole thing is in her backyard and she doesn’t automatically know the answer to that? “Joni Mitchell?” she says haltingly.

“Really? Is she playing?”

“I thought so . . .” Cora drifts off, and I think I hear her mutter, “Déjà vu.”

I don’t remember seeing Joni on the roster, and I think I have it pretty well memorized, but I decide to let it go. Besides, we’re getting closer to the stage now and the sound of a man and woman singing together envelopes us.

I see Cora squint toward the stage, trying to figure out the faraway figures.

“Sweetwater.” I offer the name of the band. “Not huge yet but I think they might be.”

Cora looks at me. For a moment, I think she might be offended that I showed her up like that. Offered her information she didn’t already know. Amanda would have been.

But instead she just grins. “Thanks,” she says. “I really should know more about this stuff.”

I smile back. Without thinking, I go to move her hand off my arm and shift it so that our fingers interlace instead.

She looks at our clasped hands quizzically but doesn’t pull away.

Sweetwater is playing a groovy flute solo and my eyes are drawn back to them. They are an odd band: flute, keyboards, cello. And their lead singer, a slight girl—even slighter from where I stand—is swaying freely to the high-pitched notes.

I notice we are swaying slightly too and so are most of the people around us, like reeds blowing in the same wind.

The ethereal piping is suddenly interrupted by a loud, totally unwelcome rumbling.

Cora immediately looks up to the cloudy sky. “Thunder?” she asks.

I, instead, stare down at myself. “My stomach,” I finally admit, a little embarrassed.

Cora follows my gaze and laughs. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm . . .” I rack my brain. “Does tea count?”

“No.” Cora emphatically shakes her head. “And I’m surprised you even remember that.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure I thought it was unicorn tears,” I offer.

“Ah. Makes a lot more sense. And how did that taste?”

I scratch my stubble with my free hand. “Kind of like a rainbow. Trapped in an orange rind. If that makes any sense.”

Cora cocks her head. “Nope,” she says.

“It would if you’d been on what I was on.”

“Thank God for both of us I wasn’t. Or who would have served you unicorn tears that tasted like rainbows and oranges?”

“Orange rind,” I correct, and at the words, my stomach gives another huge rumble. Because apparently there’s nothing more appetizing than some tasty orange rind.

“Come on,” Cora says, tugging me away from the stage. “To the food tents.”





chapter 19


Cora


Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten in a while either. I brought half a ham sandwich from home with me. When did I have that? Around two? Too long ago to count.

The food tents are purple and are set up at the top of the hill that leads to the stage. The line to them snakes around a few times and it takes us a while to find the end of it.

“You’ve come to the right place,” says a somewhat tubby guy with an Australian accent when he sees us looking around for where to get in line. He smiles and points right behind himself with fingers that have silver rings on each and every one.

“Thanks,” Michael says. And then, after a moment, “Where are you from?”

“Sydney, Australia,” the guy says. Then a short woman with hair almost to her feet calls out, “Nate . . .” and he turns his attention to her.

“And I thought traveling from Massachusetts was far,” Michael says.

I laugh. “No one has a longer commute than me.”

“Oh, yeah. What is it? Three feet?”

“Excuse me,” I say, pretending to be affronted. “It’s half a mile. At least.”

“You sure you don’t want to sit down? Rest your feet?” Michael stares down at my sensible Keds.

“Um, it’s not as if you actually walked from Massachusetts.”

“I might as well have! Do you have any idea how far back my car is?”

“Three feet?” I counter sweetly.

Michael grins. “Half a mile at least. Maybe even two halves of a mile . . .” He drifts off as he realizes what he’s saying. “So, like, one mile.”

“Impressive math skills,” I laugh.

“Hey!” A voice says from behind me and I turn around to see Wes, sans protest sign this time.

“Hey,” I say. And then I check my watch. It’s almost eight thirty p.m. “Wait,” I say, a small panic starting to set in. “You didn’t go home for dinner either?”

Wes looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to leave this for dinner?”

“Did you tell Mom and Dad you wouldn’t be home?”

“No,” he says without any hesitation.

I sigh. Great. Now they’ll be worried about him, and my absence will be even more obvious.