Three Day Summer(17)
I look over at my lanky brother and see him eyeing the even lankier Michael. I guess I’d better go ahead and introduce them.
“Wes, this is Michael. Michael, Wes. Wes is my brother,” I say, not bothering to further elaborate on my relationship to Michael.
Not that Wes doesn’t pick up on that. “Her twin brother,” he says, in an oddly menacing voice.
“Oh, really?” Michael says, shaking Wes’s hand. “Cool. Twins.” He looks back and forth between us for a second. “You don’t . . .”
“Look alike?” Wes butts in. “Yeah, we know.”
Michael gives an easy grin. “Well, no. You don’t. But I’m guessing that’s because Cora looks better in a dress.”
I sputter out a laugh. Wes seems less amused. I can already see that obnoxious-protective brother glaze taking over his eyes. “Wait, how do you guys know each other again?”
“Oh, from around,” I say just as Michael chirps in with “We met at the medical tents.”
Wes’s scrutiny turns solely to me. “Oh, great. Another doctor wannabe, Cora?”
“No.” I scowl. “He’s just a music . . . person. Like a friend.”
“A music friend? What does that mean?”
“It means . . .” I honestly have no idea. But luckily I’m saved from the rest of the embarrassing conversation by our Australian buddy.
“No point standing around here anymore, mates.” Yes, he actually says “mates.” “They are all out of food.”
“Wait, what?” Michael says. “Are you serious?”
“’Fraid so,” says Nate. And sure enough, the line is dispersing with a lot of grumbles and talk of what to do to feed starving bellies.
“Wow,” I say, pretty stunned.
“Wow,” Wes echoes.
“Well,” Michael says slowly. “At least now I’m beginning to see the twin thing.”
chapter 20
Michael
I’m not feeling so hot. Kind of floaty and light-headed. I look wistfully at the useless food tents. It really has been forever since I’ve eaten. Was it a banana I had this morning? And some tea?
I see Cora looking at me with nursely concern. “We could go back to my place,” she offers. “I’m sure my parents could add one for dinner.”
She sounds unsure and I hear her brother snort lightly.
It’s very sweet of her but, to be honest, I didn’t come all this way to miss the concert and sit down with some random chick’s parents. I’ve never even had dinner with Amanda’s parents.
I plaster on a smile. “Nah. I’ll be fine,” I say, and then look out over in the direction of the music. “Let’s go get closer to the stage?”
Cora hesitates and for a second I’m sure she’s going to say no. Instead, she looks over at her brother. “See you later,” she says to him, before turning to me and cocking her head toward the sound of a piano.
“Don’t forget your curfew,” Wes grumbles behind us.
“Thanks, Dad,” Cora says, before rolling her eyes at me. I smile as we walk down the hill, where the stage sits like Glinda’s bubble from The Wizard of Oz, pulsating magic.
“Sorry about Wes,” Cora says. “Sometimes he just gets overprotective. Twin brother thing or something.”
“No problem,” I say.
“He gets weird around me and guys. Never liked Ned either . . .” She trails off.
It’s cool. I really don’t need to know this girl’s whole story. “Is Ned the guy from before? The guy with the glasses?” But apparently my mouth doesn’t feel the same way.
“Yeah,” Cora says, looking straight ahead and sort of shrinking into herself. Maybe she’s purposely not meeting my eye. But why should that matter to me? She is my . . . what did she call it? Oh, yeah, music buddy. For the day.
“Is that your ex?” I blurt out. Goddamn it, Michaelson. What the hell?
“Um. Yeah.” She turns to me this time. “Ex,” she says as if she wishes that weren’t the word she had to use for him. I find myself wishing she didn’t sound so down in the dumps about it.
But this whole thing is ridiculous. I shake my head to clear it of its nonsensical thoughts, determined to enjoy the rest of the show with an empty mind. And an extremely empty stomach, apparently.
By the time we get near the stage, Tim Hardin has just finished playing and the stage is being set up for the next performer. I squint until I see him waiting on the sidelines, a black-haired man wearing a long white tunic and carrying a tall stringed instrument that ends in a round, squat wooden head.
“Ravi Shankar,” I announce, and am glad for it. I can use some meditative sitar music right now to float me away from the physical. In this case, my hunger pains.
I close my eyes as Ravi sits down and tunes his instrument. Just as he plucks his first few notes and I’m getting ready to lose myself to some higher state of being or whatever, something extremely hard and fast hits me in the back of my head.
“Ow!” I turn around to confront whoever has just assaulted me.
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry, man!” A guy with a long black beard is looking over at me in horror. “I didn’t mean . . . I just thought you might want some sustenance.”