Three Day Summer(19)

“Oh, totally. I didn’t really mean horrible. I mean, it’s just some rain. It’s actually wonderful.” He gestures toward the stage. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

“Right,” I say, trying to figure out how exactly to say good-bye. I mean, once I do, I’ll probably never see him again.

A man with a megaphone is walking around repeating, “The flat blue acid is poison. Don’t take the flat blue acid.”

A look of panic steals into Michael’s eyes. “Wait, did I . . .” He trails off.

“It wasn’t blue,” I say. “I don’t think.”

“Oh. Okay.” He smiles at me but his eyes remain worried.

I look at the tall, soaking-wet boy in front of me, who suddenly looks so much smaller and more helpless than he has any right to. And then I look down at my soggy apron.

How can I leave him really? As a candy striper. No, as a medical professional. Someday anyway.

I move closer to him and touch his arm. “You’ll be okay,” I say. “I’ll stay with you and make sure.”

The relief in his eyes is palpable. I wonder if he can see the relief in mine. Or the inexplicable gratitude I suddenly feel for the once red and white bands of my uniform.





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.”