Three Day Summer(2)

A sharp rap at my window makes me turn. A state trooper stands there. I can see my own (thankfully) sober green eyes in his reflective glasses. From my peripheral vision, I quickly glimpse Evan stashing something in his pocket. Only then do I roll down the window.

“You kids here for the festival?” the cop asks in a friendly tone.

“Yes, sir,” I say. I can feel Amanda rolling her eyes behind me. She hates anything that indicates we are bowing down to “the man,” which, among other things includes her father, cops, teachers, and, for some reason, Dick Clark. She has a weird theory about him rigging the music scene in the fifties, which she says is anti-democracy or something.

“Well, we are suggesting that everyone turn back,” the cop continues. “There won’t be enough room on the festival site to accommodate everybody, and this traffic isn’t going anywhere. Please turn around the next chance you get.” The cop nods and doesn’t wait for my response before sauntering away.

There’s silence in the car for a moment. “What do we do?” Suzie says from the backseat.

“We keep going, obviously,” Amanda says in exasperation. “Of course the state trooper wants all of us to turn back. Look at us. We’re the blue meanies’ worst nightmare.” She indicates the sea of cars around us, which includes more than one psychedelically painted van. “I heard there’s plenty of room at the site. And we can’t not be there.”

Damn it. It’s so infuriating that her words are actually logical, when the way she says them makes me want to tongue an exhaust pipe.

We stay in the car, of course. But only for about another thirty minutes. The Chrysler finally overheats and I’m forced to pull it over onto the grass by the side of the road. We get out and I open the hood, not that I know much about what I can do to fix it. I try not to look at Amanda. I think I can only deal with one steaming entity at a time.

In the meantime, Evan gets out and walks over to a nearby car to talk to its passenger.

“All right,” he says when he gets back. “I think we’re less than five miles from the site. We can walk it, right?” He turns and grins at Amanda and the girls. I sneak a peek at them too, hoping Evan has managed to defuse the situation. As usual, he has.

“Sure,” Suzie says cheerfully, and the rest of the girls nod along.

I take one final look at the car and send up a quick prayer that nothing will happen to my mom’s pride and joy. Then I grab my backpack, Catherine her sleeping bag, and Evan his Riveting Rucksack of Good Times, as he calls it. We’re not the only people who have pulled over, it seems, so we follow a small line of people cheerfully walking their way to the concert of the year.





chapter 3


Cora


At twelve thirty, I’m due for a break, so I slip out of the medical tent and walk the mile and a half to my house. It’s weird to see people lounging around the normally empty field I take to get there.

It’s even weirder when I approach my big gray farmhouse to see the skinny, bespectacled boy emerging from it. I swear my heart changes its rhythm then, beating Ned, Ned, Ned over and over again. I swallow something acrid.

He waves at me and walks over. “How is it down there?” he asks casually.

Of course he’s casual. It can’t possibly hurt that much to be the heartbreaker as opposed to the heartbroken. No matter what he said in his little speech last month.

Oh, God, it’s been over a month. I feel pathetic.

In a semblance of calm, I carefully untie my candy striper apron and take it off.

“Okay,” I say, willing my voice to stay steady. “It’s already getting crowded.”

“Damn hippies!” Ned intones in a pretty spot-on imitation of my dad before breaking into laughter.

I smile weakly. He doesn’t get to make fun of my dad anymore, does he?

“I’m definitely going to go check it out later,” he says, “so maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I murmur. Though really, I hope not. I think it’s going to be hard enough working the medical tent without Ned’s stupid smile distracting me.

I watch him brush off a spot of dirt from his hand. Even though I know he’s just gotten off a shift plowing my dad’s farm, his hands are impeccably clean. Mom is always happy to let him clean up before he leaves, impressed by his dedication to personal hygiene. I wonder where her loyalties lie.

“Later,” he says, giving me that ridiculous smile before strolling away down the road to his own house.

I love-hate him so much.

Bastard.

When I walk through the front door, the smell of Ivory soap is still wafting around the hallway bathroom. I peek in, for a moment picturing Ned covered in suds up to his elbows.

“Cora, could you grab the eggs?” Mom’s head appears from the kitchen, a mass of wavy dark hair. Thanks to my grandmother, we have the same coppery skin tone, the same sharp cheekbones, and the same color hair, only hers is thick and wavy and mine is straight, fine, and currently brushing my waistline.

I turn away from the traitorous hallucination in the bathroom to my mom. “It’s Wes’s turn,” I say.

Mom sighs. “I know. He’s gone, though.”

I let out a disgruntled groan but then walk through the house and to the backyard door to grab the basket. My twin brother is getting scarcer by the day.