Three Day Summer(22)

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.





chapter 26


Michael


I savor every bite of that cheese. It’s cheddar, I think, sharp and delicious especially when placed in hunks between a rolled-up piece of Wonder Bread. I think this may have just knocked last night’s burger out of contention for the top five meals of my lifetime.

The grocery store has shuttered its doors for good by the time I walk past it again. If they’re smart, they won’t bother opening up in the morning. Unless they magically get a new shipment of supplies in.

I’m down to my last two slices of bread by the time I can hear the music again. A woman’s voice is faintly drifting over, getting louder as I walk past the half-finished gates.

Vaguely, I keep an eye out for Evan and Amanda, thinking it might be nice to find them again at some point. But if I’m honest with myself, I don’t look very hard.

The field by the stage is still packed, but this time with prone bodies, some in sleeping bags and on blankets. Some not so lucky.

I’m going to have to be one of the latter if I can’t find my friends.

I recognize Joan Baez’s unmistakable voice once I reach the top of the big hill. It slides over me like moth wings, at once tangible and translucent.

I walk slowly down toward the stage. Joan finishes her song and starts talking about her husband and how he’s been in jail for years for protesting the war. “I was happy to find out that after David had been in jail for two and a half weeks, he already had a very, very good hunger strike going with forty-two federal prisoners, none of whom are draft people,” she says.

It’s still too dark to see her but I feel a pang of jealousy for all the conviction in her voice, and all the conviction that must be in her husband’s. I wish I felt that strongly about something.

At least I can appreciate the music. I find a tree to lean against, and let it wash over me as Joan sings, this time without any musical accompaniment. Just her pure voice ringing out, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.”

She sings one more song before leaving the stage to loud applause and whistles. Then a man’s deep voice comes over the sound system.

“That brings us fairly close to the dawn,” he says. “Maybe the best thing for everyone to do, unless you have a tent or someplace specific to go to, is carve yourself out a piece of territory, say good night to your neighbor. And say thank you to yourself for making this the most peaceful, the most pleasant day anybody’s ever had in this kind of music.”

There is more applause and whistles and I can feel a wave of instant nostalgia wash over the audience as everyone reflects on their pleasant, peaceful, perfect day. I catch the eye of a short guy standing next to me and he nods at me in a gesture of camaraderie. Then he salutes me before walking a few steps over and settling himself down on the ground. More and more heads are starting to disappear from view, and it’s clearly time for me to follow suit.

I sink right down into the mud. At least it’s soft. I use the root of the tree as a sort of pillow, my body now cradled by grass and soft, wet dirt.