Three Day Summer(23)

Right before I drift off, I start to worry that I somehow won’t wake up in time to meet Cora.

Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. I repeat it like a drill inside my head, hoping it will somehow act as an alarm clock in the morning.





Saturday, August 16





chapter 27


Cora


I wake up to the sound of Dad yelling.

“Bethel’s been declared an evacuation zone, Iris. Everyone is being ordered to evacuate, and I, for one, am taking myself down there and making sure each and every one of those bums loafing around there knows it and gets out.”

Mom murmurs something probably intended to calm him down.

Evacuation zone, really? Does that mean the whole thing is over? Is everybody gone?

I stare at my clock. It’s seven in the morning. I get up and dress quickly; definitely no white dress this time, I think, as I glare at the culprit still damp and hanging from my chair. I find a pair of denim shorts and a light orange, short-sleeved button-down shirt. I button it most of the way down and then take the bottom ends and tie them together. I quickly braid my hair and pin it into a crown around my head and slip into a pair of brown sandals.

I glance at the mirror. Definitely more hip than yesterday. And also less likely to flash a million and a half people if it rains again.

My parents’ voices are coming from the kitchen. So much for baking bread. But I can at least get the eggs and see what I can scrounge up from the second pantry. I tiptoe past them and to the back door.

The rain has stopped but the ground is still wet. A basket in hand, I go into the henhouse and give my regards to vingt-huit through quarante-deux as I take their eggs.

I go back into the house. Our second pantry is a little door just off the den. It’s pretty far from the kitchen and I can’t even hear my parents’ conversation, which makes rummaging around in there a lot calmer. I find another loaf of bread, a few more blocks of cheese, and some Macintosh apples. I also snag a couple of bags of potato chips and pretzels.

My basket is pretty full and heavy at this point; this is probably the best I can do.

By the time I emerge from the pantry and head to the front door, another voice has been added to my parents’ in the kitchen. Ned.

Of course. So now I have to sneak around my dad and him. Added to which, I immediately conjure up the context in which I remembered him last night—right after being kissed by another boy—and I just feel deeply and utterly embarrassed for myself.

But there isn’t much time for wallowing in self-pity.

The kitchen door is straight across from the front one. Of course, I could just sneak out the back door again, but then I’ll never hear the end of it from my dad for leaving without saying good-bye.

There’s only one way to do this and it won’t be graceful.

I square my shoulders and, quickly and quietly as I can, sprint to the front door. I open the screen door gently, step outside, then yell, in one breath, “Byeseeyoualllater.”

I slam the door and walk as fast as I can without looking like I’m running for cover.

“Cora,” I hear both my dad and Ned call out in unison.

If they say anything else, I don’t hear it. I’ve “walked” all the way to the end of our street and turned the corner in less than thirty seconds.





chapter 28


Michael


It turns out I don’t need my internal alarm clock after all. I get woken up by trumpet.

I blink and sit up, bleary-eyed, and massage the crick in my neck as I look up to the stage.

Sure enough, a guy up there is playing a trumpet, and standing next to him is Hugh Romney. He’s the leader of the Hog Farm, sort of big in the underground hippie culture, and I heard they were going to be responsible for the food here. Hugh is wearing a sleeveless white jumpsuit and a huge straw cowboy hat. He grins widely.

“What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for four hundred thousand,” he says to wild applause. He tells us to hang tight, that food is coming. “And if you’ve got food, feed other people,” he says before pointing to the guy on trumpet and asking him to play the mess call.

I stand up and stretch out as people start to stir all around me. I look down to the spot I picked as my bed for the night. It looks as if the ground and I have gone all the way together. Swirls of wet dirt peak and valley, with a deep vortex right in the area where my crotch would have been.

What the hell did I dream about last night?

And that’s when I think to look down at myself and see that, obviously, my pants and shirt and arms are covered with mud. I feel really self-conscious about it for all of five seconds before I take a glance at everyone around me.

Overnight, everyone’s vibrant clothes have turned a familiar shade of brown. I’ll fit right in.

I squelch slowly around the field. In the distance, I see a small group of people standing on one leg in unison, their palms touching in front of them like they are in prayer. Amanda does yoga sometimes so I vaguely recognize the pose. A man in front is clearly leading the group, slowly guiding everyone into more elaborate bends and twists.

“Here you are!” a bright voice from next to me says, and I turn around to a small Dixie cup getting shoved into my hand. I look at the freckle-faced girl who has handed it to me. “Muesli and water. Eat up!” she says, before moving on to hand a cup to my neighbor.