Three Day Summer(28)

“You’ll be . . . ,” she starts, and I find that I’m holding my breath. “Fine.”

I stare at her. “What? Really?”

Cora nods. “Yeah. I mean you got the worst of it yesterday. I checked with Anna, too. She said you might have some slight repercussions today, but nothing dire.”

The pain in my temple is already starting to subside.

“But just in case,” she continues, “I think I’ll stay with you today.”

“Really?” I say, taken aback. “What about work?”

“Well, technically, I’m a volunteer. And besides, it’ll still be work being with you.”

I’m still in a state of shock from my reprieve from death and don’t smile at the joke, but she does.

“It’s okay. Anna said she won’t need me, especially when she saw how worried I was about you. And anyway, she wants me to enjoy the concert. How often does a person have this in her backyard?”

She sweeps her left hand out in front of her, her right one still holding on to mine.

“Come on,” she says, as she leads me toward the stage.





chapter 33


Cora


“Cora, wait up!”

We haven’t gotten very far toward the stage when I turn around to see my brother and his friend Laurie jogging up to us. They are both carrying their antiwar signs. Wes has a new one, I see. Behind them are Adam and Peter, who are huddled together, discussing something.

“Hi, Cora,” Laurie says to me with a big smile.

“Hi,” I say.

“Who’s this?” she asks, pointing at Michael.

It’s only then that I realize I’m holding Michael’s hand, right about the same time my twin brother does. He looks Michael up and down.

I drop his hand as nonchalantly as I can, using mine to wave gallantly to him instead. “Michael, Laurie. Laurie, Michael. And that’s Adam and Peter.” I needlessly point to the two boys who are deeply in the middle of an argument and not paying us the slightest mind.

Laurie shakes his hand. “How do you do?”

Wes turns to me. “You spent all day yesterday roaming this place, right?” he asks, casting a suspicious glance at Michael, who has somehow become immediately absorbed in conversation with Laurie.

“What makes you say that?” I ask. I’m not about to give anything away.

“Cora, the whole neighborhood could hear Dad last night.”

I grimace. “Yeah, I guess. What of it? And just when did you get home last night, anyway?”

“Jeez. Calm down.” He puts his hands up in the air in a placating gesture.

Now I genuinely want to know, though. “I’m serious, Wes. When did you get home last night? And did Dad say anything to you?” My bet is on no.

Wes rolls his eyes. “Maybe like half an hour before you,” he finally says. “And no, he didn’t. But don’t you think Dad has enough to criticize me about without the curfew bit?”

I soften a little because he’s right. Seeing my face concede, he gets a mischievous gleam in his eye and looks over to where Michael and Laurie are talking to each other. “But I’m beginning to think thou dost protest too much. What’s going on with Tall, Blond, and Muddy here?”

“Nothing,” I say. “Can you maybe get your own love life and stay out of mine?”

“Aha! You said ‘love life’!” He stares critically at Michael again. “Really? That guy? Isn’t he like a drugged-out hippie?”

“You know who you sound like, right?” I ask, ready to pounce.

“Okay, okay. Just . . . be careful.”

I roll my eyes. “You too. Watch out for splinters.”

I look at his sign, which today reads DIE AT 18 BUT VOTE AT 21. DO YOU SEE A PROBLEM HERE?

“Wordy,” I say.

“But it makes a good point.”

“True,” I say.

“Laurie came up with it,” he says just as Laurie gives a loud guffaw. I look to see both her and Michael doubled over in laughter.

I frown. I don’t like this. Especially since blond-haired, blue-eyed Laurie looks a little like Michael’s girlfriend.

Right. His girlfriend.

On second thought, this is a good reminder for me that he has one. And I should keep myself to myself. No more hand holding, or hugging, or weird pecks. Thank you, Laurie.

“Anyway, I think Mark would approve,” Wes says, looking over at his sign again.

I reach out and lightly touch his sign then, like it’s somehow a connection to my absent older brother. “Your letter from him was bad too?” I ask, although it’s not really a question.

Wes shakes his head. “We got to get him out of there,” he mutters.

If only, I think.

“Oh, man. Look at that.” Michael’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up to see him pointing toward a bunch of people who are pushing a Volkswagen van up a steep hill—everything, naturally, the color of mud. They get a few inches of the way up, about five feet from the crest, before the car starts rolling back down again. Then I hear a couple of the girls scream as they duck out of the way of the free-flying vehicle. Once the van has made its way back to the bottom, they jog back down there and try again.