Three Day Summer(33)

“Insane? Um, no. Impressive? Hell, yes.” When I look up, Michael is beaming at me.

I laugh. “You probably wouldn’t say that if you actually knew what being a candy striper mostly entailed.”

“Saving people from dying because of bad acid, right? I assume that’s a daily task.”

“Oh, yes. Happens all the time here in Bethel. Where, by the way, I think the median age is fifty,” I counter.

“Old people. What is the matter with them these days?” Michael shakes his head. “Why can’t they take a page from our book? Wholesome, respectful, clean-cut . . .”

I reach across the table and lightly touch his shoulder-length hair. “Very clean-cut.” Then I snort, remembering something else. “Oh, right. The other fifteen percent of my spare time is spent trying to stop my father and Wes from murdering each other. Wes’s hair is the latest point of contention. You know, along with their points of view on the war, and the farm, and school, and his clothes, and basically anything it’s possible to have an opinion about.” I’ve stopped touching his hair, but my hand is still hovering near his side of the table. He takes it in his.

“Is there a lot of fighting in your house?” he asks. He looks serious for a second, which is a look I don’t think I’ve seen come across his face before.

I shrug. “Yes, sometimes. Sometimes a lot of begrudging silence. They both adore my mother, so she can usually butt in and get them to stop. Or sometimes I can . . .” I trail off. “My dad fought in both World War II and Korea and he’s so proud of his time as a soldier. Mark was always the favorite anyway, but when he signed up for the army, he cemented that spot forever. My dad’s brave and strong boy. And I was the only girl. So sometimes that leaves Wes a little bit adrift, you know?”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah, I kinda do. I’m an only child but I’m still somehow my dad’s least favorite.” He laughs, but I don’t think it’s very funny.

“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning.

But he shakes his head, and his goofy grin is back. “He’s just not a warm and fuzzy guy, is all.” Just like that, his serious moment seems to be over. Still holding my hand, he bends his head to try to read my watch. “Does that say three?” he asks.

I take my hand back to check. “Yup,” I say. “I guess we should try to get back and catch some more of these bands?” I make it a question, because I’m not entirely convinced that Michael doesn’t want to tell me more about his parents.

“Definitely,” he says with enthusiasm as he gets up from the table, dispelling any notion I have that he wants to stay on the subject. “Some of them are going to knock your socks off, I’m telling you.” He offers his hand to help me up, but as he does, we look at each other and I know we’re both hit with the same thought.

“How exactly are we going to get back?” I finally voice the concern.

“I take it hitchhiking is out?” Michael says.

“Unless you know of a way to tow about twenty thousand cars from Route 17. Or we find a car with wings.”

“I got it.” Michael snaps his fingers. “How about the same way we got here?” He grins as he starts to head for the hotel’s front door.

I’m pretty skeptical. What are the chances that a second dope will mistake Michael for Roger Daltrey?

It turns out I’m right, of course. The helicopter is waiting just outside the hotel again, and I see Michael walk up to it with all the swagger he can muster. “G’day,” he says to the guy in shades who is manning the door.

“Get lost, kid,” the guy promptly replies.

“Bout,” Michael continues, trying on his accent once again, “ay’m Roger Daltrey.”

“Oh, yeah? And I’m a leprechaun.” The guy puts on a fairly impressive Irish accent before continuing. “Stop wasting me time now, laddie.”

I can’t help but laugh, and Michael walks back over to me, looking sullen.

“You gotta admit, his Irish accent was way better than yours,” I tease.

“Mine was English!”

“Oh . . . ,” I say, and can’t help giggling.

“How far is it to the festival?” Michael asks.

“Um . . . about twenty miles,” I answer.

“So . . . walking is out of the question?”

“Unless we want to get there on Sunday night,” I say.

I can see a worried expression creeping into Michael’s handsome features. “So how do we get back?” he asks. I’m sure he’s thinking about Jimi.

“Didn’t really think that far, did you?” I ask gently.

“No,” he admits. “I guess I never really do. It’s my fatal flaw, according to my mom.”

I stare at the helicopter and watch as the guy in shades is relieved of his duty by a heavier-set guy. Then I look down at my red-and-white apron and am suddenly hit by an idea.

“Come with me,” I say.





chapter 38


Michael


“You’re what?” The burly helicopter pilot is looking Cora over skeptically. She doesn’t bat an eye.

“Dr. Fletcher. I think you heard me the first time,” she says in a curt but calm voice.