Three Day Summer(43)

I don’t need approval either, I finally realize. I will be a doctor, no matter what anyone thinks or says.

I say “higher” one extra time than everyone else, not realizing the song has ended and they’ve already broken into applause. But I don’t care. I’m sure I clap harder than anyone else too. Something has just become so very clear to me about myself, about who I am, and I have the music to thank for it.

Which, I guess, is what Michael was trying to tell me just this afternoon.





chapter 50


Michael


I glimpse the time on Amanda’s watch. It’s past five a.m. when the real Roger Daltrey saunters onto the stage.

As the night has gone on, some space has cleared up (I guess some people actually want to get sleep or something, the idiots) and we’ve all managed to get pretty close to the stage now, so I can see Roger clearly in all his glory. He looks like a scarecrow with a mop of wild blond hair. He’s wearing an open jacket with long, fringed white sleeves, and no shirt underneath, his taut belly on display. The band starts to play and he actually prowls onstage, walking it from one end to the other like he owns every f*cking audience member.

And you know what? I think he does. He sings and gyrates, exuding some crazy confidence and something else. Let’s call it raw manliness. I can practically hear the sighs from all the female, and probably some male, concertgoers around me. I think Amanda is turning to putty beside me. And I’m sure everyone else not completely beguiled by him just wants to be him.

I know I do.

I can’t help it. I turn my head slightly and seek out Cora’s face. She’s been completely wrapped up in Rob this whole time, ignoring me at every turn. But she must feel me looking at her and, this time, she meets my gaze. She looks up at the specimen of testosterone on the stage. And then she looks back at me again. Then she laughs quietly.

I should feel hurt or like my own manhood is being mocked. But the truth is, she’s right. I ain’t no Roger Daltrey. And the fact that anyone would ever mistake me for him is pretty hilarious. So I start chuckling too.

I decide to risk it further. “You think the suit dropped some brown acid too?” I yell over to her, referring, of course, to the executive who mistook me for Roger.

Cora glances at the stage one more time before turning her gaze back to me. She just smiles enigmatically and I smile back.

But then she returns her gaze to the stage again and she doesn’t look toward me anymore, even though I keep waiting for her to. I think I’ve lost my moment. And her.

Eventually, I give up and focus on the band again. I see Keith Moon freaking out behind the drums, probably tripping out on something. Or maybe just the music itself. It is that good. I see Pete Townshend with his guitar, his dark, close-cropped hair and long face in direct contrast to Roger’s bright demeanor. Pete is in all white. When he plays, he plays angry, like he’s seeking revenge from the strings.

Between them—and let’s not forget the fantastic bassist, John Entwistle—there is so much palpable energy radiating from that stage. At five in the f*cking morning.

It’s beautiful. And for a moment I let myself realize that being a fake part of that for even just a minute in some stuffy corporate dude’s eyes is absolutely priceless.

I bang my head just a little bit harder and move around just a little bit more as they play. At one point I begin to realize I’m mimicking Roger’s moves a little. But you know what? I don’t care. I had rock star confidence for an hour today. And if I can somehow get that back, I’m pretty sure I can rule the world.





chapter 51


Cora


Ten songs in and Roger Daltrey continues to slither around onstage like some sort of sexy snake. I’ve never had much of a rock star complex—at least not before Michael’s earth-shattering kiss today—but this guy makes it hard not to feel just a little bit flustered. And you know what, I have to admit that Michael does resemble him. They’re both long and lean, with a similar mess of blond, wavy, shoulder-length hair; I don’t think the suit was that far off.

Seeing Mr. Daltrey now, I can’t help but smile at the perfectly magical, one-of-a-kind experience Michael and I shared thanks to him. I break my eye-contact rule with Michael just long enough to try to convey that.

The band is in between songs when a man with dark curly hair climbs up on the stage. I vaguely recognize him. I think he might have been one of the extra guys who was helping out in the medical tent this morning.

He grabs the mic that Pete Townshend (Rob reminded me of his name) was using while the guitarist is turned away fiddling with an amp. “I think this is a pile of shit while John Sinclair rots in prison.”

There is some confusion in the air, but I also hear the crowd applauding, Rob included. Because of Wes, I vaguely know who Sinclair is—a political activist who was recently sentenced to ten years in jail for selling a couple of joints to undercover cops.

But now Pete Townshend has turned around. He brings his guitar up like an ax and the mic picks up most of his words. “Fuck off my f*cking stage!” he yells, and brings the guitar down on the curly-haired man, who either falls or leaps off the stage. I strain my neck and look for him, to make sure he’s not on the ground, injured, but he’s disappeared into the crowd.

Something heavy and almost silent hangs in the air now. We just witnessed a moment of violence in what has, until now, been a dreamy couple of days of peace and music—just like the posters promised. It’s a jarring reminder of the world outside our bubble. The world of war and racism and assassinations. I can tell I’m not the only one who suddenly remembers how thin that bubble’s skin is.