Three Day Summer(44)

In my disturbed mood, I think about my father. I can’t believe I cursed in front of him. Or called him a dumb hick. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the look in his eyes when I stormed out, like I ripped his heart and his voice box out at the same time. Speechless through and through.

I may not always agree with him, and sometimes he makes it so easy to disregard him with his outdated views. He trusts the US government completely, but not young people. He gets behind the word “democracy,” but not Wes’s passion for carrying his sign. It’s like he wants so badly for the world to be black and white when it’s not. It’s not even shades of gray. It’s every color in the world: all the beautiful ones, the grotesque ones, and everything in between.

I have to remind myself that my dad hasn’t had it easy. His own mother refused to talk to him after he married Mom. And then she died within a year. And even though I can see his chest puff up every time he brings up his wars, I’ve never really asked him about what that experience was actually like. He did get shot, for God’s sake.

And I know he loves us. I knew it when I was five and he saved my favorite pig from slaughter even though he had told me time and again not to get attached. I knew it when he made sure to buy Wes not just the toy soldiers but the exact ones he asked for, even though he had to drive to another town fifty miles away. And then when he taught all three of us how to drive with an astounding amount of patience, especially in light of Mark’s propensity for hitting our mailbox every other time he parked.

Today, when he came at me, he expected it to be like all his other histrionics and, surely, he thought he was in the right since I had blatantly broken the rules. He never expected me to talk back. Never expected me to say that.

I feel ashamed.

Now the Who are playing “My Generation” and all my dark, murky thoughts are further mucked up by Ned. I wonder if he’s here to hear his favorite song, and suddenly I feel completely exhausted. The ping-pong of today’s emotions has been almost too much to bear.

So when the Who play one more song and then bid us good night, I know it’s time for me to go as well. I need to sleep. Maybe, as my mom is always fond of saying, everything will look better in the morning. Maybe my dad will get a miraculous bout of short-term amnesia.

“I have to go,” I tell Rob. “I’m so sleepy.”

“Just stay and sleep here,” he responds. “We have bags.”

I shake my head no. “I can’t. I have to go back to work tomorrow.” As long as I’m not chained to my room when I wake up. “They need me in the medical tent.” Except they don’t really. Nobody needs a seventeen-year-old candy striper.

God. Apparently the self-pity comes on strong when I’m beat.

But truly, I have to go.

“Good-bye,” I say, and this time I look directly in Michael’s face when I say it. I’m preparing myself to never see him again.

Still, we had one really excellent day together. So I can afford to give him a smile before I get swept up by Rob, who gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks,” I say, before I turn around and leave, not even looking back to examine the jealousy likely scrawled on Michael’s face. That’s not how I want to remember him.





chapter 52


Michael


After the Who’s epic twenty-five-song set, we all realize we need to get some sleep. It seems like they’re breaking down equipment anyway, so I’m not too upset when the girls suggest we find a place to hunker down for the night.

We walk away from the stage until we find an unoccupied bit of land near the top of the big hill. I have my backpack again, and the sleeping bag along with it. Amanda crawls into it with me with barely a word and passes out right away.

But I can’t sleep. Not too long ago, Cora said good-bye to me like it was for real, like it was the last time we’d ever see each other. But I won’t believe that to be true. Not in a place as magical and epic as Woodstock.

Suddenly the sleeping bag and the girl crammed into it with me are stifling and I know I have to get out of it. As quietly as I can, I pull the zipper, move Amanda’s arm off me, and roll out. She shifts a little but doesn’t wake up.

For good measure, I move a little farther away before I lie back down on the grass. It feels better out in the open, but still not quite right. I look up at the stars that seemed to hold so much meaning for me just a couple of nights ago. They’re inscrutable now, nothing but balls of gas burning billions of miles away. They tell me nothing about what I should do or who I should be.

My eyelids feel heavy and I know I’m drifting in and out of sleep because the sky seems to be getting lighter each time I open my eyes. At some point, I hear a faraway voice announcing, “This is morning maniac music!”

And then the music starts up again. It doesn’t take me long to recognize Grace Slick’s distinctive growl.

I close my eyes and try to feel everything. The slick, dewy grass beneath my back. The morning breeze that tickles the little hairs in my nose. The distinctive smell of mud and skin. And, of course, the sound of Jefferson Airplane rocking out just down the hill from me.

The only thing I know for sure is that it’s technically the last day of the festival. I need to make it count.





chapter 53


Cora