Three Day Summer(57)

“Shannon?” he says, shaking his head at the name. “Oh, girl. When will you ever learn?”





chapter 66


Michael


Cora’s mother is the type of parent who doesn’t feel the need to make awkward conversation with her daughter’s friends.

I appreciate this about her.

After apologizing again for her husband (not necessary, I assure her), she asks me a few more questions about the festival, and then leaves me in comfortable silence while I finish the rest of my meal.

I insist on doing the dishes, though, and that’s how Cora finds me when she comes back, with peach-colored gloves up to my elbows.

“Nice getup,” Cora says.

“Does it bring out the salmon in my eyes?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at her.

“Definitely.” She splashes some sudsy water at me. “The rain’s letting up. You about ready to go back?”

“Definitely,” I counter as I clean off the last fork and take off my gloves. I look down at Cora and grin at her, already feeling the excitement of the concert building in my belly. It’s not over yet.

I glance around the kitchen to make sure we’re alone, and then give her a quick kiss on the lips.

She looks a little embarrassed, seeing as her parents are probably only feet away, but she smiles.

As we head to the front door, I hear the click of a television being turned on in another room.

“Wait,” Cora says. “Come with me.”

She leads me to her living room, where her parents have just set themselves down in front of the TV. Even though there are two couches and an armchair, they sit right next to one another, their shoulders touching. I cannot remember ever seeing my parents that physically close to each other.

“Mom, Dad,” she calls, and they look up. “My friend Michael and I are going back to the festival,” she says slowly. “And I’d like to stay for the rest of the concert. But I don’t know how late that’ll be. Okay, Dad?”

He looks at her hopeful face for a second and then shocks the hell out of me by replying with a gruff “Fine, but be careful.” Cora’s mom gently squeezes his arm, and he turns his steely gaze over to me. “You too, Michael.”

“Of course, sir,” I immediately pipe up.

“Have fun,” Cora’s mom says with a smile.

“Thank you. Thanks. See you later.” I can hear the relief in Cora’s voice.

At the front door, she asks me to wait one more time, then disappears into the hall closet and reemerges with two thick red blankets.

“Wet ground,” she says.

“Good thinking,” I reply.

I take the blankets from her and hold them over my arms. Then we walk out of her house and make our way back to the glorious stage.





chapter 67


Cora


I know it killed my dad not to say what he was really thinking when he told me and Michael to “be careful”—i.e., “Don’t do drugs.” And probably—let’s face it—“No touching.”

But still, he didn’t say I had to be back by a certain time. A+ to you, Dad.

The rain has slowed down but hasn’t stopped by the time we make it back near the stage, and I have never seen more mud, or more muddy people, in my life. The impromptu mudslide is still going strong, but it actually looks like some people may have left during the storm. Now I can see even more of the piles of garbage that are dotting the brown landscape, everything from banana peels to toothbrushes to a bra.

In truth, Mr. Yasgur’s farm is a huge mess, and it has me a little worried. Yeesh. Maybe Dad was a little bit right about how much of a disturbance this many people could cause on a farm.

But fewer people means we can get closer to the stage and Michael is thrilled. We sit down on our blankets and I can see everyone up close. Michael gives me information on each band as they come up.

First, it’s Country Joe and the Fish. Joe looks like a pirate, with big hoop earrings and a wide patterned bandanna wrapped around his forehead. He’s wearing a green army shirt, and he’s hard to hear at first because they’ve turned the microphones off. But the rains stops sometime in the middle of his set and the sound system is back on in full force by the time he ends with a jaunty sing-along about ending the war in Vietnam. That’s right after he leads us in a rousing cheer. “Give me an F. Give me a U. Give me a C. Give me a K. What’s that spell?” He hollers and is answered with enthusiasm. I cheer along, but a little part of me is thinking about what my dad said too.

Then it’s a band called Ten Years After, a shaggy-haired quartet that plays some long instrumentals with sporadic singing. (“Blues,” Michael tells me.)

Then there’s the Band.

We have a fun Abbott and Costello exchange there.

“This is the Band,” Michael says.

“What band?” I ask, playing dumb.

Him: The Band.

Me: The band? As in, your favorite band? So emphasis on the ‘the’?

Him: No, the Band. As in, that’s their name.

I give a mischievous smile and he smiles back at me and kisses my forehead. I lean back into him, glad I brought the thickest blanket since the ground is soaked. We listen to the band. Or the Band, oblivious to pretty much everyone until directly addressed.