Three Day Summer(59)

“I like this song,” she says softly. And then, as the guys sing about two people belonging to one another, she turns around so that we are face-to-face. She begins to softly kiss me.

The harmonies surround the length of our bodies, as they touch and move and shift. We never stop kissing. Not when she starts to undress me or I her under the cover of our sleeping bag, in the darkness of a star-speckled Bethel night. I don’t overthink a thing. Not my inexperience or even my excitement. I let the music wash over me and give in to it, feeling that our bodies know everything they need to know and that nothing but beauty surrounds us.

I think we fall asleep with our lips touching. When I open my eyes again, the sky is bright with the risen sun and Cora is sitting up beside me, looking up at the stage. She has put on her clothes again but I am immediately hit with the unique sensation of open air whistling through my nether regions.

I search with my hands for my pants, which are balled up at the bottom of the sleeping bag, and then I do an ungraceful wiggle inside the bag to put them on.

Cora turns around to watch and laugh at me.

“Modesty looks interesting on you,” she says.

“I’m sure you had to do the same thing to get yours on,” I say.

“Nope. It was still dark,” she says. “Well, ish.” She shrugs with a sly little smile.

“I’ve created a monster,” I say.

“Yeah, you and half a million other uninhibited people.”

I sit up and kiss her shoulder. “I hope you don’t decide to make streaking a regular hobby.”

“I’m considering it,” she says.

“What I meant to say is that I hope you don’t decide to make streaking a regular hobby unless I’m there to see it.”

She grins and playfully sticks out her tongue.

I squint up at the stage to see who’s on and am met with a bizarre sight. A group of guys in shiny gold suits are doing some sort of choreographed dance and singing an old fifties song.

“Sha Na Na?” I ask, confused. For some reason, I didn’t know they were on the bill. Or maybe I saw it and my brain just disregarded the information since it made no sense.

But I look over and Cora is tapping her toes and mouthing along with the words.

I stare at her. “A favorite of yours?” I ask.

Cora looks at me and blushes a little. “We used to listen to a lot of these when we were kids,” she says. “My older brother loved doo-wop and Elvis and all that stuff.”

I smile. “Who didn’t, huh?” I ask. “Did you have to sneak Elvis around your dad?”

Cora laughs. “Actually, I think my dad was cool with Elvis. Believe it or not.”

“Elvis? The original rebel?” I ask incredulously.

“I know, right?” Cora says. “Maybe it has something to do with him being in the army.”

“So this is not hippie music?” I ask.

She laughs, eyes wide. “Just wait until I tell Dad they played ‘The Book of Love’ here. It’ll blow his mind.”

“It’ll trip him right out. Diabolical, Cora Fletcher.”

She grins at me, and then unabashedly mouths along with most of the rest of Sha Na Na’s set.

They get off the stage and I start to look around while they set up for the next act. It’s really cleared out overnight. For the first time, I can see a lot more muddy ground than people.

When I look up at the stage, I know why I could never have left this show early.

There, at the very back, someone with a guitar is facing away from us. Someone with a telltale Afro wrapped with a pink scarf.

It’s him. It’s happening.





chapter 69


Cora


Michael goes into something like a trance as soon as Jimi Hendrix gets introduced. Jimi saunters out to the microphone, wearing a white fringed half-shirt with turquoise beading, his dark, flat stomach peeking through. There’s a bright pink scarf around his forehead, and a gold hoop gleams from his ear.

“I see that we meet again,” he says with an enigmatic smile before introducing his band. Someone from the audience yells out, “Are you high?”

“I am high, thank you,” he says easily, and it’s probably the most charming way anyone has ever made that declaration.

Then he plays. It’s almost as fun watching Michael as it is watching the rock star. Michael’s eyes are half closed and there are moments when he seems wholly intent on just Jimi’s hands. I can see Michael’s head move from side to side as Jimi moves his fingers up and down the guitar.

He told me Jimi was his favorite and I remember him getting all hyperbolic on me when describing his playing. I can see the fascination now.

There’s an almost indescribable beauty about the man on the stage. Not just how he looks, but also what’s happening up there between him and his guitar. His mouth hangs wide open as he plays, almost as if he has to suck in as much oxygen as he can to create that sort of energy. At one point, he starts to pick the strings with his teeth. The crowd goes wild and even I, who knows next to nothing about music, can tell I’m witnessing something special.

Michael and I hold hands but don’t speak; I wouldn’t want to ruin this moment for him. At one point, I recognize the melody that Jimi is picking out. It’s “The Star-Spangled Banner” and I give a little laugh of recognition. Michael turns to me with a huge grin on his face, and then he pulls me close and places his chin on my head. We stay like that until Jimi stops playing.