Three Day Summer Page 3

  Wes grins and, for a moment, his face sheds its conscientious-citizen mask and shows the unbridled excitement of a seventeen-year-old boy. “I can’t believe this is happening in our own backyard. Can you?”

  He practically skips out of the tent, carrying his sign in his unbandaged hand.

  If nothing else, he’ll definitely be getting another splinter.

  chapter 8

  Michael

  Once the sun starts to set, I realize how wrong I’ve been about Bethel being a plain sort of girl. All her hidden beauties just come out later in the day. As we leave the lunch counter, the sky starts to streak pink and violet and orange. The colors are as unbelievable as a psychedelic concert poster and the entire scene is made kaleidoscopic by the reflection in the town’s great big lake. Far out.

  By the time we’re back by the festival site, the stars have come out. More stars than I’d have ever known existed back in Boston. It’s like someone is poking holes in a piece of sapphire paper and they have no sense of moderation. I wonder if this hypothetical person has any relation to Evan.

  Speaking of which, our resident comedian has been amusing us by narrating the thoughts of the other kids we see heading toward what we’ve already come to feel is “our” field. “Your cantaloupes are as supple as your tits,” Evan says as one guy in a fringed vest stares freely at a braless girl in a thin shirt walking with a shopping bag of food, the rough green skin of a cantaloupe peeking out from the top. The girls scream in laughter.

  “Evan, man, you get away with murder,” Rob says with a chuckle.

  “Tell me about it,” I respond.

  Soon, we’ve staked a claim to a corner of the field. There are two sleeping bags and six of us but, somehow, it seems to work out fine. Either Catherine or Suzie (or both) is in Evan’s sleeping bag, while Rob is lying on a blanket. Things keep shifting over there, though, and there are plenty of giggles, so I have no idea how they end up.

  Amanda is with me in my sleeping bag, sprawled out across my chest. Despite everything, I can’t deny that she’s nice to hold on to, warm and soft. Her hair is tickling my bare chest, its blond strands practically glowing by starlight. I bend down and kiss a piece of it.

  I hear her laugh slightly and then sigh in contentment.

  I look down at her profile. She’s just so damn beautiful. I’m crazy to want to end things. Maybe it can always be like this: peaceful and perfect. Waiting on a tomorrow that is going to fuel everything that is wonderful about being young. I think again of the first time we met, that cold day in January, with the smell of dusty plastic in the air as I flipped through some older LPs—the way I always did whenever I went to Jerry’s Music—just on the off chance that I would come across an original copy of Yesterday and Today. When she caught me checking her out over the tops of my records, she immediately smiled and asked me what I was looking for. I admit, I was a little smug when I said the name of the record, not the band. But she knew what it was right away, knew all about the Beatles’ infamous record that had been pulled almost immediately because of its controversial cover. What’s more, she had actually seen the original cover itself; a cousin of hers had the reissued version, but had managed to pull off the new cover without damaging the one underneath. We talked a lot about music that day and I couldn’t believe my luck: that a girl with the face of an angel knew so much about people like Bob Dylan, and Simon & Garfunkel, and even Keith Moon. Some of the people we spent that magical first day talking about, we are going to see live over the next few days.

  In the distance, I can just make out the shadows of the flimsy fences. They don’t look like they are too much higher, or more complete, than when we saw them this afternoon. I hope Evan is right about not needing those tickets. I can’t imagine having to turn back around after making it all this way.

  I can’t imagine what Amanda will do to me. I look down at her serene face again and feel a tiny shrapnel of fear go through me. I hope I won’t ever have to know.

  “That one there is the soupspoon,” I hear Evan say, and I crane my neck to see what’s going on. He’s silhouetted against the moonlight, just a dark hand pointing up into the air, tracing some constellation of his imagination.

  “Really?” Suzie asks from beside him, a note of disbelief in her voice.

  “And that’s the mashed potatoes, see the chives sticking out.”

  Suzie giggles, and I see her hand go up into the air too. “And I suppose that one there is the wineglass.”

  “Champagne flute, actually. But you seem to be getting it, baby.”

  I hear rather than see Suzie playfully punch Evan. “You are out of your mind, Evan Mather.”

  It’s true. He really is.

  But then again, that’s usually what makes him so fun.

  I realize this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time. The world seems infinite and my worries so small. My parents, my problems with Amanda, the looming question of what I’m going to do with my life once this summer is over—minuscule. There is only one thing that seems as substantial and weighty as the sky before me: the glorious music that will consume the next three days of my life. Hearing Jimi Hendrix pluck those strings, or Janis Joplin wail those notes, or Roger Daltrey weave a story, that’s going to be what my heavens consist of.

  For now, I choose not to think beyond that. I choose here and now. I’m going to choose the here and now every single moment of this weekend. Maybe that will be enough to make it last forever.

  chapter 9

  Cora

  Dinner is a subdued affair.

  I don’t leave the medical tent until eight p.m. and Mom, as usual, waits for me, the meatloaf getting a little crispier than normal in the oven. Dad, naturally, grumbles about my tardiness.

  I don’t bother telling him that I’m pretty sure the next three nights will be even worse.

  And that I’m looking forward to it. Today was the largest number of people I have ever seen. Maybe it’s twisted of me to say, but I get excited thinking about the possible medical cases that could walk through the tent flap.

  For most of my life, I’ve been certain that I want to be a nurse. The human body fascinates me, all the tiers of it, like when you scrape your knee badly and sometimes you can see layers of skin and tissue, blood and muscle. Once in the hospital I saw actual white gleaming bone.

  Ned wants to be a doctor. That’s how we met, actually. He used to volunteer at the hospital, just like me.

  For some reason, he got to do more and see more. Probably because he’s a guy and, in my candy striper uniform, I look more like some sort of sickbed cheerleader than someone serious about medicine.

  Once, when he got to sit in on a heart surgery and I was relegated to getting rid of patients’ wilted flowers, a seed got planted in my head.

  He told me all about the surgery later. It was our idea of a hot date, him explaining the blood and valves and ligaments he saw. And I started daydreaming. Not about becoming a nurse, but about being a doctor.

  I told Ned about it, once. It was after he told me about yet another surgery that he got to witness (a ruptured appendix). I said it casually, belying the way my heart was pounding near my throat. It’s not that women doctors are completely unheard of. We don’t have any at Community General, but I do know of one in Ellenville, about twenty miles away. But still. I wasn’t sure anyone close to me would understand.

  It’s not that Ned said he didn’t understand. It’s not like he tried to talk me out of it, or told me it was a silly dream. He took a slight pause, just long enough for one blink behind his glasses, and then changed the subject to taking me out to the movies.

  I never brought it up again. To anyone.

  As I think about it now, I slice a carrot neatly in half with my butter knife, a beautiful, precise cut. I imagine I’m holding a scalpel.

  “What happened to your hand?” I look up to see
my dad pointing a fork at Wes’s bandaged palm.

  “Splinter,” Wes grumbles.

  My dad frowns. “Must have been an awful big splinter.” Maybe inadvertently, he glances at his own arm then, the one that got shot in Korea and sent him home early, much to his dismay.

  I catch the angry glint in Wes’s eye and butt in. “It was. I wrapped it up.”

  “Hmmmph,” Dad says before turning back to his loaf. I can’t help but notice how both he and Wes stab their meat at the exact same moment with the exact same amount of unnecessary force.

  Seems like the china is going to get the brunt end of their relationship today. Mom catches my eye and we shake our heads at each other. She gives a little sigh and I wonder if she’s going to try to talk to my dad tonight. Once when I was little and the bathroom on my landing was backed up, I went upstairs to use theirs in the middle of the night and I heard them whispering to each other. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, only catching all our names—Mark’s, Wes’s, and mine—woven throughout the conversation. I was up there for at least twenty minutes and they never stopped talking.

  Even still, sometimes, it’s hard for me to imagine how my parents ever got together. How my dad got home from World War II and, against his parents’ wishes, married a half-Indian girl who lived on a reservation. I wonder if something in that made him go superconservative all of a sudden, like he had reached his rebellion limit by loving Mom. Love is strange, I think, as I move on to cutting gorgeous slices of green beans.

  I hardly remember even getting into bed. I must be exhausted, because with all there is to think about—Ned, Mark, Wes, the patients, and the next three days—I fall into a deep sleep the moment my cheek touches the pillow.

  Friday, August 15

  chapter 10

  Michael

  My first thought when I wake up is that I’m being choked by a horde of yellow snakes in the wilderness of upstate New York.

  I jerk up, hitting the top of Amanda’s head with my chin. Her hair is tangled around my neck and shoulders.

  She screams and flails her right arm, hitting me squarely in the nose. I yelp.

  It’s like a skit on Benny Hill, ending with Amanda holding her head in a dramatic fashion and yelling at me for five minutes for being a clumsy idiot.

  It’s during the end of her rant that I get a good look at the field around me. I swear, it’s like the population has multiplied overnight, like rabbits. In fact, from my peripheral vision I’m pretty sure I can see two naked people going at it like rabbits, too. I don’t bother to investigate further. (Okay, fine, so I sneak a peek at a boob freely swinging not ten feet away from me. I am an eighteen-year-old male, not a saint.)

  I hear laughter and bits of conversation coming at me from everywhere.

  From somewhere to my right: “I’ve dropped the acid, man.”

  “Solid.”

  “No, man. I literally dropped it on the ground. And I think you just stepped on it.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  From somewhere to my left: “Would you like to try some homemade granola? It’s one hundred percent vegan. Remember, animals are our friends, not food.”

  There are kids my age as far as the eye can see. Where have they all come from suddenly in the middle of the night?

  A few feet away from me, Evan and Rob emerge from the woods that surround our field. Evan has a particularly huge grin on his face. I notice that he keeps his fist closed as he walks back toward me and only opens it when he’s right in front of us.

  Inside are six small, shiny brown squares.

  “Morning Glory,” Evan identifies the batch of acid. “It’s like a bitchin’ pharmacy in there!” He points with his thumb to the forest behind us before popping one of the tabs onto his tongue. He lets it hang out while the tab dissolves.

  Rob and the girls each take one too, the girls more demure about their tongues. I actually have never done acid before and I hesitate for a moment, looking at the last remaining tab.

  “Do it for our country,” Evan yells, before adding, “you yellow-bellied coward!”

  I look around to see Amanda eyeing me warily, about to call me something much worse. I take the thin film and place it on my tongue.

  It feels as flat and tasteless as paper. I don’t know why but I expected something more, like a tingle or a metallic taste or something. I guess it’s the word “acid”; it conjures thoughts of lab experiments in Chemistry.

  Evan takes out his banana bunch. There just happen to be exactly six. We each take one. I’m starting to relax now, starting to feel like my usual laid-back self.

  This is going to be superb. I’m going to see Joan Baez and Jimi and Grace Slick perform. We’ll hang out in these beautiful fields. I’ll see stars again every night.

  Thinking about the stars reminds me of how I felt last night. For three days I will totally forget about the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. This is a time-out. The clock has literally stopped and there’s nothing to think about but today, tomorrow, and Sunday. I can stretch out every moment to a lifetime. I can take a mental Polaroid of every single second and then expand it out into infinity. This weekend will never end and it’s all because of me and my powers.

  For one of those infinite split seconds, I wonder if that’s the acid talking.

  But then the next second comes—when I summon it to come, of course—and I realize, nah. This is all me.

  I am a time god!

  chapter 11

  Cora

  Last night, I dreamt about Ned. We were in his car, at a drive-in movie, and only half paying attention to the flickering images up on the screen. The other times, we were making out. Or just laughing and talking like normal. Like we did so many nights in the year and a half we were together.

  This morning, when I wake up, it takes me a second to remember the reality of us. For just a moment, our kisses amid the scent of popcorn and leather seem like a recent memory instead of a dream. Then I hear his voice calling out to my dad downstairs and I remember. I feel betrayed by my subconscious.

  I dress quickly, slipping on a simple white dress, with the intention of getting my mind occupied as soon as possible at the medical tent. But Ned has other plans. As soon as I get downstairs, he informs me that he’s done helping out at our farm for the day, so of course he’s going to come check out the festival too. And, of course, he’s going to casually just walk over there with me.

  I’m annoyed, even though it’s hardly his fault that I dreamt about him. I walk briskly past our house, trying my damnedest to make the trip go as quickly as possible. We have to cross the Quickway to get over to the festival, and my jaw nearly drops at what I see. Our two-lane country street has become a virtual parking lot overnight. There are empty cars, bumper to bumper. And as we cross and get to the field on the other side, I can start to see where most of the cars’ passengers must be.

  “Man, this is a lot of people. Where did they all come from?” Ned says, blinking.

  I was just thinking the same thing, of course, but I turn my head and glare at Ned’s angular profile. I don’t want him echoing my thoughts. I don’t want him around at all.

  “Do you even have a ticket?” I ask him, pointedly now. “The show starts tonight, so they probably won’t let you in without a ticket.”

  “I heard they wouldn’t be checking tickets,” he responds breezily.

  I shrug. I’ve heard whisperings of the same thing, but at this moment, I hope it won’t be true.

  “Besides,” he says. “I can always come help out at the medical tents. I’m sure Anna wouldn’t say no.”

  This is also unfortunately true. We probably need the help and Anna really likes Ned. Then again, who doesn’t around here?

  Why can’t he disappear? Why can’t breakups mean that the other person just leaves the plane of your existence e
ntirely? I don’t mean that they have to die. But can’t they just die from your world, be obliterated from the cast of characters that populate your story, never to appear onstage with you again? And for heaven’s sake, can’t there be a rule banning them forevermore from your dreams?

  “So who are you most looking forward to seeing?” Ned asks.

  Nope. Instead, I’m doomed to engage in small talk with the boy who has broken my heart. And here in Bethel, I will be forced to have some version of this conversation for the rest of my existence. Today it’s what act I want to see. Someday it’ll be which street I’d buy my house on. That’s what it means, living in a small town.

  “I probably won’t be seeing anybody. Pretty sure the medical tent will keep me busy,” I finally respond.

  “All right. Who are you looking forward to hearing?”

  I shrug. “Joni Mitchell.”

  “Is she playing?” Ned asks.

  “I thought so . . . ,” I say.

  “I’m pretty excited about the Who. Do you think they’ll play ‘My Generation’?”

  “Probably. It’s one of their biggest songs.”

  “That would be amazing.” Ned smiles.

  “Yeah.” This field to get to the main concert area is never ending. It just goes on and on and on, swarmed with all the bright clothes and shiny, excited faces of, to quote Ned’s favorite band du jour, my generation.

  You know who else goes on and on and on? Ned. The boy will not stop jabbering about the concert and the music and the love and the peace and crap. I want to tell him to shut up.

  I also want to make out with him.

  It’s all very confusing.

  Finally, at long, long last, we get to the gates. I have my pass identifying me as medical personnel pinned to my dress and there actually is a glazed-over, long-bearded twenty-something standing by the gate in a red Woodstock T-shirt, theoretically on hand to check it.

  “Looks like they’re checking tickets,” I say in a high-pitched voice.