Three Day Summer (10 page)

chapter 34

Michael

After Cora's brother and his friends go off to further investigate the army helicopter, I excuse myself for a few minutes. I really need to take a leak and there are some bushes that are calling my name. We're also by the lake again and I think it might be nice to get some of the mud off, at least from my face.

Kneeling down near the water, I'm hit with a strong smell of cow shit. I see myself make a face in my reflection, and move over a little before splashing my face and arms. The water is cold but refreshing and it washes off most of the mud. I'm not sure if it's drinkable, but then I spy a bunch of others happily lapping up handfuls. I shrug and do the same. If I can survive poisonous brown acid, surely a little farm-town water can't hurt me.

“I'm a new man!” I say as I present myself to Cora.

“Sparkling clean,” she says after giving me a once-over.

“Absolutely. If you think about it, this could totally be a brown suit.” I look down at my still-spackled threads. “I could be a banker in these clothes.”

“You are the specimen of trust and responsibility.”

“Thank you.” As we walk toward the stage, the smell of fertilizer hits my nose again and I mention something about it to Cora.

“Yeah, that happens at a farm,” she said. “Of course, this isn't just cow manure.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like, other animals?”

“Yeah,” she laughs. “The bipedal kind.”

It finally dawns on me what she's saying and I look around at the spread of humanity before us. “Ugh. Really?”

“'Fraid so,” she says. “There's no way a couple hundred thousand people can hold it in for a few days, you know.”

All I know is that I've managed to so far and I hope I won't be adding to the beautification of Bethel's farmlands myself.

“So we're walking around in crap. And that doesn't bother you?” I ask.

“When you work at a hospital, you see a lot of crap. In many senses of the word,” she says.

“You are an unusual girl.”

The rest of my words are cut off by a loud chopping sound and a strong gust of wind. I look up to see that we are right by a helicopter that's about to touch down. No US Army writing on this one.

I immediately perk up.

“I heard that's how the artists are getting here!” I say to Cora, who only mouths the word “What?” to me. I end up having to shout in her ear that I heard they are staying at some hotel nearby and are being shuttled back and forth this way.

By this point, the helicopter's door has opened.

“Let's get closer!” I yell. “I want to see if we can see anybody.”

She nods and follows me. I am staring so intently at the chopper that I don't even see the burly guy who has slipped right in front of me. I almost step on the toe of his boot.

“Man, where do you think you're going?” he asks.

I look up at him and start to apologize. “Oh, sorry . . .” is all I get out, before I feel a hand clap my back.

“Roger?” I turn around to see a man in a suit. He has a thick moustache, dark hair, and big sunglasses. “Is that you?” He takes off his sunglasses and squints at me for a second before giving a little nod of confidence. “You're here early. How did you get here?” His sunglasses go back on.

“Ummm . . . ,” I say, and realize I'm saying it in unison with the guard.

The suit turns to the burly guy then. “Hello? Don't you know who this is? Roger Daltrey. From the Who. Let him through, will you?”

I'm sure my mouth drops open and I know Cora's does. But I immediately shut it and follow the guy in the suit.

Because if someone thinks you're Roger Daltrey, you fucking go with it.

“And who are you?” I turn around to see the guard moodily interrogating Cora.

“She's with me,” I say immediately, and reach out for her hand.

The suit turns around and sees us. He rolls his eyes but comes back over. “Just let them both through. Look, I'm from Polydor.” He lazily points to the badge that's pinned to his lapel. Holy crap. That's Jimi's label too.

But before I can think of something even remotely coherent and/or viable to ask him about Jimi, he asks me, “Did you want to get on the copter? They're just dropping off Joe McDonald.” Wow. As in Country Joe McDonald. “But it's going back to the hotel now. If you want a lift.”

Dear, sweet mother of Hendrix. I swear I can hear my heart pounding in every single one of my extremities. “Do not screw this up, Michaelson,” it thumps to my brain.

Which is the exact moment that I remember that Roger Daltrey is British.

“Oh, aye. Indeed. Moust get back to the 'otel. Eh?” I say.

The executive gives me a weird look.

“Just straight that way?” I ask more quietly, hoping the sound of the helicopter might mask my voice a little.

“Yeah . . . ,” the executive says slowly.

I decide to skip speaking altogether this time and salute him, practically jogging to the helicopter, my hand pulling Cora along with me.

In a moment, the executive is beside me, his hand on my shoulder once again.

Oh, crap. I knew it was too good to be true. I just hope I won't get kicked out of the concert entirely.

The exec turns me around and looks into my eyes. “Hey, Rog. Just . . . straighten out a little before the show, all right? Maybe take an aspirin?” He looks at my banker's suit. “And maybe a bath?”

“Aye! Will do, sir,” I say and then, in a bout of inspiration, “Roger that!”

I practically skip right onto the helicopter.

chapter 35

Cora

I can't believe I'm in a helicopter, Bethel spread out below me like a patchwork quilt. A true bird's-eye view. I wish
vingt-huit
could fly. I have a feeling she would love this.

I look over at Michael and he grins back at me, wild-eyed. Obviously, neither one of us can believe he got away with this. I chuckle, thinking about his ridiculous accent. I wonder what we are going to do when we get to the hotel. He definitely can't pull off this Roger Daltrey act forever. Even I know Daltrey is the lead singer of the Who, though, I admit, I'm a bit hazy on what he looks like exactly. Evidently, so is his record label guy.

The helicopter is following Route 17 now, which looks like a giant parking lot. Hundreds and hundreds of cars are abandoned by the side and there's no traffic going in either direction, except for a lone police motorcycle I see weaving its way through. Michael points at one of the cars and mouths, I think, the words “That's my car.” I nod, having no idea which one he's really pointing out.

It's too loud in the helicopter to talk, but I have a question I'm dying to ask him once we get out.

Within twenty minutes, we are touching down again, and I laugh when I see the hotel we're being taken to. It's the Holiday Inn in Liberty. I don't know why I thought it'd be some super-fancy hotel—there aren't any nearby—but in my visions of rock-'n'-roll lodgings, this certainly wouldn't be at the top of my list.

The pilot gets out and opens the door for us, helping us both out. Michael just smiles at him and starts to walk toward the building. He's probably realized he should keep the talking to a minimum.

I catch up to him, my ears still ringing. When I feel we are far enough away from the pilot, I sidle up to him and say, “You'll have to show me a picture of Roger Daltrey sometime.”

Michael blushes and turns around to look at me. I laugh and he opens his mouth as if to say something. But then, with the color still in his cheeks, his eyes darken too. And before I know what's happening, he grabs the red and white apron strings that are still tied around my waist and pulls me close. His green eyes stare into mine, the flying pig on his forehead soars toward me, and then he kisses me.

It's a completely different kiss from last night. This is a kiss from a rock god, full of passion and confidence. I'm taken aback by how much I feel it reverberate through my body, and then even more so when I find myself kissing him back.

I stumble forward a little when he finally pulls away, and he pushes his hand up tighter against my back to steady me.

He grins wickedly at me.

“Um . . . ,” I say, feeling a little dizzy still.
Wow
. “So . . . are you going to miss any acts at the concert? Anyone you really want to see?”

It's a non sequitur really, but what am I going to do? Comment on the kiss? I'm still trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

“I don't think so but . . . oh, wait!” He sees a girl with a clipboard and a badge pinned to her red shirt and runs over to her.

“Excuse me, but would you happen to have the schedule of the lineup?”

“Um, sure,” she says, as she flips to a page on her clipboard, and lets Michael peek over her shoulder. I see him scan the page, flip it, and then smile and nod. “Thanks very much!”

“Jimi's on last thing tomorrow night,” he says when he's walked back over to me. “Which I knew. And I definitely want to be back by tonight when, um, I'm on.” He grins. “And I wouldn't mind seeing Canned Heat this afternoon. And this new guy Santana is supposed to be pretty special. My cousin lives in California, and he's caught him a couple of times.”

“What time?” I ask.

“Around four, I think,” he says.

“Okay, so we should try to get back by then?” Though, honestly, I'm not sure how we're going to do that.

Michael nods. “Yup.”

I stare up at the nondescript, squat brick building, which suddenly looks a lot more intimidating than any Holiday Inn ever has a right to look.

“Are we going in?”

“Absolutely,” Michael says, his head held high as he strolls right up to the front door and opens it gallantly for me.

I'm starting to believe that rock god really is a state of mind.

chapter 36

Michael

This is unbelievable.

First, I get mistaken for Roger freakin' Daltrey. Then, I'm feet away from entering the same building where the world's greatest musicians have been sleeping. And finally, I manage to land a scorching one on a really hot girl. I even think her knees were trembling a little when the kiss ended.

And I'm not even on anything. Who would have thought? Can this day possibly get any better?

Well, maybe if I see Jimi in the flesh, up close.

“I think we should keep a low profile,” I murmur to Cora as we approach the hotel. No sense in pushing our luck.

Frankly, security seems pretty lax. No one even gives us a second look. Scanning the crowd in the lobby, I see a few older folks. A lot of them are in suits and have badges similar to the guy who let me on the helicopter, a.k.a. my new best friend.

“Now what?” Cora asks.

“Maybe we'll see someone amazing?” I say. “Let's take a stroll through the lobby.” I hold on to her hand and try to channel my inner cool. If I look nonchalant, like I belong here, I think we can probably continue to get away with this.

I stroll casually from one side of the lobby to the other, keeping an eye out the whole time. If I'm honest, mostly for a telltale Afro.

At the end of the lobby is a small bar with stools and several tables and chairs scattered around. A clump of people are gathered at one end of it.

I hear the murmur of a soft-spoken voice and the sound of laughter before I see her. She's surrounded by several people laughing at her jokes, and I catch a glimpse of her tie-dyed outfit as she turns around to ash her cigarette at the bar.

I'm standing about five feet away from Janis Joplin, who has a cigarette dangling from one hand and a glass of whiskey clenched in the other.

I duck down and whisper furiously in Cora's ear. “Do you know who that is?”

She squints over at the group and after a moment says, hesitatingly, “Janis Joplin?”

“Yes!” I yell, louder than I intended. But Christ, even Cora knows who she is. This is huge.

“Come on, we're getting a drink.”

I sidle up to the bar as casually as I can. The bartender looks me up and down before ambling over slowly. “Yes?” he asks.

“I'll have a beer. Two,” I say quickly, indicating Cora. Janis has gotten me so flustered that I almost forgot my manners.

He cocks one eyebrow. “What sort of beer?” he asks.

“Um . . .” Crap. I've been eighteen for a little over a month now, legally able to drink, but I've never actually ordered a beer at a bar before. Who needs to with Evan around?

“What's on tap?” I hear a voice behind me ask, and turn around to see Cora playing this whole nonchalant, I'm-really-much-older-than-I-look thing much better than me.

The bartender gives her a once-over too. “Budweiser and Schlitz,” he says.

“We'll take one of each,” she shoots back confidently.

The bartender slowly takes out two glasses and gives us one more suspicious glance before he starts to fill them.

“Man, what sort of insanity is going on out there? Are there cats slinging mud?”

I follow the source of the soft voice to catch Janis looking straight at me and my muddy clothes.

Janis Joplin is speaking
to me
. Holy fuck.

I don't respond. How the hell do you respond to Janis Joplin? I just stare at her, my mouth hanging open, unblinking. All thoughts of inner Roger Daltry–ness gone.

“Is he all right?” she asks, and I can see she has now turned to Cora.

Cora glances at me and then speaks to Janis without blinking an eye. “He's fine.” She smiles. “But I would stay away from the brown tabs,” she adds.

“Ah,” Janis says. “Thanks for the tip, sister.” She salutes us before turning back to her entourage, who are starting to gather their things.

“So . . . hey,” Cora says quietly, forcing me to divert my attention away from the rock superstar for a moment. “Do you have any money for these?” She brings her face close so that she can ask me under her breath.

I look down at the two beers that are now sitting in front of us, behind which stands an impatient bartender.

“Crap,” I croak out. What little money I have is in my backpack, of course. Far, far away with my lost friends.

Cora shakes her head before putting on a beaming smile and turning to the ever-more-irate-looking bartender. “Sir,” she says. “I am so sorry about this. My friend thought he had his wallet with him, but . . .”

“I poured it, you buy it,” the bartender says. “Those are the rules.”

“Right,” Cora says. “I understand, only we unfortunately don't have any cash on us. I'm really sorry.”

“No exceptions,” the bartender says.

“Um. Okay,” Cora says. “But let's just say we don't have any money to give you. But we also didn't drink any of the beer. So then . . .”

“Then I think someone might be washing some glasses today,” the bartender says with a sneer.

Panic starts to set in. I
cannot
be in the back of a hotel washing glasses while the greatest musicians in the world are playing just a handful of miles away.

“Oh, just put it on my room bill, Charlie. And stop giving them crap.” Janis has poked her face between our shoulders and is staring down the bartender.

Once again, I stare at her agape, this time my mouth hanging open about three inches from her face.

Cora at least has the presence of mind to say, “Oh, wow. Thanks so much . . .”

“Just repaying the favor for the acid tip,” Janis says with a wink. “See you out there.” She turns around and starts following her guys back through the lobby.

I just stare in her wake, still completely mute.

“Well,” Cora says as she takes both beers from underneath the bartender's hateful gaze. “Might as well enjoy these.” She takes them over to one of the lobby tables and sits down.

I follow her, but not until I've watched Janis swish onto one of the hotel elevators.

Janis Joplin has just bought me a beer. I sit across from Cora and stare into the frothy glass. This has to go down as one of the most amazing drinks in the history of alcohol.