Three Day Summer (6 page)

chapter 18

Michael

Not that it's any of my business, but I don't particularly like the way that guy with the glasses looks at Cora, like she's a casual possession. A small but useful possession. Like an alarm clock or something.

I don't particularly like the way she looked back at him either.

What is wrong with me? I met this girl about ten hours ago, six of which I can hardly remember. It must be the side effects of the acid.

Regardless, Cora still holds my arm as we wade through the crowd, her black hair floating behind her like a panel of silk. And I'm keenly aware of both of those things, especially the touch of her hand on my forearm. It's rougher than most girls' hands I've held and, for some reason, I'm finding this pretty damn sexy.

“So who are you excited to see?” I ask her, finding the most readily available topic.

“Umm . . .” She hesitates. This whole thing is in her backyard and she doesn't automatically know the answer to that? “Joni Mitchell?” she says haltingly.

“Really? Is she playing?”

“I thought so . . .” Cora drifts off, and I think I hear her mutter, “Déjà vu.”

I don't remember seeing Joni on the roster, and I think I have it pretty well memorized, but I decide to let it go. Besides, we're getting closer to the stage now and the sound of a man and woman singing together envelopes us.

I see Cora squint toward the stage, trying to figure out the faraway figures.

“Sweetwater.” I offer the name of the band. “Not huge yet but I think they might be.”

Cora looks at me. For a moment, I think she might be offended that I showed her up like that. Offered her information she didn't already know. Amanda would have been.

But instead she just grins. “Thanks,” she says. “I really should know more about this stuff.”

I smile back. Without thinking, I go to move her hand off my arm and shift it so that our fingers interlace instead.

She looks at our clasped hands quizzically but doesn't pull away.

Sweetwater is playing a groovy flute solo and my eyes are drawn back to them. They are an odd band: flute, keyboards, cello. And their lead singer, a slight girl—even slighter from where I stand—is swaying freely to the high-pitched notes.

I notice we are swaying slightly too and so are most of the people around us, like reeds blowing in the same wind.

The ethereal piping is suddenly interrupted by a loud, totally unwelcome rumbling.

Cora immediately looks up to the cloudy sky. “Thunder?” she asks.

I, instead, stare down at myself. “My stomach,” I finally admit, a little embarrassed.

Cora follows my gaze and laughs. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm . . .” I rack my brain. “Does tea count?”

“No.” Cora emphatically shakes her head. “And I'm surprised you even remember that.”

“If it makes you feel better, I'm pretty sure I thought it was unicorn tears,” I offer.

“Ah. Makes a lot more sense. And how did that taste?”

I scratch my stubble with my free hand. “Kind of like a rainbow. Trapped in an orange rind. If that makes any sense.”

Cora cocks her head. “Nope,” she says.

“It would if you'd been on what I was on.”

“Thank God for both of us I wasn't. Or who would have served you unicorn tears that tasted like rainbows and oranges?”

“Orange rind,” I correct, and at the words, my stomach gives another huge rumble. Because apparently there's nothing more appetizing than some tasty orange rind.

“Come on,” Cora says, tugging me away from the stage. “To the food tents.”

chapter 19

Cora

Come to think of it, I haven't eaten in a while either. I brought half a ham sandwich from home with me. When did I have that? Around two? Too long ago to count.

The food tents are purple and are set up at the top of the hill that leads to the stage. The line to them snakes around a few times and it takes us a while to find the end of it.

“You've come to the right place,” says a somewhat tubby guy with an Australian accent when he sees us looking around for where to get in line. He smiles and points right behind himself with fingers that have silver rings on each and every one.

“Thanks,” Michael says. And then, after a moment, “Where are you from?”

“Sydney, Australia,” the guy says. Then a short woman with hair almost to her feet calls out, “Nate . . .” and he turns his attention to her.

“And I thought traveling from Massachusetts was far,” Michael says.

I laugh. “No one has a longer commute than me.”

“Oh, yeah. What is it? Three feet?”

“Excuse me,” I say, pretending to be affronted. “It's half a mile.
At least
.”

“You sure you don't want to sit down? Rest your feet?” Michael stares down at my sensible Keds.

“Um, it's not as if you actually
walked
from Massachusetts.”

“I might as well have! Do you have any idea how far back my car is?”

“Three feet?” I counter sweetly.

Michael grins. “Half a mile at least. Maybe even two halves of a mile . . .” He drifts off as he realizes what he's saying. “So, like, one mile.”

“Impressive math skills,” I laugh.

“Hey!” A voice says from behind me and I turn around to see Wes,
sans
protest sign this time.

“Hey,” I say. And then I check my watch. It's almost eight thirty p.m. “Wait,” I say, a small panic starting to set in. “You didn't go home for dinner either?”

Wes looks at me as if I've lost my mind. “You want me to leave this for dinner?”

“Did you tell Mom and Dad you wouldn't be home?”

“No,” he says without any hesitation.

I sigh. Great. Now they'll be worried about him, and my absence will be even more obvious.

I look over at my lanky brother and see him eyeing the even lankier Michael. I guess I'd better go ahead and introduce them.

“Wes, this is Michael. Michael, Wes. Wes is my brother,” I say, not bothering to further elaborate on my relationship to Michael.

Not that Wes doesn't pick up on that. “Her twin brother,” he says, in an oddly menacing voice.

“Oh, really?” Michael says, shaking Wes's hand. “Cool. Twins.” He looks back and forth between us for a second. “You don't . . .”

“Look alike?” Wes butts in. “Yeah, we know.”

Michael gives an easy grin. “Well, no. You don't. But I'm guessing that's because Cora looks better in a dress.”

I sputter out a laugh. Wes seems less amused. I can already see that obnoxious-protective brother glaze taking over his eyes. “Wait, how do you guys know each other again?”

“Oh, from around,” I say just as Michael chirps in with “We met at the medical tents.”

Wes's scrutiny turns solely to me. “Oh, great. Another doctor wannabe, Cora?”

“No.” I scowl. “He's just a music . . . person. Like a friend.”

“A music friend? What does that mean?”

“It means . . .” I honestly have no idea. But luckily I'm saved from the rest of the embarrassing conversation by our Australian buddy.

“No point standing around here anymore, mates.” Yes, he actually says “mates.” “They are all out of food.”

“Wait, what?” Michael says. “Are you serious?”

“'Fraid so,” says Nate. And sure enough, the line is dispersing with a lot of grumbles and talk of what to do to feed starving bellies.

“Wow,” I say, pretty stunned.

“Wow,” Wes echoes.

“Well,” Michael says slowly. “At least now I'm beginning to see the twin thing.”

chapter 20

Michael

I'm not feeling so hot. Kind of floaty and light-headed. I look wistfully at the useless food tents. It really has been forever since I've eaten. Was it a banana I had this morning? And some tea?

I see Cora looking at me with nursely concern. “We could go back to my place,” she offers. “I'm sure my parents could add one for dinner.”

She sounds unsure and I hear her brother snort lightly.

It's very sweet of her but, to be honest, I didn't come all this way to miss the concert and sit down with some random chick's parents. I've never even had dinner with Amanda's parents.

I plaster on a smile. “Nah. I'll be fine,” I say, and then look out over in the direction of the music. “Let's go get closer to the stage?”

Cora hesitates and for a second I'm sure she's going to say no. Instead, she looks over at her brother. “See you later,” she says to him, before turning to me and cocking her head toward the sound of a piano.

“Don't forget your curfew,” Wes grumbles behind us.

“Thanks,
Dad
,” Cora says, before rolling her eyes at me. I smile as we walk down the hill, where the stage sits like Glinda's bubble from
The Wizard of Oz
, pulsating magic.

“Sorry about Wes,” Cora says. “Sometimes he just gets overprotective. Twin brother thing or something.”

“No problem,” I say.

“He gets weird around me and guys. Never liked Ned either . . .” She trails off.

It's cool. I really don't need to know this girl's whole story. “Is Ned the guy from before? The guy with the glasses?” But apparently my mouth doesn't feel the same way.

“Yeah,” Cora says, looking straight ahead and sort of shrinking into herself. Maybe she's purposely not meeting my eye. But why should that matter to me? She is my . . . what did she call it? Oh, yeah, music buddy. For the day.

“Is that your ex?” I blurt out. Goddamn it, Michaelson. What the hell?

“Um. Yeah.” She turns to me this time. “Ex,” she says as if she wishes that weren't the word she had to use for him. I find myself wishing she didn't sound so down in the dumps about it.

But this whole thing is ridiculous. I shake my head to clear it of its nonsensical thoughts, determined to enjoy the rest of the show with an empty mind. And an extremely empty stomach, apparently.

By the time we get near the stage, Tim Hardin has just finished playing and the stage is being set up for the next performer. I squint until I see him waiting on the sidelines, a black-haired man wearing a long white tunic and carrying a tall stringed instrument that ends in a round, squat wooden head.

“Ravi Shankar,” I announce, and am glad for it. I can use some meditative sitar music right now to float me away from the physical. In this case, my hunger pains.

I close my eyes as Ravi sits down and tunes his instrument. Just as he plucks his first few notes and I'm getting ready to lose myself to some higher state of being or whatever, something extremely hard and fast hits me in the back of my head.

“Ow!” I turn around to confront whoever has just assaulted me.

“Oh, man. I'm so sorry, man!” A guy with a long black beard is looking over at me in horror. “I didn't mean . . . I just thought you might want some sustenance.”

He points down at my foot and I look to see the culprit behind what is likely to be a very large lump on my head. It's a beautiful, perfect, big (and heavy) orange.

I look back up at the guy, stunned. “For me?” I ask stupidly.

Blackbeard nods. “For sure, man.”

I pick the fruit up. It even feels delicious, its pockmarked skin heavy with juice.

“Are you sure?” I have to ask again, especially as I've just noticed the very pregnant woman sitting down on the blanket right at his feet.

“Definitely,” he says. “We have to feed each other out here, dude. Peace and love and music, right? Besides, it's the least I could do for conking you in the head with it.”

I stare down at the woman again, who keeps one hand on her belly as she waves the other one at me in a friendly gesture. “Take it with our blessings,” she says. And then I see her take out three more oranges from a canvas bag she has beside her. She hands them up to her man, who starts walking around, giving them out to other people.

I look down at the orange and for a second feel like Ravi is picking out the music straight from inside me: the immense crescendo of gratitude and peace and awe toward my fellow man seems interpreted exactly in the swell of his sitar strings.

I look up at Cora and grin.

chapter 21

Cora

I think the last time I saw someone staring at something the way Michael is staring at that orange was a Christmas morning when Wes got the green army men he'd been coveting for half the year. The irony of which is not lost on me.

Michael peels into his orange slowly, staring at it as if it might disappear at any moment.

“Don't worry, it's not a hallucination,” I say as he reverently excavates the fruit from the skin.

He breaks it open into two sections and then gallantly holds his hand out with one of them cradled inside.

I laugh. “You're kidding, right? Eat the whole thing.”

“But you must be starving too.”

“I'm not. And besides, I thought we established that I live three feet over that way. On a
farm
. Where there is all sorts of food and food-producing things.”

Michael stares at the half orange he's holding out to me again. “Please?” he says.

“Michael. I appreciate the ridiculous chivalry but come on.” I push his hand back toward him. “What kind of a nurse would I be if I deprived my patient of food when he's about to pass out from hunger?”

“I thought you said you were a candy striper?” Michael grins.

“Oh, fine. Rub it in.” I stare pointedly at the orange. “This candy striper is medically ordering you to eat.”

Michael carefully peels off one orange section and plops it in his mouth. He can't help but close his eyes as the juice hits his taste buds. A slow, savoring smile creeps stealthily through his peach fuzz.

Until there's a rumble and his eyes immediately pop open and go to my stomach. “See? I told you . . . ,” he starts.

There is another loud rumble and we both look up, knowing full well it isn't either of our stomachs this time.

A big fat raindrop plops down right on my nose, followed by one more. Until, suddenly, it's like there's a tear in the sky and a deluge has been unleashed upon O little town of Bethel.

I hear a collective squawk as people try to take shelter. Some are burrowing into sleeping bags or putting newspapers over their heads. A few enterprising individuals had the foresight to bring umbrellas and are popping them open now. There is a mass exodus toward some trees on the far side of the field.

But for most people, there is simply nowhere to go.

“Hopefully it'll pass soon,” I hear the pregnant girl with the oranges say placidly as she remains on her blanket, absentmindedly rubbing her belly.

I look down at my once white dress, which is basically now completely transparent. Hastily, I take my red-and-white apron from my arm and put it on, though not before I spy Michael getting a good long look. Within moments, the individual stripes are indiscernible; it just looks like one soggy pink mess. I guess I'm giving the people behind me a show since the apron doesn't cover my back. But then I look around at the many, many other young women wearing white shirts, a lot of them braless, and figure they'll have better things to stare at than me.

Though when I look up again at Michael, he doesn't seem to have figured this out yet, his eyes only on me. A sly grin he can't seem to hide fast enough appears through his stubble again. I clear my throat, making a mental note to keep only my front to him at all times.

I realize then that the music hasn't stopped for even a moment; the man on stage keeps picking out his intricate tune despite the world turning into a waterfall around him. I watch him in awe.

It's minutes later that I even think to look at my watch. It's still working despite the water. Ten thirty. My curfew is eleven. I really should go.

I look up at Michael, who is drenched, his own shirt sticking tightly to every definition in his lean body. He's staring raptly at the stage.

I touch his arm gently. “I think I have to go home,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, not able to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Of course. Yes. It's horrible out here.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Oh, totally. I didn't really mean horrible. I mean, it's just some rain. It's actually wonderful.” He gestures toward the stage. “I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

“Right,” I say, trying to figure out how exactly to say good-bye. I mean, once I do, I'll probably never see him again.

A man with a megaphone is walking around repeating, “The flat blue acid is poison. Don't take the flat blue acid.”

A look of panic steals into Michael's eyes. “Wait, did I . . .” He trails off.

“It wasn't blue,” I say. “I don't think.”

“Oh. Okay.” He smiles at me but his eyes remain worried.

I look at the tall, soaking-wet boy in front of me, who suddenly looks so much smaller and more helpless than he has any right to. And then I look down at my soggy apron.

How can I leave him really? As a candy striper. No, as a medical professional. Someday anyway.

I move closer to him and touch his arm. “You'll be okay,” I say. “I'll stay with you and make sure.”

The relief in his eyes is palpable. I wonder if he can see the relief in mine. Or the inexplicable gratitude I suddenly feel for the once red and white bands of my uniform.