chapter 16
Michael
Cora still has a couple of feathers sprouting from her arm when I leave her, but I choose not to bring this up with her. She’s right. I need to find Amanda. And Evan, Catherine, Suzie, and Rob. I guess.
I slowly move toward the music. At certain moments, I can see trails of color undulating in time to Richie Havens’s voice. He’s singing a slowed-down version of “Strawberry Fields Forever” now, and some of the thousands of people around me leave pink and orange hues in their wake, including a shirtless, redheaded guy dressed in tight white pants who is gently swaying with a sheep.
“I still think the Beatles are coming, man,” I hear a guy in a long purple tunic say to his friend, who just shrugs noncommittally. My sources would say: wishful thinking. Rumor has it they’re on the verge of a breakup.
There are all sorts of people around me: short, tall, dark, pale, redheaded, blond, brunette, bald. A lot of people around my age, but also children and some old folks. Even when I visited Times Square with my family three years ago, I never saw this many people all in one place.
There is one problem. None of them are my friends. And as I slowly trudge my way closer to the music, I cannot fathom how I will ever find them. This is an ocean of heads and bodies. How can you find five specific drops of water in an ocean? Just when I start mulling that impossibility, I catch a glimpse of red and white from the corner of my eye, and immediately whip around. Only when I see that it’s some stranger in a striped dress do I remember that Cora is not the one I’m supposed to be looking for. “Get it together, Michaelson,” I mutter.
Eventually, I make it as close as I think I can get to the stage for now. It sits at the bottom of a hill, level with me, but I see that a lot of the audience is camped out on various parts of the slope, staring down into the stage like a crystal ball. Havens is a hazy orange blob who stands at the center in front of a microphone and, I think, is brandishing a guitar.
It’s taken me all this time to realize that I am actually inside the festival, despite the lack of tickets. I silently thank Evan—wherever he is—for however he made that happen.
And then I just close my eyes for a moment and listen. As Havens sings about freedom, I think about my own. Freedom from my parents. From Amanda. From school, and the war, and even the limits I put on myself. Why can’t I be anything, go anywhere? What is there to stop me?
Thinking about going anywhere only brings one image to my mind. I open my eyes and slowly turn my head to find it: the yellow medical tent. It’s far away now, even farther than the stage. But somehow I realize the thing that’s been bobbing up and down just below the surface of my thoughts is the long dark hair of a part-Seneca girl.
I look around and, after a few moments, spot a girl with a slim Timex on her wrist. “Excuse me, could you give me the time?” I ask her.
“Six thirty,” she says gleefully, her eyes shining with the same sort of warmth toward mankind I can see in most of the faces surrounding me.
“Thanks,” I say, reflecting her feelings back at her.
I amble back to my yellow landmark, trying to take as close to half an hour as possible, and not even looking for the flash of blond hair I’m supposed to find. Richie is singing about freedom and this is mine, a yellow that is full of possibility instead of weight.
chapter 17
Cora
I bandage up my last bloody foot (these people really need to stop walking around barefoot) and tell Ruth, who relieved Anna about twenty minutes ago, that I’m off for the day. She gives me a brief nod of acknowledgment before turning back to her latest patient, a guy who must be in his sixties at least. I admire his tenacity even as I think him a great big idiot for being in the middle of this overcrowded field at his age.
There’s music when I walk out of the tent, but no singing. Instead, I hear a gentle voice reverberating throughout the fields. Some guru is giving a speech about celestial sounds and the universe and vibrations. “The future of the whole world is in your hands,” his voice echoes across the field.
“Hey,” a voice says near my ear. I turn around and see, to my surprise, Peach Fuzz.
“Michael,” I say. “What are you doing here? Are you feeling okay?” I squint into his eyes. They look clear and bright.
He laughs. “Yes. I came to enlist your services. Though not your nursing services.”
I stare at him blankly and he clears his throat nervously. “I just mean,” he continues, “I thought I’d invite you to the concert.”
“Invite me?” I can’t help laughing. “How kind of you.” The roots of his stubble turn pink. I really didn’t mean to embarrass him. “What about your friends?” I ask, remembering the blonde again.
“I can’t find them,” he confesses.
“Ah,” I say. Being invited to a concert I’m already at by a boy who is only doing it because he’s missing his girlfriend. This might be a new low.
“Wait,” Michael says, touching my wrist. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, me not finding my friends is not why I want to go to the concert with you.”
“It isn’t?”
“No,” he says solemnly. “I figured it would be good to have a nurse around in case I have a flashback.” He waits for a beat before breaking into a grin. “I’m just being an ass,” he admits.
“I’ll say.” But I can’t help smiling at him. “Anyway, I’m not a nurse yet. Just a candy striper.” I indicate my ridiculous uniform.
“Well, you’re good at it,” he replies easily. “And seriously, I would just like to listen to some music with you. Is that all right?”
I admit there is something sheepdog-adorable about him as he stands there staring down at me with smiling green eyes, both hands jammed into the pockets of his bell-bottoms.
But then I think of all the reasons to say no. It’s been a long day already. Dinner is waiting for me at home. Besides, how will I tell my parents if I decide to stay? There’s a small pay-phone bank nearby but I can see how far the lines for that stretch back. It’ll take three hours just waiting in that line to call them. And Dad will definitely be sending out a search party by that point.
“N . . .” I say the letter, intending it to start the word no. But then it makes a different, heart-sinking word. “Ned.” He’s walking toward me and waving. Michael turns around to look at him.
“Hey there,” Ned says. “Getting ready to pack it in for the night?”
He smiles at me and my lungs hurt. Okay, so it’s probably a different organ that’s in the vicinity of my lungs, but it somehow makes me feel less pathetic to think I spontaneously have a respiratory problem.
But then Ned’s trademark know-it-all smile steals across his face. “See? They’re not checking tickets at all. Everybody can get in. Like I said.”
My respiratory problem is interrupted by a surge of anger that jolts the next words out of my mouth. “Hey, Ned. Are you heading back home soon?”
“Right now, I think. I can walk you home if you’d like.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Michael staring rather intensely at Ned and, I have to admit, a part of me is feeling very pleased about it.
“No need,” I say slowly. “Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Could you just stop by my parents’ house and let them know that I’m going to be at the concert for a while? I don’t want them to worry.”
Ned’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “You are?” he asks.
“Yup.”
“But I thought you said—”
“See you later!” I cut him off as I grab Michael’s arm and saunter away toward the stage. I have to settle for imagining Ned’s stunned face since I won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to look at it.
Pompous ass. I will get over him somehow and my alveoli will go back to properly distributing oxygen and carbon dioxide. And
in the meantime, I’m going to stop thinking of all the reasons to say no to the cute boy who has not really asked me out at all.
This is a weekend for yeses. And thousands of people agree with me as I hear them chanting, in unison, “Hari Om, Hari Om” over and over again. I don’t know the language but I somehow know exactly what they are saying.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
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.
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