Three Day Summer

by Sarvenaz Tash

  “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.

  chapter 37

  Cora

  A couple of sips into his beer and Michael seems to have relaxed enough to form sentences again. Pretending to be a rock god, not bad. In the presence of a rock goddess, total disaster.

  But once he regains some of his composure, he starts to excitedly fill me in on what exactly makes Janis so great (“Her voice. It’s so raw. Like the joy and pain of existence itself is transmitting through her.”). He even tells me about some of the other bands he mentioned before, like Canned Heat (“Perfect, pure blues music. Which is really the basis of rock-’n’-roll.”) and Santana (“Not that anybody can beat Jimi, but my cuz says he’s a worthy second. So I’m curious as all hell.”).

  He honestly knows more about music than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s pretty impressive, and I tell him so.

  He shrugs good-naturedly, but I can tell he’s pleased. “It�
�s not very often that I actually know more about something than someone else. Trust me. We should both enjoy this moment for the rarity that it is.”

  I laugh.

  “What about you?” he asks, as he takes another sip from his beer. “Since you’re obviously not spending time as the president of your local Doors fan club, what’s your favorite thing to do? For fun?”

  I consider this, not sure anyone’s ever really asked me that before. Truthfully, I don’t think most people who know me would think to put the word “fun” in the same sentence as “Cora.” “Um . . . I like the movies?” I finally offer lamely.

  “Oh, yeah? Seen any good ones lately?”

  I have to rack my brain a little, because I haven’t actually been to the movies since Ned and I broke up. What was the last one we saw together? Oh, right. John Wayne. His choice. “True Grit,” I finally remember the name. “It was pretty good.”

  Michael nods. “I missed that one.” Then his face lights up. “Oh, but have you heard of this new one, Easy Rider? I haven’t actually gotten around to seeing it yet, but I’ve heard it’s supposed to be amazing. Really different.”

  I shake my head no, starting to think that maybe I’m not that into movies if I can’t even be bothered to go to one alone. “See? Here’s another thing you actually know more about than me.” I throw my hands up in the air.

  He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again. For a wild second, I think he’s about to ask me out to the movies. But then he surprises me with a different question. “So what do you really like to do, Cora?” He grasps his beer glass in both hands, his head cocked, looking at me intently across it. “In your spare time?”

  I eye him. “Honestly?” I ask, and he nods. “I don’t really have much spare time. I’m either at school or helping out at my farm. And the rest of the time, I’m volunteering at the hospital.” He’s looking at me quizzically and I wonder if he’s thinking about how boring that sounds. If that’s the case, I might as well go all in and admit it. “But actually, I find that really fun. My work at the hospital. I just . . . love it. Does that sound completely insane?” I look down into my own beer glass, and see the strings from my candy striper apron dangling near the floor through the bottom.

  “Insane? Um, no. Impressive? Hell, yes.” When I look up, Michael is beaming at me.

  I laugh. “You probably wouldn’t say that if you actually knew what being a candy striper mostly entailed.”

  “Saving people from dying because of bad acid, right? I assume that’s a daily task.”

  “Oh, yes. Happens all the time here in Bethel. Where, by the way, I think the median age is fifty,” I counter.

  “Old people. What is the matter with them these days?” Michael shakes his head. “Why can’t they take a page from our book? Wholesome, respectful, clean-cut . . .”

  I reach across the table and lightly touch his shoulder-length hair. “Very clean-cut.” Then I snort, remembering something else. “Oh, right. The other fifteen percent of my spare time is spent trying to stop my father and Wes from murdering each other. Wes’s hair is the latest point of contention. You know, along with their points of view on the war, and the farm, and school, and his clothes, and basically anything it’s possible to have an opinion about.” I’ve stopped touching his hair, but my hand is still hovering near his side of the table. He takes it in his.

  “Is there a lot of fighting in your house?” he asks. He looks serious for a second, which is a look I don’t think I’ve seen come across his face before.

  I shrug. “Yes, sometimes. Sometimes a lot of begrudging silence. They both adore my mother, so she can usually butt in and get them to stop. Or sometimes I can . . .” I trail off. “My dad fought in both World War II and Korea and he’s so proud of his time as a soldier. Mark was always the favorite anyway, but when he signed up for the army, he cemented that spot forever. My dad’s brave and strong boy. And I was the only girl. So sometimes that leaves Wes a little bit adrift, you know?”

  He nods solemnly. “Yeah, I kinda do. I’m an only child but I’m still somehow my dad’s least favorite.” He laughs, but I don’t think it’s very funny.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, frowning.

  But he shakes his head, and his goofy grin is back. “He’s just not a warm and fuzzy guy, is all.” Just like that, his serious moment seems to be over. Still holding my hand, he bends his head to try to read my watch. “Does that say three?” he asks.

  I take my hand back to check. “Yup,” I say. “I guess we should try to get back and catch some more of these bands?” I make it a question, because I’m not entirely convinced that Michael doesn’t want to tell me more about his parents.

  “Definitely,” he says with enthusiasm as he gets up from the table, dispelling any notion I have that he wants to stay on the subject. “Some of them are going to knock your socks off, I’m telling you.” He offers his hand to help me up, but as he does, we look at each other and I know we’re both hit with the same thought.

  “How exactly are we going to get back?” I finally voice the concern.

  “I take it hitchhiking is out?” Michael says.

  “Unless you know of a way to tow about twenty thousand cars from Route 17. Or we find a car with wings.”

  “I got it.” Michael snaps his fingers. “How about the same way we got here?” He grins as he starts to head for the hotel’s front door.

  I’m pretty skeptical. What are the chances that a second dope will mistake Michael for Roger Daltrey?

  It turns out I’m right, of course. The helicopter is waiting just outside the hotel again, and I see Michael walk up to it with all the swagger he can muster. “G’day,” he says to the guy in shades who is manning the door.

  “Get lost, kid,” the guy promptly replies.

  “Bout,” Michael continues, trying on his accent once again, “ay’m Roger Daltrey.”

  “Oh, yeah? And I’m a leprechaun.” The guy puts on a fairly impressive Irish accent before continuing. “Stop wasting me time now, laddie.”

  I can’t help but laugh, and Michael walks back over to me, looking sullen.

  “You gotta admit, his Irish accent was way better than yours,” I tease.

  “Mine was English!”

  “Oh . . . ,” I say, and can’t help giggling.

  “How far is it to the festival?” Michael asks.

  “Um . . . about twenty miles,” I answer.

  “So . . . walking is out of the question?”

  “Unless we want to get there on Sunday night,” I say.

  I can see a worried expression creeping into Michael’s handsome features. “So how do we get back?” he asks. I’m sure he’s thinking about Jimi.

  “Didn’t really think that far, did you?” I ask gently.

  “No,” he admits. “I guess I never really do. It’s my fatal flaw, according to my mom.”

  I stare at the helicopter and watch as the guy in shades is relieved of his duty by a heavier-set guy. Then I look down at my red-and-white apron and am suddenly hit by an idea.

  “Come with me,” I say.

  chapter 38

  Michael

  “You’re what?” The burly helicopter pilot is looking Cora over skeptically. She doesn’t bat an eye.

  “Dr. Fletcher. I think you heard me the first time,” she says in a curt but calm voice.

  “You’re a doctor?” He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and glances over at me incredulously, as if I’m going to back him up. I try to keep my face neutral.

  “My volunteer.” Cora indicates me and then snaps his attention back to her. “We’ve just got news of a cardiac arrest on-site, and I was told by the organizers to come to you so you could get me there as soon as possible. We’re wasting valuable time here.” She folds her arms across her chest and stares him down. Just a few minutes a
go, I watched as she took off her apron and took her hair down out of its braids, tucking its long strands behind her ears. She stands tall and assured in front of the pilot now, looking imposing.

  Twenty minutes later, we’re touching down right near the main stage again and I can’t help thinking that Cora is a genius.

  I wait until we’ve disembarked and are far enough away from the pilot before turning to her. “Good thinking. She’s not just a pretty face, folks.”

  “Why, thank you,” Cora says, straightening out her trusty medical badge. “Good thing this thing doesn’t actually say ‘candy striper.’”

  “Though really, couldn’t I have been the doctor? Instead of the volunteer?”

  “Doctor or Daltrey,” she retorts. “You can’t have both.”

  “I could totally be a doctor,” I say, grinning.

  But she’s not smiling. “You weren’t the one with the badge,” she says softly, almost to herself. She moves a little bit away from me. She’s fiddling with her hair, swiftly putting it into a long braid again.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she responds flatly.

  “Pretty and transparent,” I say, keeping up with her quickened pace.

  “What?” Now she’s unfolding the candy striper apron she’s been clutching.

  “Your face. I can tell something’s wrong.”

  She shrugs as she methodically puts her apron back on. “It’s nothing.”

  I’ve been with Amanda long enough to know what “it’s nothing” actually means. But I don’t know if I should push it the way I always know for sure I should push it with Amanda so that she can yell at me for whatever is pissing her off and get it over with.

  “So who’s that?” Cora stops walking and points to the stage. A lean, olive-skinned guy in a leather vest is playing one hell of a guitar solo, while around him bongos, drums, a bass, and maracas retaliate.