Three Day Summer

by Sarvenaz Tash

  There are a few cameras on cranes dotted close to the audience and one of them is blocking a large chunk of our view, which is already compromised by the darkening sky. Michael tells me that the band that’s playing is called Mountain and he overheard that the Grateful Dead are coming on after. I like Mountain, I decide, and listen to the music eagerly despite the fact that I can’t see them very well. Instead, I look around me as I listen, taking in the wild clothes (and, in some cases, rampant nudity) of my peers. Some distance away, up on the hill, I see some disturbed-looking cows, standing around in the grass. Just from their stance, I can tell they’re bewildered. A small knot of people are eyeing them, and one approaches, kneeling down next to an udder.

  “Oh, please, don’t try to milk her,” I mutter. It wouldn’t end well for either of them.

  After a few moments, I notice the person back away from the animal and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I look around and really take in the destruction of Mr. Yasgur’s dairy farm. Here and there, lone patches of grass resiliently hang on in seas of trampled brethren and mud. There are little piles of garbage peeking through like new sprouts, the shiny red of Coca-Cola cans in wild contrast to the green grass that should be there. Back near our lake, I see a dude with his back to me in a telltale pose. He is peeing.

  It looks like a war zone.

  And then I immediately feel guilty for thinking that because I suddenly remember Mark, who is in a real war zone.

  I start to compose a letter to him in my head.

  Dear Mark,

  The greatest concert in the world has come to our little town. Can you believe it? A few hours ago, I sat five inches away from Janis Joplin. Actually, scratch that. We had a conversation.

  Now, I’m about to hear the Grateful Dead and the Who.

  I met a boy. . . .

  I look over at Michael, who is resolutely turned to the stage, despite the fact that night has fallen and it’s hard to discern much of anything down there. But the music plays on, the stars in the sky mirrored by the glowing tips of cigarettes and joints on the ground.

  I take in his moonlit profile and wonder where this could possibly go. In a couple of days, he’ll be back on his way to Massachusetts.

  Eventually, Michael feels my stare and turns to me. “Good view?” he cracks.

  I smile at him. Actually, it is. We’ve both been acting weird since we left the lake, lost in our own thoughts. Just like that, I close the gap and take his hand. And why shouldn’t I? It’s a moment and I have to seize it, just like all the kids around me living out their lives without fear. No fear of cops, of parents, of judgment. What makes me so different?

  We stay like that as Mountain stops and the bands change.

  “The Grateful Dead are fantastic,” Michael says. “I think you’ll really dig them.”

  I know a little about them, but not much, and Michael starts to explain how they are headquartered in San Francisco, sort of the mastheads of the whole hippie movement that really started there.

  Before they take the stage, another announcement is made, this time advising anyone who is taking the green acid to get an airlift to the hospital.

  “I think maybe I’ll just stay away from acid while I’m here,” Michael says.

  “Good idea,” I say.

  “Though . . . would I still have my own personal doctor by my side if I did?” his eyes narrow mischievously.

  “Candy striper,” I say resolutely.

  “Future doctor,” Michael counters just as firmly and I feel such a huge surge of affection for him at that moment that I reach over and almost kiss him.

  “Michael!” We are both startled by the yell and turn around in unison, our noses almost bumping against one another because of how close our faces are.

  A group of five people is walking toward us, and it’s only when I see the beautiful black one that I recognize them. They’re Michael’s friends, the ones from the tent yesterday. (Was that really yesterday? It seems like years ago.)

  Immediately, I feel my hand being dropped, and I turn around to find Michael’s face etched with worry.

  I’m turned away from her, so I don’t see the blonde as she comes barreling through, pushing me aside with an elbow before running into Michael’s arms.

  “There you are,” she says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  chapter 44

  Michael

  I hold on to Amanda tighter and longer than I should because I’m deathly afraid of what’s going to happen once I let go and we have to talk. Counterproductive, I know. Especially because once we finally pull apart, she gives me one of her genuine, dazzling smiles, clearly pleased with the embrace.

  I can’t look Cora in the eye, so I observe the girl in front of me instead. She looks grimier than me; mud is streaked through her golden hair and on her clothes and body. A quick glance at the rest of my friends, and I can see they are in similar shape. Clearly, they didn’t go for a dip in the lake like we did.

  At the thought of the lake, I can’t help but finally seek out Cora’s face. Her expression is impossible to read, but she stands as if carved from stone.

  “We were so worried about you,” Amanda says. “We missed you.” I look back at her a moment too late, not before she has quickly followed my gaze to Cora. The smile disappears instantly.

  “Who’s she?” she asks sharply.

  “Hey, it’s the nurse, right?” Rob says as he walks over to Cora.

  “Oh, right!” Evan joins in. “Thanks for taking care of him,” he says as he slaps a friendly hand on Cora’s shoulder.

  Cora plasters on a smile and turns to them. “You’re welcome.”

  “Where have you guys been?” Evan asks, and I feel Amanda’s grip on me get tighter, echoing the question with her fingernails.

  “Here,” I say simply. “I’ve been looking for you guys too,” I lie.

  “Miss A even left you a note on a paper plate by the food stands,” Evan says.

  “Did you see it?” Catherine asks me, tilting her head. I can’t tell if she actually looks at me suspiciously or if that’s just my own projection.

  I shake my head no. “I wish I had,” I lie again and the words feel like tumbleweeds in my mouth. What am I saying? I refuse to look at Cora.

  “It’s okay,” Amanda says. “We found you now.”

  I nod.

  “Have you been eating?” she asks. “Did you get a sandwich from the helicopters?”

  I nod again. “You?”

  “Yes, we finally managed to get some. The food tents got an egg delivery this morning too and they made us omelets. I’m still pretty hungry but I’m holding out okay.” She makes a brave face at the same time that I realize those omelets were likely from Cora’s henhouse. “It’s just incredible here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I finally say, unable to deny the truthfulness of that statement. It is incredible, or at least it was. I turn my head slightly so that I can spy Cora out of the corner of my eye. For whatever reason, I assumed she’d be looking over at us, trying to process my conversation with Amanda. But she’s not. She’s talking to Evan and Rob, her back turned to me almost entirely.

  “Did you hear Joan Baez? She’s been my favorite so far.” I turn my attention back to the girl who is still in my arms, chattering away excitedly. I swallow something hard, a shard of truth probably, and I push it deep down. I don’t want to examine it right now. In fact, I think I’m going to have to raid Evan’s rucksack soon so that I’m in no state to feel much of anything. Not that I want to think too hard about Evan right now either, especially since I think I hear Cora laugh at something he just said.

  I nod at everything Amanda says and eventually start talking too about the one thing I have a lot to say about: the music.

  chapter 45

  Cora

/>   “Have you been enjoying the concert?” Rob asks me with a lovely smile on his face. Seriously, his teeth are whiter than Chiclet gum. I must ask him about his toothpaste.

  Actually, forget toothpaste. I must smile and flirt like a pro here. I must avoid the blonde who is making my heart do strange things, like drop into my intestinal area. There’s no reason for my heart to be anywhere other than my chest cavity. I should know; I have a very well-thumbed anatomy book.

  “Very much,” I say. “You?” Safe enough.

  “Definitely. Santana was tremendous.”

  “Yes, he was cool,” I reply genuinely. For once, I know exactly who he’s talking about, thanks to Michael. There’s a strange echo near my ribs again. I feel like slapping myself in the face and yelling “Snap out of it!” like I’m in the middle of an episode of Days of Our Lives.

  From up on stage, the lead singer of the Grateful Dead is saying something about the green acid, lamenting how it’s nowhere near as good as the stuff they have back home.

  “You haven’t had any bad trips or anything, have you?” I ask Rob.

  “To be honest, I’ve been staying away after what happened to Michael. I don’t think I’m ready to be a time god.” He laughs.

  “Wise,” I say, and smile back at him.

  From the corner of my eye, I think I can see Michael looking at us. I even think he’s frowning. I subtly move closer to Rob and lightly touch his arm. I can feel his bicep even through the very tip of my fingers. He definitely should be a god of something; he’s built like one.

  “Are you looking forward to anyone else?” I ask.

  “Oh, man. Everybody. Sly and the Family Stone. Jefferson Airplane. The Who. Janis. She’s a down chick, right?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim, and almost go on to tell him the story of how we just met Janis. But then I stop myself. How much of that story can I really tell? Are any of these people supposed to know I spent the whole day with Michael? Not that it’s my job to cover for him, but still. Even though I can tell I’m operating on a whirlpool of emotions right now, including—very much—anger . . . it doesn’t seem quite right to betray him.

  The Grateful Dead are playing now, and we all just listen. At one point, there’s a loud thump coming from one of the pieces of equipment, which sounds weird but I don’t know enough about the music to discern whether it’s not supposed to do that.

  After about twenty minutes of music, Rob turns to me and Evan. “Not for nothing,” he says. “But they sound pretty awful, man.”

  “No way, man,” Evan protests. “Don’t say that about the Dead.”

  “I’m not saying they usually sound awful. But today, something seems wrong,” Rob says. He looks to me for support, but I shrug helplessly.

  “They’re amazing,” Evan retaliates.

  “Evan,” Rob says. “Are you listening with your bong again?”

  “Dude,” Evan says. “I am almost totally straight. I haven’t had anything in, like, forty-five minutes. You’re the one tripping out.”

  “Boys, boys,” I say. “Peace and music, right?”

  “Of course, baby,” Rob says. “Peace all the way. Even when your good friend has sadly lost his sense of hearing in a tragic mesc overdose.”

  Evan doesn’t let that one go either, and I listen to some more of their good-natured banter. Eventually, the two other girls who were with them come closer to us and one, the shorter, darker one, puts a protective arm around Evan. It gives me a pang to realize that she’s not entirely off base to look at me as if I’m a man-stealer. Wow. How did I let that happen exactly?

  My increasing embarrassment is as good a reminder as any to look at my watch and see how much time I have left before I need to mosey on home.

  Er . . . four thirty? That can’t be right. Either p.m. or, God forbid, a.m.

  And then I remember that even though I took most everything else off, I forgot to take the watch off during my swim in the lake. Great. Waterlogged and completely useless.

  I look around, trying to see a telltale gleam around anyone’s wrist. There’s only one in my vicinity. It’s Amanda’s.

  Squashing down my guilt at being practically naked in her boyfriend’s arms just a few hours ago, I get recklessly bold.

  I step a bit closer to her and slap on a smile. “Hey, would you mind giving me the time?”

  She looks startled that I’m talking to her and then her eyes narrow. I can almost see the wheels turning, figuring out a way to tell me to go to hell.

  But really, how many snide remarks can you make to someone asking you the time?

  So she settles for gritting her teeth and lifting up her left wrist like it’s a Herculean task.

  “Eleven twenty,” she finally grunts.

  “Holy shit!” I immediately exclaim, and I hear Michael laugh. Amanda and I turn to him with dual glares.

  “It’s not funny. I’m going to be murdered by my father.” The smile immediately slides off his face. “I have to go.”

  I can see Michael almost start toward me, but then he stops, tethered to his spot by Amanda’s hand.

  I really have to go, and I have no idea what to say to him. So I settle for a general “Nice to see you guys again” and a wave, which I mostly direct over to Rob, Evan, and the two girls instead of Michael.

  Then I turn around and walk away at a quick trot.

  I hear Michael call out, “Wait . . .” but then Amanda’s voice cuts in.

  “Wait for what?” she demands and then, luckily, I’m too far away to hear the rest.

  I don’t know whether to focus on the confusion I’ve just left behind or the certain doomsday that’s ahead of me.

  Neither will help my state of mind, I finally decide. But there’s nothing to do but keep walking, so I time my steps to the beat of the music for as long as I can hear it.

  chapter 46

  Michael

  I can’t even watch Cora walk away. Amanda is asking me why I called out for her and I don’t have a proper answer at all, but I know I can’t continue to stare after her.

  So I do something horrific.

  I kiss Amanda to shut her up. It feels awful. I don’t mean the kiss itself or Amanda. I mean me. Knots of guilt are forming in my throat, making it hard to breathe (especially while kissing, where breathing is already a carefully choreographed sport). I kiss Amanda and I think about Cora and wish she were the one here with me now.

  Which, of course, makes me a really shitty person.

  All this time, I’ve assumed that Amanda would eventually cheat on me. In fact, just a couple of days ago, wasn’t I hoping for it? With Rob? But she didn’t. It was me. Maybe she’s been right to be preemptively pissed at me this whole time. Maybe I am a loser and she is, after all, way out of my league.

  I’ve been feeling so much inner turmoil that the Grateful Dead have switched over to Creedence and I’ve hardly noticed. I don’t think I could even tell you one thing about the Dead’s set.

  Now Creedence is playing “Bad Moon Rising,” a faster-paced version than they normally play, and the word “bad” cuts through the humid night air, headed straight for me. I’ve been a bad boyfriend, I think as I look at the top of Amanda’s head. She seems calmer now, swaying to the music. She looks like she should be on the cover of a magazine, like the poster child for our generation or something. A little mud-speckled, a flower still drawn on her cheek, long blond hair, blue eyes. Woodstock’s dream girl.

  But not for me. For me, it was a striped apron and someone who couldn’t even tell Hendrix from Townshend. Someone who didn’t come for the music at all, who came just to help. Someone who helped me by making everything seem in focus for once. After all the time I’ve spent with Evan relishing things going fuzzy, it’s funny that it’s the exact opposite that has made me feel the lightest I’ve ever been.

  But she’s gon
e now. And what can I do about it? I can’t run away from my friends again and show up at her doorstep. Her dad definitely seems like the type who owns a shotgun and knows how to use it. I can’t even break up with Amanda. Not for a . . . whatever . . . that would last one more day at the very most. And that is only if Cora ever talks to me again. Or, for that matter, if I ever even see her again.

  I can’t do anything.

  Can I?

  Creedence starts a new song, and after a few moments I recognize it. It’s a cover of a song my mom owns actually, one of her beloved jazz records. Nina Simone, I think. “I Put a Spell on You.”

  Black magic really must be at work because soon I’m thinking, Maybe I’ll see Cora at her medical tent tomorrow. Even though I shouldn’t think that at all. What would be the point of seeing her when I have Amanda and home and a whole life nowhere near Bethel, New York, starting the day after tomorrow?

  But it doesn’t matter. Hope doesn’t listen to logic. And by the end of the song, I’m pretty sure it’s not hope at all. I will see Cora tomorrow because I will make it happen. What do they call that?

  Oh. I think it’s determination.

  All in all, a totally foreign feeling for me.

  Sunday, August 17

  chapter 47

  Cora

  It’s past midnight by the time I arrive home. I guess I stopped walking briskly as soon as I was out of Michael’s sight, feeling heavy and sluggish because of everything I was walking from and walking to. What difference does twenty minutes here or there make anyway? I’m dead meat no matter what. Dead meat with the stench of someone else’s boyfriend on her lips. In an instant, this day has gone from exhilarating to disastrous.

  Approaching my house, I’m surprised to see that all the lights are off. I was sure the house would be blazing, that there’d be neighbors strewn across our front yard organizing themselves for the search, and that Mom would have resurrected the nuclear raid siren. Instead, everything is still and silent and nothing but crickets greet me at my door.