“One. Two. Three. Four ...” With my finger held high, I counted Brady’s tie-dyed ribbon icicles. I stood up and batted them through the air like they were dancing. Then I lay back down and stared up at the point of the wigwam, imagining Santa Claus squeezing through on Christmas morning. Belly laughter erupted. My shoulders shook. Nothing I could do would make them stop shaking. But it felt heavenly to laugh.
Brady turned over on his side, propping up on his elbow. “Wanna do windowpane?”
Do I wanna do windowpane?My brain whirled with visions of windowpanes dancing in the air. I glanced slowly around the wigwam, studying every inch of the walls. Not a windowpane in sight. Not even a peephole. “Where do you find a windowpane around here?”
He moved over to a bag propped up against one of the perimeter pillows, then slipped his hand inside. After crawling back, he sat down next to me, holding out his palm. A tiny paper square, no bigger than a dime, lay in the center. “Got it on the West Coast. It’s rad. And safe,” he said with a chuckle.
What could be rad or unsafe about a tiny little piece of paper? The windowpane correlation was obvious, but that was about it. I plucked it from his palm to give it a closer look. “What’s so rad about this?”
“Takes you on a trip to wonderland, man.” Brady raised his eyebrows sky-high.
I sat up, curled my legs underneath me. If I hadn’t been on a serious bong high, I would have dropped it like a hot potato. Instead, I gave it a hard look. Leon was gone. It could be a way to forget him. I was on my own now, headed for commune life. I’d do it eventually, wouldn’t I? I’d done everything else since I’d arrived. Might as well drop acid. I’d be a bona fide Hog Farmer if I did. Why not take a trip to wonderland?
I sure didn’t want to admit to Brady that I’d never done acid before, so I smiled at him, like it was a good idea.
Brady took it back and tore it in half. “Stick out your tongue and sayahh.”
As soon as I stuck out my tongue, a still small voice whispered,This is not the real you, Suzannah. You don’t have to prove yourself to anybody. You are wonderful the way you are.
That voice sounded authentic. Somehow, I knew it spoke the truth. Brady’s fingers were hovering above my tongue when I jerked it back inside my mouth. I didn’t want to take a trip to an artificial wonderland. I didn’t want to be a Hog Farmer either. Truth was, I didn’t want to be anyone but me. Not Livy, not Shelly, nor any other drop-dead-gorgeous, complicated girl. Just me. Therealme.
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Come on.”
“Really. I’m good.”
He cocked his head to the side and gave me a shrug. “Suit yourself.”
In one motion, I grabbed my purse and rose up on wobbly knees. A heaviness gripped my eyeballs.
“Wait. Don’t go.” Brady rose with me. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Please stay. Stay as long as you want, milady.”
Fatigue clamped on to my body like a vise. “What I want is to take a very short nap.” I dropped my purse and lay down on the blanket, curling up in a ball. As much as I wanted to leave, a catnap sounded better.
That’s the last thing I remembered before falling into a deep slumber.
Woodstock
Day Four
Monday, August 18, 1969
12:30 a.m.
An abysmal darkness filled the wigwam. I sat up, confused. “Where in the heck am I?”
The steady breathing of a sleeping hippie produced the memory. Grady the Hog Farmer, his wigwam, our bong high, the windowpane.What else happened?I wanted out of there. That instant.
I scooted slowly away from Grady.Wait. Is his name Grady or Brady?With no choice but to crawl on my hands and knees, I searched for my purse, fingering everything in my path. My elbow hit the small table holding the bong. It crashed onto the blanket where I’d been lying, spilling bong juice everywhere.Gross.
Brady stirred.
I froze, praying he’d go back to sleep.What time is it? Dear God, please tell me I haven’t missed Crosby, Stills & Nash. Or Hendrix.
Once I was sure Brady was snoozing again, I inched along in what I hoped was the direction of the wigwam hole, thankfully discovering my purse nearby. Pushing the flap open ever so carefully, I peeked outsideto the glow of campfires. The night air chilled my face. So I wrapped up in one of Brady’s spare blankets before slipping away to freedom.
Several Hog Farmers were gathered in lawn chairs around a campfire. I didn’t want them to see me, so I tunneled around each tent like a mole, finding my way in the darkness. Leon’s smile lit my path. His emerald eyes colored the coal-black sky. The sting of leaving him had returned, filling me with deep regret.
