“Now you’re talking!”
“Let’s make it a Beatles song!”
“Now you’re really talking. Or ... what do you say we write one ourselves?”
“Yeeees!” Adelaide lets out a little squeal and stands. She extends her hand to pull me up—not that I need it or anything. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get started.”
When I feel her hand slip into mine, my heart explodes.
On the Road to Woodstock
Somewhere in Maryland
Friday, August 15, 1969
7:30 a.m.
Our “epic escapade,” as we had dubbed it, was a nineteen-hour car ride, eleven hundred miles from Memphis, Tennessee, to Bethel, New York. Originally the festival was to be held in Wallkill, New York, but they moved it at the last minute. Thank God Livy had heard the news. Otherwise we would have driven another hour.
Yesterday we drove all the way to Roanoke, Virginia, and spent the night at a Holiday Inn—compliments of Livy’s dad. He’d also given her the car we were driving, a groovy green ’67 Chevy Impala with a white interior and a matching vinyl top. Livy had decorated the back end with peace sign stickers and painted massive flowers all over the doors and hood. We looked like a daisy patch on wheels.
The coolest part of “Pally,” as Livy called her, was the sound system. For her birthday, Livy’s dad had hired RadioShack to install an eight-track player under the dash with an AM/FM deluxe radioanda rear speaker. At my feet lay a box of eight-tracks we’d been playing nonstop.
“Looks like we’ve got ... four and a half more hours,” I said, studying our route. As soon as I spotted the city of Hershey, Pennsylvania, I pressed a hand to my heart. “Let’s tour the chocolate factory. I’ve always wanted to do it.”
Livy’s face said no, but she still said, “Maybe. We’ll see when we get closer. My boyfriend does not want us to be late.”
Nick, her new Harvard boyfriend, had made plans to meet us at the front gate of Woodstock at one o’clock. It was eight in the morning now, and we were somewhere in Maryland with a groovy song called “Put a Little Love in Your Heart” blasting from the radio. Livy knew every word. I didn’t know one.
“Do you ever sing anymore?” she asked.
With a long low sigh, I dug into the bag of Seessel’s cookies we’d brought from home. “To myself.”
Her face fell. I could tell she felt bad for me. “Do you play guitar?”
“Nope.”
“Piano?”
“Sometimes. Only classical music.”
Genuine sorrow seeped across her face. “That’s so sad.”
Shrugging it off, I popped a turtle cookie into my mouth. The way the chocolate melted on my tongue gave me momentary pleasure. Seessel’s cookies were the best in town. On the way out of Memphis, we had bought a three-dozen variety for the trip.
I’d moved on, but Livy had not. “I really hope this weekend frees you to sing again. You have the prettiest voice of anyone I know.”
“You’re blitzed.”
“No, I’m not. It’s true.” The adoration in her eyes made it seem like she meant it.
For that one moment, I considered confiding in her about my wildest dream, the one I’d buried underneath a rock three years ago. I even let my mind drift to truly making it as a singer one day. But it didn’t take long to come to my senses. If I kept my dream buried andnever talked about it, I didn’t risk my heart shattering into a million new pieces. It was much safer under the rock.
“When you get back to college this fall, you should sing at an open mic night at a coffee shop. Lots of people get their start at coffee shops.”
I whipped around, stupefied. She had to be a mind reader. “There are no coffee shops with open mic nights around Union University.”
“Sure there are. They’re all over Cambridge.”
