Livy continued. “‘The Beatle Boycott was begun last week in Birmingham, Alabama, by two disc jockeys who took umbrage with quotes attributed to Lennon in aDatebookmagazine article.’” She pointed behind me. “Hurry, Suzannah. Find myDatebook. We must have missed it.”
“It just came out, honey,” her mother said. “Keep reading.”
As my body turned to ice, I read John’s quotes over Livy’s shoulder. “‘Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I needn’t argue about that; I’m right, and I will be proved right. We’re more popular than Jesus now; I don’t know which will go first ... rock ’n’ roll or Christianity.’”
Livy peered at me with a forlorn glance. “Maybe we shouldn’t read any more.”
“Finish it,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yes. All of it.” This news had the potential to steal my happiness, kill my fondest dreams, and, most of all, destroy my heart. I nipped at my fingernail, pressed my knee against Livy’s. “Go on. Read it.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears, then picked up where I left off. “‘The Birmingham disc jockeys are calling for a mass burning of all Beatles records and all Beatles items. Then they will be delivering the ashes to the Beatles inMemphiswhen they step off the plane.’”
While glancing around Livy’s room at all the Beatles souvenirs and the cutouts of magazine pictures pasted on the walls, I thought about my own Beatles collection—Beatles dolls, Beatles trading cards, Beatles buttons, magazines,Paul’s pictures.
Livy peered at her mom. “We aren’t burning my Beatles stuff. No way.”
Mrs. Foster hesitated before answering, though I knew Livy had no reason for concern. “John’s words were probably taken out of context. I’m hoping the whole thing blows over in a day or two.”
It might blow over for other families, but not mine.
As the newspaper slipped from her fingertips, drifting to the floor, Livy wrapped an arm around me. Her mom moved over to my left, stretching an arm across my shoulders as well. The only sound that could be heard in the room was the prophetic scratching of the record player giving warning thatMeet the Beatles!had reached the end.
Woodstock
Day One
Friday, August 15, 1969
3:00 p.m.
“Y’all wait!” A comet with a long flowing blond tail blasted past me, holding her hat down with one hand and her cigarette in the other. Our canvas bag lay in a heap where she had dropped it.
The two-lane pathway that looped around the perimeter of the amphitheater had a steady stream of people moving in both directions. Livy stepped over the flattened portion of fence and moved into the flow, maneuvering in and out of the folks in front of her. “Leon! Johnny! Wait up!”
I scooped up our bag in a hurry, scrambled over the same stretch of fence, and trailed close behind.
As soon as Livy caught up with the boys, she grabbed ahold of Leon’s arm. When he turned around, Johnny followed. Amid all the noise and clamor, I could still hear the shrill in her voice. “We can page my boyfriend!”
They looked at her with bewildered faces.
“Didn’t you hear that announcement about the diabetes medicine?” she asked.
Johnny shook his head. “Wasn’t paying attention, man.”
“Who has a piece of paper?” Livy asked, jiggling her hands to hurry us all.
I had no paper. Leon didn’t either. But Johnny did. He dug inside the front pocket of his jeans before pulling out a small, slim rectangular pack. “All I got,” he said with a chuckle.
“Groovy.” Livy’s hand disappeared into the bottom of her purse until she found a fountain pen. She plucked one of the tiny papers from Johnny’s pack, pressed it against her purse for support, and scribbled out a note:Nick McCarthy. Please meet LivyNowat the front of the stage.She waved it in the air. “Think it’ll work?”
“I don’t have any better ideas,” Johnny said, after a glance at Leon. “Unless you want me to shout his name from here.” He cupped his hands on either side of his mouth.
“No. No.” Livy tugged his hands away. “Don’t do that, you silly boy.”
Johnny slumped, poking out his bottom lip. “Just trying to help.”
