As exhausted as I’d been earlier, sleep should have come easy, but Leon’s nearness made it impossible. All I could think about was turning around. Kissing him. Loving him. But I knew boys were supposed to make the first move. Then I remembered his knuckle massage, the way a brother teased a sister. As much as I wanted to kiss him, there was a big chance he thought of me as only a friend.
Silence fell between us. After a few minutes passed, I said, “I’m much better now.”
He didn’t answer. Soon enough, I heard his breathing slow. In and out, air whistled through his nose. I shifted, hoping he’d respond. Hoping he’d kiss me.
He didn’t.
So I lay there in reflection.Am I really here? Or is this a dream I’ll wake up from at any minute? Did I really break free of Dad’s heavy hand and drive 1,100 miles to a dairy farm in the middle of nowhere to hear some of the best bands in the world? Is the cutest boy I’ve ever met tucked behind me, with his arm wrapped around my middle?
All these wonderful things had happened because I’d made the decision to take control of my own life. It was the best decision I had ever made.
It’s hard to know when I finally gave in to sleep. The last thing I remembered was saying a prayer of thanks to God for sending Leon to me. Even if he was meant to only be my friend.
Woodstock
Day Two
Saturday, August 16, 1969
7:30 a.m.
A boisterous broadcast from a new announcer roused me from a deep slumber. I had no idea of the time, but when I cracked my eyes open, I saw daylight. And more misty rain.
“Why don’t we just clean up our areas,” the dude bellowed. “We’re going to pass along garbage bags for you to put your trash in, and then we’ll pick them up.”
Shut up! Can’t you tell people are asleep?I lay there on my side, desperately trying to fall back asleep, but it was no use. When I tried swallowing, it felt like someone had pushed a vacuum hose down my throat and sucked out the saliva. My head banged like a kick drum, and I needed to tinkle. The only reason I had the energy to open my eyelids was Leon. Sometime in the wee morning hours, he had rolled away, but his leg still touched mine. The mere feel of it made my heart dance.
With one hand pressed into my aching forehead, I pushed myself up with the other. The bowl resembled a war zone. Mud. Collapsed tents. Smoldering campfires. More mud. People scattered everywhere.Some looked dead. The stage looked like it was floating on top of a giant mud soup and might sail away.
The soggy air clung to my skin, the grossest weather possible for an epic music festival. On the bright side, the temperature was on the rise. I had finally stopped shivering.
Nothing was as gross as the garbage. I couldn’t get over all the waste the Woodstock Nation had managed to accumulate in one day. Empty garbage bags had been placed in a long line on both sides of the bowl, and people were already filling them.
Since Leon had slept through the announcement, I lay back down on my wet blanket to watch him sleep. Even that was magical. I counted the freckles on his arm and studied the new growth of stubble poking through his chin dimple. The rise and fall of his chest sprang new life into mine. Just looking at him aroused that ecstasy I’d felt when he was glued behind me.
He must have sensed my eyes upon him, because his popped open wide. I quickly shut mine, pretending to be asleep. Through gaps in my eyelashes, I watched him turn toward me, then prop up on his elbow, cradling his head in his hand. “Wake up, little Susie,” he sang. The cutest thing about that—besides his bad voice, which by then I found simply enchanting—was that he felt comfortable enough around me to sing without apologizing. That, I loved.
I peeked out one eye, then spoke between slits in my fingers. The thought of having morning breath was horrifying. “I’m awake,” I said, feeling a strong urge to visit the woods. As soon as I got there, I’d sneak off to brush my teeth.
A Bob Dylan song I’d never heard blasted from the PA. Seconds later, I smelled marijuana.
Leon inhaled the aroma with an exaggerated sniff, then gave me a wink. “Hey, Livy,” he called. “Can you get high from smelling pot?”
No answer.
His lips curled into a grin as he sat up, raking his fingers through his hair.
Loving this unspoken alliance between us, I shot him a knowing smile and sat up along with him.
He glanced around at the wreckage before picking up his wet sleeping bag. “I’m gonna hang this over the fence. Want me to take yours?”
“It’s still misty.”
“I’m counting on it going away,” he said with a wink. “It’s rained enough.”
While he meandered down to the stage, my eyes never left him. He hung both of our blankets over the wooden fence, where others had done the same. One of the massive cranes had been moved close to the stage, not far from where he was standing. I kept my eyes glued on its long neck while the driver pushed the bulging canopy to the rear of the stage, dumping hundreds of gallons of water onto the ground below. The deafening noise made him jump.
By the time he returned to our piece of territory, his white Converse tennis shoes looked like giant chestnuts. He kicked Johnny’s butt, leaving behind a long brown streak. It made me laugh. “Let’s go find grub, man,” he said. “I’m starving.”
