I met Dad’s gaze. “He’s a boy who believes in peace, not war. He wants to make music, not gunfire.” I shouldn’t have said it. The US military was tradition in our family. But I had to say something, didn’t I? Even if it meant I’d get in trouble. The whole thing was my fault.
Dad peered angrily at me over his glasses, the ones he wore low on his nose. “That’s precisely why he must go. War has a way of turning a boy into a man.”
Ron pleaded with him. “Please let me go to college with my friends. None of their parents are making them go to ’Nam. They’re finding ways to get their boysoutof it.”
“I don’t care about them,” Dad answered. “I only care about you.”
Ron and I cut our eyes at one another. That was bull crap. Our dad only cared about the military.
“If you care about me, then let me go to college,” Ron begged. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
“This is best,” Dad said. “One day you’ll understand.”
“I’m not like you, Daddy,” Ron had said with tears in his eyes. He never called our father Daddy anymore. “I know you wish I was, but I’m not.”
“And you never will be,” I had muttered under my breath.
Livy nudged my foot under the table. “Suzannah?”
I blinked. “Sorry, I zoned out. Thinking about Ron.”
“At Harvard kids think differently about the war. I belong to two campus antiwar groups. I’ve been to several demonstrations at—”
I had to interrupt. “Aren’t you afraid of getting arrested?”
“No.” Livy shook her head, wide eyed. “I hate what’s going on in our country. Don’t you?”
That was rhetorical. She already knew the answer. Still, I offered a nod.
“I’m sure plenty of protests are going on at your college,” she said in earnest.
That made me belly laugh. “No. They’re not.”
She knitted her brows. “Huh. Well, I guarantee you the kids are listening to the cool protest music. You’re listening, aren’t you?”
After a long pause, I lowered my eyelids. “I’m not all that familiar with protest music.”
“How can you miss it? It’s everywhere.”
Livy poured a bucket of shame on my head. It’s not like I didn’t want to listen to the cool protest music. I did. But after John Lennon made his stupid proclamation, Dad banned me from all forms of rock music. He took away my transistor radio, all my forty-fives, and all my albums.
Truth be told, I had cheated while driving the Mustang but, like a moron, left the volume turned up after parking in the driveway. It happened to be the very day Dad decided to take my car for an oil change. Afterward he marched into my room, told me I had disobeyed his command—like I was one of his soldiers—and then had my radio yanked from the car, leaving me with the Hole of Horror.
As I eyeballed the haughty look on Livy’s face, it crossed my mind to say,Does that liar Marianne Gentry like the cool protest music?But I restrained myself. No sense in digging up the past. Not here anyway.
She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward me. “You know Bob Dylan’s songs ‘The Times They Are a-Changin,’ ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’”
“Sure.”
“That’s protest music. You’ve heard of Joan Baez, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of her, but I don’t know her music.”
“You would love Joan. Her voice gives me chills. Like yours.”
Did Livy just say my voice gives her chills?
“Joan’s outta sight, man. She’s extremely outspoken about the war.”
