Free My Beautiful Hippie by Janet Nichols Lynch Page B

down.” He pressed his hand against his sternum. “It just pours out.”
    His praise embarrassed me. Embarrassment made me blush, and blushing embarrassed me more. I commented on the song. “I like it because it’s against conformity.”
    â€œYou’re against conformity?”
    Wasn’t that obvious by what I was wearing and what I talked about? “Well, yeah.”
    â€œYou’re not going to grow up, get married, buy the car and the house with the white picket fence, and have two-point-two children?”
    Of course I wanted to have a family, but way in the future. Martin was grinning at me like he had caught me in an inconsistency. “I don’t know anybody with a white picket fence.”
    He laughed at me, but not in a mean way.
    â€œWell, don’t you want to get married and have kids someday?” I asked.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œOh.” My heart seemed to plunge to my stomach. “Not ever?”
    â€œNever, ever. I’m going to be as free as a bird.” He reclaimed his guitar. “Let’s sing together, Joni. What will it be?”
    I blurted the title of the first song that came to my mind. “ ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’?”
    â€œBeautiful. Want to take harmony or melody?”
    â€œMelody.”
    Martin didn’t sing a third below me; instead, his bell-like tenor soared above my melody in an improvised, free-flowing countermelody. In her robust alto, Mary sometimes sang a part lower than Peter and Paul, and I liked the idea that the girl didn’t always have to sing the high part. Our voices blended well.I wanted to sit there forever, singing with Martin and basking in his warm glow.
    â€œJoanne! What are you doing?” growled a gruff male voice, which I recognized before I even turned around. “Get home, now!”
    Martin stopped strumming his guitar, and we both stared up at Dan, with Pete beside him.
    â€œWhy? I’m not doing anything wrong. Leave me alone.” I turned back to Martin, rolling my eyes in exasperation.
    Dan attempted to lift me by the armpits, and when I bore down, he began dragging me away. I kicked at him a few times, but not wanting to make a scene in front of Martin, I stopped resisting. I stood and twisted free of Dan’s grip. “You’re not the boss of me.”
    â€œPeace, brother,” said Martin.
    â€œI’m not your brother, you filthy hippie!” yelled Dan, stooping to flex his bicep in Martin’s face. “I’m
her
brother, out to protect her from degenerates like you. Stay away from my sister or I’ll have to pound you!” Dan gripped my upper arm and yanked me along. I was so humiliated I couldn’t bear to look back at Martin, even to say good-bye.
    â€œAre you in trouble, Joanne,” said Dan. “Wait till I tell Mom where I found you and who you were with. Are you crazy? You could’ve been raped.”
    â€œMan, I don’t think so,” said Pete. “Those hippie chicks put out, like, all the time. Like, without a struggle,” he clarified. Pete was funny like that.
    â€œThat right?” asked Dan. “Maybe we could disguise ourselves as hippies, go to a love-in, and get some ourselves.” Dan always talked about sex as a dirty deed with an anonymous partner, rather than an expression of love between two people who cared for each other. “We can get some crabs or the clap. That’s what those filthy hippie chicks put out.”
    I stopped short, darted behind Dan, and gave him a shove. My adrenaline must’ve been raging, because I pushed him so hard he stumbled forward, nearly falling on his face.
    â€œYou little bitch!” He grabbed my hair, wrapped it around his fist, and gave it a painful yank. I kicked him in the shin so that he had to let go of my hair to rub his leg and hop around. He raised an open palm to slap my face, and I cringed, bracing myself for the sting, which