Risky Business

To say that the festival is a hit would be an understatement of the century. We’re only on the third musical act to hit the stage and the entire park is full of visitors. People are packed in the Great Garden area, most of them wearing themed outfits of some sort, from classic red, white, and blue regalia to outrageous party costumes.

I think I just saw a glitter unicorn skip by. A glitter-corn? Or a uni-glit?

I shake my head, forgetting the conundrum when I see a guy dressed as Abe Lincoln, complete with a neon painted beard and top hat with streamers running down his back. He’s sipping from a Freddy Freebird kid’s cup, an actual bald eagle figure with a straw coming out of its white head.

Closer to the stage, I can see an opening in the crowd, and a woman is twirling some sort of LED-lit balls on strings. More than yo-yos, they make wild shapes in the air as she flicks and spins them, and the crowd surrounding her cheers her every move, entranced with her skill.

Through the mass, I see another neon shirt and duck left and right to get a better look. Realizing it’s Carson, I bob and weave my way his direction.

“Hey!” I yell, bumping his arm.

He looks down, a polite smile on his face, but when he sees me, it becomes something deeper. “Hey yourself.”

Or at least I think he does, but I’m mostly reading his lips. Honestly, I can barely hear a damn thing.

I pull him lower to speak into his ear, still needing to shout. “This is amazing!”

He nods his head enthusiastically.

The group on stage, Alien Babies, judging by the abundance of Area 51 signs in the audience, reaches a loud crescendo and then goes silent. I panic, thinking the sound went out, but when I look to the stage, I see the singer with her arms held up high, hands shaking so hard that her whole body is vibrating as if lightning is washing through her. Then in one powerful jolt, she swings her arms down, her headbang sending her lime green braids flying. Right in time with the move, green glitter shoots out over the crowd, and everyone tilts their faces up into the shower as if the sparkly confetti is a gift from God herself. The crowd goes wild, headbanging and bumping into each other.

The glitter rains down over us, and though I try to keep my mouth closed, I swallow some and then ungracefully spit a bit out. Someone grabs my hand and quickly twirls me, but before I can react or Carson can intervene, they let go to spin the next person as they work through the crowd.

It’s chaos. It’s wild.

It’s beautiful. It’s perfect.

Everyone is smiling and happy, dancing and enjoying themselves.

Carson pulls me back to his side, and I look up at him.

“You’re covered!” I exclaim with a bit of a laugh, but I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t swallow even more of the tiny sparkles. I once drank too much dyed beer at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration and peed green for two days. I wonder what the pass-through speed of glitter is. Two days? Five? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out firsthand, experimental style.

His brow furrows, not understanding over the loud music. Instead of repeating myself, I reach up and brush my thumb over his cheekbone where a bunch of glitter has stuck to his skin. He lets me brush off as much as I can, neither of us caring who’s around or who might be watching.

But that’s a dangerous risk to take when the whole point of this festival is that it’s beaming out to social media. I can see phones held in the air as people film themselves and the stage or livestream the festival. It’s exactly what Carson and Americana Land need, but not what we need personally.

“We should see if Spencer needs anything,” I suggest. Carson points at his ear and shakes his head. Rolling my eyes, I grab his hand and start pulling him out of the throng of people.

Once we get further away from the stage’s speakers, I hear someone yelling my name and look, expecting to see another neon shirted staff member. But what I see doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s a woman in a holographic jumpsuit. The knotted turban on her head and the silvery geometric shapes painted on her face match the super-short outfit. She’s a walking, yelling, smiling disco ball.

She gets closer, her smile growing. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” she shouts.

That voice . . . I know her. I grab her arm and spin her around. That ass . . . I know that ass. Back facing me, I get closer, trying to see her eyes through the dotted designs covering her skin. I know those dark eyes that are laughing at me right now.