At first we’re able to make steady progress through the herds of sun dwellers. There are a lot of strange and interesting people. A girl with pink hair tied into tight little braids. A guy wearing just his undergarments, both on his head and in the more normal pelvic area. Three guys who look identical, wearing more makeup on their faces than many of the highly makeupped women. The men really are as pretty as the women. Many of the men have long hair, lustrous and silky and full of glitter and colorful hair ties. Most of their ears are pierced, adorned with diamond studs or shiny, gold hoops. Some of them wear dark eyeliner and lipstick.
Definitely not like the Moon Realm.
Tristan’s head bobs and bounces as he fights through the crowd, hopefully taking us in the right direction to eventually give us some breathing room. He’s heading straight for the raised stage, and as we get closer the way forward gets more difficult, as the bodies mash even closer together, almost no space between anybody. With our movements slower, it gives me the chance to watch the reactions of people as we pass by. Right away I realize that Tristan is our biggest problem. He seems to know it, keeping his head tilted down and a raised hand over his face, but it still doesn’t stop some people from recognizing him, just like his tramp-admirer in the caves thought he looked like the son of the President. Heads turn as guys and girls alike stare after him, not sure if they were mistaken at having just seen the heir to the presidency. A few of them even say things like, “Whoa! Wasn’t that Tristan Nailin?” or “Dude, did you just see who I did?”
Not good.
Eventually someone will act on what they see and chase after him, trying to get an autograph, a touch, a kiss, or maybe all three. I decide to take a chance. The only good thing is that they’re less likely to recognize me with him marching along in front.
Just as we push past a row of dancing bodies with their backs to us, I grab one of their hats right off their head. The reveler, too busy grinding up against other nearby bodies, doesn’t even notice. The hat’s got a huge brim that can cover a whole face, is littered with metallic stars and hearts and other bobbles, and has a bright blue bow around the dome top. Other than clearly being made for a woman, it’s perfect. Tristan will just have to deal with it.
I pass it forward to Tawni. “Pass this up to Tristan,” I say.
She gives me a look that says, “You’re crazy,” far better than any words could, but sends it forward to Roc anyway, relaying the message. Roc hands it to Trevor, who hands it to Tristan. He looks at it like it’s a rare disease, holding it away from him, and for a minute I’m scared he’ll just toss it away, but then he sort of shrugs and plops it on his head, using a hand to pull the wide brim over his face. Yes! I think.
Our progress, which has been like walking through mud, abruptly grinds to a halt. We’re about twenty feet from the stage, and I can clearly see the band now. The lead singer is running around now, not even bothering to sing, like he’s on drugs. “I can’t go any further!” Tristan yells back. “We’ll have to go another way.”
I cringe. The thought of going around or back or any way that keeps us in the press of the crowd any longer is too unbearable. I look past Tristan, my eyes naturally zeroing in on the maniac singer, who suddenly throws his microphone to the stage and leaps off, landing on a bed of hands, which draws even more screams from the audience. That’s when it hits me.
Why go through when we can go over?
Little did I know at the time, but the drunk guy had given us the best suggestion of all. The singer is passed around, moving rapidly across the sea of helpers. It’s certainly a far faster way to travel than our current method.
“Tristan, up!” I yell above the noise, letting go of Tawni’s shoulders with both hands for the first time, so I can motion up.
“Too risky,” he yells, which draws a few strange stares from nearby frolickers.
“Not more than it already is,” I say. “Quick and fast. We can run at the end if we have to.”
We’re getting more and more looks, but it’s not because of our exchange. It’s because my hands are still in the air, raised to the roof. Apparently it’s the universal sign for crowd-surfing.
“Need help up?” a big guy says, lowering his hands to the ground, like a step.
“Thanks,” I say, not waiting for approval from Tristan. They’re just going to have to follow my lead this time. I step into the guy’s cupped hands, and then the world spins as I’m thrown into the air.
I’m off balance and out of control, but when I come back down, I land much more softly than I expected. The feeling is new and weird and kind of cool at the same time, as hundreds of tiny little fingers and palms touch me all along my legs, arms and back. It’s almost like floating while getting a newfangled type of massage at the same time. I check that my assortment of weapons is still tucked safely beneath my clothes and in their sheaths. They are, although even if they weren’t, the intoxicated partiers would probably just think they were fakes and part of our costumes—just another sun dweller fashion statement. The only thing I didn’t think about:
How to steer.
I’m already heading in the wrong direction, away from the stage, back toward the entrance to the shipping tunnel. Where are the brakes on this thing?
Not sure what to do, I yell as loud as I can, “To the stage!”
To my complete and utter shock, the people beneath me shriek with delight, instantly changing my direction. Although I’m heading right for the band now, which is where Tristan wanted to go for some reason—I have no idea why.
I look around me, trying to find one of my friends’ faces, but there are only strangers with funny hats, strange piercings, and dyed hair. Then I spy it: the hat I stole for Tristan, its blue-bowed dome top rising above the crowd. I’m going to drift right past it.
At that moment, Tawni is flung up and above the crowd, her white hair magnificent under the artificial sun, the blue streak down one side almost making her fit in with the rest of the sun dwellers. The look on her face is somewhere between giddy and frightened, a half-smile that never quite makes it to her eyes.
As I coast up next to her, I say, “Headed my way?”
Her head jerks in my direction and a full smile finally crosses her face. “How do you control this thing?”
“To the stage!” I yell again, and like before, the crowd cheers, pushing us both toward the front, just a couple of seasoned crowd-surfers.
Tawni’s high, melodic laugh rings out as we skim along unknown hands. “Fun, eh?” I say.
“Yes! Why haven’t we ever done this before?”
“Have you ever seen a crowd like this?” I counter.
“Good point. What are we going to do about the others?”
“They’ll catch up,” I say, craning back to find Roc, Trevor, and Tristan lying flat above the masses, moving in all different directions. Trevor’s just going in circles—clearly he hasn’t worked things out quite yet.
We zero in on the stage, which is now occupied by just the band members minus their lead singer, who’s been carried off elsewhere. A jolt runs up my legs as my foot bangs off the foot of the platform. “What now?” I shout above a hammering drum solo.
“Maybe he wanted to get behind it!” Tawni cries.
“Okay! Left! Left!” I yell, hoping the drunken, crazed fans below me can remember their right from left.
At least one person does, as we’re pushed hard across the width of the stage. I’m so close to the rockers that the sweat glistens on their skin as they strum, drum, and scream out the loudest music I’ve ever heard.
Then an amazing thing happens.
We round the edge of the stage and the hands disappear.
Chapter Twelve
Tristan
Just when Trevor, Roc, and I get the hang of crowd-surfing and are headed in the direction of Adele and Tawni, they drop out of sight. “What happened?” I say toward Trevor, who’s between Roc and me.