Club None

III.

On the other side of the festival grounds, refracting beams of light sprayed white-shaded triangles on the underside of the clustered tent. Skeletons throbbed in the dim: black, purple, blue. EDM pulsed in the headphones of a thousand silent, dancing figures.

From behind a potted palm tree at the edge of the grounds Chanden Henric – Beverly Hills escapee, son of the festival organizer, and possessed of a wicked sense of mischief – was watching a crush of groupies puke into a drink tub. The girls rubbed each other's sweat-glazed shoulders, smearing fake tan and greenish vomit on day-old clothing.

His brother Stryker had a bent for groupies.

After another dramatic heave, one girl collapsed on the desert floor. Her painted gold ankles shimmered in the twilight.

Chanden watched the aftermath of her unfortunate brush with alcohol slide across the dry ground, spiraling into a pool of black liquid. He rubbed the heel of his Chelsea boot in the dirt and tweaked a sneeze from his nose.

Five o'clock. Stryker was late.

Just as he was about to rise, fade into the crowds, and disappear back to The Fort, his brother rounded the corner. Screams rose in the air. Gold Ankles tried to scramble to her feet, but slipped in her own puke.

Somehow it didn't faze Stryker – he strode over, offered her a bony, ink-stained hand. For the next ten minutes he was courteous as only he could be, signing autographs and smiling wide enough to crack his face. Smug. Assured.

Chanden dug the toe of his boot deeper into the dirt. Sweat dripped off his temples. He checked his pockets, remembered where his keys were. Used to be.

Rising to his feet, he shook self-doubt from his shoulders. The herd had almost departed and his brother's courtesy appeared to be wearing thin.

"Your smile is slipping, brother," he said, and grinned.

He grabbed for Stryker's much-maligned hand and escaped. Together they climbed leftover graffiti walls, five miles from the festival grounds, and eyed each other around Styrofoam coffee rims. Chanden didn't tell his brother how much he wanted to hate him; in turn, his brother didn't tell him how ridiculous his pseudo high school rebellion really was.

That night he slept on the ground, in the shadow of his father's Range Rover. He counted shooting stars on the fingers of his right hand and listened to his parents tear each other apart over the telephone.

By midmorning of the next day, three shows in, sans shower, plus sand-filled socks and unbrushed teeth, he was close to calling forfeit on the whole festival experience. His friends had met up with and ditched him in minutes, mumbling excuses about needing space or washup senior pranks. From his spot at the edge of the crowd, Chanden could see them sitting on each other's shoulders, drunk before twelve and laughing like imbeciles.

Attention half-captured by the band in front of him, he glanced over and spotted a pregnant girl swaying back and forth in the middle of the pit. He stilled for a few seconds to stare at her. The girl was sweating, face flushed red, and she looked – breathless. Crowded. If she didn't go down in ten seconds, he would ask her to step aside, leave the moshing for those able to do so.

She threw an elbow into an overeager neighbor. He almost smiled but decided against it.

Above him, the leader singer howled about the supernatural. The guitarist looked bored. Crowd members stirred, murmured, cagey.

Salt stung his lower lip. Stryker and his horde of groupies didn't compare to this. And the sun was sinking. In a few hours this stage would get torn down to make way for an influx of campers. He didn't have to help, of course, just shout directions. Make his father proud.

"Hey!" the singer dragged out a note a beat too long, then let his guitar thud against his chest. He waved his hands at the rest of his bandmates. "Can you dicks –" to the crowd "– jump for five minutes without knocking someone over? Security! Yo, where the hell is security?"

More murmuring. Orange-clad men wove their way through the crush of teenagers. Chanden scanned the faces. Ellie, on her back, staring up at the sky, brushed blood from her elbows.

"Can you help that girl up, right there? In the middle. Thank you." the singer threw water on his face, then flicked some on the fans leaning on the front barricade. "Be respectful, idiots. Are you okay?"

Status: hair matted to her forehead. Plaid shirt pulled down her shoulders in the fall. It puddled around her forearms, dark splotches staining the sleeves.

"I'm fine, thanks." her shout was feeble. Her hands, caged around her abdomen.

"Okay, awesome. See, idiots? This is what happens when people help each other. Look out for your fellow festival-goer, okay? Okay."

The drummer tapped out a beat, and the band launched back into the middle of the song.

Ellie cast a look around the crowd, then ducked her head.

Chanden tugged his ear. He started toward her, and then – a hand grabbed his elbow. When he twisted his head back one of his father's security guards sneered at him.

"Mr. Henric wants to see you."

"Can't wait," he said. 

His father had a habit of calling him in at the best – and the worst – moments, if only to prove a point. He was omniscient; he was head of the festival, king of the grounds, the richest man in California, and so on, and so forth. Never turned a blind eye and never let his son forget it.

Closing his eyes, Chanden pointed his fingers toward the sky. "Take me to your leader!"