Page 30 of A Wistful Symphony

Delia and you exchange contacts, and she sees us out, waving like an excited child.

We get in your truck, and as I’m fastening my seatbelt, you take a small plastic bag from your pocket.

When two white pills roll to your palm, my mouth dries.

You’ve been using them more and more lately.

It’s making me worry if this is passing the boundaries of recreational.

“Andrew, could you not? Just for today.”

“You know how I get around crowds. These make me relax.”

“Yeah, but—” I sigh. “You’re not yourself when you’re on them. Please?”

Your gaze flickers from my face to the pills, and you pinch your lips.

“Fine, I guess.” You return the pills to the bag, and I sigh in relief as you start the car.

You brood for most of the drive, but I sweeten your mood by talking about all the things we’ll try that your parents never let you. Junk food, silly fair rides, games and all. It doesn’t take long until excitement colours your smile once again.

The festival is held at an open field a couple miles away from the town centre.

Tons of decorated booths reach as far as the eye can see, with tiny flags and fairy lights covering our heads in a multicoloured canopy.

The place is so crowded, I believe the town’s entire population has decided to attend.

Some of our professors are having a chat over glasses of cider while a group of girls from school try their luck at a firing booth.

There’s even a few of my neighbours competing on a ‘who has the most perfect garden’ poll or some shit.

“Where do you want to start?” I ask.

“Hm. I’ve always wanted to try candyfloss.”

“I’ve actually never had it as well.”

We stroll to the pink and blue pastel booth with half-eager, half-hesitant steps. Your lips twitch at my suspicious frown as the old man spins the paper cone around the metallic device. While the rosy lump grows bigger, I imagine how much dirt the machine would get out here in the open.

It’s fine, Eric. You’re not going to die of food poisoning.

He hands you the candyfloss, and after taking a bite, you offer me some.

I’m not sure if I should dig in with my mouth or take a piece of it with my fingers.

Both options are equally distressing. Seeing my struggles, you pinch a chunk of it and bring it close to my mouth, and I stuff it in before I can think any further.

The fluffy matter dissolves on my tongue, leaving a sugary trace.

If clouds were sweet, they should taste this way.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“A bit too sweet for my taste. I don’t think I’ll eat much.” The bridge of your nose creases as you bite another piece. “You?”

“Love it. But I don’t think I can ignore the thoughts enough to have more.”

A light chuckle bursts out of you. “That’s a shame, but I’m not surprised.” You throw away the rest of the treat.

“Let’s go, then.” You extend your forearm, waiting for mine.

There’s a moment of hesitation before I hook our arms. I’m pleased that you’re considerate enough not to touch my hand, but it doesn’t make it any less worrisome.

We’re walking together amidst a swarm of conservative townsfolk, but despite my twirling stomach, no one minds.

A bat of an eye or two, but other than that, it’s fine.

We can walk around like this. It makes my chest flutter with joy.

Next on our list is games, and we decide to try our luck in a water gun firing booth. The first prize is some gigantic stuffed animal neither of us wants, but the competition is still fun.

“How are you doing that?” you whine, when I shoot a bullseye that puts me dangerously close to the grand prize.

“Beginner’s luck, I guess.” I laugh and aim at the last mark.

A new voice makes me miss the target by a long shot. “Well look at that. It’s Nutcase and Pastor Boy!”

Both of us turn to find Matt Spencer, one of Benson’s minions, smirking with his arms crossed.

You clench your jaw and whisper, “It would be brilliant if you fired at his face.”

“What?” I whip my head in refusal, guts cold with fear. “He would slaughter us.”

“We can outrun him. Come on, I’ll make it worthwhile.”

“What are you dorks whispering about?” Spencer sneers. “Or are you too gay to speak up?”

That’s the last straw. Gathering courage from whatever hole it was stored in, I point the water gun at the jerk and pull the trigger. My aim wasn’t beginner’s luck after all. He curses with his face soaking wet.

“You’re dead, Lowell!” he shouts, coming for us.

“Run!”

We drop the water guns to the ground and sprint for our lives.

Trying to gain as much distance as we can, we bump into whoever’s in front of us.

You yell a hurried apology to a girl who spills ice cream all over her dress.

Spencer runs with his fists thrust forwards, foaming for a piece of us.

We dodge booths and circle the merry-go-round until he falls behind.

A large hot dog truck stands to our right, and I pull you by the jacket.

We zigzag to the back of the cart and squat, hoping we’ll go unnoticed.

Spencer walks heedlessly in front of it, twisting the wet front of his T-shirt. “Fucking twats,” he mutters, heading in the opposite direction.

We look at each other, breath ragged, sweat dripping from our foreheads, and burst into laughter. The sudden injection of adrenaline is exhilarating.

“That was a close one,” you say between chuckles.

“Let’s never do anything like this again,” I beg, but keep laughing.

“Deal.” You pinch my chin and seal our lips. “Remind me to give your prize once we’re alone.”

“Will do for sure.” I smile and kiss you again.

We head for the rides, starting with a safe spin on the merry-go-round.

Next, we almost throw up at the teacups and agree that there will be no second round.

After a ride on the bumper cars, where you cry with laughter at my desperation to not crash the car, we decide we’ve had our share of excitement for the day.

The sun threatens to go down and the first bluish flares tint the evening sky. We pass through a dog show that holds our attention for a while and move on to the central stage where Astro’s band is playing.

“Geez, we almost missed it!” You pull me closer to the area. “Thank goodness they’re still on the first song.”

We try to get closer, but the frazzled expression you tried to mask all day is blatantly clear. You’re exhausted from dealing with such a crowd, so I suggest we remain at the back, away from the people cramming heedlessly into each other.

“Their tracks are usually heavier than this, but they toned down the setlist for the festival.”

“Understandable,” I say. “Though I kind of like the music as is.”

“Of course you do.”

We giggle and continue bobbing our heads until your attention is caught by a group of people to our left.

Reverend Westcott stands a few feet from the stage area, talking to some people from the staff with your mother by his side.

I mean to turn away and ignore them, but you hold your stare until your father notices us.

Your entire body flinches and your lips press into a fine line.

“Should we leave?” I whisper near your ear.

You put your arm around my waist and pull me into a kiss.

Nothing cinematic, a swift peck and a pull of lips, but it’s like we’ve just snogged in the middle of Sunday service.

Your mother’s face is almost as white as her modest summer dress, but the reverend’s countenance doesn’t flinch a millimetre.

He simply turns his face and resumes the conversation he was having with the other two men.

You remain there, eager eyed, waiting for any trace of reaction.

What exactly did you expect? That he would make a scene?

Yell at us and pull you away by the arm in front of the entire townsfolk?

Scorn you for your blasphemy and force you to come back to their holy home?

He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. When he and your mother walk away, stating clearly that he’ll only offer you disregard, you give up.

We walk nearer to the centre stage and watch some bands that come after Astro, standing silently, arms locked tight. You gaze forwards, eyes glazed as if detached from your body. In a second, all the joy permeating our day has vanished. With one glance from that wretched man.

After the bands, there’s a firework show scheduled on the programme, and I figure it would be a nice way to cheer you up. When the music is gone, I nudge you with my elbow.

It seems like I’ve pulled you from a trance. “What?”

“Look up,” I say, a hopeful grin on my lips.

The first firework bursts in the sky. A strand of glimmer exploding in a sparkling shower.

Light in bloom. The second comes, then the third.

The sky is soon full of colour and lights, and I stand there, head tilted up, in awe of the beautiful designs the sparks make on the dark canvas of the night.

I turn, expecting to find you as amazed as I am, but my hopes are swiftly broken.

Your breathing is rapid, eyes fixed to the ground, and you’re grasping my arm so tightly it hurts. At first, I assume it’s the crowd, coming suffocatingly close to watch the lights. I’m wrong. With each firework explosion, each thundering sound, you flinch like it physically hurts your body.

“Andrew?” I try to grab your attention with little effect. “Andrew?” I say louder.

“Hm?” you mumble, shaking.

“Do you want to leave?”