WATERFRONT PARK IS a big, long stretch of public green space, benches, fountains, playgrounds, and walking paths. But all Liberty and I care about are the food trucks parked around its borders.
Or, to be more precise: one particular food truck.
“Let’s split up,” says Liberty. “You take that side, I’ll take this one. First one who finds the Sub Diego sandwich truck, texts the other.”
Meanwhile, people are pouring into the park from everywhere, in groups, laughing, talking. A police siren wails. I hate that noise. It makes the pulse of a headache start up behind my right eye. “Shouldn’t we just stay together?” I say. “It’s getting crowded.”
“It’s downtown! What do you expect?” Liberty pats me on the head. I hate being patted on the head. “Just text me if you find it.” Then she slips out of sight behind a big group of people carrying coolers and lawn chairs. She’s gone, like she fell into a crack in the earth or something. Just like in Sub Diego.
Nothing.
I can’t believe she just ditched me! I feel suddenly panicked. It’s like someone just ripped me out of a warm coat and left me shivering, exposed, on the sidewalk.
Alone. I’m all alone.
Okay, okay. I need to stop worrying and start scouting food trucks. But first, I think I need to find a bathroom.
I wander around until I spy a row of electric blue plastic port-a-johns at the far end of the park, just past a big outdoor stage. Security guys in headphones are strolling around near it. Guys in black T-shirts are testing speakers and checking cables. And I realize that this is where all the people are heading. It’s filling up by the minute! I guess there’s going to be some kind of concert or show.
I hurry past, almost tripping on a bright yellow power cord.
And then, when I’ve found the least disgusting port-a-john in the row, and I’m finally relieving myself:
BLAM!
It sounds like a speaker just exploded. The whole port-a-john vibrates. I jump two feet in the air. And, as I jump, the unthinkable happens . . . My cell phone tumbles out of my shorts pocket and into the open hole.
Noooo!
I grab for it in horror-movie slow motion, but it’s no use. The phone’s already sliding down, down into oblivion.
I let out a startled shriek as the loudspeaker explodes into action again. A voice booms: “Electric Blue Oblivion, folks! Our musical guests for today’s Saturday Concert Series will be Electric Blue Oblivion! Join us on the south stage, now!”
I knew there was a reason I hated that band that’s always playing on the school bus radio. Electric Blue Oblivion, just like where my cell phone’s ended up. It figures. No wonder their music stinks!
I stumble out of there, gulping fresh air. There is now a line waiting in front of the row of port-a-johns. I feel dazed and confused. I tell the next person—a stocky dude in mirror sunglasses and a Mickey Mouse shirt—“My phone! It fell into the, uh, the . . .”
He steps backward away from me.
“I need my phone!” I cry out.
“And I need to pee before Electric Blue Oblivion starts playing,” the guy says.
I veer away, trying to remember where I left Liberty. But now the crowd’s grown into a giant mob. I get swept up in a wave of people and carried off into a roped area by the stage, where we all just stand still. Nowhere to go.
“Excuse me,” I shout. “Let me through, please!” But no one moves. It’s like I’m invisible. Red Alerts are wooping through my chest.
“Excuse me!” I say, louder now, and a lady budges about six inches to the right. I squeeze through—only to face a mass of more people. In fact, this whole roped-in area around the stage has somehow magically turned into a solid block of wall-to-wall humanity. We’re all jammed in together, and everyone’s buzzing and talking and pushing and shoving me around in their quest for the best spot to see Electric Blue Oblivion.
Boy, what those goofy girls on my school bus would probably give to see this.
But me? I need to get out of here.
More people arrive every second, flowing in impossible waves. I push against the tide like a salmon struggling upstream. Strangers’ arms and legs press into me as I get bumped and tossed.
Red Alert!
Red Alert!
My heart thumps and thumps. I make a strange bleating cry, and a few bewildered faces flash in my direction, then turn away.
If I fall, I’ll get trampled.
Maybe I’m having a heart attack.
It’s like when I was five, and I lost Dad once, in a crowd at a rally. The same panic has my chest in an iron grip.
The drums from Electric Blue Oblivion jump-start the beat. One—Two—Three—Four—
My heart is exploding in my chest. I’m choking, drowning! I need my dad! My mom! Somebody! Liberty!
I need John Lockdown! What would John Lockdown do?
I close my eyes and imagine him flying overhead. Commanding the crowd to part in his booming voice.
I need to command the crowd to part.
Suddenly I’m sucking in air, then shouting: “LET ME THROUGH!” I yell at the top of my lungs, tears streaming down my face. “LET ME THROUGH!”
Next to me a sweaty man in an Electric Blue Oblivion shirt finally notices me. “Hey, kid,” he shouts over the noise, looking confused. “Don’t you want to see the concert?” I shake my head and point toward the exit. He turns sideways and lets me squeeze past.
“Hey!” he calls out to the next person in the crowd. “Let this kid through, will you? He doesn’t look too good!”
And then, as if by some miracle, the chant goes along the line, like a telephone chain, one person calling after the other. “Hey, let this kid through! He’s sick! Hey! Let him pass!”
It’s weird. The crowd is my worst nightmare, but instead of getting devoured and un-existed by them—the crowd helps me.
“Kid coming through!” people keep calling out.
A scary biker dude with piercings and tattoos puts his hands under my armpits and lifts me high up in the air, which is terrifying—until he pivots me around, points me past him, and puts me gently back on the ground even closer to the exit. I’m too stunned to even react.
But I keep moving.
After what seems like ten eons of struggling past arms and legs and bellies and sweaty bodies, my heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears, my throat parched and tight—I sense I’m nearly out. An old hippie lady with long, curly gray hair turns to me with a kind smile. “Here you go, honey,” she says, lifting up the final rope barrier.
I’m out! I’m home free!
I run away from the concert pavilion toward the open green space, sweating and panting and having Red Alerts like crazy. Finally, I throw myself down under a tree and curl into a small ball.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
I cover my ears but the whiny guitar strains and drumbeats of Electric Blue Oblivion still waft around me. The crowd back there is still roaring, but at least it’s a dull roar now. “Hold on,” the song goes. “Hold on, baby, hold on.”
I’ve heard it before on the school bus. Hold on.
You know what? I really, really hate Electric Blue Oblivion.