Knickers

Mr. Blud

I freeze, listening for the sound of confrontation. Maya's giggling crescendos then, cut off by a deep and demanding voice asking her what the hell she's doing back here. I press my ear to the door and listen.
"I lost my friends," Maya half-whines, sputtering out a raspberry and falling over herself in laughter. "Like, I haven't seen them in hours."
"Have you been drinking?"
"Have you been drinking?" Maya mimics him, much like she would after a few shots.
"Alright," the male voice delegates. "Get her to first aid."
"First-aid, first-schmaid," Maya says, but she's disregarded. I hear several pairs of shuffling footsteps lead away from the bus.
As soon as her protests are out of earshot I slip out of the bus and go around the back, away from Maya and her escorts.
I glance over my shoulder as I run, checking to see if anyone had caught me leaving the bus. A few heads are turned my way, but they're evidently not looking at me.
I crash into something warm and tumble backwards, splaying out flat on my back under the glaring summer sun. From the corner of my eye I see a young man, clad in a little black dress and bright pink socks, yanked mid-fall back to his feet by a way-too-large security escort.
The disorientation settles like dust, the scorching heat and excitement throbbing in my face.
Another young man, this one with facial hair, bends over me, squinting in concern. "Alright?"
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My head flops to one side, and from across the parking lot I see Maya turned toward the commotion, staring open-mouthed at the scene. She's never been too subtle.
Then, the worst question I've ever heard.
"Are those my underpants?"
I push myself onto my hands and knees, blinking away the white blindness burned into me by the sun. "Absolutely not," I retort. "How dare you accuse me."
It takes me a few seconds too long to get to my feet, and when I do there are about six pairs of eyes on me. The pink underwear, now unfolded and splayed on the asphalt, reveals itself to be charmingly embroidered with several hearts in black thread.
"You broke into the bus?" the too-large escort asks.
"Well," I say, shrinking under the accusatory tone. "It was unlocked."
"Did you tamper with anything?"
"Just the underwear," I confess, turning to a puddle under pressure. "It was a stupid bet. Some guy outside wanted me to burn it because he's a diehard Eminem fan."
"What's that got to do with my underwear?" the little black dress demands, notably British.
"Well, you have beef with Eminem, right? I guess he hates you."
The frown breaks off his face then, and a cheery laugh bubbles up out of him. "You've mistaken me for someone else, I think."
"Regardless," the too-large man says, taking me by the elbow, "we could have you arrested for trespassing, you know that?"
"That's not necessary," the little black dress says. "You know I would never have that."
"I know," the escort snaps back, dragging me several steps toward the gate. "At the very least she needs to be removed from the venue."
The black dress hurries after us. "Okay, that I might agree with if it wasn't the last ever Warped Tour." He half-smiles at me, and I wish I could look less scared and more moody, brooding, fearless, something. "We can just pretend it never happened, can't we?"
"I'm sorry," I tell him honestly, fighting back my racing heartbeat.
"See? No harm done."
The hot hand disappears from my elbow, just as I hear hard, slapping footsteps in my direction. Without breaking stride, Maya snatches up my hand and yanks me away from the crowd, pulling me back toward the hole in the fence.
"Thank you, Mister Blud!" I call over my shoulder.
"Anytime!" he calls back, and then we disappear into the crowd.