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The backpack is stocked with all the necessities for navigating the crowds in summer heat – water bottles, sunscreen, lip balm, and a bottle of CBD oil because Steve thinks it’s a good substitute for Tasha’s usual calming options. James humors him. Mostly because if he hears one more statistic on the benefits of natural remedies over chemical compounds, his brain is going to dissolve and run out his ears. You would think they were heading out with a pack of children rather than three fully, well, fine semi-functional adult shaped humans. Particularly when Steve tosses a handful of fruit gummies and chewy granola bars in the mix. James refrains from pointing out that none of them are going to want the sugary treats in 95+ degrees of too damn hot.
Taking Tasha to events like this is something akin to trying to keep up with a herd of cats after they’ve bathed in catnip and consumed a half dozen Red Bulls. She turns in dizzying circles from giggly and happy as a little kid to terrified because someone brushes against her. There’s no predicting what it will be, and James would be very happy to hole up in the house and swear off these family adventures altogether.
He can’t though, because Pride is a thing. A crowded, drunken, overwhelming thing that Steve feels very strongly is an obligation to attend. James is just grateful that he doesn’t feel the same way about the upcoming 4th of July downtown debacle.
Tasha emerges from her room in what might be the most reasonable attire he’s ever seen her in or the most outlandish. Tiny denim shorts and a tshirt that reads: I am the one your parents warned you about. James cocks an eyebrow in question and she grins back at him.
“Accurate, right?” she giggles.
Fantastic, James thinks. She’s already blitzed. He’d like to point out she’s being an idiot. Instead, he smiles and agrees with her. Sometimes it’s just easier that way. He looks up to see Steve lifting an eyebrow in question as he cocks his head toward Tasha. James shrugs. Surely this doesn’t come as a shock anymore. His kid sister is trouble in a very pretty package. Steve shakes his head and rummages in the cabinet for a package of what look suspiciously like baby wipes to add to the mix in the backpack.
They pile into the car and make the short trek to the festival, parking in an overpriced lot near a church. There’s some really special irony in that one, James muses as he stands in line to pay the automated lot kiosk. The walk to the festival area is a quick enough one, but keeping track of Tasha is definitely going to be an adventure. She’s hopping around and balancing on raised edges of sidewalk like a little kid. Her pupils are wide despite the glaring sun and James spots the telltale twitch at her jaw as she begins grinding her teeth. She’s rolling. Lovely. It’s 400 degrees outside, and she picked a drug bound to make her dehydrated.
“Oooh! Shiny!” Tasha squeals and bolts to a tent filled with rainbow flags and gemstone necklaces. She’s petting a necklace within seconds, picking out a set of earrings to go with, and heading for the vendor to claim her prize. A quick swipe of a credit card later and they’re off again, James gripping Tasha by the hand in hopes of keeping her from getting away.
That turns out to be the least of his worries.
Free Mom Hugs the sign reads, and James knows they mean well. It’s such a kind gesture, really. There are people wearing shirts emblazoned with everything from Free Mom Hugs to Free Fist Bumps and all sorts of options in between. He spots Free Pastor Hugs on a tall and powerfully built man in clerical collar and Free Bro Hugs on a kid with hemp cargo shorts and dreadlocked hair.
James vaguely remembers seeing this movement on social media. It’s pretty amazing, really. The idea that people are going out to Pride and offering some love to someone who needs to be told they’re a valid human. It’s not really his thing, hugging a stranger, but from the looks on some of the people holding tight to the free huggers, it’s a thing bringing serious joy to people whose thing it is.
“Jamie! Hugs!” Tasha squawks, and she’s off and launching herself at the pastor before James can pull her away.
James braces for the hugfest to go seriously south, but Tasha returns to them after cuddling nearly everyone within reach grinning like a maniac. Steve looks like he’s trying to decide what kind of alternate reality they’ve wandered into. The kind where miracles actually happen, James decides when Tasha bounds back to them happy as can be. She hops into his arms and he picks her up like a kid while she wraps her legs around his waist and hold on. Her breath is warm against his neck but it’s the tremble in her core that concerns him. She’s smiling, but she’s also vibrating. Happy, but much, much too high.
When she returns her feet to the ground, it’s to lead them into the main festival area, a crowded knot of booths and grassy pathways. Everything from the local clerical organizations to bars seems to be handing out rainbow swag, and before long the backpack is filled to brimming with all manner of goodies. James doesn’t want to think about the flavored lube Tasha collects in every color of the rainbow, nor the tube of ”no, seriously, it’s sunscreen” Steve gathered from the health department.
It’s when Tasha comes to a sudden stop that it all goes to hell. The foster agency they were both placed with has a booth. It’s filled with photos of smiling kids and bright posters about making a difference for youth. James grabs her and steers her the other direction as quickly as he can, hoping he’s intervened before her good mood can go careening off into the land of so much not good.
She blinks at him and mutters that she wants a drink now. He’d argue, but he wouldn’t turn one down himself. Steve’s fast to take charge, tugging them both toward the alcohol vendors. He all but shoves them into chairs at the first table they pass and calls back that he has drinks handled. He’s a keeper, James thinks when he returns with two beers in his pockets and a pair of very fruity scented vodka laden travesties for Tasha. She downs round one in seconds, and Steve puts a second in front of her with a murmured encouragement to maybe breathe a little.
Drink number two does the job and they resume festival exploration with Tasha’s good mood intact. They don’t go back toward the information tents, veering instead into the area with the music stages. There’s a drag show running full tilt at one and something that looks dangerously like karaoke at another. They wander into a couple more vendors and spend far too much on CBD oil lip balm, various lotions, and a good number of items Tasha declares to be shiny and fun.
It’s unspeakably hot, and even though James has spent more than his share of time in 120+ degrees, he’s completely done with this thing within a couple hours. Tasha is, too, if her increasingly unsteady steps are anything to go by. He squeezes her shoulder and leans down to ask if she’s ready to head home. She nods, and he notes that her face is somehow both red with heat and pale beneath flushed cheeks.
The car is boiling, and Steve turns it on and blasts the AC before he lets anyone get in. James has the good sense to put Tasha in the front, but her steadily wilting demeanor doesn’t give him much confidence that it’s going to help their fate. They’re barely in the driveway when she hiccups, a hand pulling sluggishly toward her lips.
“Dammit, not in the car, Tasha!” Steve grunts, reaching across her and shoving the door open with one hand while James grabs her shoulders and shifts her toward to open space. They manage it before sour vodka cocktail erupts from her lips.
“Gross,” she whines when she’s finished.
“No arguments there,” James replies, tugging her to her feet and guiding her around the puddle of sick.
Steve’s bounding along in front of them to get the door, which he holds open while James all but carries Tasha over the threshold.
“Don’t feel good,” she tells him.
“Thanks for that enlightening tidbit,” he shoots back. He wants to lecture her for being an idiot, but instead he guides her into the little hall bathroom. The floor is bare, but she doesn’t seem to notice the cold linoleum on her knobby knees as she curls up hugging the seat of the toilet. Her breathing is ragged and pitiful.
James pats her between her shoulder blades, telling her he’s there and it will pass. He doesn’t tell her it’s going to be okay. It won’t, probably never will, because this is where Tasha goes every time she hurts, or spooks, or get angry, or is uncomfortable in any way she’d rather not feel. A part of him knows she’s not so much a recreational user as a functional sort of addict, but it’s a truth he doesn’t want to acknowledge today. Maybe not any day. He’ll keep cleaning her up until she’s ready to do it on her terms.