Celebration of Lights
It’s hot, and the crowd is hundreds. No thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands. Thousands to watch the festival of lights, a firework show put on by five country’s designates.
For his first flight, Vancouver wasn’t so bad. Everyone had come, even Ma’s son, George. Same age yet a mile taller and wildly opposite.
Perched far from George’s annoying pokes, Tabias sat on Father’s shoulders. This didn’t adequately protect Tabias. Shack. A spitball landed square on his back. Some missed.
He didn’t want to make a fuss since he knew Father would put him down if that happened. He enjoyed being this high, he could see the beach already, and they were several blocks away still. The sun was fading fast, and the boats loaded with fireworks were getting into position.
Swhack- a fat wet spitball made contact to the back of Tabias’ neck. He cringed but sat still. He was wondering how he would get rid of George. This guy was worse than Sister, and she had hardly said two words since the airport. Tabias turned his head to growl at the boy, but Father instead growled about squirming.
Sister had her hair down today, from Tabias’ point of view, she was a walking mop head. He wasn’t sure what her problem was, the flight had been fun! Step Mother and Father were talking as they made their way down Davies street. The beach at the end sat in front of the harbor. The boats were lined up, English Bay was ready.
Swhack. This spitball slid down Tabias’ shirt. “Enough!” he yelled, but the fireworks went BANG at the same time. The sky lit with a snap and crackle of bright yellow stars, and the thousands of people on the Vancouver streets went wild. Spray guns were shooting friends with water. Hot dogs were sizzling as buyers made their last munchie runs.
Schwack. Bang! Another firework exploded, and an even more giant spitball landed square on Tabias’ neck. His dilemma was that he was nearly too large for Father to put atop his shoulders any longer. If he complained about Ma’s son, Father would still get irritated with him as well. Tabias looked in his pockets for something to throwback, but he had nothing. There was no way he was giving up his foxtail, and Father already began to grumble when Tabias squirreled around.
He glanced at Sister in desperation, and somehow she had known all along. She met Tabias’ glance, winked and turned mid-stride, right hand swinging up and unloading its projectile at George in one swift motion. She turned back again and continued walking, and the only sound that could be heard between the fireworks was the naked stick of lipstick that Sister had stuck pocket lint and a chewed piece of gum to.
Schwack was the sound it made when it hit the concrete after sliding (and leaving a perfect line) down George’s face.