“But that’s not even the worst of it,” Sunshine continues, leaning across her organic food display like she’s about to get to the juicy part. “If you really want to talk motives, you should have a little chat with your friend Julia, too.”
I inch back. “What about Julia?”
“Julia Washington isn’t even her real name,” Sunshine hisses. “And thoseauthentic colonial recipesshe’s so proud of? They’re a complete fabrication. Larry said he caught her using processed ingredients, artificial preservatives, and modern flavor enhancers in everything she makes.”
My stomach drops. “But she said?—”
“Oh, who cares what comes out of her mouth. She’s been lying about everything for years,” Sunshine interrupts. “Her family history, her recipes, even her supposed connection to Martha Washington. From what I hear, it’s all fake. Larry said he had enough evidence to destroy her completely—from food inspector violations, to false advertising, to health department citations. She would have lost everything if he exposed her for the fraud she is.”
Watson barks sharply, and I turn to see why he’s suddenly alarmed. Across the festival, all hell is breaking loose.
Aunt Cat is having what appears to be a philosophical argument with the aura photographer, her voice carrying across the field. “My patriotism is perfectly fine, thank you very much! I don’t need crystals to unblock my red, white, and blue chakras!”
“Ma’am, your aura shows serious blockages in your freedom centers,” the photographer insists, holding up what looks like a very colorful Polaroid. “Without proper crystal treatment, your patriotic energy could become toxic.”
“TOXIC?” Aunt Cat shrieks. “I’ll show you toxic!”
Carlotta isn’t doing any better.
“These rocks are duller than my second husband!” she shouts at the chakra healer. “I want my money back! My chakras feel worse!”
“The stones are responding to your negative energy,” the healer explains patiently. “Perhaps if you released your attachment to material sequins?—”
“DON’T YOU DARE INSULT MY SEQUINS!”
Across the field, Niki has attempted something called the Transcendent Tree Pose and is now tangled in her own limbs while three other participants groan nearby.
I think we’re going to need a medic.
“Gravity isn’t spiritual, it’sphysics,” she’s arguing with the instructor, who’s lecturing her about respecting the sacred space she’s in with silence.
Good luck with that one.
“Your disruptive energy is disturbing the cosmic flow,” the instructor tells my sister in an ill-fated move.
“My disruptive energy?” Niki squawks. “Your poses are physically impossible! I’m not a contortionist!”
Maybe not. But according to at least six of her exes, she can bend when she wants to.
Watson looks between the three separate disasters and barks as if he’s requesting immediate evacuation. I’m so with him on that.
A festival security guard, a guy in a hemp shirt with a peace sign badge, is running between the incidents looking like he’s reconsidering his career in conflict resolution.
“Ladies, please!” he pleads. “This is a harmony festival! Can’t we all just find our inner peace?”
“I’ll find your inner peace,” Aunt Cat threatens, wielding her purse like a weapon. “Right after I realign this photographer’s chakras with my fist!”
Other festivalgoers are choosing sides, with some supporting the cosmic harmony position and others rallying behind what one man calls Italian-American spiritual rights.
That’s my cue.
“I have to go,” I tell Sunshine, scooping up Watson before he gets drafted into whatever this is. “Thanks for the enlightenment.”
“Be careful with Julia!” Sunshine calls after me. “Someone who lies about everything might lie about murder!”
Good to know.
I spend the next ten minutes extracting the lunatics I came with from this party. By the time we reach the car, Aunt Catis muttering abouthippie nonsense, Carlotta is convinced her sequins have been spiritually violated, and Niki is banned from all future yoga sessions for cosmic disruption.
