1
Callie
If I haveto hear my father rant about the Great Chili Conspiracy of 1995 one more time, I’m going to scream. And not the cute, damsel-in-distress kind of scream but the kind that gets you committed.
I’m crouched behind Mabel’s funnel cake stand, praying that Dad will lower his voice before the entire county fair witnesses another Thompson family meltdown. No such luck. His voice carries across the fairgrounds like a foghorn, except with dramatic pauses and wild hand gestures.
“You McCoys think you can waltz in here with your fancy chili and your… your,” Dad waves his plastic spoon in the air, drops of red sauce flying everywhere, “your lies!”
I peek around the corner of the stand and immediately regret it. Half the town has gathered around the chilicontest tables, phones out, ready to document whatever disaster is about to unfold. The lady from the post office has her mouth hanging open. The mayor looks like he’s considering early retirement. And Mrs. Delaney, oh God, Mrs. Delaney, is holding her phone up, recording everything for the Cedar Ridge Facebook page.
“Dad,” I hiss under my breath, “you’re making a scene.”
But he can’t hear me over his righteous fury. “That ribbon belonged to us! Everyone knows the Thompson five-alarm chili could wake the dead!”
The McCoy patriarch, a grizzled man with steel-gray hair and zero patience, crosses his arms. “Your mama’s chili tasted like motor oil, Hank. Still does, if your daughter’s any indication.”
Oh, hell no.
I start to stand up, ready to defend my family’s honor, but then I remember: I hate crowds, I hate drama, and I especially hate being the center of attention. Plus, my chili actually does taste questionable. The man’s not wrong.
“Thirty years!” Dad bellows, jabbing his spoon toward the McCoy booth. “Thirty years of watching you parade around with stolen glory!”
“Stolen?” Mr. McCoy laughs, a sound like gravel in a blender. “The only thing stolen here is your dignity, Thompson.”
The crowd “oohs” appropriately. Someone in the back starts a slow clap. I want to melt into the sawdust and disappear forever.
This is my life. This is what I get for being born a Thompson in Cedar Ridge, population about three thousand, surrounded by folks who have nothing better to dothan watch two families bicker over chili. The feud between the Thompsons and McCoys has been going on since before I was born, and honestly? I’ve never understood what the big deal is.
“Your boys probably sabotaged our entry,” Dad continues, his face turning an alarming shade of red. “Just like they did with the potato salad in ’98!”
“For the love of God,” I mutter, sliding down until I’m practically sitting on the ground. “It was food poisoning, Dad. The mayo went bad. We’ve been over this.”
But reasoning with Hank Thompson mid-rant is futile. Possible in theory, but never going to work.
Mrs. Delaney spots me behind the funnel cake stand and waves enthusiastically. “Callie! Callie, honey, get your daddy before he has a stroke!”
Every head in the crowd turns toward me. Fantastic. Now I’m part of the show.
I force myself to stand up, brushing sawdust off my jeans and trying to look like I have any control over the situation. “Hey, Dad,” I call out, waving weakly. “Maybe we should?—”
“Not now, Callie! I’m handling this!”
Handling it. Right. Because screaming about chili in front of half the county is definitely handling things.
Mr. McCoy shakes his head. “Your family’s been delusional for decades, Thompson. Face facts. We make better chili, we always have, and that ribbon’s staying right where it belongs, with us.”
“Over my dead body!”
“That can be arranged!”
The crowd gasps. One lady clutches her pearls. A baby starts crying.
I close my eyes and count to ten, trying not to cry myself. When I open them, nothing has changed. Dad’s still waving his spoon around, the McCoys are still glaring, and approximately fifty people are still recording.
“You know what?” I announce loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m going to check on Rita.”
Nobody pays attention. They’re too busy watching Dad work himself into a cardiac event over beans and tomatoes.
