I walk toward the stage, Rita trotting beside me, and I can feel the crowd noticing. Whispers starting. Phones appearing.The Thompson girl’s about to do something.
They have no idea.
18
Boone
The festival isin full swing, which means everyone in Cedar Ridge is here pretending they don’t hate at least three other people in attendance.
Callie’s standing at the edge of the stage, looking like she’s about to either save the world or burn it down. Possibly both. Probably both. She’s got that look in her eyes that I’ve seen before, like right before she decided to kiss three McCoy boys. It’s her “fuck it, let’s see what happens” face.
Rita’s beside her wearing the bow I sent over. The bow is pink and sparkly, which should look ridiculous on a goat but somehow gives Rita an air of dignity. Or maybe that’s just my imagination. Hard to tell since she’s currently trying to eat someone’s purse strap while the owner films everything on her phone, oblivious to the fact that her designer bag is now a goat snack.
“It’s actually happening,” Jesse mutters beside me, adjusting his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes. We’re all in suits because I insisted we look good for our public execution. If we’re going down, we’re going down looking sharp. Jesse’s in navy blue, which he says makes his eyes pop, Wyatt’s in charcoal gray that makes him look like an undertaker, and I’m in black because I thought it would be slimming. but really it just makes me look like I’m attending my own funeral.
“Did you doubt her?” Wyatt asks.
Right. My brother thinks he can pull off cool and calm, but it’s not lost on me that his knuckles are white from gripping a railing.
“I doubt everything. It’s my process. I doubted this morning would come. I doubted these suits would fit. I am currently doubting my ability to keep from throwing up,” he says.
“Please don’t throw up,” I beg. “These are rental suits. The deposit was significant. The guy at the shop already hates us because Jesse tried to haggle.”
“Haggling is a lost art,” Jesse defends.
“It’s a rental shop, not a Turkish bazaar.”
The mayor’s at the microphone doing his annual speech about community and tradition, which is ironic considering he’s been embezzling from the Christmas fund for six years. Everyone knows but nobody says anything because his wife makes excellent cookies, and sometimes that’s enough to buy silence in a small town. Plus, he only embezzles a little bit, and he does use some of it to fix potholes, so it’s almost like unofficial taxation.
“The bonds that tie us together,” he’s saying, “arestronger than any disagreement. Cedar Ridge has weathered storms, droughts, and that incident with the traveling circus that we don’t talk about?—”
That’s when Callie moves.
She doesn’t just walk to the stage. She strides to it with the confidence of someone who’s decided to burn bridges and dance in the flames. The mayor’s still mid-sentence about “traditional values that make us who we are” when she takes the mic right out of his hands. Just plucks it away like she’s picking an apple from a tree.
That’s my girl.
The mayor stands there frozen, mouth open, hand still raised.
“Hi,” Callie says, and her voice carries across the fairgrounds clear as a bell. A bell that’s about to announce the apocalypse. “I’m Callie Thompson, and I’m here to kill a feud.”
The entire festival goes silent. You could hear a pin drop, except nobody would drop a pin because they’re too shocked. Someone’s funnel cake falls to the ground in slow motion. I watch it tumble, powdered sugar floating through the air like sweet snow. Even the kids on the carousel have stopped moving, though the music continues playing that creepy organ carnival tune.
“Thirty years ago,” Callie continues, gripping the mic like it’s both a weapon and a lifeline, “our families, mine and the McCoys, started hating each other over a chili competition. Some of you were there. Most of you have heard the story. Want to know the truth about that competition?”
“The truth is,” she says, “the judge was drunk off his ass and couldn’t tally a score to save his life.”
The judge, who’s trying to duck behind a corn dog stand, freezes.
“He gave random scores because he was seeing double. Maybe triple. On top of that, the mayo in the potato salad was three months expired and gave everyone food poisoning. It was not McCoy sabotage, just someone not understanding that expiration dates aren’t just suggestions.”
A gasp comes from somewhere near the church booth. I can’t see anyone there, but I can feel the waves of guilt radiating from it.
“And that bull that destroyed our fence?” Callie continues, building momentum. “It had grain poisoning from bad feed. It wasn’t trained to attack Thompsons. It was just sick and confused and probably hallucinating. The vet has the receipts. Literal receipts.”
The murmuring starts now, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Everyone whispering at once creates a sound like angry bees.
“Don’t believe me?” Callie pulls out her folder of evidence, holding it high above her head. The folder is thick, stuffed with papers that flutter in the breeze. “I have everything here. Health department records. Vet reports. And witnesses who’ve been carrying this guilt for three decades.”
