Lia
“Last call for the pie-eating contest!”
The Blossom Festival in the small town of Honeysuckle Grove ended up being a godsend for my pies. After one of the big-city bakeries dropped out of a pie order, I found myself at a loss about what to do with the fifteen assorted flavors I had made.
Now, I stand in the middle of a quaint town square with a soft breeze ruffling my skirt and cardigan, clapping and cheering for people I don’t know while my two-day-old pies are set out on a long table draped in a white tablecloth.
White is a bold choice for an eating content, let me tell you.
The speaker system squeals, and a few of the Omegas walking around in all-white release a waft of their scent. I wave my hand a little bit in front of my face, trying to dispel the strength of their intermingled scents. Spring has sprung, and so have many of the unmated Omegas of the town.
The scent of juicy grapes floats along the wind, and the hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. Ooh, someone’s got a fresh fruit stand somewhere. I make a mental note to go find the stand before the speaker system squeals to life, making some people in the crowd clap their hands over their ears.
“LAST CALL! FOR THE PIE! EATING! CONTEST!” the announcer wails over the microphone.
Man, this town needs a serious speaker upgrade.
“Oh, hell yeah. Pecan,” one of the men says as he sits down in front of my pie. “My favorite. Hey, Betty! Look!”
The woman calls back to him, “Watch your language, Bert!”
“Love you, too, Betty!”
“Mine’s banana crème!” a young girl in all-white says as she rubs her hands together.
“Can I trade with one of y’all? Mine’s got too much whipped cream.”
“Here,” a man in a firefighter’s uniform says, “you can have mine. It’s blueberry. I love whipped cream.”
The announcer waves his hand at the contestants as they pass my pies around, shuffling them like musical chairs until they’re happy with what they’ve got. I don’t even care that they have to shuffle them around in the first place. I love seeing everyone lick their lips over my creations.
It’s the best part of being a baker.
“All right, all right, all right,” the announcer says as he waves a piece of paper in his hand at them, “that’s enough. We’ve got to start the contest.”
“Well, go on, then,” the one named Bert says. “Start it up. I’m starving.”
“Alphas,” the announcer mumbles as he rolls his eyes. “Okay, y’all! Take your places!”
“What are the prizes for the contest?” someone shouts from the crowd gathering to watch.
That lovely smell of freshly ripened grapes kicks up again, and my head is on a swivel. I have got to find that produce stand. Those things are straight off the vine, and I bet they’re big and crisp, too.
There are a lot of food stalls out at the festival today, including a wine booth from a place called Honeysuckle Vineyards. There was a tempting Alpha with a bit of gray in his hair over there not too long ago as well.
Maybe he’s still lurking around the display bottles.
Snap out of it. You know what happened last time.
“One!” the announcer exclaims over the microphone. The poor sound system crackles for its life, but it’s better than the screaming sound that came from it earlier. “Two!” The announcer raises the piece of paper in his hand. “Three!”
As he brings his hand down, the nine people lined up in front of my pies put their hands in their laps and plant face-first into them. The crowd around me goes wild, and for a moment, my hearing is deafened by the roar.
Some people are clapping. Others are cupping their hands over their mouths and shouting. The wind kicks up, blowing at the nape of my neck and cooling my pale skin as the spring sun beats down on all of us.
It’s a beautiful day to be alive.
Good thing I brought my sunscreen, though.
