“Don't jostle me, Mitchell. Ethan Wate, keep up. I'm not gonna let Martha Lincoln or any a those women beat me out a that ribbon on account a you two boys.” In Amma's shorthand, those women were always the same women — Mrs. Lincoln, Mrs. Asher, Mrs. Snow, and the rest of the DAR.
By the time my hand was stamped, it looked like three or four counties had already beaten us there. Nobody missed the opening day at the fair, which meant a trip to the fairgrounds halfway between Gatlin and Peaksville. And a trip to the fairgrounds meant a disastrous amount of funnel cake, a day so hot and sticky you could pass out just from standing, and if you were lucky, some making out behind the Future Farmers of America poultry barns. My shot at anything but heat and funnel cake wasn't looking too good this year.
My dad and I dutifully followed Amma to the judging tables under an enormous Southern Crusty banner. Pies had a different sponsor every year, and when it couldn't be Pillsbury or Sara Lee, you ended up with Southern Crusty. Pageants were crowd-pleasers, but Pies was the granddaddy of them all. The same families had been making the same recipes for generations, and every ribbon won was the pride of one great Southern house and the shame of another. Word had it that a few women from town had their sights set on keeping Amma from winning first place this year. Judging by the muttering I'd heard in the kitchen all week long, that would happen when hell froze over and those women were skating on it.
By the time we had unloaded her precious cargo, Amma was already harassing the judges about table placement. “You can't put a vinegar after a cherry, and you can't put a rhubarb between my creams. It'll take the taste right out a them, unless that's what you boys are lookin’ to do.”
“Here it comes,” said my dad, under his breath. As the words came out of his mouth, Amma gave the judges the Look, and they squirmed in their folding chairs.
My dad glanced over at the exit, and we slunk outside before Amma had a chance to put us to work terrorizing innocent volunteers and intimidating judges. The moment we hit the crowds, we instinctively turned in opposite directions.
“You going to walk around the fair with that cat?” My dad looked down at Lucille sitting in the dirt next to me.
“Guess so.”
He laughed. I still wasn't used to hearing it again. “Well, don't get into trouble.”
“Never do.”
My dad nodded at me, like he was the dad and I was the son. I nodded back, trying not to think about the last year, when I was the grown-up and he was out of his mind. He walked his way, I walked mine, and we both disappeared into the hot and sweaty masses.
The fair was packed, and it took me a while to track down Link. But true to form, he was hanging out by the games, trying to flirt with any girl who would look at him, today being a prime opportunity to meet a few who weren't from Gatlin. He was standing in front of one of those scales you hit with a giant rubber mallet to prove how strong you are, the mallet resting on his shoulder. He was in full drummer mode, in his faded Social Distortion T-shirt, with his drumsticks stuck in the back pocket of his jeans, and his wallet chain hanging below the sticks.
“Lemme show ya how it's done, ladies. Stand back. You don't wanna get hurt.”
The girls giggled as Link gave it his best shot. The little meter climbed up, measuring Link's strength and his chances of hooking up at the same time. It passed a REAL WUSS and WIMPY and headed toward the bell at the top, a real stud. But it didn't quite make it, stopping about halfway, at CHICKEN LITTLE. The girls rolled their eyes and headed for the Ring Toss.
“This thing's rigged. Everyone knows that,” Link shouted after them, dropping the mallet in the dirt. He was probably right, but it didn't matter. Everything in Gatlin was rigged. Why would the carnival games be any different?
“Hey, you got any money?” Link pretended to dig around in his pockets, like he might actually have more than a dime.
I handed him a five, shaking my head. “You need a job, man.”
“I've got a job. I'm a drummer.”
“That's not a job. It's not called a job unless you get paid.”
Link scanned the crowd, looking for girls or funnel cake. It was hard to tell which, since he responded equally to both. “We're tryin’ to line up a gig.”
“Are the Holy Rollers playing at the fair?”
“This lame scene? Nah.” He kicked the ground.
“They wouldn't book you?”
“They said we sucked. But people thought Led Zeppelin sucked, too.”
As we walked through the fair, it was hard not to notice that the rides seemed to get a little smaller and the games a little shabbier every year. A pathetic-looking clown dragged a cluster of balloons past us.
Link stopped, hitting me on the arm. “Check it out. Six o'clock. Third Degree Burns.” As far as Link was concerned, a girl couldn't get hotter than that.
He was pointing at a blond who was headed in our direction, smiling. It was Liv.
“Link —” I tried to tell him, but he was on a mission.
“As my mom would say, the Good Lord has good taste, hallelujah amen.”
“Ethan!” She waved at us.