In some ways my whole life has been a flight of steps to the outer world. That’s when I’ll stride through the door of graduation into the jungle. Maybe to Nashville. Maybe to New York. Maybe to Charlotte, North Carolina, because Davidson College is there and they have a great art program.
Out there, the questions will be different, the people larger-minded. For four years, I’ll live a life outside the glass bowl of church and Scott McCaffrey. Out there, I might be straight or gay or bi, conservative or liberal, Christian or Buddhist, or . . . anything. Out there, I choose. No one cares whether I wear jeans or dresses. It’ll feel like jumping in a coffee shop to a song called “I Cannot Be Contained.”
Because those fictitious future people will raise a glass at my oddities. They’ll say, “Tell me about growing up,” and I’ll say, “The year I was seventeen, I had five best friends—a pixie, a president, a pretender, a puker, and a douchebag—and I was in love with all of them for different reasons.” They’ll ask where, and I’ll tell them Otters Holt. They’ll know it. That place with the huge yellow doll statue? Yes, and huge Harvest Festival, I’ll say, and then I’ll stick out my chest and say with vigor, And I’m going back there.
I want the power to invent whatever me I desire, but I need to know I can come home and home will look like home.
Woods is wrapping up his case with, “It really all boils down to money. Big T wasn’t just the heart, he was the wallet, and they can’t see anyone else stepping up to take those reins. They’re older, so the idea of fund-raising year after year isn’t appealing.”
Mash adds, “I heard Mom and Dad saying at lunch that his estate isn’t what it used to be. They went through everything with Henry down at the bank and there’s barely enough to pay off the farm.”
Davey confirms.
“That’s where we come in,” Woods and I say together.
“Jinx,” we say.
“Jinx, jinx,” we say.
Janie Lee is the only one looking traitorously iffy. From the floor, she gives me a this-won’t-work-it’s-dead-already glare, to which I say, “Don’t give me that cheeky look, Miller. They might not have the energy to fund-raise, but we do.”
In truth, she won’t stick around Otters Holt long enough to win a Corn Dolly. Not a girl in town can scrub the notion of winning from her head. Even if it isn’t realistic.
The rest of them nod at us.
“How?” Mash asks.
Ceremoniously, I pass the marker to Woods and say, “Lead us, Jedi Master.”
Woods writes WAYS TO SAVE THE HARVEST FESTIVAL atop the board.
Einstein crackles with new life.
Everyone talks at once.
“That sounds like work.”
“We need to raise a shit ton of money.”
“Money will fix everything.”
“Should we wait until after the ballots come out?”
Woods addresses Fifty’s concern first. “Sorry, lazy, you’re doing this with us, even if we are overreacting.” Then to Janie Lee and Mash he asks, “Fund-raising ideas?”
They present the usual suspects: bake sale, car wash, rent-a-kid—all things we’ve done at church. Woods paces the length of the room, staring at Einstein during each pass, as if the answers are written in invisible ink.
Davey reminds us Brother Scott is already renting out youth free of charge and none of us bakes.
“You could sell that Camaro,” Fifty suggests.
“You could sell that beard,” Davey says back.
I’m relieved to see Davey challenge him. Woods, not so much. “Guys, not the time. Bigger fish frying.”
The best thing to do for Davey and Fifty is stay on topic, so I say, “A donation isn’t best. We don’t need one person involved. There’s not another Big T in town except for Tawny, and that old goat won’t give us a dime. We need the whole community.”
Mash says, “Game over,” and makes a deflated video game sound. “No one will listen to us anyway. We just set the church on fire.”
Still, Woods writes Multiple Donations as a bullet point. Tapping the board, he says, “So, this isn’t our usual challenge, Hexagon. Nut up. We need to make this happen. Think of the redemption.”
“Do you think who wins has any bearing on it continuing?” Mash asks.
Theories erupt.
“It might be better if Tawny wins. She could fund the festival.”
“It might be better if Tawny loses. She’ll want to win next year and might donate enough to keep it going.”
“What about Billie’s mom, Clare? She has the backing of the church.”
“Brother Scott could get people to donate.”
“Hello, dufus, Brother Scott is in a fix because of the fire.”
Davey reads my mind, speaks. “Let’s not worry about predetermining the winner. We don’t even know who’s on the ballot yet. I say we give the town something that reminds them who they are.”
“They?” Fifty asks.
Caught in this act of treason, Davey corrects himself. “We.”
Woods asks for more details. Davey gives them. He is logical, concise. “When I was a kid, the Harvest Festival was at the elementary school. That’s where it started, right?” Everyone nods. Before it moved to Vilmer’s Barn, the school hosted the festival. “So we clean up the elementary school grounds. We revitalize a piece of history. The older generations will love the antiquity. The new generation will have ownership.”
The elementary school? I love that old ruin. And it has been the subject of much debate in the newspaper. The property is an eyesore, but a landmark, too. He’s right. Cleaning it up is a solid idea. Time-wise, I’m unsure if we can pull it off. Five weeks isn’t long.
Woods determines five weeks is plenty long enough to work a miracle. He offers the marker and Davey accepts. Before Davey proceeds, he strokes the front of his T-shirt as if he misses his tie.
“How does that raise money?” Janie Lee asks.
“Like I said, we clean up the elementary school. All of us. We plant flowers, landscape, revitalize. Then, we host some sort of game on the field a week before the festival. A community event. Something that anyone can play. Like kickball. Or Wiffle ball. And we sell tickets, cheap. But if we sell enough of them—”
“You want kickball to be the savior of the Harvest Festival?” Fifty asks. “They teach you that at Waylan Academy?”
Davey backs down at the mention of his old school. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I want to believe you, except . . .” Fifty uses a pregnant pause and gestures to the room. “Everyone knows you’re serving time here, I’m just asshole enough to call you on it. You’re always on your cell with Thomas instead of hanging with us. And that’s fine and all, but don’t act like our savior now.” He’s pulling at his beard, just below his chin. Large sweat rings line his armpits. “Woods, dude, come up with something better.”
“Fifty, chill.” Woods’s words are sharp. To Davey, he says, “Tell us more about kickball.”
Mash says, “Let’s call it KickFall,” and is genuinely surprised when Davey writes it down.
Within minutes there are five bullets below MULTIPLE DONATIONS.
Clean up school: bush hog, mow, drag field, repair playground, landscape
Sell KickFall tickets for $2/raise $2000/1000 people to attend
Door-to-door recruiting/announce at football game
KickFall game: before Corn Dolly vote/food & drinks—ask church ladies