Chapter 18
Boone
The festival is in 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, “are stronger 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.”
She points directly at the judge. “Sir? Want to tell everyone about your mathematical adventure? Or should I read your blood alcohol level from that night?”
The crowd turns collectively toward the corn dog stand, and the judge emerges slowly, looking like a man walking to his execution. Sweat is running down his temples and he’s wringing his hands.
“Tell them,” Callie commands. “Tell them the truth.”
He approaches the stage like each step costs him years off his life. Someone hands him a mic, a backup one from the church. His hands are shaking so badly, the mic keeps picking up the rustling of his shirt.
“I was drunk,” he admits, his voice cracking. The crowd leans forward. “Completely plastered on that blasted punch. You all know the punch I’m talking about. We pretend we don’t know it’s basically grain alcohol with food coloring, but we know.”
Several people nod.
“That night, I couldn’t count to ten, let alone score chili.
I made up the numbers. Your family got 27, McCoys got 29.
Or maybe it was the other way around. Or maybe I gave someone negative points.
I honestly don’t remember because I was seeing three of everything and at one point, I thought the chili was talking to me. ”
The crowd gasps. This is it.
The moment Cedar Ridge’s founding myth crumbles.
“Now about the mayonnaise,” Callie calls out sweetly, pointing at the guilty party. “Would you like to share your contribution to thirty years of unnecessary violence?”
A small woman climbs the stage cautiously, as if expecting rotten vegetables to be heaved her way. Her church dress, light blue with flowers, makes her look like someone’s grandmother, which I suppose she probably is.
“The mayonnaise was expired!” she blurts into the crowd before anyone can hand her a microphone.
Her voice carries anyway, powered by three decades of suppressed guilt.
“Three months expired! I thought expiration dates were suggestions, like speed limits or serving sizes! Everyone got sick because of my potato salad, not some McCoy poison!”
The crowd ripples with shock. Someone’s child asks loudly, “Mommy, what’s mayo?”
“I’ve been living with this guilt for years!” she continues, now on a roll. “I haven’t made potato salad since! I can’t even look at mayonnaise without feeling guilty!”
“Doctor?” Callie’s voice cuts through Mrs. Abernathy’s mayo-related breakdown, and she turns to the vet. “The bull?”
The old vet stands up from his lawn chair with the eagerness of someone who’s been waiting three decades for vindication. He’s prepared visual aids, actual poster boards with graphs and charts drawn in marker. They’re color-coded. He’s laminated them. He came prepared.
“That bull had grain poisoning!” He holds up his first chart, which shows a badly drawn bull with X’s for eyes.
“Bad feed! The supplier was cutting corners with urea content!” Second chart: a graph that might be showing toxicity levels or might be his attempt at abstract art.
“Nothing to do with sabotage!” Third chart: just the word “INNOCENT” in red marker. “I have documentation!”
The crowd is in full uproar now. People are shouting over each other. Some are laughing, the nervous kind of laughter that happens when you realize people are full of shit. Others are angry, but they can’t figure out who to be angry at.
“So there you have it,” Callie says, taking back control of the narrative.
Her voice cuts through the chaos with the precision of someone who’s practiced this moment.
“Thirty years of hate over expired condiments, bad math, and a sick cow. Thirty years of teaching kids to hate kids they’ve never met.
Thirty years of splitting this town in half. All for nothing.”
Our father stands up in the crowd, his face purple as an eggplant. He’s wearing his dress shirt, the one he saves for funerals and now for family humiliations. He looks ready to explode.
“This doesn’t change anything!” he shouts. “Thompsons and McCoys don’t mix! It’s tradition!”
“Why?” Callie challenges, leaning forward on the stage. “Because that’s how it’s always been? Because we’ve been doing it so long, we forgot why we started?”
“Because that’s the natural order!”
“The natural order? Based on what? Expired mayo? That’s your natural order? That’s the hill you want to die on?”
Some of the younger crowd members laugh. The older ones look torn between tradition and the absurdity of what they just learned.
“You know what?” Callie continues, her voice carrying even more weight. “I’m done with how it’s always been. Done with letting dead grudges dictate my choices. Done with sneaking around because people can’t do basic math or check expiration dates.”