Page 10 of The County Fair Queen

She was dressed to the nines in an autumn-themed cotillion gown. Festive waves of oranges and reds swirled around a sea of endless earth tones. She was, as usual, wearing one of her custom wigs, and I was overcome with a familiar urge to stow myself away in her wig closet. For that day's hairpiece selection, she wore a powder-blue bouffant, peppered with strategically placed cloth gardenias. Two slathers of sky-blue eyeshadow and a chunkily drawn stretch of eyeliner completed the look. As for the lilac-colored lipstick? Well, who the hell knew what she was thinking when she smeared on that shit. It matched nothing she was wearing. I couldn't really fault her. She hadn't had her token gay to help perfect her look. Not like when I was a child. Sure, she had my father, but he didn't really count. Yes, he was a homosexual, but the man's sense of style left much to be desired.

She'd always had a flair for fashion, but this seemed excessive, even for her. When I still lived at home, she'd often sing "You never know when you'll meet your next beau. Always best to give them a show," anytime she'd planned on leaving the house. It must have latched itself into my subconscious, as I'd never left home looking less than camera-ready ever since.

"Goodness gracious," she said, stretching her arms out toward me, but making no effort to stand up. "Get over here, baby. I've been waiting to see you all morning." As soon as I was within arm's reach, I thought she might give me a welcoming hug. Aunt Lurlene, never one for physical displays of affection, did nothing but disappoint. In lieu of her love, she used her outstretched hands to straighten non-existent wrinkles from the fabric of myshirt. "Sun and stars, you sure did turn into a handsome little thing, didn't you?"

"You saw me three months ago in London," I reminded her, but all it did was earn me a nod.

"And it was as true then as it is now, Turnip."

"He sure turned intosomething," Rivers said, leaning against one of the white columns on the porch, his arms folded against his chest. The way he was staring at me did nothing to calm my racing heart, which seemed to be beating a mile a minute. I'd need to ask Jordan to set up an appointment with a cardiologist when we got home, because my heart had been malfunctioning at every turn since we'd gotten into town. Unfortunately, Rivers hadn't taken the hint that his presence was no longer welcome, so I went for a more direct approach.

"Have a good evening, Rivers."

"You're leaving already, Mr. Mayor?" Aunt Lurlene cooed. "At least have a drink before you head out. It's got to be a hundred degrees out, and a growing boy needs to stay hydrated."

Jordan flashed me a supportive smile. Pulling out his phone, he powered on the screen and stared at it. "The weather app says it's eighty-three degrees, and he," he said, pointing at Rivers, "is clearly in his fifties. I’m pretty sure he stopped growing three decades ago."

"Thirty-six," Rivers said with a grin. "Same as Firecracker."

"For goodness' sake, you're not still calling yourself that, are you?" Aunt Lurlene said.

"You know I do," I muttered, staring at my shoes.

"And that silly accent, to boot. I don't know what on Earth we could have done to make you embarrassed of your family, but it sure does break my heart, whatever it was."

"You know it was nothing personal. We didn't have a say. Our manager picked the stage names for us."

"Yes," she huffed, "well, I don't think Brian O'Hare is much of a stage name. Or James King." I didn't want to get stuck in this battle again. Lord knew the entire family had voiced their displeasure countless times during Friendzone's heyday.

"I just used the name they told me to use, and it's what people know me as now. Changing it back wouldn't make any sense."

"No, I don’t think that’s what it is," she said, shaking her head. "Was it because I wouldn't let you wear my heels? I don't know how many times I have to tell you, it wasn't because you were a boy." She turned to Rivers, an apology heavy in her eyes. "It wasn't because he was gay, you see. I wasn't ashamed or anything. He just has an issue with"—craning her neck and peering into the distance as if she was seeking some invisible onlooker, she shelled her hands to the sides of her mouth and whispered two of the most treacherous words I'd ever heard—"foot odor."

"Oh my God," I groaned. "I do not!"

"I used to have to fill my shoes with baking soda, toe to heel. I'd let them settle for a week anytime he'd play dress up, but they were never the same after. Not truly."

"I hate my life. Every single second of it."

"And don't even get me started on my dressing gowns."

"Okay, we won't," Jordan said, attempting to assist me in my time of need.

"Please," Rivers prompted. "Do go on."

"Have you met my father, Riv? He has guns inside. Lots of them."

"He used to wear them when I was up in town," Aunt Lurlene continued. "I'd come home and find him twirling around in one of my silk robes, belting out 'I Feel Pretty' with that beautiful voice of his. It really is a shame he never got much of a chance to sing in his little band. I always said he could give Leon Richie a run for his money."

"Do you mean Lionel Richie?" Jordan said.

"No, dear. Leon Richie from the antique shop on the square. Real songbird, our little Leon."

"Leon's missing half his tongue," Rivers said. "He scares off half the customers when he's working. I went in trying to find something for Beau's birthday, and he followed me around, slurring out 'Man! I Feel Like a Woman' at the top of his lungs."

“Who the hell is Beau?” I ask.

"I always prefer when he does Broadway standards,” Aunt Lurlene points out. “But he does have a certainje ne sais quoiwhen he dabbles in contemporary pop," she agreed.

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