Page 16 of The County Fair Queen

"Son of a goddamn bitch," our cameraman muttered, rubbing his forehead.

Siobhan stretched her lips—a disastrous shade of ruby-red—into a camera-ready grin. "Friendzone were at the peak of their success. After releasing three albums back-to-back, the band seemed set for world domination. Then one of the members dropped a bomb. When lead singer Brian O'Hare announced his engagement to television superstar Carmen Carrera and his retirement from the entertainment industry, the groupdisbanded. While some have gone on to bigger and brighter things, Tallulah's own Muscadine Queen—"

"Don't even think about it," I muttered.

"—Phillip Firecracker faded into relative obscurity. He's with us today to discuss his upcoming docuseries, scheduled to hit the streaming platform Nostalgia Nation early next year." She turned to me, grinning as widely as her mouth would allow. "It's great to have you with us today."

"I’m glad to be here."

"So, Phillip, how's it been coming home after all this time?"

"Fantastic," I lied. "It was great getting to see some familiar faces again. Minnie Sinclair. Dr. Salazar. I think I even caught sight of Evelyn Foote."

"A little birdie tells me you had a reunion with a certain Muscadine King."

"He gave us a ride home."

She fixed her gaze on the camera lens, shuffling a pile of notecards absentmindedly. "And how did he enjoy reconnecting with his queen?" Siobhan knew the subject was off limits. Brenda/Carole had confirmed it in the email she'd CC'd me on the night before.

"So, the docuseries—" I interrupted, desperate to change the subject, only to be cut off.

"Last we saw, you were running off into an alley after being crowned," she said.

"What can I say?" I said, attempting a grin. "A queen knows to always leave them wanting more."

"For those of you who aren't old enough to remember, twenty years ago, Phillip Firecracker nee Fletcher was voted Tallulah's Muscadine Queen after a successful write-in campaign."

"There wasn't a campaign," I argued, confused. "Someone stuffed the ballot boxes with my name."

"That was never proven, was it? Anyway, thanks to a local source, we were able to obtain footage of his crowning."

"I'm sorry… you what?"

Before she could respond, the television monitor to the side of the set lit up, and a poorly filmed bootleg video played the events of that night. On stage, three men and three women stood side-by-side, each just as hopeful as the next. Toward the center, a teenage Rivers Rivera was beaming ear-to-ear. For as long as I could remember, Minnie Sinclair’s been tasked with crowning the winners, and as she pulled out an envelope and read Rivers' name, her joy was almost palpable.

Who the hell had even filmed this, and why had they held onto it for two decades? Why hadn't they sold it to the tabloids when I was at the peak of my success?

On screen, a freshly crowned Rivers Rivera waved to the crowd, while Minnie was staring down at the paper in her hand. She had her thumb covering the winner's name as if she wanted to experience the reveal along with everyone else. The second she lifted her thumb, her jaw went slack and her mouth hung open. The muscles in her throat worked, and then she stared into the crowd, dazed. That night, from my place in the crowd, I could have heard a pin drop.

"This can't be right," she said, shaking her head. "It's Phillip Fletcher." Minnie tried to fix a smile on her face, but in the end, she looked just as shell-shocked as I'd felt.

My teenage demise started slowly as a gentle wave of giggles built and built until a tsunami-sized roar washed over the crowd. The camera panned back to the stage, focusing on Rivers' terrified face. Mercifully, the video ended there, and I breathed a beautiful sigh of relief, realizing I wouldn't have to watch my walk of shame. Even better, I wouldn't have to hear the younger version of me cry out Rivers' name as he ran off into the darkness, leaving me to face their wrath alone.

"It's just as heartbreaking now as it was that night. I still remember it. Men and women weeping. Children applauding. And you, Phillip, walking onto that stage with your head held high. You were such a brave little boy," Siobhan cooed, taking my hand without invitation.

"I was sixteen, the same as you," I said through gritted teeth. Nothing she said was true. There were no weeping adults. No applauding children. Just an endless roar of laughter that had haunted me ever since.

"You're an inspiration, Phillip. Anyone with the slightest bit of shame might have run away, but you marched onto that stage and let Minnie put that crown on top of your head. You didn't care about people seeing you openly sobbing. You just wore that crown, and wept, and wept, and wept."

I reminded myself I wouldn't slap a lady. As a feminist, it went against my nature. I knew people though. Brenda/Carole. Aunt Lurlene. Hell, I could probably even talk Minnie Sinclair into smashing Siobhan over the head with a frying pan if I pleaded my case sincerely enough.

"And then you left town and became a superstar. Then, a year or two later, you made your way out to California and joined a boy band. You toured all across the country"—she lifted an eyebrow—"but you never came to Tallulah." Her smile faded, morphing into a hardened glare. "Was there any particular reason for that?"

"I'm sorry? Tallulah's population is less than twenty-thousand. Did you expect us to put on a concert at the Bingo hall?"

"Was it because you were embarrassed of us?"

"Are you embarrassed by that hideous shade of lipstick?"

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