Page 1 of The County Fair Queen

Chapter One

EVERYONE LOVES A COMEBACK

"A twink, a tyrant, and a homicidal cat walk into a janitor's closet. That's not a joke. Do you know why it's not a joke?"

"For God's sake. Here we go," I said with a groan.

"Because I'm not laughing, Phillip."

We'd been bickering for almost an hour, ever since our plane touched down in Tallulah. They'd told me a meet and greet had been orchestrated by the production crew; a chance for this queen to grant his loyal subjects an audience. Instead, the second we stepped off the small, regional airport's tarmac, a woman named Brenda—was it Brenda? Perhaps Carole?—had told us the crew needed to set up the lighting for their next shot.

It was absolutely unacceptable. There were tens and tens of fans waiting for me in the airport lobby, and we'd been banished to a compact room that stunk of off-brand, lemon-scented floor cleaner and regret. To add insult to injury, the room was unbearably warm, and I was already sweating throughthe festiveMuscadine Madnesst-shirt Brenda-maybe-Carole insisted I wear. The shirt was tight enough—thanks to the extra twenty pounds I'd been carrying around for the better part of a decade—I didn't need it sticking to every hump and bump around my midsection for the cameras to capture.

As my personal assistant-slash-best(only)friend, Jordan Miller absentmindedly tapped his tablet, I took the time to reflect on the life choices that led me to this predicament. Any rational individual would find the fault laid squarely on Jordan's shoulders. He had been the one who came to me with the idea, after all. When he told me about the network's proposition, I laughed at him. I mean, I knew I was never the brightest star in fame's galaxy, but this seemed desperate, even for me. I'd never heard of Nostalgia Nation, but Jordan said they were the number seventeen leading source for America's daily nostalgia; though that didn't sound like something to brag about. Never mind the fact that I hadn't been stateside in over a decade. After my career tanked following a disastrous performance on MTV’sTotal Request Live, I fucked off to England, wanting to surround myself with milky tea, delicious accents, and foreskin-rocking daddies who hadn’t seen my on-air demise in 2007. It was a good life, but there were bills to be paid, and Nostalgia Nation was my meal ticket.

Around the fifty-minute mark of our impromptu prison sentence, there was a knock on the door.

"I just wanted to check on you boys," Brenda/Carole said, poking her head through the gap.

"Are you ready? It's a bit stuffy in here," I responded, pulling my sweat-drenched shirt away from my chest.

"Give us five more minutes and we'll be ready to go," she said. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of me. "You might want to fix the hair. It's looking a little rough, cupcake."

I pulled my phone from my pocket and stared at the monstrosity on the camera's display. Rough didn't even begin to describe my current state. My normally short, brown hair had gone frizzy thanks to the hellish humidity, making it seem as if it had doubled in volume. Sadly, the added volume had done nothing to mask my widow's peak. Before I could ask if she could at least grab us a couple of bottled waters, the door slammed shut, and we were left to suffocate in our tomb.

As'five more minutes'ticked their way into half an hour, a revelation struck me; we were going to die there. It would be an unremarkable end for a star that once shone so brightly, even a midnight mass of clouds couldn't hide him. Jordan and I would go out like a platonic Aida and Radames, hoarding the final remnants of lemon-scented oxygen until the long sleep eventually claimed us. An acceptable comparison considering I was, at one time, pop music's reigning queen. Well, pop music's reigning queer, at least. When they finally unearthed our remains, there would be the customary news reports. With luck, I might even trend on social media.

Mummified body of former boy band member found in Texas airport. In lieu of well-wishes, surviving members of Friendzone have asked for thanks to be sent to the Almighty. #MuscadineMadness #RIP #PhillipFirecracker

The small, orange and white ball of fur purred in my lap as I combed my fingers through Mr. Papadopoulos's coat, fluffing his hair. When he leaned into my touch rather than hissing his displeasure, I knew we were in dire straits.

"Does Papadop look okay to you?" I said. "Dear God, does he seem affectionate?"

Jordan tore his gaze from the tablet and stared at the uncharacteristically gentle tabby. He leaned forward until his face was inches from Papadop's. With inquisitive eyes, Jordan reached down to pet him, and Mr. Papadopoulos lifted hispaw, slicing the empty space between them. Thankfully, Jordan escaped Papadop's line of fire just in time. As soon as Jordy was out of arm's reach, Mr. Papadopoulos returned to his default setting; head resting on his paws, radiating disinterest.

"Right," Jordan said, tapping his tablet, his breathing a bit faster than before. "Itinerary. Once we're done here, the schedule says we're headed into the city. They want to get some shots of you for the opening montage. Filming won't really kick off until tomorrow when the festivities begin, so we'll have the evening to ourselves. We'll head out to Grandmama's house when we wrap this afternoon. Tomorrow, we've got an interview booked withGood Morning, Tallulah. After that, we're supposed to help with festival preparations. I don't know why they're insistent upon calling this thing a county fair. Is it still a county fair if there are less than forty-thousand residents in that county?"

"Her name is Aunt Lurlene, not Grandmama. And if you think I'm doing manual labor, you're sorely mistaken." I flung my hand in his direction, palm down, fingertips twinkling in front of his face. "What is this, Jordan?"

"Dammit, Phillip."

I cupped my hand to my ear and leaned in closer. "Sorry, what was that? What is it?"

Another sigh. "The hand of a Goddess."

"And?"

"And Goddesses don't dally in acts that require physical exertion.Yes, Phillip. I know."

"Exactly," I said. "I'm not erecting carnival rides or serving funnel cakes to the unwashed masses. I know we need this series to be a success, but I draw the line at unintentional exercise."

"Noted," he deadpanned, scrolling down the never-ending email. "After that, we have a few things planned around town for the rest of the trip, but the main events will be the ribbon cuttingand the carnival king and queen crowning. I'm still not sure why there's a ribbon cutting at a county fair, but the email says the mayor is insistent that you be there."

I swallowed, though I couldn't swallow down the panic inside of me. The last time I'd been to the Muscadine Madness fair, it had ended with a city-wide shaming session. Jordan didn't know about the night that almost ruined me. The night when the boy with matching names ran off into the dead of night, leaving me to face the entire town's jeers on my own. Or how Rivers Rivera barely looked at me for the next year and a half.

There was another knock on the door, and Brenda/Carole poked her head through the gap. "Alright, boys. We're ready when you are. Just remember, those people out there are here for you, so give them a show. You're Phil Firework, and you're a legend. You hear me?"

I wanted to point out that my name was actually Phillip Firecracker, and seeing as she was at the helm of this soon-to-be shitshow of a docuseries, she probably should have known that. But before I could correct her, the door slammed shut. Mr. Papadopoulos hopped up from my lap and sauntered into a corner, eyeing me curiously as he awaited instruction.

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