by Adam Cesare
Dunne hiked up his belt and everyone leaned forward, desperate for news, for gossip, for justice.
“What I personally think is that we are looking at a situation where what’s legal and what’s right are two separate things. And I’ve expressed this to some of you, but I think that there may soon come a time when the powers of law don’t go far enough to keep Kettle Springs the town we know and love. But we’re all coming together as a community to say a firm ‘no’ to this kind of behavior. Earlier today our dear science teacher, Mr. Vern, was telling me how he discouraged certain students from attending tomorrow’s event.”
Harlan took a half step toward the edge of the stage. He opened his mouth to interrupt, to bring the meeting back to the issues at hand, but with Sheriff Dunne standing in front of him, no one seemed to notice his call to order.
“Now, Arthur Hill is one of my oldest friends—even if we don’t talk much on the phone these days,” Dunne continued, not even bothering to shoot a glance over to Harlan to let him know he was wise to his bullshit. “I don’t know if Arthur is going to pop in for Founder’s Day, but I know that even if he does, the town has lost the love of one of its most important citizens. He’s not invested in us anymore, emotionally or financially. And can you blame him? After what they’ve taken from him? From us?”
Dunne let these rhetorical questions sit for a beat, then continued.
“Last year, he lost a child. Last week, his factory burned down. Not an easy thing. A lot of grief. I know before the fire we were all waiting, holding our breath, for the refinery to reopen its doors. That’s where we want Arthur to put his money. But I can say that he ain’t going to do it with Kettle Springs what it is now. Population dropping and overrun with kids who don’t give a—excuse my language—a rat’s ass about our history or heritage.”
The assembled members of the PTA, the City Council, and the Neighborhood Watch all nodded in response to this. Not a single churchgoer pretending to be outraged by the mild vulgarity. Not something Harlan had ever experienced.
George Dunne. Harlan hated him. And he loved him. But he envied him more than both of those things.
When the Hill girl died last year, there had been plenty of blame and anger to go around. The busybodies, dirt farmers, and small business owners of Kettle Springs couldn’t agree on much, but they all seemed to agree that Harlan Jaffers had screwed up the situation with Arthur Hill’s daughter.
“This new generation,” Dunne went on, shaking his head and sucking his teeth, “they need to be brought in line. And the people in this room are not blameless!”
There was a theatrical gasp that Dunne pushed through, fire in his voice now: “We need to stop feeling sorry for ourselves, stop pining for a rescue that might never come. We need to take action.”
“Yeah!” Fred Vassar yelled, but it wasn’t time for that yet. Dunne held up a finger and continued.
“We need to pull this town back to life. We need to bring back what made this town . . .” He searched for his word: “What made this town decent in the first place. And all that begins . . .” And then Dunne looked up to Harlan and smiled, a look on his face that said Continue with yer meeting.
Oh. All this had been to set up Harlan for a win. He hadn’t been expecting that.
“Tomorrow! It begins with the parade tomorrow,” Harlan Jaffers shouted, and the audience exploded with applause. They were applauding Sheriff Dunne’s words, not the parade itself, but Harlan didn’t care. He’d take it.
Harlan Jaffers had been in politics long enough to know you take your wins where you can get them.
Six
This morning Quinn had been reluctant to attend, and couldn’t think of a good reason to give her dad as to why she wanted to skip the festival. But they’d been here for an hour and nobody had approached to ask her to leave or tell her she was banned.
Turns out, Founder’s Day was a bigger deal than she’d expected.
Food, music, and a crowd that must have been bolstered by visitors from neighboring towns. There was even a small carnival, a few rides and midway games pulled into the school parking lot on trailers.
Honk! Honk!
A sound like an angry goose came loud and fast behind Quinn.
“Shit!”
She hopped out of the way, nearly run over by a massive clown riding a tiny bicycle. No, not a clown, that clown. The town’s clown. The one who stared all night into her bedroom window, peering from the side of the burned-down Baypen factory. Pervo? Mervo? Frendo? Yes, Frendo. That was it.
Frendo swooshed past, faster than looked possible, a big man on little wheels. The clown wended between pedestrians, pom-poms dangling from his handlebars, squeeze-horn honking.
“Watch where you’re going, dude!” Quinn yelled.
He stopped, wheels skidding, and turned around in his seat. In the process, nearly power-sliding into a family with little kids.
“You watch yourself, new girl,” the clown shouted back, cackling with glee. “Enjoy the show.”
Well. That was cryptic.
Quinn blinked, trying to place the voice. It took a moment, but she was pretty sure it was Cole’s erstwhile bodyguard, Tucker. The big guy was more high-energy behind the clown mask than he had been in detention. And he certainly hadn’t taken Mr. Vern’s ban seriously.
Down Main Street, the Founder’s Day festivities included a sidewalk sale with fried food stands interspersed to distract passersby from all the shuttered businesses.
“Oh, Tucker,” someone said, sidling up to Quinn. “Such enthusiasm when he wears the costume.” The girl beside Quinn wore a thin cardboard half mask, but the paper clown nose and eyes weren’t much of a disguise. Janet smiled, her chin and mouth not obscured by the masquerade mask in the shape of Frendo the Clown.
The girl slipped her hand into the crook of Quinn’s arm. It seemed an overly familiar gesture, as if they were best friends, but Quinn didn’t shake her off.
Tucker had stopped his bike and was staring at them both. He was wearing a plastic Frendo mask, yellowed at the edges with age and sweat. He not only had the complete jumpsuit, but his mask was much more elaborate and “official” than the one Janet was wearing.
Tucker nodded to Janet, giving her the okay sign and a horn honk, then disappeared into the crowd.
“That’s, um . . . sanctioned?” Quinn asked.
“Totally sanctioned. Tucker even gets paid to play Frendo sometimes, when the town has the money. He wasn’t scheduled to work today, but it didn’t take much convincing to get him suited up. Tucker loves playing Frendo. And kids love him playing Frendo, which is even weirder. Because without the mask, I feel like he shouldn’t be allowed near kids.”
“So weird,” another masked girl cut in. Because of the mask, Quinn hadn’t seen Ronnie Queen approach. The girl’s distinctive ponytail was hanging over the side of her cheap mask and she was squeezed into another too-small T-shirt, this one possibly an actual child’s size, advertising the “Kettle Spring Brownies Fun Run 2007.” The design was a cartoon version of Frendo in running shorts, sweating into his porkpie hat.
This must be the “cute outfit” she’d mentioned.
“He’s, like, the town’s dumb-ass mascot,” Janet said. “Frendo, I mean. But Tucker, too, I guess.”
“It’s nice to have one of our friends not be universally loathed,” Ronnie said, an eye roll in her voice, even if the mask was obscuring her face.
Janet didn’t take whatever bait Ronnie’s remark was supposed to provide.
This close, Quinn could tell that it wasn’t only Janet’s look that was carefully cultivated. Janet smelled like a dessert. One of those fragrances you could get at Forever 21 or Claire’s. Pineapple Upside-Down Cake or Butterscotch, something Quinn would have said was meant for younger girls, but on Janet the scent seemed to work.
Quinn noticed that there was a stamp at the corner of each of the cardboard masks that said “First Bank of Kettle Springs.” They were being handed out as s
ome kind of promotion. There were more of the masks scattered around them in the crowd. And Frendo wasn’t relegated just to the masks, Tucker’s costume, and Ronnie’s shirt, either: the clown was everywhere today. Quinn noticed his painted face on signage, a mannequin propped in front of one of the thrift stores, and porkpie hats on random bystanders waiting for the parade.
“And Frendo ties into it being Founder’s Day how?” Quinn asked, glancing over her shoulder to make sure her dad, who was somewhere in the crowd searching for “the perfect” food stand, wasn’t on his way over, ready to embarrass her while holding a basket of fried Oreos.
“Because he is the Founder,” a voice said. Quinn turned to see that Cole—mask barely obscuring his sharp features—and another boy were pushing through, ready to join them. People needed to stop popping out of the crowd; it was putting Quinn on edge. Especially people who Quinn knew had been banned from attending this event.
Cole and his friend were both holding large fountain drinks. There was no brand on the side of the cups, just a simple red-and-white checkerboard pattern. Which struck Quinn as weird, but then she remembered that she hadn’t seen a Wawa or 7-Eleven, or any kind of chain store, in Kettle Springs.
The squat, unfamiliar boy who’d arrived with Cole wasn’t wearing a mask. He lunged forward, wrapping an arm around Ronnie and kissing her neck. At this, Quinn was able to place him. He was the guy she’d seen out the window of the Eatery last night.
“Stop it, Matt. You reek—” Ronnie started, shoving him away, playfulness becoming actual might. Matt, that was correct, Tucker had mentioned something about a boyfriend who was precious about his car’s leather seats.
Quinn sniffed and realized that she could no longer smell Janet’s perfume. Because Matt stank of booze.
Quinn looked back to Cole.
If Cole Hill was also drunk, he was doing a better job holding it together, but she didn’t think he was drunk. Better impulse control? A higher tolerance? Why was she going so far out of her way to see this guy in only a positive light?
“Yeah. He’s the founder,” Cole explained, eyes behind his mask a little glassy. Quinn noticed now that she was looking for signs of intoxication. “That’s the story the town tells. That Frendo was a real guy, performed for the town’s kids back during the Depression. When everyone was eating dirt or whatever. Frendo was around, helping to keep spirits up.”
“That’s nice,” Quinn said, unsure what the proper response was, going back to scanning the crowd for her dad, worried he’d return and she’d need to introduce him to her new friends, the ones dressed like they were about to do a high-stakes bank job.
“Yeah, it would be nice. If it were true,” Cole said, taking a sip of his drink. Quinn watched him as he spoke. Even with the mask obscuring some of his face, his body language told her he wasn’t comfortable being in public, like at any moment he’d be recognized, swamped with requests for his autograph. Or run off Main Street because of a science teacher’s ban. “Frendo’s an invention,” Cole said. “Property. My family holds the trademark. My grandfather liked to draw. He drew a clown in a hat. Put that clown in a hat on the first Baypen labels.”
Matt laughed, was pushed away from Ronnie, and tried to lean on Cole for support. Cole ducked away. “That was the forties,” he continued. “Clowns were fun then. I don’t know if Granddad also came up with the story afterward, about the Depression and founding the town, but people believe what they want to believe. Because it’s like Baypen and Kettle Springs are the same thing.”
Cole’s voice became harder to focus on as Quinn caught sight of Glenn Maybrook. Her dad was standing across the street. He had a chili dog in hand, his quest for fairground food a success. He met Quinn’s eyes, bopped the end of his nose with one finger, and mouthed Good luck. For all of Dr. Maybrook’s neurotic behavior, he was still capable of reading the situation well enough to know when to give her space.
She turned her attention back in time to let Cole have his grand finale: “Frendo is dead,” he added, smiling wanly, his cheeks pushing up the thin cardboard. Clearly, Quinn had missed some parts of his speech. He held up the drink. “So long live Frendo!”
“Aaaaaaanyway,” Matt said. “Speaking of Frendo. That Tucker over there?” He nodded over to Tucker, who was standing beside his tiny bike, across the street and a few businesses down.
“I think so, why?” Ronnie asked.
In response, Matt produced four airplane-sized bottles of liquor, holding them by the necks between his fingers. In his palm he clenched a lighter. At Quinn’s arm, Janet’s fingers tightened for a moment. “Because he’s got the good stuff and I’m going to trade. And he texted me that he forgot his lighter . . .” Matt looked to Janet and his eyebrows did a conspiratorial jiggle. Not subtle.
“Gimme that,” Ronnie hissed. She ignored the lighter, tweezing away a miniature bottle of vanilla vodka and hurrying it into the back pocket of her shorts.
Quinn looked down the block. The parade had rounded the corner and was beginning to make its way up Main Street. Not that she’d been expecting Macy’s Thanksgiving, but the Founder’s Day Parade looked even shabbier than the lower end of her expectations. The high school must not have had a marching band, because prerecorded John Philip Sousa began playing over the loudspeakers that topped the streetlights.
“Hold that,” Matt said to Ronnie, motioning down to his cup. “And don’t drink it all.”
Ronnie took a big sip in response, a bead of liquid wicking across the bottom of her cardboard mask as she pulled the straw away. Matt narrowed his eyes at her and she sipped again, a provocation between girlfriend and boyfriend that, Quinn had to admit, was kind of cute.
Matt started to go, but Janet reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. She let go of Quinn’s arm for a moment, and Quinn weirdly felt the loss, suddenly alone in the crowd.
“Wait,” Janet said, then turned back to Cole. “Is this all right?”
“Is what all right?” Cole shrugged, miming wiping invisible sleep out of one eye, not touching his mask. It was an exaggerated motion, but it drew attention to how tired the boy actually looked, how haunted and sleep-deprived the set of his jaw and the jaundiced sink of his cheeks. “I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything. Whatever you guys are planning, I’m not a part of it. You don’t need my permission.”
“Just a little fun,” Janet said, still keeping Matt tethered to them, the drunk boy looking impatient. “The tiniest of ‘fuck you’s’ for trying to keep us away.”
“God. We’re pushing it,” Ronnie muttered. The girl looked uneasy, busied her free hand with swapping out a hairband, mistakenly tugging at the elastic of her mask, revealing her face for a second before she could replace the disguise. Quinn didn’t know why they were bothering—it wasn’t like anyone familiar with the kids wasn’t going to be able to place them, even with their eyes and noses covered.
“Just don’t hurt anyone,” Cole said, voice suddenly serious, his eyes, dark beneath the mask, narrowing, moving from Janet to Matt.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss. That’s your thing,” Matt said. There was a mean-drunk smile on his face, and that was the last Quinn saw of the boy before he darted into the street.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Cole started, reaching for his friend. But it was too late, Matt was already scurrying down the middle of Main Street, the first float of the parade bearing down on him.
Janet frowned at Cole. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let them do anything too crazy. Not while we’re under the microscope.” But now Janet sounded unconvinced, worry creeping into her voice.
Cole nodded. He tapped Quinn on the shoulder, then motioned to where Matt was running.
“Would you believe Trent’s the best tight end the team’s had in a decade?” Cole said, his anxiety wearing at the corners of his composure. Quinn was good at recognizing that. Like saw like.
The four of them watched the drunk boy weave through the crowd on the opposite side of the street.<
br />
Matt Trent, tight end. Tucker Lee, linebacker. Was Cole on the football team? Cole Hill, quarterback? It would complete the cliché if he was, the good-looking leader throwing touchdowns to his friends. But still, Quinn couldn’t picture it. Even with the best defense in the world, Cole seemed too fragile to be tackled. Which was sexy, in an emo boy way.
On the opposite curb, Frendo-Tucker had moved positions. He was bent down in front of a group of kids, tying off a pink balloon sword—or at least Quinn hoped it was a sword—for a little girl who looked half-terrified, half-enthralled by the big clown.
With all the stealth he could muster, Matt Trent sidled up behind Tucker and whispered something in his ear. Tucker nodded without looking back, finished the final balloon twist, handed over a sword to a kid, and stood to take the mini liquor bottles and the lighter from Matt. He secreted them into one of the folds of his clown jumpsuit. Then Matt took something from Tucker in return.
Exchange finished, Matt slapped the bigger boy on the back and returned across the street. Matt narrowly avoided being crushed under the wheels of a pickup truck towing a giant ear of corn. The corn was constructed out of papier-mâché and fiberglass. Along the topmost row of kernels, in red lettering, were the words “Happy Founder’s Day” and under that, freshly painted and in different handwriting, “Kettle Springs!” Quinn could see that the words “From Baypen” had been painted over, but neither the yellow of the corn nor the red of the new slogan was opaque enough to block out the company’s name.
Matt slipped back into place next to his masked friends on the sidewalk.
Ronnie returned his cup, wiping the condensation on the back of his shirt with a pat that he didn’t seem to notice.
“Feels a little light,” he said, shaking the ice, but Ronnie ignored him.
“They like to do this,” Janet whispered, not a stage whisper, but words just for Quinn, barely audible over the patriotic clash of recorded cymbals and tubas. “Kind of like hayseed foreplay.” Janet took Quinn’s arm again. They giggled together, Quinn given a little thrill that she was already somehow over Ronnie in the pecking order.
