by Debra Dixon
Suddenly we were surrounded. Everybody was laughing and hooting and banging on the top of the thing yelling “open it, open it.” I did notice a few worried faces, but that was Amos’s fault, not mine. Peggy and I had done our duty.
“We found it, we get to open it,” Peggy said. “You,” she pointed at LuLynn, “Go get a roll of paper towels from the girls’ restroom so we can clean it off.”
LuLynn gave a high-pitched little squeak, but she ran, high heels, fancy dress and all.
Mossy Creek Gazette
Volume VIII, No. One • Mossy Creek, Georgia
Homecoming History—
Class of 1940 Elects Unusual Queen
by Katie Bell
Homecoming in Mossy Creek has always had its festive traditions, from harmless pranks to crowning a queen to playing a football game in front of an entire community.
But the celebration isn’t always predictable.
Her name was Susie Belle, and for one weekend in 1939, she was the most popular girl at Mossy Creek High School.
Nominated for Homecoming Queen by the school’s newly formed FFA, Susie Belle benefited from disqualified candidates and an overall strange election process to be named Mossy Creek’s Queen that year.
The hitch? Susie Belle was a pig.
Yes, Mossy Creek’s distinguished list of royalty includes the only porker ever elected Homecoming queen—anywhere.
According to the school records, more than 130 votes were cast for Homecoming Queen that year despite an enrollment of only 93 students. Members of the election committee were unable to unravel the mess and were forced to declare Susie Belle the winner.
As queens usually are, Susie Belle the Sow was the centerpiece of Mossy Creek’s Homecoming parade that year. However, her fun ended there. As the student newspaper Voice of the Mountain later reported, “Eventually Susie Belle was barred from attending the dance because of her large size. Instead of fox-trotting with the boys, Susie Belle spent that night in her pen.”
According to the records, Susie Belle beat out human candidate Eleanor Hamilton Abercrombie, the only other candidate not disqualified.
When asked about her ignominious defeat, Eleanor quipped, “I’m planning for my epitaph to read, ‘But for Susie Belle, here lies a queen.’”
That’s Mossy Creek for you! Never a dull moment!
Sister Knows Best
Where we love is home—home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes
Pearl Quinlan, Tuesday
Change scented the air as I headed back from Bigelow on Tuesday before Homecoming only to find my sister Spiva waiting next to the pumpkins and colorful potted mums outside my bookstore. She was holding two cups embossed with the Naked Bean logo. My pulse sped like the brisk breeze scuttling autumn leaves around the square—and not because I was thrilled at the prospect of coffee.
“Hey, Pearl,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”
Sure, to the casual observer it was a normal conversation starter. But guilt slammed me to the leaf-strewn sidewalk like a champion wrestler.
“Nowhere. I mean, I was somewhere. Running errands.” Careful not to look her in the eye, I focused on turning the key in the lock. Was my voice pitched higher? Did I sound defensive? Did she know I’d been looking at a condo? I’d begged Julie Honeycut, my real estate agent, to keep the hunt quiet. I wasn’t sure when or how, but I would spill the beans—eventually.
Spiva and I shared the small three-bedroom, one-bath home where we grew up—and where her toiletries and bossiness encroached on my physical and mental space on a daily basis. The condo I looked at had a master bath, where I wouldn’t share shelving with anyone. It even boasted a close-up mirror with an arm that retracted back to the wall when you didn’t need it for tweezing and other purposes women of a certain age require.
Seemed like a no brainer, leaving a situation where Spiva did things like accidentally open my mail, but she’d been my buddy and champion when she wasn’t aggravating me. If I moved, our relationship would change, and maybe not for the better. I didn’t know if I could live without my sister. I never had.
The bells jangled as she followed me in, and I flipped the sign hanging from the glass door to “Open.” I glanced at the community bulletin board full of fliers that had long since served their purpose and checked the clock on the wall behind the register. If I had time today, I needed to pull the cork.
“What brings you by?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Do I have to have a reason to come by and visit?” Grinning, she set a large cup of coffee on the counter in front of me.
“Thanks. But aren’t you usually working at this time of day?”
Spiva ran the children’s clothing section of Hamilton’s Department store. She liked to say that she could put up with the occasional ill-mannered child at her job because children like that rarely shopped at Hamilton’s and because she didn’t have any to deal with when she came home at night.
Waking my computer out of sleep mode, I eyed the offering in the cup dubiously, certain it was a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream and wondering about the caloric content. This brew had to be yet another attempt at sabotage, like the pizza my unrepentant older sister ate in front of me the other night while I feasted on rabbit food. I wasn’t falling for it, no matter how much that one hundred percent Columbian roast beckoned.
She pushed the cup closer to me. “Rob’s got me on split shift today because one of the other department managers had a doctor’s appointment.”
I nudged the drink back towards her. “I shouldn’t.”
“For goodness sake,” her mountain twang raised in irritation. “It’s a non-fat, skinny hazelnut latte. No sugar, no fat.”
Prepared for a mistake, I took the tiniest of sips as my e-mail loaded. The slight aftertaste of artificial sweetener and lack of creamy smoothness attested to the truth of her words. I recalled the days of full fat latte coffee breaks with bear claws from Beechum’s Bakery. Those days were long gone, as was Beechum’s Bakery, which had recently been absorbed into the Naked Bean. “Why are you being nice?”
Spiva pouted. “Why do you think I want something if I’m being nice?”
“Because your past behavior would indicate I’m right.” I took another sip and opened the tracking link for UPS. Argie’s DVDs would be in tomorrow’s delivery as well as the parenting books for Maggie and Tag. I was so happy for Maggie. I’d been there when Allen Singleton dumped her in front of everyone and proposed to Bonnie Hamilton at a high school pep rally. I’d watched her open Moonheart’s and fall in love with Tag. Sure, having a baby at fifty was unconventional, but that was Maggie through and through.
Spiva walked over to the new paperback table. She picked up a mystery and checked the back cover copy. “Since I’m here and all, I was wondering if I could borrow some of your jewelry for the Halloween Party at O’Day’s.”
“Sure.” The custom closet in the condo had special drawers for jewelry, built-in shoe racks and lighting way beyond the bare bulb in my over-crowded cubby hole at home.
“So anyhoo...” Spiva said. “I ran into someone at The Naked Bean.”
Nothing good could have happened at a spot known for both terrific coffee and the latest gossip. “Oh, really.” I tried to appear indifferent when all the while I prayed she didn’t say Russ Green, my real estate agent’s fiancé, who probably knew everything about where I’d been. “Who?”
“Mal Purla Rhett. She’s in charge of the Mossy Creek High Booster Club now. You’d think she was busy enough, what with being the church treasurer and the president of the Welcome Club and assisting Swee at Purla Interiors.”
“You’d think,” I agreed. “But why does this concern you?”
“She’s running the Booster Club S
nack Bar during the big Homecoming game against Harrington Academy, and she doesn’t have enough volunteers.”
My heart sank. “You didn’t.”
“It’s an opportunity to serve our friends and neighbors.” Spiva placed her hands on her ample hips. “You told me you could still be a cherub without being chubby.”
“I’d rather not spend hours serving foods I can’t eat.”
Spiva rolled her eyes. “One little hotdog isn’t going to kill you.”
“But it’s not just hotdogs. Hamburgers, fries, soft pretzels, candy bars are all huge temptations for me. I don’t want a set-back.”
“If you can overcome the temptation, you’re in it to win it,” Spiva said.
Amazed, I blinked repeatedly. “And if I succumb?”
“I guess you’ll have to walk a couple extra miles next week.” She shrugged. “No biggee.”
“It’s wrong to volunteer me without asking,” I pointed out. This was yet another reason moving out would be a good thing.
“Fine,” Spiva said. “I told Mal yes because she was desperate. In the spirit of Homecoming, Rosie Montgomery’s donating chocolate meringue pies which will double the normal traffic at the snack bar.”
“No.” Just what I needed—my all-time favorite pie from Mama’s All You Can Eat Café added to the offerings I could salivate over but not ingest.
Spiva narrowed her gaze. “Are you admitting that you can’t turn aside a little temptation?”
“Those pies are a huge temptation.” They were Mama’s claim to fame, next to the chicken-fried steak with sawmill gravy. My stomach growled.
“Surely, you’re not going to let this little speed bump get in the way of your diet success, Pearl. Besides, all the money minus expenses goes to rebuild Mossy Creek stadium. If you want to back out, just call Mal. I’m sure she’ll understand when you tell her you can’t handle it.”
If I backed out, I’d commit to something far worse. It was just like Spiva to put me into a no-win situation. “I didn’t say I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sounds to me like you said you couldn’t or wouldn’t. Pick your verb.”
“Oh, all right. But don’t you dare volunteer me to do anything else.”
“Or what?” Spiva asked, a gleam of mischief in her dark eyes. “You’ll short-sheet me? You’ll unfriend me on Facebook? Ooh, I’m scared.”
“Leave. Now.”
“I will. And next time—” She paused with the door open to the crisp fall air. “Why don’t you eat something while you’re running errands? You’re the biggest grump this side of Colchik Mountain when your blood sugar’s low.”
With that pronouncement, she left. I pulled out Julie’s Mossy Creek Mountain Real Estate business card that listed all the ways to reach her. Spiva was tilting the scale for sure. I punched the numbers for Julie’s cell, but couldn’t push send. There it was, my tendency to hesitate rearing its ugly head.
This condo would change my address from Mossy Creek to Bigelow, which might not seem like a problem to anyone raised outside Bigelow County. But I’d been a Creekite my whole life and as such had nurtured my prejudice against dreaded Bigelowans. I wasn’t sure I could handle becoming one—even for a built-in hutch that could display my grandmother’s china to perfection.
Making such a big life decision under a cloud of anger could lead to regret. I had to be one hundred percent sure this move was what I wanted.
“What, I’d like to know, is this?” Spiva stood before me, still in her pantsuit from work. A large hoop earring dangled from one ear. She’d tied a colorful scarf on her head like a ’do rag and held up a small object.
Not sure if the costume was pirate or gypsy, I squinted and still couldn’t make out what was being held in front of me like the missing piece of evidence in a murder. Progressive lenses, here I come. “Come closer. No. There. Stop.”
She did, all the while looking at me with disgust. Part of the character she was taking on, I assumed.
I glanced down at the offending piece of plastic my pet ferret Twinkie would probably like to play with and hide. “Looks like a guitar pick.”
“May I point out that you’ve never played the guitar. And this isn’t just any pick.” Spiva paced like a special prosecutor cross-examining a defendant. She faced me and pointed an accusatory finger. “Why did you steal it?”
I examined the pick, noting the shades of gray and pearl, the initials “A.S.” scratched into its surface, and recalled the thrill this little rounded-corner triangle brought me when I was in high school. Everybody, and I mean everybody, had been in love with Allen Singleton, lead singer of the Chinaberry Charmers. He was dating one of my best friends, Maggie Hart. After the pep rally where he announced to everyone that he loved Bonnie Hamilton and proposed, the Charmers played a concert at the Moose Lodge. The shockwaves following Maggie’s public humiliation led her to interrupt his set and rip him a new one.
In the hullabaloo that ensued, I removed the pick from Allen’s guitar neck and apparently hid it in my jewelry box. Over the years, I’d forgotten about both the guitar pick and where I’d put it.
“So are you going to return it?” Spiva asked.
“I’m sure Allen didn’t miss it. It’s a guitar pick, for goodness sake.” I pocketed it and headed toward the kitchen to make my low-cal dinner.
Spiva followed me. “No sister of mine is a thief. You’d best return it.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” I removed the boneless skinless chicken breasts from the refrigerator. “You want what I’m having?”
“Stop trying to change the subject. If you don’t return the guitar pick to its rightful owner with an apology, you will force me to turn you into Amos or Sandy. Quinlans aren’t thieves, especially those of the short-nosed variety.”
“Do you think they can also arrest you for rifling through my stuff without asking?”
“You gave me permission to borrow your jewelry.”
“But I didn’t say you could snoop, which you did.” Something that couldn’t happen if I moved out.
“You’re missing the point.”
“Really? Because I think you’re missing my point.” I lifted one piece of chicken out of the package, then seasoned it with a poultry spice blend. I gave my nonstick pan a quick squirt of canola oil spray and settled the meat on its hot surface. As I opened the refrigerator to gather salad fixings and the leftover whole wheat pasta from last night, I added, “I doubt anyone in Mossy Creek, including Allen, has even thought about that pick in years.”
“And that—” She shook her finger at me. Her hoop earring swung. “Would be mistake number two. I have it on good authority that pick was invested with the Chinaberry Charmers’ mojo.”
I carefully measured a half cup of pasta. “If you’re so concerned, Spiva, give it back yourself.”
She pulled the scarf off her ultra short coif and shook her head sadly. “Nope. No can do. I can’t always fix everything for you.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.
“There’s no time like the present to set things right,” she urged, then stuck her nose in the pasta and sniffed. “Do you have any sauce for this?”
“It doesn’t need sauce. It has basil, tomato and olive oil.”
Spiva shuddered. “The only way I’m gonna be able to swallow that cardboard is if you put some Alfredo on it.”
Even though Spiva had committed to doing the same diet and exercise program after our tiff in mid-January and had repaired her slower than slow treadmill, she’d fallen off the low-fat wagon.
“You can always make your own food,” I said, ready to blow my top, ready to call Julie. One more dig was all it would take.
I noticed her peering at my face. My chin, actually. “What?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. You�
��ve got a hair.”
I felt around the skin and located the offending reminder of aging. “How long has it been there without you telling me?”
Spiva shrugged. “About a week.”
What was the point of living with your sister if she wouldn’t even tell you when you had a wiry chin hair? The condo had a bathroom with great lighting and a close-up mirror, making a sister obsolete.
“My bad,” she said as she placed an entire cup of jarred Alfredo sauce in the microwave to make my cooking palatable.
I didn’t need her and her aggravating ways. “Watch the chicken for me.”
I went to my bedroom, locked the door and called Julie Honeycut, whose voicemail came on. “I’m ready. Let’s make an offer.”
I opened the door and practically bumped into Spiva. People think big brother is bad, try big sister.
“An offer on what?” she asked.
The chicken took on an acrid burnt odor. I ran into the kitchen.
“You never listen to me, except when you’re eavesdropping!” I yanked the skillet off the eye.
“Who cares about the chicken? Call it blackened and throw some of my Alfredo sauce on it. Who were you talking to?”
“If you must know, Julie Honeycut.”
“She’s a real estate agent.”
“Yup.”
Spiva stood there, dumbfounded. “You’re moving out?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but I need my space,” I said as she blinked away what looked like tears.
“Right,” she said. Her voice grew smaller and tighter. “And when were you planning on telling me?”
“I’ve been looking for the right time, but there never seems to be one. It’s a condo in...Bigelow.”
“Bigelow?” she said, pulling herself together. She lifted one pencil-drawn eyebrow. “No Quinlan, short- or long-nosed, has ever lived in Bigelow. You know what? I don’t think you’ll actually do it.”
“Really? Just watch me.”