As soon as we’re on the blanket, my mom starts in on Sawyer, asking him more questions than a Congressional committee. He answers her with good grace, not overexplaining, but also not ducking anything.
When she veers into where his home office is, I jump in. These are choppy waters, stuff Sawyer and I haven’t talked about how to navigate, and I don’t want to ruin the afternoon by diving in now.
“Any idea who the winning essayist is, Mom?” That’ll distract her. I explain to Sawyer, “The eighth graders all enter an essay contest about why America is the land of the free and the home of the brave. A committee of local veterans picks the winner and announces who it is during the lunch. The winner reads their winning essay, and they get a hundred dollars and a box of fireworks to shoot off.”
“Free fireworks? Is it too late to enter?” he asks.
“Only by about fifteen years.” I pat his arm. I wish I was bold enough to take his hand, or that he’d take mine. I wish I was more comfortable displaying my affection, but it’s hard when I know every single person in our field of vision will be watching and dissecting our every move, from the café this morning to now. Especially now.
It’s so easy when it’s the two of us. But we haven’t had much time to be “us” around other people, and no time since he turned up at Oak Crest in May. I don’t understand the rules for existing as us outside of the bubble, and I’m okay with figuring them out, but other than a short moment in the lumber aisle, it hasn’t seemed to cross Sawyer’s mind.
My mom is super into the question of the winning essayist, and she breaks into my thoughts with her speculations. “I thought it would be an Allred. It’s an Allred about every other year. Bob Allred is the patriarch and also the VFW post commander. Veterans of Foreign Wars,” she explains.
“Ah,” Sawyer says.
“But the thing is, I saw Jennifer Blount’s youngest, Carter, wearing a button-down shirt.”
“Ahhh,” I say. Because thisdoesmake everything clear.
“What am I missing?” Sawyer asks.
“You should be able to spot an eighth grader by sight,” I say. “Just look for the surliest teenagers. Tell me what you notice about their clothing.”
He scans the crowd before turning back to us. “They’re all in T-shirts.”
My mom nods. “Carter wearing a collared shirt is a dead giveaway. It’s him. I bet the only reason that kid even entered was to win the fireworks. He’s a hellion. Good luck to us all if it’s him. Watch your back come sundown.”
Sawyer laughs until he realizes the rest of us aren’t.
“It won’t be good,” I tell him. “Imagine that Max kid from our second year with a box of fireworks and not enough adult supervision.”
“Got it.”
My mom continues the grilling while Grace and I catch up and she tells me about her promotion at Boeing. We visit with everyone who stops by our quilts, but it never deters my mom from picking up where she left off with Sawyer.
Finally, I lean over and tell him in a voice too low for my mom to hear, “Don’t worry. It’s essay winner time and the torture will stop.”
Sure enough, the mayor stands on the small dais in the middle of the park and turns the mic on. It gives a loud squeal and Evie claps her hands over her ears. The mayor gives a short-ish speech about the fine youth of Creekville and the good men and women of the local VFW hall, then clears her throat and takes a dramatic pause.
“And now, I am pleased to present to you the winner of this year’s ‘Home of the Free’ essay contest, Carter Blount!”
My mom gives a self-satisfied smile as we applaud. And holy terror or not, Carter Blount wrote a good essay.
Grace leans past me to tell Sawyer, “Watch her. She is super sappy about patriotic stuff. She’s never made it through the national anthem without crying, even when it’s just instrumental.”
“Shut up,” I tell her, but my voice is thick because Carter used the phrase “our forebears’ dreams” and it’s made me slightly weepy. Grace winks at Sawyer and turns back to listen to Carter’s monotone reading, and I don’t dare look at Sawyer.
It’s one thing for him to eat my high school nemesis’s pasta salad and meet pretty much every teacher I’ve ever had growing up, but I’ll be damned if he gets to watch me fall to pieces when the high school orchestra plays a slightly off-key rendition of “Proud to Be an American” while the crowd sings along.
When the Fourth of July program is over, the first people begin to drift out of the park, off to prep their own family or neighborhood celebrations. We stay, visiting with friends and neighbors, my mom grilling Sawyer, for another hour, until the crowd is down to half its size.
Grace begins to gather up plates and trash, and soon we’re all helping her clean our area.
“This is one of the cool things about Creekville,” I tell Sawyer. “Everyone does their part, so it’s barely any overtime for our two-person parks department.”
He dutifully picks up trash, but I notice he avoids me and doesn’t say much.
When everything is put away and the blankets are folded, my mom asks if we’re going to Miss Lily’s tonight for fireworks.
