Since it’s too late in the summer for firecrackers and too early for the Ladybug Waltz, Cal and I join Miss Myrtie Mae and the First Baptist Quilting Bee at the back of the line.

Miss Myrtie Mae wears a wide-brimmed straw hat. She claims that she’s never exposed her skin to sun. Even so, wrinkles fold into her face like an unironed shirt. She takes her job as town historian and librarian seriously, and as usual, her camera hangs around her neck. “Toby, how’s your mom?”

“Fine,” I say.

“That will really be something if she wins.”

“Yes, ma’am, it will.” My mouth says the words, but my mind is not wanting to settle on a picture of her winning. Mom dreams of following in the footsteps of her favorite singer, Tammy Wynette. Last month she entered a singing contest in Amarillo and won first place. She got a trophy and an allexpense-paid trip to Nashville for a week to enter the National Amateurs’ Country Music Competition at the Grand Ole Opry. The winner gets to cut a record album.

Cars and pickups pull into the Dairy Maid parking lot. Some people make no bones about it. They just get in line to see him. Others try to act like they don’t know anything about the buzz. They enter the Dairy Maid, place their orders, and exit with Coke floats, chocolate-dipped cones, or curlicue fries, then wander to the back of the line. They don’t fool me.

The line isn’t moving because the big event hasn’t started. Some skinny guy wearing a tuxedo, smoking a pipe, is taking the money and giving out green tickets. Cal could stand in line forever to relieve his curiosity, He knows more gossip than any old biddy in Antler because he gathers it down at the cotton gin, where his dad and the other farmers drink coffee.

“I got better things to do than this,” I tell Cal. Like eat. My stomach’s been growling all the time now because I haven’t had a decent meal since Mom left a few days ago. Not that she cooked much lately since she was getting ready for that stupid contest. But I miss the fried catfish and barbecue dinners she brought home from the Bowl-a-Rama Cafe, where she works.

“Oh, come on, Toby,” Cal begs. “He’ll probably move out tomorrow and we’ll never get another chance.”

“He’s just some fat kid. Heck, Malcolm Clifton probably has him beat hands down.” Malcolm’s mom claims he’s big boned, not fat, but we’ve seen him pack away six jumbo burgers. I sigh real big like my dad does when he looks at my report card filled with Cs. “Okay,” I say. “But I’m only waiting ten more minutes. After that, I’m splitting.”