By the time we get to the front, the men at the fryers are already sweating through their T-shirts, but they smile when I hand over my double-layered paper plate. I skip the coleslaw and beg extra fish and hush puppies. The plate is so hot on my lap, I have to hold it up and get Coralee and Bert to push me over to the picnic tables. They each take one handle and are basically terrible at walking together, so I feel a little carsick by the time we find everybody already sitting at a table under the oaks.

“How’d you get your food so fast?” I ask.

Nobody says anything.

“You cut in line, didn’t you?” I say, and poke a fork at Mema. “You cut in line at a church function. Whatever happened to ‘do unto thy neighbor’?”

She takes a long sip of sweet tea and says, “Honey, everybody knows that does not apply to a fish fry.”

Mom snorts into her tea. She looks so beautiful that for a minute I put my fork down. She’s wearing a white sleeveless dress, and her arms are freckled from the sun, and she’s gained some weight since we’ve been here with all of Mema’s cooking. She doesn’t look so breakable.

I run my hands down my own legs. I’m in jean shorts today, and I squeeze my thighs a little. They’re bigger, stronger maybe from all the exercises Hutch has me doing.

“How’re y’all on this fine afternoon?”

It’s like I magicked him here. Hutch sits down next to me and smiles at everybody. Mom smiles down into her lap.

Ten minutes of serious eating later and I’m so full I’m wishing my shorts were elastic. Coralee is lying on top of the picnic table, even though people are still hunting for spots. She’s humming the national anthem and tapping her stomach to the beat.

“Bert,” I call across the table.

“What?” He looks up from his phone. Half his siblings are about to come home for the summer, and they’re all texting him like they’ve just remembered he exists.

“When do they announce the winner for the contest?” My stomach flutters underneath all the catfish.

“How should I know?”

“Your dad’s the one offering the prize.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t have anything to do with the contest. They won’t even let him near the pies. They say his presence could influence the results.”

I cannot believe how seriously they take this. I feel like I’ve entered the Pie Olympics.

“I’ll go check, baby girl.” Grandpa gets up. “I think they’re about done with the next batch anyway,” he says, nodding toward the catfish fryers.

Mema shakes her head. “That man could eat a horse.”