The street was closed off for the festivities, and the park is three blocks of organized chaos. Craft booths line the east side under white canopies, selling quilts, wood carvings, and jars of honey with handwritten labels and little fabric tags tied with twine. The smell of fry bread hits us beforewe even find a parking spot. The air is warm and sweet and impossible to ignore.
Ethel's niece is running the fryer from a booth near the center with focus. She smiles with satisfaction when we walk by. She’s been working the fryer since she was twelve and knows her craft. Cassie and her kids, AP biology students, are selling freeze-dried candy. She told me they were fundraising for their trip to Glacier National Park.
There are nachos and kettle corn, and a lemonade stand run by what appears to be every child under the age of ten in Everwood. Someone has a hand-crank ice cream churn going near the gazebo, and there's already a line that wraps past the quilt display. American flags are everywhere. They’re on booths, on hats, on a golden retriever near the park entrance with a small flag bandana around its neck.
It smells like summer, and it sounds like summer, and standing at the edge of all of it with Bo's hand in mine was my fourteen-year-old dream come true.
Bo stops walking the second he sees the dunk tank.
“Is that Deputy Dale?” I ask, pointing to the far corner of the park, where a line of young kids is waiting to take a shot at the deputy.
Deputy Dale has his arms crossed and looks unconvinced that the kid in front of him could actually hit the broad side of a barn, let alone the target to the left of him. The dunk tank was always a big hit, especially when it was Everwood's finest. The fire chief was next, then the mayor. Bo looks over at the dunk tank, and a wicked smile spreads across his face.
"Don't," I say.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it."
He looks at me. "I've got a pretty good arm."
"Bo."
"One throw."
For a moment, I thought about telling him no, but his puppy dog eyes have me.
“Okay,” I say, “just one throw.” I know one throw is all it will take. Bo and Tyler had been on the high school baseball team. They were good. Anthony never missed a game.
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me. I smile against his lips.
“You’re so easy to please.” He pulls me toward the dunk tank just as the fire chief gets up on the platform. A few little kids throw the ball but miss. Chief Briggs laughs until Bo stepped up.
“No, it’s not fair,” Briggs says, eyeing Bo.
“I mean, what is fair, really?” Bo asks.
“I’ll tell you what. First, you have to step back a bit, those lines for the little ones.”
Bo moves back and raises his eyebrows. “Any other handicaps?” Bo calls, and the chief nods.
“Yes, if you’d like to be blindfolded.” The kids all start laughing. “I’m just kidding.” Briggs laughs. “All right, here are the rules. If you miss, then, well, you miss, but if you hit the target, then you come by the station tomorrow, and we’ll talk about the ARFF’s.”
Bo thinks about it for a moment, then agrees. With a smirk, Bo throws the ball like a pitcher, pitching the winning game. The ball flies from his fingers and hits the target faster than I can see. One minute, Chief Briggs is on the platform, and the next, he is sputtering in the water tank.
“Tomorrow, Gates,” he says through a mouth of water. The kids in line laugh, and to his credit, so does Chief Briggs. Just as Chief Briggs gets out of the water, theMayor steps up, and Bo looks at me with his pleading eyes again.
“Maybe later,” I say, pulling him from the mud and splash zone of the dunk tank just as Mason steps up. We are ten steps away when the platform gives, and for a second, Bo freezes, and Rowdy is right there next to Bo. We turn around to see the new Mayor, Mayor Don Heartly, coming up from the water.
Mason is looking deeply satisfied, much to the mayor's dismay. He gives Bo a thumbs up.
I keep walking, pretending I don't know them, then take Bo's arm again and pull him to the crafts.
Mrs. Winslow finds us near the silent auction tables, an ambush waiting with bells on her shoes. Seriously, who let her watch the Tinkerbell movies again? She's wearing a red-and-white-striped blouse and blue jeans, a walking American flag.
"Falon, you look so pretty." She squeezes my hand, both of hers wrapped around mine, warm and papery. "Bo, that jacket is very dashing. Good choice."
"Thank you, Mrs. Winslow," Bo says, straight-faced.
