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“The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.”

—Oscar Wilde, Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories

There were two holidays that Fairfield threw out all the stops for: Christmas and the Fourth of July. Judging by the piles of fireworks Dad loaded into his truck to take over to the fire station for later tonight, today’s Fourth in Fairfield celebration would hold up to the hype.

Another favorite Fairfield tradition of mine was the annual spaghetti dinner on Main Street, which happened a few hours before the fireworks launched. Heaping bowls of pasta were passed down from the head of the table, from one plate to another, like the roast beast scene at the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The garlic bread never ran out—unless TJ helped serve it—and Old Lady Gratton’s famous creamy Italian dressing was in high demand for every garden salad. She may have been a gossiping nightmare, but the woman knew how to dress her mixed greens.

Unfortunately, since this year was the first that Fairfield had two baseball teams representing it in the Legion League, our horribly clueless mayor, Richard Dupont, thought it would show “great comradery” if members of both prepped and served the spaghetti meal this year.

Comradery?

At a spaghetti dinner?

Between the Fulton Hawks and the Crowley Cardinals?

Knives for the garlic bread, metal tongs heavier than my old AP Chem notebook for the spaghetti…What could go wrong?

I arrived early with Mom, Dad, and TJ to help lay out the plastic tablecloths and wrap the silverware. The local Boy and Girl Scouts helped their troop leaders hang paper lanterns across Main Street, from the post office to the thrift store, while we worked. After rolling what felt like my fiftieth fork, knife, and spoon together, TJ muttered, “Here they come.”

My heart skipped as Reed and his grandparents walked toward us from the opposite side of the street, Reed carrying a big pot of what I assumed was sauce. He wore his hat backward and a gray Yankees jersey, with the silver chain I kept meaning to ask him about peeking out from underneath it. I hadn’t seen him since our ball field date in Clairview. Between my needing to be in the booth every chance I could get and him having what sounded like hellish practice drills, neither of us had the time.

I hated it, but I needed to be a Doolittle for now.

Reed smiled at me from over the lid of the pot, and my ears burned.

“Dang, Fulton. Looks like you’ve been in the kitchen all day. Where’s your apron?” TJ snickered, staring at some stains on Reed’s shorts. I gripped my silverware to keep from smacking him.

“At home next to mine,” Reed’s grandmother—Nana, as he called her—said with a smile. “How’s your mother doing, TJ?”

Now I knew why Grandma liked this woman.

TJ cleared his throat. “She’s fine, um, thank you.”

Reed’s granddad rubbed his lower back and then pointed to the tables with the propane heaters. “You can set that pot over there, Reed. And then come help me get the other two from the truck.”

“TJ can help him,” I blurted.

“No, he can’t,” TJ said.

Reed looked like I had slapped him.

I smiled with a lot of teeth. I mean, if I could somehow get TJ and Reed to get along, then maybe there was hope for the rest of my family? Right?

“Actually, I think that’s a fine idea,” Mom said, appearing at my side. “TJ, go help Reed with the other pots of sauce, and then you can help Ms. Gratton prep the salads.”

“Isn’t there something else I can do?” TJ whined. “Run into traffic? Hold my hand over an open flame…”

“I vote for the running-into-traffic option,” Reed said, wincing when his nana smacked him in the back of the head.

Yeah…this was going to be one interesting evening.

A couple of hours later, the spaghetti dinner was in full swing. The long tables sat in the middle of Main Street as they always did, but this time, instead of passing the pasta down, some of the Fulton Hawks and Crowley Cardinals acted as waiters and served the pasta to the guests, refilling the food and drinks as needed.

Lauryn and TJ scooped salad into bowls a couple of tables away from me. I stood alone at the sauce pots, ladling spoonfuls onto the pasta bowls to be delivered to the tables.

“You’re cheating people out of the good stuff.” Reed slid up next to me, his arm brushing against mine.

I smirked.