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had been more likely to be holding Monte Carlo Casino Charity Nights (gambling being her favorite and most successful fund-raising endeavor) to finance the new lacrosse field than sitting in the auditorium watching the seventh-grade play. Jenn’s parents had once been high rollers, taking over the penthouse at the Bellagio, front row seats at Caesar’s Palace. Now they lived in a broken-down old hunting lodge and tried to convince themselves they were all about living the Simple, Healthy Life.
    “I’m sure the decision to crown that Mill person was strictly political, but while I’m sorry you lost, it’s not the end of the world.”
    No, Jenn thought, that had ended when they’d yanked her out of school, stealing her away from one last year with her best friend, and hijacking her into the middle of this … this Jack London wet dream.
    “Don’t look so glum,” her mother said. “How many times have I told you that our current situation is only temporary? Your father is just taking some time off before jumping back into things—”
    “
He’s taken over a year off
,” Jenn exclaimed, as startled by her uncharacteristic outburst as Nina looked. But now that the flow of words had started, she couldn’t stop them. “And while he’s taking time off, my life is falling apart! I won’t be able to stand it up there another year with the loons. I can’t! I have to get out of there before I go nuts.”
    Nina regarded Jenn with a wounded expression. “I thought you liked the Lodge.”
    “I did!” she said. “I liked the Little Pathfinders Wilderness Camp you sent me to when I was nine, too. But I don’t want to live there, either.”
    “Now, Jenn, I know it seems right now that living in Fawn Creek is the worst thing that could ever happen to you,” her mother said, “but someday you will look back and realize that ‘you cannot reach the dawn save by the path of the night.”’
    Jenn stared. “Where do you
get
this stuff?”
    “It was on a Kahlil Gibran poster I had in college,” her mom answered serenely.
    This was pointless. “Where’s Dad?”
    “He’s at something called Machinery Hill, looking at tractors.”
    Was she kidding?
    “I told him we’d meet him at the Poultry Emporium as soon as you were done with this pageant thing.” Her mother’s expression brightened. “They have these adorable chickens there that look like little Russian army officers. You know, with those tall furry hats?”
    Again, Jenn could only stare.
    “It says in the program they’ll announce the winner at noon. I wonder if they’ll have a little crown for it.” She giggled and then, catching Jenn’s expression,
tched
. “Oh, Jenn, I was kidding. What happened to your sense of humor? Come on. It’ll be fun. Let’s go, shall we?”
    “I’m not done with ‘the pageant thing,”’ Jenn said. “I have to have my head carved out of butter and then go appear on some local television show.”
    “A butter head?” Nina giggled again until she realized Jenn wasn’t joking. She abruptly sobered. “Oh. Well. Then we’ll see you afterward at the car, shall we? Bye!”
    She gave a quick wave and stepped off the curb, her face lighting up. It dawned on Jenn that her mom
liked
the state fair. And her dad was at
Machinery Hill
? Looking at
tractors
? Holy crap. Her parents really had gone off the deep end.
    Well, that was sad and everything if it was true, but the bottom line was that her parents had had their shot. Jenn wanted her shot, too. And she’d been that close to getting it….
    Across the street, she spotted Ken Holmberg, one of Fawn Creek’s councilmen, pumping the hand of some old Swede (she knew he was a Swede because as a Swede, and thus not being the sort to leave anything to conjecture, he was wearing a T-shirt that said: don’t kiss me. i’m swedish ).
    Though he couldn’t have been much more than thirty-five, Ken looked older, like a gnome out of a kid’s Scandinavian fairy tale book: short,