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One
HANNAH
This is the most important day of my life.
Fifty habanero peppers. Five contestants, and a crowd that’s filled with so many familiar faces, my head swims. I can’t afford to choke. I’ve been training for this for literal months.
“Welcome to Heatstroke’s Twenty-Fifth Annual Hot Pepper Eating Contest!” The announcer, Richard Walton, is Heatstroke’s favorite newscaster, and he’s exactly what I imagined he’d be like. Elaborately-coiffed, overly friendly, with a thousand-watt smile and one of those combs tucked into the top pocket of his snazzy suit jacket.
It’s easier to focus on his jacket than the way his gaze remains fixed on the TV camera below the makeshift stage in the Heatstroke Public Park.
The crowd cheers and claps.
“Let’s go, Hannah!” June calls from somewhere in the masses.
I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.
I am so not good with crowds. But I swore I would do this, and I’m not backing out. The sky is peony blue, the grass in the park is lush, and the heat of the day is threatening, though it’s barely past ten. And this is it. My shot.
“As y’all know, this year’s contest is proudly sponsored by the Heatstroke Board of Better Businesses, a collection of local businesses, including the General Store, Beets and Yeets, Bagel’s Bakery, the Heartstopper Diner, Longhorn’s, and your very own News Channel Nine,” Richard continues, in his professional announcer voice. “And get this folks, this year’s prize is bigger than ever before, with the winner walking away with a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.”
Gasps and cheers follow that, and I steel myself, trying not to be intimidated by the cameras, the mass of peppers on the plate, or Paul, who’s last year’s winner, standing next to me with his arms folded, and a look on his face that says, “Why did you even bother to show up?”
I’m here for two reasons.
First, because I want to show my family that “boring” little librarian Hannah can be just as crazy and adventurous as the rest of my siblings.
Second, the money.
With that kind of money, I can revamp the children’s section of the library before I leave.
My stomach twists, and I glance toward Richard.
“—how it’s going to work. In the first round, contestants will eat up to fifty habanero peppers. Those who survive will move on to the final round, in which they will eat as many Carolina Reaper peppers as they can handle. The last person standing wins.”
Sweat beads on the back of my neck. The Carolina Reaper pepper is one of the hottest in the world at over 1.5 million Scoville units. In other words, hot enough to make a grown woman cry or eviscerate this particular woman’s digestive system.
Why am I doing this again? The children. A parting gift. You can do this.
“Don’t touch your eyes,” I murmur. “Do not touch your eyes.”
“Worried, sweetheart? You should drop out now,” Paul says. “Save yourself the pain. We all know I’m going to win, and this ain’t the amateur leagues.”
“What’s the matter, Paul?” I whisper. “Can’t handle a little healthy competition?”
Paul’s eyes widen, but before he can retort, the crowd bursts into cheers again.
“All right, folks,” Richard says. “Let’s get this pepper-eating show on the road! Contestants, come forward and stand behind your eating stations.”
I tie my hair back in a high ponytail as I step forward. I grab the plastic bib that’s been laid over the back of the chair at my station. Really, it’s just a spot behind a long wooden table that might as well be an eating trough.
Hot peppers have a myriad of benefits. They decrease inflammation, for one. They?—
“Take your seats,” Richard says.
I sit down and stare at the hot pepper pile. My gaze lifts to the crowd, and I spot June and Cash out there. Cash is unmistakable, especially since he’s taller than most of the other people, and he’s wearing that “Hannah, what the heck are you doing” scowl. I’m grateful he’s here. He turned down an invitation to host the event, and an interview about me, which would really have been about him.
That’s the cross my famous brother has to bear, and he handles it so well.
