There's a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell: A Novel of Sewer Pipes, Pageant Queens, and Big Trouble

Prologue
SPRING, 1956
The moment the girl stepped onto the stage, the circle of a
spotlight swung toward her, announcing her presence
above the audience in a sheer, clean illumination. The crowd before
her suddenly quieted, as if expecting something truly spectacular
to occur. It would have to be spectacular; after all, Mary
Lou Winton, the contestant before her, had let loose a greased
baby pig onstage, which she managed to lasso, hog-tie, and
brand--with a branding iron fashioned to look like a sewer pipe,
no less--in a definitive nine seconds flat. It was, in fact, confirmed
by the audience, who counted down as Mary Lou whipped
that rope and then stomped over to plunge the glowing iron. And
it was further rumored that Ruth Watson was planning to bring
her rifle out onto the stage and shoot every winged fowl right out
of the sky, all in her evening gown attire, for her talent segment.
Farm antics, the girl scoffed to herself, wondering if such a
thing really could be considered as a talent or just an episode of
unfortunate breeding. She knew she could not let any of that
concern her as she looked out over the crowd, searching the
faces. She knew almost everyone--everyone who was waiting to
hear her sing.
She smiled softly, an expression that seemed gentle.
If only I had ruby slippers, she thought to herself. The light
that would have caught them would have been astounding, the
sparkle would have bounced off of them like rockets, far more
impressive than an oily piglet or dead birds. She looked down at
her feet, at her pair of last year's Sunday shoes--now buffed a
bright cherry red by her father, who had been so proud when he
surprised her with them--and saw that they did not sparkle, but
produced a dull, minuscule shine.
Behind her, she heard Mrs. A. Melrose from the church choir
begin playing the piano; this was her cue, and the pianist had
better keep time. Although she considered herself a devoted
Christian woman overflowing with generosity, Mrs. Melrose
thought little of donating her time to the endeavor and suggested
that instead she exchange her musical services for the girl's scrubbing
a week's worth of the accompanist's and her flatulent husband's
laundry. Despite the gruesome task that lay ahead in the
Melroses' wash bin the next day, the girl continued to smile as she
drew a deep, full breath, so full that the replica blue gingham
pinafore fashioned from a picnic tablecloth seemed to expand
slightly, making the ketchup stains that stubbornly remained on
the cloth look like she had encountered Ruth Watson's rifle. She
waited: one, two, three.
The next note was hers. She was ready.
"Somewheeeeere over the rainbow . . ."
Her voice glided sweetly over the stage into the audience and
twirled in the air above them like magic. She could see it on the
faces of the people watching her, listening to her, heads tilted
slightly to the side, as they smiled back at her. This was no pig
roping event, and no explosion of feathers was going to trickle
down from the clouds.
This was talent.
I have it, she thought giddily to herself as she finished the first
verse, as her voice continued on clear, strong, and with the right
touch of delicacy. It is mine.
She saw him, standing in the back, far beyond the crowd assembled
in the square--the most handsome man she had ever
seen in real life, the one who could save her. With a bouquet
spilling with flowers in the crook of his arm, he leaned up against
his brand-new powder-blue Packard Caribbean convertible with
its whitewall tires and gleaming, curvaceous chrome bumpers. It
was a glorious machine.