The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel by Jill Conner Browne Page A

shimmered like a cool blue oasis in the velvet darkness.
    I saw Tammy in a tea-length white dress, standing between two boxwood hedges, gazing down the hill at a big, gray Dutch Colonial blazing with light. Snatches of conversation and laughter drifted up from the house like bubbles from a champagne glass.
    â€œPretty view, isn’t it?” I said. Mary Bennett’s house was perched on one of the highest points in Jackson, and several of the stately homes could be seen from this vantage point.
    â€œI guess,” Tammy said, looking away quickly. “I just wanted a little air. It’s so nice out tonight.”
    Pointing at Marcy’s house, I said, “I heard some kids mention she was having a big graduation shindig tonight.”
    â€œReally? I hadn’t heard,” Tammy said, her eyes cast downward. She was one of the lousiest liars in the world.
    Marcy’s house did look enticing, glowing brightly like a lit-up birthday cake. But almost everything seems more attractive when you are outside looking in.
    â€œI promise they aren’t having as much fun as we are,” I said. “Money won’t buy a good time, ya know—and it sure as hell won’t buy real friends.”
    â€œI know,” Tammy said, smoothing the bell-shaped skirt of her graduation dress. It looked expensive and fit her beautifully, so I was sure it came from the “gift elf.” She was dressed as if she belonged at Marcy’s party.
    â€œOne day they’ll be talking about you,” I said. “They’ll say, ‘I used to know Tammy Myers in high school before she became a famous country-and-western singer.’ At class reunions, they’ll all be sucking up and clamoring for your autograph. They’ll hope to God you won’t remember how shitty they were to you.”
    â€œYou think?” Tammy said, and I could tell by her tone that she very much liked this daydream.
    â€œSomeday, you’ll have the power to fix ’em good. You could write a number one song called ‘Marcy Stevens Deserves to Die,’ but the truth is you won’t care enough about her to humiliate her. After all, you’ll be this huge star, rubbing elbows with George and Loretta, and she’ll just be an aging perma-blond, small-town socialite with bad teeth and a cheating husband.”
    â€œWow,” Tammy said. “You have such a vivid imagination. It’s almost as if this could be your dream.”
    I toed the grass with my sandal. “Well, it was my dream. When I was a kid I always wanted to be a Supreme, or at the very least a Pip, but unfortunately I was born white with the vocal talent of an under-laid cat in heat.” I shook a finger at her. “That’s why I’m counting on you to conquer Nashville so I can vicariously live my life. Swear to me you won’t let me down?”
    She gave me her first smile of the evening. “All right, Jill. I swear.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks.”
    â€œThank God, that’s settled. Now, let’s go inside—I brought a little something for a special toast.”
    The Queens drank like a band of gypsies that night, and after a raucous celebration that included dancing, skinny-dipping, and the rabid consumption of a vast array of decadent foods like Pig Candy, Chocolate Stuff, fried chicken, barbecued ribs, and big wads of cheese, we were all sprawled on the floor of Mary Bennett’s rec room, surrounded by empty glasses, food wrappers, and a formidable pile of well-gnawed ribs and nekkid chicken bones.
    Giddiness had given way to melancholy. I saw a pity party coming on as soon as Gerald started whistling “Leaving on a Jet Plane.”
    Mary Bennett was the first to lose it, possibly because she’d had the most to drink. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do without my friends,” she slurred. “After all, what’s the point of being the