The Trophy That Walked Off

June Baxter’s morning routine had a dignity that bordered on religious observance. She arrived at the town hall before the sun decided to be polite about it, carrying a tote bag that contained three pens, a tiny roll of safety pins, a lint-free cloth, and a laminated copy of the ceremony script in both standard print and a highlighted “performer’s edition.” June believed, with a spiritual fervor reserved for good coffee and straight rows of chairs, that a festival could be held aloft by nothing more than organization and a refusal to accept chaos. The Community Cup occupied a special place among those beliefs. It was, in the town’s words, the “symbol of communal excellence,” which translated in practice to “an object that required an unreasonable amount of polishing.”

She set the Cup on a satin pillow at the registration table and, with the solemnity of someone tucking in a petulant heirloom, buffed each handle until the metal reflected the fluorescent lights with a show-offy confidence. The Cup had dents that told stories of overenthusiastic celebrants, a fine line of amateur repair visible on its stem, and an almost indecent shine around its rim. June enjoyed that part: histories looked better when the relics were bright. She made a mental note to introduce the microphone earlier in the program to ensure the mayor didn’t trip over a particularly theatrical pause in his speech.

Volunteers began to arrive, each handed a colored sash and a role. June’s binder listed them alphabetically and by volume of expected disruption: loud, medium, measured. She checked off names, delegated tasks in a font she reserved for high-drama moments, and re-laminated a last-minute seating chart because the lamination seemed more trustworthy than human memory. Her neck prickled with the pleasant, anxious energy of someone watching a dozen small disasters line up like dominos and choosing, with grim satisfaction, which one to stop first.