Clown in a Cornfield

“Main Street seemed to be not just the main road, but the only way out of Kettle Springs, giving the impression that the Missouri town was more a glorified cul-de-sac. Passing through downtown, Quinn noticed a fifties-style diner and a bookstore that was probably all secondhand paperback romances and mysteries where the detectives owned cats. Or the detectives were cats. Not her scene.”

Key to the development of this novel’s themes is the definition of its setting. Cesare uses landmarks like the antiquated diner and the thrift bookshop to describe the smallness of Kettle Springs, evoking ideas of small-town Midwest America. It also exposes Quinn’s opinion of the town as a lifelong urbanite, driving her characterization as someone who feels Kettle Springs isn’t “her scene.”

“In Kettle Springs she could keep her head down, avoid the drama. No one here knew Quinn as the girl whose mother slumped low in the bleachers during last year’s regionals, then puked down her chin.

Nobody in Kettle Springs knew how Samantha Maybrook had died.

Quinn could start over.”

In this passage, Cesare establishes the reason Quinn is willing to accept the move to Kettle Springs. By emphasizing that Kettle Springs is a place where Quinn can maintain discretion, Cesare insinuates the kind of treatment that caused her to flee Philadelphia in the first place. Quinn is ashamed of the way people talked about her mother in the wake of her death and the impact that had on her reputation. This points to the avoidant personality that characterizes Quinn at the start of the novel. Her desire to escape this identity shows how grief and stigma have shaped her self-concept, marking her as a character deeply shaped by trauma before the horror even begins.

“An old-timey clown with a porkpie hat and red, bulbous nose. The clown had faded greasepaint stubble on his chin, and his once ruby-red nose was pocked with blisters from where the paint had bubbled. His painted white face had long gone gray. But his eyes had been more or less untouched by the flames, and something in the way they’d been painted made it seem like the clown was staring straight into her window, straight at Quinn.”

This moment, which eerily personifies Frendo, taps into Quinn’s subconscious awareness that danger is already closing in on her. The first glimpse of Frendo distorts the image of a conventional clown—using details like burn “blisters” and the grayed face—in order to cast a menacing mood over it.

“‘Cole Hill. We used to be friends. Back when my hair was lighter,’ Ginger said, then tossed an eye to the side and smirked. ‘And, yeah, he’s pretty cute,’ she said, pausing before adding: ‘for an arsonist.’”

Cesare deepens Cole’s characterization by creating a gap between the character’s first two appearances in the novel. In his earlier appearance, Cole was depicted as a carefree teenager willing to break the rules for the sake of fun. Here, Ginger’s playful tone is undercut by the dark label of “arsonist,” creating a moment of tonal dissonance that mirrors the novel’s broader blend of humor and horror. This passage represents a stark shift in his characterization, depicting him as an alluring criminal figure who has distanced himself from his former friends. This implies the impact that Victoria’s death had on him, which Quinn does not know about when she learns that Cole committed arson. The reader, meanwhile, can more easily arrive at the motivations that drove Cole’s crime.

“‘I was trying to help! This is bullshit,’ Cole said, standing.”

‘You know what’s—’ Mr. Vern stopped himself. He was upset, shaking. In the slapped silence of the classroom, Quinn swore she could hear his teeth grinding. ‘You will not talk to me that way. What’s upsetting is that you’re all’—he took a beat to point at each student who’d interrupted him—‘you’re all out of control. You think the world was built for your amusement. And for years we’ve—the town has just taken it. But people are waking up. That you’re a b-b-blight on this community.’ He took a deep breath, tried to slow his stutter. ‘And you’re not ruining my lessons for a moment longer.’”

Mr. Vern’s rant foreshadows the attack of the Frendo killers on the teens’ barn party later in the novel. His breakdown unfolds in an almost theatrical monologue, highlighting the simmering resentment adults feel toward the town’s youth. An important part of this rant is his strained use of the word “blight,” which calls attention to the word. Sheriff Dunne will use the same word later on, describing Cole’s generation as a “blighted crop.” The shared language points to a collective ideology, revealing how community authority figures frame the teens as a disease that must be excised. Mr. Vern’s spite for teenagers makes him an obvious candidate for the identity of the Frendo killer when the attack begins.

“‘I made a mistake,’ Cole said, voice soft. ‘I fucked up. But in my defense, the factory’s been boarded up too long and all it was doing was sitting around and slowly rotting. It was a stupid reminder of the way things used to be. I’m not sad it’s gone.’”

Cole explains his motivations for burning down the Baypen factory, which shows his developing capacity for nuance. He understands that what he did was a criminal offense, but also defends that he resents the idealization of the past. His use of the word “rotting” transforms the factory into a metaphor for decay, suggesting that nostalgia itself can become toxic. This drives his tension with the older generations of Kettle Springs and underscores Weaponizing the Generational Divide as a theme. By saying he’s “not sad it’s gone,” Cole directly challenges the town’s reverence for tradition and reveals a generational rift in how the future is imagined.

“‘There’s so many people—and Mr. Vern’s the least of them—trying to shut us up, trying to make us who they want us to be. Trying to tape our mouths shut and tie us in bubble wrap.’

‘But for one night we’re going to say fuck ‘em,’ Cole said, picking up the energy. ‘We’re going to do it where nobody’s around to stop us. Out in the corn, drink and smoke and do—’

‘All the things that make Kettle Springs great,’ Ronnie added.”

The teens assert that their right to do what they want and be who they are is the thing that makes Kettle Springs a great place to live. The image of being “tied in bubble wrap” is a metaphor for suffocating protection disguised as care, emphasizing how the adults’ desire for safety crosses into control. Cesare uses the teens’ defiance of the older generations to ground his story in the trappings of the young adult genre. When the novel shifts genres later on and becomes a slasher novel, the clash between the two generations’ worldviews becomes existential. The question of what makes Kettle Springs great will depend on who survives the night of the barnyard massacre.

“And in that moment of stillness, Quinn saw it: the glass of the door was like a magic mirror out of a movie. On one side there were yellowed newspaper clippings about giant pumpkin pies made from giant blue-ribbon-winning pumpkins, little old ladies wearing kitty sweaters they’d knit themselves, and over that delicate small town, the huge, aged sheriff protecting law and order. On the other side—in what seemed like a different dimension—there were the kids with their iPhones, taking in the world through electric eyes a gigabyte at a time, there were boys in V-necks and girls in boy shorts, and that world was led by Janet, a vision Norman Rockwell never painted, black hair perfect, dressed in pink to match her nails, looking like a new stick of bubble gum.”

In this passage, Cesare creates a tableau that encapsulates Weaponizing the Generational Divide as a theme. The “magic mirror” acts as a literal and symbolic threshold between two visions of Kettle Springs—one steeped in nostalgia and the other vibrating with modernity. Cesare underscores the clash between the two generations’ cultures. The past is represented through newspaper clippings, which have yellowed and frayed over time. The future is represented by the teens’ bright and unapologetic embrace of new fashions and technologies. Cesare’s use of visual contrast—“delicate” versus “electric,” “aged” versus “new stick of bubble gum”—underscores the sense that both sides view each other as fundamentally alien. These cultures are effectively at stake in the conflict between the teens and the adults.

“‘But you know what has made it here?’

[…]

Glenn Maybrook kept his impish smile, turned the flyer around to her, and spread its headline wide.

The paper read:

‘Make Kettle Springs Great Again’”

Cesare drives the political undertones of his story by making an allusion to American President Donald Trump. Glenn acknowledges the slogan as an outside influence, suggesting that it came to Kettle Springs. This escalates the story from a simple young adult thriller to an allegory about the state of the nation and how the culture wars between the political right and left have penetrated small-town America.

“What I personally think is that we are looking at a situation where what’s legal and what’s right are two separate things. And I’ve expressed this to some of you, but I think that there may soon come a time when the powers of law don’t go far enough to keep Kettle Springs the town we know and love. But we’re all coming together as a community to say a firm ‘no’ to this kind of behavior.”

Dunne argues that there is a distinction between moral good and legal good, which is his way of galvanizing the Kettle Springs Improvement Society to act outside the law in order to fulfill their shared objectives. While this undermines his authority as a sheriff, he later explains that he wanted his peers in the Society to think it was their idea to wipe out Kettle Springs’ teen population. This is how Dunne evades responsibility for his actions while convincing others to do his bidding.

“Frendo’s an invention […] Clowns were fun then. I don’t know if Granddad also came up with the story afterward, about the Depression and founding the town, but people believe what they want to believe. Because it’s like Baypen and Kettle Springs are the same thing.”

As a symbol, Frendo represents the idealized past of Kettle Springs. In this passage, Cole admits that the historical narrative built around Frendo is a false one, convincing the older generation that things were better when they were young. In fact, Frendo’s prominence at the Founder’s Day celebration has overshadowed any real historical figures that led to the founding of Kettle Springs. Instead, the inception of the town has become inextricable from its industrial past.

“Goddamn it. Tucker’s heart was racing. As much as Tucker loved pranking an unsuspecting dweeb, he hated to be scared himself.”

Cesare deploys dramatic irony to undermine the teenagers as the novel shifts genres. Tucker reacts to the presence of Frendo with the misguided belief that someone is playing a prank on him. The novel relies on the reader’s knowledge that the killer has taken the form of Frendo to increase the tension around Tucker. This tension will carry on as the Frendo killer moves closer to the barn party.

“‘Does it really make everything better?’ Quinn asked, still in the afterglow of the adrenaline, nausea, and fear. ‘A little drop of Baypen?’

[…]

‘Corn syrup’s just sugar. So at least it makes everything taste better,’ Cole told her, but then he paused to think about it. ‘But it sure as hell isn’t better for you.’”

Much like the false historical narrative around Frendo, the popular concept of Kettle Springs’ key industry is defined by its jingle, a cultural byproduct that undermines the reality of the Baypen product. Cole reveals that corn syrup’s key ingredient isn’t even corn, suggesting that the Kettle Springs can thrive without its reliance on its previous economic provider. He emphasizes this point by correcting the jingle’s assertion that corn syrup is better “for” people.

“‘I’m not some gun nut,’ Rust continued. ‘I don’t have any bump stocks or semi-automatic weapons. I’m not sitting in my basement with a bowie knife, carving rounds into cop killers. I eat what I hunt. I think if you’re going to eat meat, you should know where it comes from and what you’re taking from the world.’”

In this passage, Rust distances himself from the stereotype associated with his hobbies. This reflects his awareness of the social dynamics that cause him to be seen as an outsider by peers like Cole. Quinn’s discomfort around the idea of guns and killing pushes her to take a stance against him, furthering Rust’s ostracism. This emphasizes The Challenges of Being an Outsider as a theme.

“He would not worry. He couldn’t worry. He had to let Quinn have a life. That was the whole point of coming here. This was a nice, small town. People here took care of each other. Bad things didn’t happen in Kettle Springs. Nothing happened in Kettle Springs.”

Glenn underestimates Kettle Springs as an uneventful place, one where he and Quinn can recuperate from the social pressure of living in a big city like Philadelphia. Ironically, the opposite is true as the Maybrooks arrive at a flashpoint in the town’s history. This irony represents Cesare’s commentary on the political activity that occurs in even the smallest communities. It is wrong to say that nothing is really happening anywhere in the world.

“‘We know you want to be a hero, but you have to be reasonable. We could get out of this alive,’ Ronnie said, backing up her boyfriend. She crept a step closer to Cole, Matt matching her, the two of them surrounding him. ‘You remember a few years ago? You said we’d all be running this town one day. Well, we can’t if we’re dead.’”

Cole’s biggest weakness is his savior complex, which drives him to sacrifice himself for others without considering the cost of that sacrifice. In the context of Matt and Ronnie’s allegiance to the Frendo killers, this passage shows Ronnie and Matt exploit Cole’s memories and idealism, showing how emotional manipulation becomes a tactical weapon. Their appeal is not just pragmatic—it is personal, tapping into Cole’s need to protect and belong. This moment blurs the line between loyalty and coercion, reinforcing the danger of unresolved trauma.

“They were woke. To a point. Well, woke-er than their parents. And by the time she got to high school, if not well before that, Janet considered herself one of them. For better or worse, Kettle Springs was her home, was her town, was now where she was from, fucker.

And so, it was not acceptable that her people, her friends, her classmates, were running straight into a trap while she could do something about it. This was her party. They were her guests. She couldn’t allow it. And she had the will and the firepower to stop it.”

The character of Janet proves that it is possible for an outsider to successfully integrate into a town like Kettle Springs and form an emotional attachment to it as her home. In this passage, Cesare explicates her motivations for warning the teens about the other Frendo killers, which has less to do with her survival instinct and more to do with her attachment. To work towards her peers’ survival is to assert the value of that connection to her life, resolving The Challenges of Being an Outsider.

“That death had meant something. Had fundamentally changed who Quinn Maybrook was.

But this death…

Quinn didn’t know what she expected to feel, having taken a human life—even a life that had ended while doing a horribly evil thing.”

This passage represents a turning point in Quinn’s character arc. Cesare employs a contrast to distinguish Quinn’s experience of her first kill from the process that led to her mother’s death. The death of Quinn’s mother is so impactful partly because of the time it takes for her to process it and decide that she wants to avoid similar trauma. Mr. Vern’s death, on the other hand, leaves no time for Quinn to figure out how she can avoid processing the experience. This drives the theme of Learning to Deal with Insecurity as it forces Quinn to engage with trauma, rather than avoid it once again. The emotional dissonance she feels highlights how violence transforms victims into reluctant survivors, complicating any clear moral resolution. Her numbness signals the raw immediacy of trauma.

“‘This is insane. People are dead!’ Cole protested. ‘And they’re still out there; the clowns are still out there killing people!’

With that, the sheriff snapped. He grabbed Cole by the neck with one hand, and bent Cole’s wrist behind his back with the other. ‘Yeah, people are dead. Your mama, your sister. People seem to die when you’re around, Hill. And I’ve had about enough.’”

This passage foreshadows Dunne’s true allegiances shortly before they are revealed. When Cole tries to warn him about the Frendo killings, Dunne responds by showing his bias against the teenager. He names Cole’s mother among the dead, as if to blame Cole for her inclusion, even though her death is revealed to have been the result of illness. This suggests his view that Cole is responsible for the overall decline of the town. By twisting tragedy into accusation, Dunne reveals the scapegoating at the heart of his ideology. His violence is about erasing anything that threatens the old order.

“Cole Hill had always kept his hair a little longer than the squares had.

Growing up, it wasn’t that he disliked the town’s population of farmhands and altar boys. Or that he thought he was better than them because his family had money.

No. A buzz cut simply wasn’t his style. Even from a young age, Cole knew he was different.”

This passage characterizes Cole as an outsider, someone who deviates from the behavior expected of people from his walk of life. This has less to do with spite than it does with personal style, which underlines the fact that Cole’s preferences are what Dunne and his ilk take offense to. This emphasizes The Challenges of Being an Outsider as a theme.

“[T]hat could have been us. If we didn’t choose the right side of history. They’ll make it worth it, though.”

Ronnie justifies her and Matt’s allegiance to the Frendo killers by reminding Matt that they are on the “right side of history.” This demonstrates how Dunne’s strategy of propaganda and manipulation has an impact outside of his target audience. Ronnie is convinced that committing violence against her “deviant” peers is the only way they can save themselves from becoming one of its victims. This drives the political undertones of the novel.

“‘Way I like to explain it…you and your friends are a blighted crop.’ He motioned out the window, into the darkness of the cornfields to either side of them. ‘That’s why we didn’t have a choice. If a farmer has fungus or beetles or any other scourge, it spreads if you don’t take steps to eliminate it. Cut and cull. Root out the problem. Burn the whole harvest if you have to, lose the crop to save the land. Then let the field lie fallow for a couple seasons.’”

This passage encapsulates Dunne’s ideology, which compares the youth of Kettle Springs to a “blighted crop.” In this analogy, the adults consider the youth rotten when the youth act against their expectations, making it necessary for the adults to expunge them for the sake of the entire crop. Dunne’s analogy presumes that the youth are only valuable for their capacity to return a certain yield to the older generations of the town. The alternative view, which Cole and his peers espouse, is that they are valuable because they exist and can live freely in a place like Kettle Springs.

“‘If it makes you feel any better, think of yourself as a phoenix. Your death becomes a rebirth. Baypen reopened. Kettle Springs saved.’

‘Frendo wins,’ Cole said softly.

‘Frendo wins. And a little drop of Baypen makes everything better.’”

Dunne makes a false equivocation between the destruction of Cole and the revival of the town, believing that the town depends on the culling of the “blighted crop.” What Cole points out is that his death benefits no one but the old industrial forces that used to control the town, like Baypen. Nothing actually suggests that the quality of life in town will actually get better if Cole is killed. Dunne’s invocation of the phoenix myth grotesquely distorts the idea of rebirth, masking corporate resurrection as communal healing. Cole’s quiet reply exposes the hollowness of that vision, a future built on bloodshed and lies.