HANGING

WITH MY
PEEPS
KATHERINE HIGGS
COULTHARD

CONTENTS
Untitled
Dedication
Acknowledgments
1. Which Came First?
2. Empty Nest Syndrome
3. Birds of a Feather
4. You Gotta Crack a Few
5. Nobody Here But Us Chickens
6. Scrambled
7. Fine Feathered Friends
8. Coming Home to Roost
9. Over Easy

10. You Cant Judge an Egg By Its Shell

11. Something to Crow About
12. When Life Sucks Eggs
13. One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest
14. Dont Count Your Chicks Before They
Hatch
15. The Schwarzenchicken Family
Reunion
16. Fly Away Home
17. Pollos Locos
18. Tastes Like Chicken
19. No Guts, No Glory
20. Martas Crazy Chicken Soup
21. Sunny Side Up

About the Author

Hanging with My Peeps

By Katherine Higgs-Coulthard
Published by Clean Reads
www.cleanreads.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places,
characters, and events are fictitious in
every regard. Any similarities to actual
events and persons, living or dead, are
purely coincidental. Any trademarks,
service marks, product names, or named
features are assumed to be the property
of their respective owners, and are used
only for reference. There is no implied

endorsement if any of these terms are

used. Except for review purposes, the
reproduction of this book in whole or
part, electronically or mechanically,
constitutes a copyright violation.
HANGING WITH MY PEEPS
Copyright 2016 KATHERINE
HIGGS-COULTHARD
ISBN 978-1-62135-487-1
Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGN
STUDIO

To Christopher, Katie, Laura, and

Hannah, who understood when their
mom was writing and to Charles who
blocked the door when they didnt.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A book is a lot like great chicken soup.

There are many places in the making
where it can go awry. Id like to thank
the many people who helped me keep

this story on track.

Adam Hickey and his family for
planting the story seed with their own
chicken adventures. Kelly Imus, for
inviting me into her classroom to hold
baby chicks and learn about incubating
them.
Stephen Roxburgh, whose insightful
critique led to substantial changes and
fewer rings.
My fellow writers
The Hoosier Writing Project,
especially Erica Vitale, Mary Nicolini,
and Linda Brookshire.
SCBWI-Michigan,
especially

Cynthia Furlong Reynolds, Ruth

McNally Barshaw, Tracy Bilen, and
Shutta Crum.
Red Pontoon Writers Group--Laura
Livrone, Chris Judson, and Caelea
Armstrong, who listened to draft after
draft in coffee shop after coffee shop.
Mary Ann Moore, Judy Roth, Doris
Holik Kelly, and Diane Sutton who read
the entire manuscript.
April Pulley Sayre, Karyn Bonfiglio,
Megan Jessop, and Alexa Kaufhold, who
provided support and encouragement.
Barb Shoup, whose mentorship and
friendship made a huge difference at a

critical time.
The teachers and young authors at
Michiana Writers Center who spend
their summers writing with me.
My family
My father, who showed me how to
work hard and get things done.
My brother, who taught me early in
life to see the ridiculousness in the
everyday.
Christopher, whose sense of humor
informs all my work.
Katie, whose tenaciousness helps me
see that working hard pays off.
Laura, whose editorial skills and

creativity have rescued early drafts from

the recycling bin.
Hannah, whose playful attitude and
tight hugs gave me energy to write
through discouragement.
My husband, who created space and
time for me to write.
And finally, to my mother, who first
called me a writer.

WHICH CAME FIRST?

B efore Dads rust-bucket lurched into

the driveway with forty-three chickens

in the back, the closest Id ever come to
poultry was licking the grease off my

fingers at the local KFC. I knew nothing

about the care and feeding of the things,
or how a few yards of wire would
transform our suburban backyard into a
poultry paradise. I did know this:
Whenever Dad yelled for one of us kids
to bring the wheelbarrow, it signaled the
start of one of his wacko money making
schemes.
Hed had a lot of those since Del-Co
closed their RV plant. Just last month he
and Shane built some contraption
designed to transform crabapples into a
cheap fuel alternative. Unfortunately for
Dadand one of Uncle Ricks dirt bikes

distilled crabapple juice is ubersticky. Plus, it wont power anything

other than a tricycle, and thats only if
the toddler on it peddles like mad to get
away from the swarm of killer bees
attracted by the perfume of crushed
apples.
So, when Shane appeared out there
with the wheelbarrow, I figured it was
safe to go back to my homework. But
Dad screamed, Sami! and a chicken
thwacked against the window. I raced
out onto the driveway and watched Dad
run around the driveway chasing a flock
of flapping freaks that apparently had

never been informed that...CHICKENS.

DONT. FLY.
Shane managed to help Dad corner a
few chickens between the truck and the
house. Dad grabbed one by its scrawny
legs and strong-armed it back into the
wooden crate in the bed of his truck,
slamming down the lid. Sweat dripped
from Dads forehead. He wiped his
hands on his pants and faced the other
escapees just as a spotted brown chicken
tried to make a break for it. It dashed
between Dads legs, headed straight for
the road.
Its gonna get hit! Shane yelled.

Forget getting hitif that chicken

made it to the street, anyone who
happened to be driving by could see it.
And me. It was hard enough to fit in at
my new school without being
permanently branded Chicken Girl. I
flung myself at the chicken. For a second
all I felt was air and then my hands
closed around a squawking pile of
feathers. I slammed into the ground,
clutching the chicken to my chest.
Way to go, Sami! Shane yelled.
Atta girl, Dad said, helping me to
my feet.
Headlights crested the hill on Adams

Road. I ducked behind Dads truck and

let out a sigh. Disaster averted.
But the headlights didnt pass on by.
They slowed and Moms old slug bug
swung into the driveway with a little
toot, spooking the chicken I held into
clawing the crap out of my arm. The
escapees saw their chance and swarmed
past Dad, headed for the road. Moms
car skidded to a stop, just missing the
leader. I couldnt hear what Mom was
yelling from the other side of her rolled
up window, but I could sure see the Icannot-believe-this look on her face.
I took a few steps in her direction

but Shane rushed by pursuing a chicken

and I thought maybe that look on Moms
face would come off quicker if I helped
fix the chicken mess. I ignored the pain
in my arm and chased after the nearest
chicken. They were quick and smart, too.
Just when Id get close enough to grab
one, it would rush right at me.
Dont run from itgrab it! Shane
yelled. Easy for him to say, hed never
been gored by a chicken.
Since I pretty much sucked at
catching chickens I herded them toward
Dad and Shane. They caught the chickens
by their tail feathers, took hold of their

legs and flipped them upside down. The

chickens
stopped
flapping
and
squawking as soon as they were flipped.
Like they knew there was nothing else
they could do, so they might as well give
up.
When all the chickens were penned,
Shane high-fived me and Dad. Mom cut
our celebration short with a car door
slam. Go wash up for dinner, she said.
I hesitated, but Moms tone kicked
me into gear. As I headed up the back
steps she asked Dad where he got the
money to buy chickens. She yelled over
his, Dont worry, Ill put it back, to

ask how was she supposed to pay the

electric bill or buy groceries. Gone was
the super-supportive wife she had been
when he first lost his joball, Its not
your fault they closed the factory,
honey, and Kids, dont tease your dad
about his projects. He needs a hobby to
keep him positive and upbeat.
I guess emptying the bank account to
buy forty-three squawking chickens fell
outside even Moms definition of a
hobby.

It was nearly dark when all the

hammering out back stopped and Shane

and Dad came in. Dad plopped down on
the couch next to me and ruffled my hair,
like I was five or something. He eyed the
monster alien bandages Id plastered
over the chicken scratches. Sorry about
that. Wanna come out and see the coop
we built?
I glanced at Mom for help. She
expertly avoided looking at me. Um,
sure, I said.
As Dad and I went out the back door
I could see the outline of some busted up
boards tacked onto the side of the garage
with chicken wire. Calling that a coop

was a stretch.
Dad lifted a corner of the low roof. I
stood on my tiptoes to peek inside.
Eighty-six beady eyes stared back at me.
Arent they crowded?
Dad shrugged. They like to stay
close together to keep warm.
A shelf ran three quarters of the way
around the top of the wall. Spaced at
regular intervals were shallow bowled
indentations. Whats that for?
For laying.
Were gonna have eggs? When?
Dad fluffed up like a proud parent.
Any day.

Um, wheres the rooster? I didnt

want to burst Dads bubble, but perhaps
he missed a few vital points in health
class.
Turns out, you dont need one
unless you want chicks.
Dad rambled on about how the hens
were going to lay a bazillion eggs and
hed sell them to area restaurants and
grocery stores who would be thankful
not to have to truck in eggs from far
away farms.
Maybe this plan wasnt as bad as all
the rest. It sorta kinda sounded like it
might work. That, and it could possibly

be the beginning of a loophole in Dads

'no pet' policy. If Dad let us have
chickens, a cat wouldnt be that much of
a stretch.

No

pancakes today? I asked, thinking

how great it would be if Moms
breakfast-is-the-most-important-mealof-the-day jag had ended.
Shane either ignored me or was in
some kind of sugar coma. Crumpled
toaster pastry wrappers littered the
couch and he stared unblinking at an
episode of Star Trek that he had

probably watched a gazillion and fifty

times.
Mom up?
Shane grunted. Or maybe that was
Klingon slang. Whatever.
I eyed the toaster pastries. Triple hot
fudge sundae. Ugh.
Truth be told, I had gotten kind of
used to a warm breakfast. I checked the
freezer, hoping for a frozen breakfast
sandwich or even a strudel, but only
found a nearly empty bag of ravioli
sitting in a puddle of half-melted freezer
snow. Freezer broke? Shane ignored
me. I couldve sworn there was food in

there yesterday.
I glanced down at the wall. The cord
to the freezer lay unplugged on the
linoleum. I bent down to reconnect it, but
stopped when I saw a small piece of
tape across the outlet with the word
NO! scribbled in black marker.
We cant use the plug?
Another grunt.
There had to be something edible in
the fridge, even if it was lukewarm. I
opened the door.
Shut the door.
Opened the door again.
Empty. The whole thing was empty. I

slammed the door. Whered the food

go? No response. Shane! Whered the
food go?
He came over and I opened the door
to show him the empty shelves. Huh,
he said. That explains this.
He pushed the fridges door shut and
tapped a DO NOT OPEN sign. And you
think youre the smart one.
The sign was not that obvious. Dad
had scrawled it on white paper, which
was completely invisible among the blue
school lunch menus, yellow report
cards, and pink shopping lists.
Okay, so it was on top.

And kind of big.

Okay, genius, what am I supposed
to eat?
He handed me his half-eaten toaster
pastry.
I bounced it off his chest. For a
second I thought he might whip it back at
me, but he gave me his youre-notworth-it glare and headed back to Planet
Klingon. Want a toaster pastry,
Fluffykins? he muttered.
Fluffykins? It was bad enough the
kid talked to himself, but now he had his
own pet name? That kid had some
serious issues.

I scrounged through the cupboard

until I found a box of cereal. Not great,
but portable. I grabbed my bag and
headed for the door, but tripped over...a
chicken.
Shane!
Shane flew off the couch and
scooped up the chicken. Watch where
youre going! You almost flattened
Fluffykins!
Those things tried to claw me to
death last night. If Mom sees that thing in
the house, shes gonna blow a gasket.
He waved his hand at me, all yeah,
yeah.

Whatever. Not my problem.

As I stepped outside, the sun popped
over the crest of Adams Road. Leftover
rain clung to the grass and soaked my
shoes before I made it to the relatively
dry path at the edge of the woods. Even
though subdivisions like Forest Hills,
Deer Forest, and Forest Glen had
devoured every cornfield, cow pasture,
and real forest within ten miles of
downtown South Bend, this little patch
of trees somehow survived. It still had
the feel of the bigger forest and when
Dom and I were kids, these woods had
been our personal Terabithia. Remnants

of our adventures remained if you knew

where to looka long neglected fort
high in a sugar maple, a half-buried pile
of glitter-crusted pinecones that wed
called ornaments and tried to sell door
to door one Christmas.
Man-oh-man, I missed Dom. I
couldnt say exactly why we stopped
being best friends, but I was pretty sure
it was my training bras fault. The day I
started wearing that thing everything got
all...awkward.
Like at the Halloween party in fifth
grade where we were all rocking out to
the Monster Mash only to have the music

slow and turn all mushy. I had put my

arms around Doms neck like everyone
else was doing, but Doms face went all
red and he ran off the dance floor.
Even neighborhood games of
football werent safe anymore. It wasnt
bad until the day his team was down,
twenty-one to zip. Id caught a long pass
and was running head down and blind
with desire to make it to the goal line,
when something plowed into me
knocking me to the ground and crushing
me face-first into the hard, dry grass. Id
struggled to roll over only to find Dom
sitting on my chest looking at me like I

was some especially slimy species of

slug. What? Id said. Dom just stared
at me though until one of the other guys
said, Youre supposed to tackle her, not
kiss her. Red flares streaked Doms
cheeks. He didnt speak to me for days.
Like it was my fault he lost the game.
Wed eventually started talking again,
but it never got back to how it was
before that tackle.
Whatever the reason, as we grew up,
so did the bramble and blackberry
between our houses.
Hey, Dom said as soon as I
emerged from the woods. I heyed him

back. He passed me the basketball and

we took turns making free throws. No,
How you doing? No, What was all
that squawking I heard coming from your
place last night?
Days like today made me think about
getting out the metaphorical hedge
trimmers. The old Dom was the one
person who knew just because my family
was nuts didnt mean I was. He would
understand about the chickens. I grabbed
the ball on the rebound and just held it.
Your shot, Dom said, without
looking at me.
Yeah, um...

The words were there, ready, just

like theyd always been when we were
kids. If I blurted it all out maybe Dom
would laugh and his laughing would
make me laugh and before long it
wouldnt be so bad that my house was
being invaded by chickens because Id
have a real friend again.
Or.
Dom might not laugh. He might just
look at me like he did that day he tackled
me. And then even this awkward nearfriendship would be shot. And Id have
to start eating my lunch in the bathroom
instead of being one of the invisible

cling-ons at Doms table.

I bounced the ball. Took a shot.
Watched the ball bounce off the rim.
Dom got the rebound and tucked the ball
under his arm as the bus rolled up. See
ya, he said, oblivious to the fact that I
had almost poured my heart out on his
driveway.

See ya, I said. Then I followed

him on the bus and took up my usual
post, two rows behind Dom.
The bus rumbled past the woods and
I held my breath, waiting for someone

probably loudmouthed Beth Eganto

glance toward my house and notice the
ramshackle coop tacked onto our garage
or for Joy to slam on the brakes and
swerve to avoid an impending chickenbus collision. But there was no derisive
laughter, no squealing of brakes. Thank
goodness for small favors.
I dug a book out of my backpack and
pretended to read. In the few short
weeks since school started Id figured
out the next best thing to an invisibility
cloak was a book. Especially one with a
boring looking cover.
I was pretty zoned into my book, so I

didnt notice that the bus had been

stopped longer than usual until Dom
grumbled that we were going to be late
again. The guy next to him shrugged.
Just tell Coach it isnt your fault.
Dom snorted around a mouthful of
greasy potato straws. He doesnt care.
Im already on warning because of her.
I glanced out the window at the back
of Taylor Stattons perfectly coiffed
head. From what I could see it appeared
a tiny Ewok was attached to her face.
Beth Egan made a gagging noise and
said, Oh my word, is she making out
with that thing?

The chorus of Ewws ended

abruptly when Taylor Statton climbed
onto the bus. While we were used to
waiting...and waiting...and waiting for
Taylor to finish whatever little task she
deemed more important than boarding
the bus each morning, making us all wait
while she kissed her furry little purse
dogs good-bye was an all-time low. Just
once I wished Joy would drive off and
leave Taylor like she would if any of us
pulled that crap.
Still, as soon as Taylor got on, Beth
(whod just accused Taylor of Frenchkissing her dog) called out, What a cute

little puppy-wuppy, and the bus erupted

with Awws.
Whatever.
Dom glared at her. Usually he
ignored Taylors antics, which was hard
because Taylor and her cliquey Pops
went around like they were part of some
teen movie productiontalking in stupid
stage voices as if we, their captive
audience, longed to hear every word.
But this whole week Taylor had been
taking pot-shots at South Bendher way
of reminding everyone that she was from
some tiara-wearing, frapp-drinking
suburb of Chicago. And today she

waved off the doggie discussion and

announced that the whole town stunk.
Her little group giggled. One of them
said, Somebodys gym gear?
No Taylor countered. not the
bus. The town. It positively reeks. Dont
you smell it?
Wed only had the chickens one day,
but forty-three chickens would produce a
lot of poop. Maybe she smelled it
already.
Is it the river? another Pop spoke
up.
Taylor pinned her with the look she
usually reserved for non-Pops. You

dont smell it? Well, I guess when you

breathe stink your whole life...
Dog food plant, Dom muttered
from his seat. And it doesnt stink that
bad.
Taylor spun around in her seat.
What? You like that smell? She made
a show of sniffing the air, like the smell
might be coming from him.
Dom blinked at her, as if she didnt
faze him one bit, but the tips of his ears
turned bright red and a flush crept from
his collar to his cheeks. The guy next to
him leaned away, as if trying to
physically distance himself from the

giant bulls eye that had appeared on

Dom. Before I could stop myself I
blurted out, His dad works there. So
what? Dom doesnt stink.
Taylor hooted. Your dad works
there? She went on to say more, but all
I heard was the deafening silence
coming from Dom as his glare shifted
from her to me.
I ran my hand over the cover of my
book wishing more than anything that it
would open and swallow me whole.

EMPTY NEST SYNDROME

C ome on, Shane. You cant be sick

every Saturday. Get up.
My stomach hurts, Shane whined. I
rolled my eyes. Last week it was his

throat and before that his elbow. I dont

know why he bothered, no way was
Mom going to let him stay home and play
video games.
I was already dressed and
rummaging through the small cooler next
to the fridge. Not much in there: half
gallon of milk, two tomatoes, a head of
lettuce, some margarine, and a bag of
shredded co-jack. Still no breakfast
sandwiches, but at least I wouldnt be
eating my cereal dry. I poured a bowl
and sat cross-legged on the couch,
waiting for the Mom-Shane saga to play
out.

I loved Saturdays. That was kind of

required in South Bend, especially in the
fall when the glare off Notre Dames
Golden Dome outshone the sun. But it
wasnt tailgating I looked forward to.
We never went. Instead, while
everybody else loaded up coolers and
blue and gold bean bags and headed off
to the stadium to enjoy endless hours
playing corn hole, our Saturdays were
spent at St. Matthews Shelter for the
Disadvantaged.
Shane hated it, especially when
hours of sanding loomed over him. Why
cant they paint their own fence? he

griped. Mom ignored that and told him

he better be in the car in fifteen.
We arrived in the lot to find Gene,
St. Matts director, pulling paint cans out
of his trunk.
Thats a lot of paint, Dad said. He
grabbed a gallon and tossed it to Shane,
who caught it with an, Oomph. Dad
grabbed two more gallons and headed
toward the centers back gate.
Mom went over and inspected a can.
Eggplant?
Hills gave us a great deal on last
years colorsit was this or olive.
I didnt know why the color

mattered. The fence wasnt even visible

from the road. Mom shook her head,
though, like it did matter and hurried off,
lugging two cans of her own. Gene and I
followed with the rest. I added mine to
the pile out back where Mom was
already barking orders at Dad and
Shane. I flipped Shane a have fun smile
and slipped in through St. Matts back
door.
I headed for the great room. We
called it the PLSPositive Living
Space. The room itself glowed
sunflower yellow. An entire wall of
shelves overflowed with books and

games. A tower of cardboard bricks

loomed over several children as they
stacked on still more. Several adults
lounged in the room, reading, watching
TV, playing cards. A few women
glanced up from their euchre game to
give me a wave. I waved back and
headed toward them, but Val called out
to me from behind the front desk.
Got a new one, she said, meaning
a new old person. She knew I liked to
play cards and stuff with the older
guests. In the chair there. I dont think
she speaks English. Keeps asking for
Tom somebody.

Welcome to the American Dream.

Happened a lot, though. Sometimes
immigrants made it across the border
and all the way up to Indiana, only to
find themselves homeless and separated
from their family. Other families brought
over loved ones then dumped them off at
St. Matt's when they became too much to
care for.
I found the new lady right where Val
said. She rocked slowly in the padded
rocker next to the window. I watched her
from the doorway, amazed by the nimble
way her crooked hands worked a pair of
knitting needles while her eyes stared

blankly at the wall.

Excuse me? I touched her gently
on her arm. What are you making?
Her needles paused mid-knit (or
possibly mid-purl) and she gazed up at
me with big, rheumy eyes that seemed to
dawn with recognition. Susie! she
cried.
Before my brain could properly
label her crazy and tell my feet to bolt,
she transferred her knitting to one hand
and latched onto me with the other. She
nearly yanked me off my feet using me as
ballast to hoist herself from the rocking
chair. Her gnarled hand gripped my arm

and she dragged me toward the front

door, rambling on and on in what only
vaguely resembled the Spanish I had
learned so far in school. I dug in my
heels and tried to pry myself free, but
that woman had a grip. Val? I called,
hoping shed catch the I-dont-want-tobe-rude-but-this-wackos-about-toabduct-me urgency in my voice.
Val came around from the desk.
Marta, no esta Susie, she said. Val
knew about as much Spanish as I did, but
she always seemed to pull out the words
and assemble them quicker than me. She
gently pried me free of Martas grasp

and led the woman back to her chair.

Marta sat down, asking for Tom.
Whos this Tom? I asked.
Shes been saying that all week,
Val told me. Nobody knows.
Oh. I wasnt sure what to say. I
didnt want the woman to grab me again,
so when Val went back to her desk I
went over to ask the kids about their
Leaning Tower of Pisa. They got all
excited about the new opportunities for
expansion my height represented and
handed me blocks to put on the top. It
didnt take long until I found myself
balanced precariously with one foot on

the bookshelf, the other atop a chair,

stretching to add even more blocks.
Sami? Alice called from the
kitchen, Its time to make the lunches.
Aww, a few kids groaned. I put
another block on top of their tower and
told them Id try to come back later.
Alices daughter already had most of
the supplies laid out on the table. Even
though wed been making the work
crews lunches together for months, I
still didnt know her name. I dont think
she knew mine either. She was a headdown kind of girl, about my age but
because she seldom spoke, she came off

as a few years older.

Watching her lay out the bread youd
think it was torture. I liked it though. I
knew the lunches werent going to the
men we passed every day on street
corners holding signs that claimed they
would work for food. Still, without the
job-share grant Mom wrote for St. Matt's
and the lunches I made, there would be
even more people out there holding
signs.
I always smuggled something extra
into each lunch, like mints or gum. This
week I had mustard packets that I
swiped from the school cafeteria.

Alices daughter teased me when I

pulled them out of my pocket, but we
both knew how much something small
could mean. She helped me stuff them
into the bags and fold over the tops.
Mom came out as we loaded the
lunches into the back seat of her bug.
Want to ride along? she asked. I
nodded.
She drove back through downtown,
past the library and the office buildings
and Chase Bank with the sun glaring off
its glass windows. The first time I heard
the word skyscraper in school I
thought of Chase Bank, whose twenty-

five stories qualified it as the tallest

building in South Bend. Dad laughed and
said, We gotta take this kid to a real
city.
We found the St. Matt's van by the
river, along the East Race. Several of the
men leaned over the water with long
poles, scooping algae-covered garbage
from the salmon run. Mom hauled the
lunches out of the car and waved at
Gene, whod driven the work crew
down. He put down his pole and came
over.
Thank you, ladies. Thisll be just
what our fellas need to get the job

done. He always said corny stuff like

that. Howre you, Samantha? Want to
pass these out? Fellas! Look what these
beautiful young ladies brought us.
The men lined up and I handed out
the sacks. Although I didnt know any of
them well, I could always tell when a
new guy joined the crew by the way he
hung toward the back and didnt look
right at me as he came up to grab a
lunch. Today the new guy seemed a little
familiar. How are you? I asked, same
as I did every time I met someone new.
He startled me by meeting my eye.
Doing okay, Sami. Thank you. He

hesitated as if reconsidering his answer,

then nodded at Mom.
Larry, she said with her own nod
back.
The man walked over to the edge of
the race where the rest of the crew sat,
their legs dangling down toward the
swirling water.
In the car I asked Mom how he knew
us. She glanced out the window, then at
me. Used to work with your dad.
Now I remembered. He was the guy
that always bought something from our
school fundraisers. He used to give all
us factory kids coupons for free frosties

at Christmas.
And all Id given him was a mustard
packet.

Mom spent most of the weekend

pretending not to watch Dads chickens.
Every once in a while, Id look up from
what I was doing and catch Mom staring
out the window over the sink, her hands
still in the dishwater. As soon as Dad
walked in she went back to scrubbing.
Dad winked at me all see-your-momllcome-around, but I wasnt so sure. Her
watching seemed more like sizing up

as in, what size would the box have to

be if she packed all those chickens up
and shipped them off to Uncle Rich. Or
Timbuktu.
The chickens were more interesting
than most of Dads other experiments. I
liked to watch Shane feed them
although Id never admit that to anyone.
Talk about a feeding-frenzy! When Shane
poured grain into the chickens bowl
those birds attacked that feed like a pack
of hungry sharks, minus the teeth.
On Sunday afternoon Shane went to
muck out the coop and came back in
yelling that the chickens were gone.

All of them? I asked.

Well, not Fluffykins. Although
Fluffykins had been banished from the
house the second Mom came home to
find her favorite pillow plucked to
death, that chicken had developed some
weird attachment to Shane.
What do you mean, theyre gone?
Mom asked from the laundry room.
As in not there. Missing.
Oh crap. I could just see it nowall
the chickens flapping across the road
just waiting for Taylor to drive by on her
way to queen of the world lessons.
Well, how in the world... Mom

slammed the dryer door and came out

with the towel shed been folding still in
her hand. Wheres your dad?
Somebody call me? Dad emerged
from the bathroom with drippy wet
hands. Mom held the towel out to him
and, when his hands were properly dry,
told him the chickens were gone.
Ftt, Dad said, which translated
roughly to, I must see this for myself.
We followed Shane out to the coop
and confirmed that Fluffykins now had
the coop to herself. Whered your
sisters go? Shane asked her. She stared
back at him all I-dont-know-now-hand-

over-the-cereal.
Crap. Crap. Crap. What if the whole
flock of them was waging a cluck-in in
our front yard? Any second a neighbor
would drive by andI ran out front. A
car honked and I braced myself for the
crunch of chicken bones under tires, but
there was not one single chicken in sight.
The car slowed and Mrs. Underdown
leaned out the window to wave at me.
Everything all right, Samantha?
Oh, yeah, Ium... I plastered a
fake smile all over my face. Lost a
button.
Want a hand? Im great at finding

things. She popped the car in park right

there on Adams Road.
Oh, I think I see it! I yelled before
she could open the door. I stooped to
pluck an imaginary button from the
gravel. Got it! Thanks. I hightailed it
toward the backyard, waving over my
shoulder so Mrs. Underdown would go
on home before one of Fluffykins sisters
appeared.
Dad waddled around on bent legs,
clucking and looking under the vehicles
in the driveway. Mom took off toward
the woods calling, Here, chickie,
chickie, like they were cats or

something.
No sign of them in the backyard.
Shane walked along the huge hedge that
separated our house from Deer Forest,
parting the bush every few feet and
peering in as if he expected to find the
hens playing cards in their new secret
hideout.
Out front another car slowed. Mom
yelled a, Thanks, were fine. I cursed
the kindness of neighbors. We had to find
those freaking chickens. The time for
delicacy was through. I grabbed a stick
and started poking it randomly at the
hedge.

Youll hurt them! Shane yelled.

Not as much as they will. I
stopped whacking the bush long enough
for Shane to hear the yappy little dogs on
the other side. He grabbed a stick and
pounded the crap out of the hedge. Not
so much as a indignant squawk.
We regrouped around the empty
coop. Maybe the coyotes got them.
Pat! Mom swatted Dad on the arm.
Dont be scaring the kids with talk of
coyotes.
Kyles dad trapped one last winter
and they just live a few miles away,
Shane said. Mom shot him a look and

Shane shut up.

My point is that maybe something
did get at the chickens, Dad said.
Well, Mom said slowly. Id think
there would be more...evidence. If
something got them.
Dad nodded. Well, maybe they got
impatient, wandered off instead of
waiting for food.
Why? Didnt you feed them this
morning?
Dad shrugged. Overslept.
He pulled the wire away from the
top of the coop so that he could lift its
flap. No eggs, either.

No surprise there. Dad had gone out

every morning before sunrise and lifted
that flap with the same result. No eggs.
He had gone from being perplexed to
ticked off, yelling at the hens that if they
didnt start laying soon, hed fry them all
up for a neighborhood social. Like they
were withholding eggs to spite him.
No biggie. Well just buy some
more. This from Shane, Captain
Oblivious.
I smacked him on the arm. We cant
just buy moreDad used all the money
we had to get these.
Dad kneaded the bridge of his nose

with a thumb and forefinger like he did

that day he had to tell Uncle Rick he
wouldnt be getting his dirt bike back
any time soon. I might have hated the
chickens, but I hated the boy-I-reallyscrewed-up hunch of Dads shoulders
more. I put my hand on his arm. Dad?
He just kept rubbing.
Then it occurred to me that if the
chickens did take off because they were
hungry, they were probably even
hungrier now. I grabbed the bag of grain
and dumped a handful into the feed tray
in the mesh courtyard tacked onto the
outside of the coop. The hungry

squawking of chickens answered the rain

of kernels against the metal basin. We
scanned the yard, but there was no sign
of them. I tossed in another handful and
the squawking grew louder, until the
frenzied chickens spilled out of the coop
and into the courtyard. It was like
watching one of those circus acts where
clown after clown came out of a car way
too small to hold them.
Holy mackerel, Dad said. He
leaned over and flipped open the coops
roof again.Well, Ill be. The rest of us
leaned in to see a hen emerging from a
hay-buried hole at the base of the coop.

Where are they coming from?

Shane asked. Without waiting for an
answer he took off. We followed him
around to the front of the garage.
Dim sunlight filtered through the
windows in the overhead door. Feathers
littered every surface. We gasped at the
overwhelming smell of chicken poop.
Look! Shane pointed to the back
wall where remnants of Dads various
failed projectspaint cans and buckets
full of spare parts, rotary sanders and
electric hand sawslined shelf after
shelf. In between, above and below, all
around, eggs.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

M onday,

during Mrs. Ks moreboring-than-usual talk on how growing

up on the prairie influenced Abraham
Lincolns presidency, my eyes drifted to

the bulletin board by the door.

During the first few weeks of school,
I scanned that board daily with hope it
would offer up the key to fitting in at
Pokagon Middle School. Some place
where I didnt feel like a bent-up third
wheel tacked onto a slick new bicycle.
A flyer for Quiz Bowl offered a ray of
hopeI could put to use all the bits of
trivia absorbed by living in a small
house with a dad who watched game
shows at high volume. Dad went all
ecstatic when I mentioned the upcoming
tryouts. My Samis gonna be on
Jeopardy! Like I could go all Slum Dog

Millionaire just by being in a middle

school trivia league. Whatever. Mom got
it, though. Gave my arm a squeeze and
told me to just be myself. No amount of
being myself helped the fact that I was
the only girl on the team. Or that the
advisor announced in front of everyone
that since they needed more female
influence I didnt even have to try out. I
automatically made the team. I sat there
while all the guys were put to the test
answering questions about quasars and
queens, gametes and gamma rays, all
stuff that amazingly enough had never
come up on any Jeopardy show I had

ever watchedwhile everyone glared at

me for having more X chromosomes than
them. Cant get any more third wheel
than that. I quit.
After that fiasco the board merely
served as a distraction from Mrs. Ks
bumblebee voice. And boy, nothing
cried out for distraction like a lecture on
the Indiana prairie. At first I thought
there was nothing new. Just an old
audition flyer for jazz band someone had
stuck a piece of chewed gum to, Beauty
and the Beast auditions, and tryouts for
lacrosse and pom squad. But then a half
sheet of blue paper in the bottom left

corner caught my eye: NewsCrew.

I tried to imagine what kind of kid
would sign up for NewsCrew. Not the
Taylors of the world, that was for sure
they were strictly pom squad. Not Dom
he was a fringe-jock. Maybe
NewsCrew was exactly the place for
someone like me. In fact, maybe, just
maybe, NewsCrew was the place I
could find a friend.
Meetings
on
Tuesdays
and
Thursdays, after school in the library.
Starting tomorrow.

At lunch Dom nudged me a few times,

offering up those disgusting potato
straws that he kept in his pocket like a
pack of Big League Chew and doing the
whole, Hello? Anybody in there?
routine. His friend, this pasty white kid
that everybody called J-Dawg rapped
some weird song about his geometry
teacher. I tried to pay attention, but my
head swiveled like one of those airport
cameras, surveilling faces, profiling my
fellow students, sorting them by whether
or not they were NewsCrew-type. I did
the same thing on the bus ride home and
would have missed my stop if Dom

hadnt hoisted me up by the back of my

jacket, grumbling that he had better
things to do than babysit space cadets.
That night I sat out on the back
porch, trying to read the essay packet
Mrs. K had passed out that day. But the
quiet chatter of the hens as they settled
into their roosts lulled me into
daydreams of NewsCrew. I might not
write the worlds best article, but Id
find a friend there. I could almost see
her nowkind eyes, shy smile. Shed
invite me to her house to work on an
article, but wed spend the evening
eating cookie dough and giggling over

boys.

Getting dressed Tuesday morning was

impossible. I had to stand out in a nottrying-too-hard kind of way. My cords
screamed GEEK! My Tweety Bird tshirt whispered ignore me. I settled on
jeans and a pink ND hoodie. I dug my
favorite pair of mismatched toe socks
out of the laundry basket. If I felt too
invisible I could always kick off my
shoes for a nonchalant stretch that just
happened to display my creative
underside. I found some old lip gloss in

one of my drawers and tossed that in my

purse just in case the NewsCrew crowd
turned out to be of the shiny lip variety.
Hair clip. No hair clip. Hair clip.
At the bus stop, Dom gave me a cool
nod. A few minutes later, I caught him
looking at me like I had a strange insect
in my hair. On the bus, I pulled the hair
clip out and tucked it into my purse.
Definitely no hair clip.
By the time school let out, I still
hadnt solved the lip gloss dilemma. As
I approached the library I reached into
my purse and wrapped my fingers
around the slick tube. It held a strange

sort of comfort.
Some teacher passed sheets of paper
out to empty chairs in the library. No
way did I want to be the first person in
thereId be branded teachers pet right
off the bat. I edged back out the door
before Mrs. Whoever could see me and
made a detour to the bathroom.
Taylor and one of the Pops leaned
against the sink, reapplying lipstick. I
ducked into a stall and thoroughly
papered the toilet seat so I could sit
(fully clothed) on the toilet while they
primped and talked about some guy I
didnt know. I glanced at my watch,

worrying that I had been in there too

long. I didnt want them to think I was,
you know, going or anything. Plus, being
the last one into the NewsCrew meeting
probably branded you just as much as
being the first one.
I flushed the toilet.
Wondered what was taking them so
long. Surely theyd be late for pom
squad or drama club or whatever prettygirls-only club required such prolonged
beautification.
Just as I gave up and pulled open the
stall door, another Pop stuck her head in
the bathroom and said, Come on,

Taylor, theyre starting without us!

So? Taylor capped her mascara
and took her time putting away all her
makeup.
I washed my hands quickly. If
Taylors
practice
was
starting,
NewsCrew was sure to be. The Pops
depleted the paper towel supply blotting
their lipstick so I had to use the dryer.
Taylor glanced at me and said
something, but I couldnt hear her over
the gale force winds blasting every drop
of moisture from my hands. Judging by
the way the Pop smirked at me, I guessed
two things: Onewhatever Taylor said

was quite funny, and Twoit was at my

expense. It didnt matter, though. In a
few minutes Id be in NewsCrew.
Careful, some internal nay-sayer type
voice warned. What if NewsCrew is just
one more opportunity to fail?
To shock the nay-sayer into silence, I
paused at the mirror just long enough to
give my lips a quick glossing and then
darted out the door.
Taylor and her entourage had already
disappeared down the hallway, off to
wherever. A womans voice drifted from
the direction of the propped-open library
door. I peeked in, but I couldnt see

anything except the same teacher, only

now from the front. Definitely the
youngest teacher Id ever seen. She wore
a red sweater with a sparkly lizard pin
on the shoulder, her hair a cascade of
black tangles. Beads of sweat glistened
on her forehead. She must be new or
shed have known better than to wear a
sweater to the libraryMrs. Bigfoot
always kept the heat cranked up in the
nineties. The teacher noticed me
watching her and stopped mid-sentence
to hold out her hands. Hi, there! Im
Miss Harmon and you are?
The center of attention.

Completely embarrassed.
Sami, I said. My voice sounded
like Id gargled with sandpaper. Miss
Harmon tilted her head like she hadnt
quite heard me, so I cleared my throat
and said it again. A few kids laughed.
Well, come on in, Sami. Weve got
a few seats left.
I stepped toward the nearest table,
only then noticing the group already
clustered there.
The Pops.
Taylor gave me the same superior
smile she had in the bathroom. Her
fellow Pop flashed a toothy, lip-sticked

grin. The empty chair across from them

dared me and my bubblegum-flavored
lip gloss to sit in it. I gave them a small
shrug, like theyd invited me to sit with
them but I had another commitment. Then
my shaky legs went on autopilot, leading
me to the only other empty seat
between two kids that were barely less
invisible than me. I sank into it and they
each scooted a tiny bit away from me.
As if my uncoolness was more uncool
than their uncoolness and might be
catchy. I watched the clock and chewed
off my lip gloss, finding comfort in the
fact that in fifty-two minutes this failed

experiment would be over and the

trauma-induced amnesia would begin to
set in.
At first I didnt hear anything Miss
Harmon said. All I could hear was
Taylors minion whispering about the
other kids in the room. Could he have
any more freckles? she said, like the
poor guy had collected every spare
freckle and glued them on himself.
Before Taylor could respond, the Pop
pointed to a girl with not one big shiny
hair clip, but two, and said, Oh, look!
Theres Fancy Nancy.
Thank goodness Dom had stared the

clip right off my head.

Miss Harmon plunked a big pile of
notecards on the table in front of me,
saying, Can you pass these out? Great.
Exactly two minutes into NewsCrew and
she singles me out as potential pet.
Instead of waiting for an answer she told
everyone to put their names on a card
and write down some article ideas.
The room erupted in distinctly offtask chatter, but Miss Harmon ignored
that and tapped the deck in front of me.
I passed out the cards, not making
eye contact with anyone. I had just
returned to my seat and scrawled my

name on a card when Miss Harmon

announced, Time! and came around to
collect the cards.
Since most of us dont know each
other, we are going to pair up and
interview a partner, then introduce that
person to the group. She tapped a piece
of chart paper labeled Interview
Questions.
I swiveled toward the girl on my
right. She chatted away with the person
on her right. The guy on my left had also
turned away from me.
Miss Harmon waved her hand in the
air and made that woo-hoo noise that

must be required to graduate from

teacher-school. Were going to draw
names. She shuffled the index cards and
then pulled two at random. Hunter and
Alex. The guy on my left nodded at a
kid who waved from across the room.
Miss Harmon continued, pairing
everyone up.
Except me.
So much for NewsCrew being the
answer to all my problems. Now the
teacher would feel sorry for me and
partner up with me or, even worse, tack
me onto an existing duopublicly
declaring my third wheel status. This

was shaping up to be even worse than

Quiz Bowl. Before I could fake a nose
bleed, Miss Harmon said my name. She
picked up another card and read off a
name. Everyone gaped at that other
person.
Taylor.
Neither of us moved until all the
other pairs had shifted around, leaving
room by each of us. I could feel Taylors
eyes on me. Without meeting her gaze, I
stood and dragged my chair over to her
table. The nearest Pop glared at me.
Taylor tilted her head slightly to the side,
like a cat trying to decide if what she

smells is edible. Then she gave a slight

smile and asked, Ready for this?
I nodded and folded myself into the
chair. Wiped my sweaty hands on my
pants and tried to keep them below the
table so Taylor wouldnt notice. Mr.
Curtiss came in and browsed through a
stack of magazines on the reference
desk. He kept stealing peeks at Miss
Harmon while casually leaning against
the reference desk, like he hung out in
the library all the time.
So, you go first, Taylor demanded.
Okay... I wiped my hands again
and flipped to a blank page in my

notebook. Printed Taylor at the top,

glanced at the chart questions. Best day
ever?
Thats easy. The day I turn sixteen.
My pen hesitated. Does that count?
Its like what? Three years away?
Taylor rolled her eyes with a huff.
No. Two and a half. She stared at my
pen until I wrote it down, then asked,
Dont you want to know why?
Cuz youll get your license? I felt
like kicking myself. No way would I
ever fit in if I cant even have a normal
conversation.
Well, yeah. And. My moms buying

me a Beetle.
Cool. What color? There, that
wasnt so hard. Just a normal
conversation.
Taylor leaned forward on her
elbows. I cant decide. Mom says
white. I want red
Pink,
the
lip-sticked
Pop
interrupted. Gotta be pink. With white
flowers. Then we can do the whole
vanity plate thing.
Arent you supposed to be
interviewing her? Taylor pointed to the
Pops neglected partner who wiggled
her fingers all hello-remember-me?

I swear she acts like its her car.

Taylor pivoted slightly, turning her back
on the Pop.
I raised my eyebrows.
Taylor looked at me. So...whats
your best day ever?
I thought of Moms old slug bug
more rust than red. Maybe Id get to
borrow it once in a while, if I was lucky.
More likely Id be rattling around in
Dads truck. Ugh. I racked my brain for
something that might count as a best day
ever. Zip. Nada. Nothing. Man, it was
hot in here. My feet practically boiled. I
wished I hadnt worn those stupid toe

socks.
Hello? Taylor said.
Dont have one.
Okay...
I thought of telling her that my life
sucked. Instead I laughed and discreetly
slipped my shoes off. My lifes so great
I cant pick one day.
She looked skeptical. Before she
could push it, I threw out the next
question. Whos your favorite actor?
That old guy who played Hannibal
Lecter. Hes so creepy I couldnt sleep
for three days.
Encouraged by her grin I said, You

say that like its a good thing.

Taylors grin widened. Horrors the
best. Dont you like it?
I like comedies.
Oh, me, too! Which actor?
I shrugged. Maybe Jim Carreyno
Johnny Depp. I love him as a pirate.
I snapped my mouth shut. Taylor
probably thought pirate movies were for
babies. I studied the next question, but
Taylor leaned forward and whispered,
So, maybe you can answer this. Doesnt
Mr. Curtiss remind you of that Davy
Jones dude? I nearly choked on my own
spit, trying not to laugh out loud. Mr.

Curtiss absolutely did look like that

Davy Jones dude. He noticed us looking
at him and narrowed his eyes over his
fluffy orange beard.
Taylor waved back innocently. I
covered my mouth before I lost it
completely. I never guessed Taylor
Statton would be so funny. Miss Harmon
told everyone to finish up and get back
to their seats. We still had one question
to go. Hobbies? I asked.
Well, poms, I guess. And violin.
Several kids were done interviewing
and already moving back to their seats.
Taylor leaned in closer and said, And I

sew.
Sew? I asked. She had to be
joking.
One minute, Miss Harmon warned.
Two bright swatches of pink flared
on Taylors cheeks. Great-Gran taught
me to sew little outfits for my dolls
when I was younger. She kept her voice
low, as if confessing to having stolen a
kitten or something.
The lip-sticked Pop leaned down to
retrieve her pen.
I leaned toward Taylor, dropped my
voice to match hers. Waityou actually
sew?

The Pop sat back up with a smirk.

You sew? she said to me. Did you
sew those socks, Sa-man-Duh?
My toes curled under like the
Wicked Witch of the Easts. I fumbled
my shoes back on and grabbed my
notebook and pen. Dont forget your
chair, the Pop called after me.
Taylor
whispered
a
harsh,
Jennifer! but I couldnt tell if she was
laughing or not. I grabbed the chair and
hustled back toward the loser table,
wishing Id stuck with the nose bleed
option.

YOU GOTTA CRACK A FEW

Halfway up the front steps I noticed

Shane cross-legged on the porch with his
back against the door, a book in his
hands. Fluffykins snuggled against his

leg.
I kicked some leaves at him. Out of
the way, munch.
He brushed the leaves off his book
and scooted over. I pulled the screen
door open, but when I reached for the
front door handle, Shane made a small
noise in the back of his throat. I glared at
him. What?
Nothing, he said. I just wouldnt
go in there.
I started to ask why, but Moms
voice edged through the crack. Im just
saying, maybe you could apply there.
I should have shut the door, but the

moment seemed frozenme half in the

door, Shane looking up with deep brown
eyes.
Dads low voice rumbled out to us.
Im not a cook, Joanie. What would I
do there, bus tables?
Youre great in the kitchen. Itd be
something to tide us over.
Dad laughed, half snort, half groan.
Were not that bad off. I just need a
little more time to
We dont have it, Patric. We just
started to get back on our feet from that
mushroom thing and you go out and buy
all that chicken junk. We dont even have

enough to pay the mortgage.

Why is it my fault we dont have the
money? How much did you spend on that
vase you gave your sister?
I could picture the ice queen look
that must have been on Moms face at
that moment. She got married. We had
to get her something.
Dad said something I couldnt hear.
Its not about the money. Moms
voice had taken on that flat tone that
signaled an end to her part of the
conversation.
Oh, right, Dad said. Im sorry,
then. What were we arguing about?

Dads voice came toward the door.

Shane and I scampered off the porch,
like we hadnt been eavesdropping. Dad
came through the door so fast the screen
bounced off the side of the house and
swung back on one broken hinge.
He paused long enough to tell Shane
to, Get that chicken back in the pen. It
aint no pet, as he stormed past us, keys
jingling in his hand.
Dad! Shane ran full out and flung
himself into the back of the pick-up. It
bucked the gear, then caught, spraying
loose gravel in all directions.
Patric? Mom yelled from the

doorway.
He didnt even brake.
I picked up Shanes book and
brushed bits of crushed leaves off the
cover. Mom retreated back into the
house, slamming the door behind her.
My stomach churned like I was
strapped on one of those death trap rides
at the Apple Festivalsurrounded by
yards of twisted metal, strung together
with duct tapelike any minute the
whole ride could just fall apart and Id
be hanging there in mid-air unable to
believe how messed up real life can get.
I scooped up Fluffykins and tossed

her in the coop with the rest of chickens.

My feet carried me down the path to
Doms house. He was outside, raking
leaves into big piles. I hesitated at the
edge of his yard. My eyes blurred and I
took a small step back toward home.
Sami? Dom came toward me, still
carrying his rake. I let him lead me into
his kitchen. Sat at the table while he
pulled two green Grinch mugs from the
cabinet and filled them with milk.
Zapped them until the milk frothed and
stirred in the cocoa. Plopped in two
huge marshmallows.
No small talk.

No asking what was wrong.

My eyes drifted to the photos on the
walls. Lots of little kids in front of a
Christmas tree. An older couple on a
thread-bare couch. Doms older brother
in his cap and gown and again, smartly
saluting the camera in his naval uniform.
Hes coming back, Dom said. At
first I thought he meant my dad. That he
had somehow heard the yelling, the
kicked up gravel. Then I realized he
meant Gage.
For good? I asked, pretending to
care.
Just for Christmas. He stood up

and pulled a box from a cabinet. Want

some mac and cheese?
Oh, you dont have to make me
dinner, I said. I stood up to leave.
Better that than eating alone, Dom
said. Hot dog?
I shriveled up my nose.
That about exhausts my culinary
repertoire.
What? You run out of potato
straws? I opened his fridge. These
look familiar.
Yeah, your dad brought some over. I
hear youve got yourself a whole flock.
I wondered how long hed known.

You like omelets?

He nodded and pulled up a chair to
watch me work.
Omelets are my specialty. When Dad
went through his bed and breakfast
phase, he and I scoured cookbooks for
recipes worthy of the finest country inn.
We made scones and biscuits, quiches
and frittatas. That was back when I
believed Dad could run his own
business. Before I realized hed always
be trying to make a fortune off crap like
crab apples and chicken eggs.
Um... Doms hand gently touched
mine. I looked down to see smushed egg

guts seeping out of my fist.

Dom insisted on walking me home after

dinner. I told him Id be fine, but I think
he worried I might go home and smash
all the eggs in our fridge.
As we walked the path, a glow
seeped through the trees. It came from
my house, so either a UFO had mistaken
one of dads experiments for its sister
craft or Dad and Shane were back. I
stopped just inside the woods and gave
Dom a thanks-and-see-ya brush off.
I trotted the last few feet to my

driveway and angled toward the back of

the house. Flood lights glowed from the
corners of the garage, casting the whole
yard an eerie shade of yellow.
Everything that had been crammed in our
garage now littered the backyard. It was
like stepping into some kind of museum
or more accurately, a mausoleumfor
the
remnants
of Dads
failed
experiments. Piles of unidentified
projects loomed in the weird light.
Behind me came the rush of feathers
and a human-sounding squawk. I spun
around as Dom side-stepped a dark
shape swooping from the roof of the

garage. Another one plunged toward me.

In my panic to get out of its way, I fell
into a tower of egg cartons that crumbled
under me like a big pile of fake Easter
grass.
Come here, you. I looked up,
expecting to see Dads outstretched
hand, but he wasnt talking to me.
He was talking to a chicken.
Domwho apparently didnt know
a brush off when he got onesaid,
Thats cool, the way it flew off the
roof. We should video tape that or
something.
Yeah, I, um... Dad glanced in my

direction. I sold the video camera to

pay for the chickens.
I sat there in the crumbled pastel
foam, trying to process that one. Dad
sold the video camera. Moms video
camera.
Dad led Dom toward the garage. I
managed to climb out of the egg carton
debris on my own and shuffled after
them. The big overhead door leaned
against the side of the garage, its hinges
sticking straight out like metal flags of
surrender. In its place, wire mesh
stretched from ground to ceiling and
across the front. Dad opened a human-

sized wire and wood door and tossed

the runaway chicken back in. It
squawked, but disappeared into the
darkness of the garage.
When did you do all this? Dom
asked. His voice held a tone of
amazement, but not the same whoayouve-gone-off-the-deep-end
amazement that I felt.
Ive been working on it for a few
days while the kids were at school,
Dad said. I wanted to surprise them.
Wanna see inside?
Nope.
Absolutely not.

Sure, Dom said. By the way he

nodded and followed Dad in I figured
Dom had forgotten that our garage
doubled as a half-way house for mutant
spiders.
Where are all the chickens? Doms
voice floated out. I couldnt make out
Dads response, but when they came
back out Dom told me that all the hens
had little nests up in the loft.
Great! Maybe Aragog will eat them
all, I said. He laughed.
I walked Dom back to the edge of the
woods, thinking how easy it was to fall
back into old habits. I missed hanging

out with him. Missed the inside jokes

and the quick gift of his laugh. After
Dom left, I went inside to find Shane
sprawled in front of the TV, sniper-style.
His jaw rigid, eyes narrow as he picked
off zombies one by one.
I grabbed a glass of milk and sat at
the breakfast nook, trying to tune out the
angry murmurs from Mom and Dads
room. I scooped up the newspaper with
its bright red circles ringing various jobs
too neat and tidy to be Dads work. I
didnt see how Mom thought Dad would
find a decent job when every day the
news forecasted more and more layoffs.

Factories
closing,
businesses
liquidating. Dad had been the foreman
on his shift and now Mom wanted him to
take a job as amy eyes seized on an ad
in the middle of the pagecost
coordinator.
Waitwhat? Dad didnt know the
first thing about managing money.
I scanned the other ads. Book keeper.
Tax consultant. Auditor.
All jobs Mom held before getting her
position at St. Matt's.

NOBODY HERE BUT US

CHICKENS

W ednesday was weird.

Well, weirder than usual. Dad got up

early and went out to the garage to
commune with his chickens. No sign of

Mom. Shane came out of his room long

enough to nuke his breakfast and then
retreated back in there.
No Dom on the bus, so I had a seat
all to myself. When Taylor climbed
aboard, her eyes met mine for a second,
then slid to the empty space next to me.
Like she might actually sit there. Then
she swept past me to her usual seat in the
back. Maybe being half noticed and
purposefully ignored was worse than
never being noticed at all. Whatever. It
wasnt like I thought wed be best
friends now that wed had one
conversation. Even if it did involve her

secret passion for sewing.

Lunch sucked. No Dom to distract
me with jokes and every time I looked
over, Taylor looked at me. Probably
telling all the Pops about how awful it
had been to be my partner at NewsCrew.
Fortunately she wasnt as loud as usual,
so I didnt have to hear it. Even though
my ears strained to.
If you keep staring over there,
theyre gonna think youre crushing on
them or something.
Huh? I looked up from my
pudding.
J-Dawg eyed me through shaggy

bangs. For like, half a second I caught

myself looking into his brown eyes,
thinking he was kinda sorta cute. I
snapped out of it and gave him my thatsso-funny-I-forgot-to-laugh eye roll.
After school, I climbed on the bus
and plopped down in the first not-empty
seat. No way did I want Taylor to think I
was saving seats for her. I didnt even
have a chance to see who already
occupied the seat before Joy, our
ironically named driver, scowled at me
in the rear view mirror. Duggan, she
called, somebody wants you.
She motioned toward the door.

My dad stood on the sidewalk.

Whats wrong? I asked, thinking car
accident, house fire, unfortunate chicken
mauling.
Nothing. Just need your help today.
Dad wore his working-on-junk outfit
ripped-at-the-knees jeans, stainedbeyond-recognition Best Dad Ever tshirt, boots coated in chicken crap. I
glanced around, sure that Taylor would
materialize at any moment and see me
standing here talking to someone whod
apparently just had his home invaded by
a flock of rabid chickens.
Okay, I agreed. Whered you

park?
Dad eyed me suspiciously, but led
me to the truck. Several cardboard boxes
lined the bed. Got a space at the old
FM. Rents a bit much, but if we start in
right away, Im sure we can make up for
that. No one else there has eggs.
The old FM?
Farmers Market. Usually theyre
full, but I got Bob Beigers old spot.
Talking to Dad reminded me of those
movies you needed subtitles to
understand. What happened to Bob
Beiger?
Heart attack! I was talking to the

manager when the ambulance showed

up. Talk about timing! Dad grinned like
hed won the lottery. I couldnt help
feeling that if he had, we wouldnt be on
our way to the old FM to vulture-ize
some dead guys booth.
Dad used to take me and Shane to the
Market to visit Uncle Ricks sausage
shop when we were little. Before Uncle
Rick started selling straight to the big
meat guys. The Market hadnt changed
muchit was still the quiet hub of
homebodies I remembered. The same
old quilt lady still rocked and quilted,
quilted and rocked, among a maze of

blankets strung on a laundry line. I

wondered if she remembered how I had
loved her scrap heap when I was little.
A slightly familiar grandfather type
manned the old fashioned register at the
penny candy booth. He gave me a
toothless smile and a friendly wave as I
trudged back and forth hauling in Dads
egg cartons.
Dad pointed out a booth down near
where Uncle Ricks had been, in the
section where people sold the not-sovegetarian goods. Cheese shop, sausage
guy, lady selling goats milk andyuck
goat meat, another sausage guy,

Buffalo Bill and his Big Bird Burgers

(Try ostrich his sign insisted), and
now us. A tacked up sign hung crookedly
over the booth, announcing Franks
Farm Fresh Eggs.
Whos Frank? I asked.
Dad chuckled. My egg-lias. Get
it?
I gave him my youre-hilarious stare.
And you need an alias because...?
Aw, Sambo, have a little fun, okay?
It just sounds better than Pats Poultry
Paradise. Or Duggans Delicacies.
No argument there.
Dad tucked the egg cartons in a small

display fridge next to the counter. Need

you to man the booth for a few, okay?
He explained what to charge and
showed me a small plastic box with
some change in it hidden on a shelf
under a mildewed pile of Sports
Illustrated. I pulled out my homework.
The fridge hummed just loud enough to
drown out the conversations of people
visiting the other booths. No one even
glanced at our eggs.
After a while the traffic died down. I
had to pee and Dad still wasnt back. I
thought of asking the scrawny teenager in
the Buffalo Bill getup to keep an eye on

the booth, but if I were wearing that

thing Id be wishing myself dead, so I
walked past his shop and pretended not
to notice him. It wasnt like wed miss
out on any sales. I still hurried. As I left
the bathroom, I came face to face with
Taylor.
Oh, hi there, she said.
Mmm, I responded. My mouth had
apparently decided to boycott words.
You shopping? she asked.
I glanced at the woman waiting for
Taylor. Brunette and pretty. She held a
basket full of farm fresh apples and farm
fresh tomatoes, but no farm fresh eggs. I

could imagine what Taylor would say if

I told her my dad actually had a booth
hereexactly what shed said to Dom
on the bus last week: Somebody has to
work the crap jobs.
Yep, I said. Yep. Thats me.
Shopping.
Taylor laughed. But it didnt seem to
be a what-an-idiot laugh. So, guess Ill
see you at NewsCrew tomorrow?
I nodded and watched her disappear
into the bathroom. The womanmost
likely her momseemed to be sizing me
up, so I stopped at the nearest booth and
inquired about the culinary intricacies

of...beef jerky. As soon as Mrs. Statton

got distracted, I dashed outside and
circled around to the back entrance.
Dad sat in the booth looking pretty
ticked off. Where ya been?
I explained the pee thing, but left out
the part about Taylor.
Dad leaned back and put his feet up
on the shelf. Any business while I was
gone?
I shrugged. Not much traffic down
this way.
Well, here come a couple of
potential buyers.
Crap. Crap. CRAP.

Taylor Statton was headed straight

for us. I did the only rational thing. I
dove under the counter.
Dad frowned down at me.
I shushed him, but he still sat there
looking at me like Id started burrowing
to China. There was no time to explain
to him that if Taylor Statton saw me
working a farm booth at 4:38, by 4:39
all of Pokagon Middle School would
know. Taylors mom suggested they pick
up some eggs.
Where was that tunnel to China when
I needed it? Crap, crap, crap.
Dad nudged me with his foot and

whispered, Sami, get up here. Weve

got customers.
Please, Dad, shhhh!
He quit kicking at me and greeted
Taylor and her mom with a total hick,
How-dee. Like anyone in Indiana ever
said howdy. They responded with
proper hellos and asked him something I
couldnt quite make out. Laid fresh this
morning, he replied, pulling a carton
from the fridge. You go to Pokagon?
he asked. Look a little familiar.
Taylor said something and Dad
laughed. Went there myself. Gotta girl
there now. About your age.

I grabbed Dads ankle and squeezed

it. He passed the eggs over the counter
and as he bent to put away the money he
flicked a quarter at me.
Okay, then, he said and just stood
there listening. I strained to make out
what they were saying, but I could only
hear the blasted fridge humming right
next to my head. After what seemed like
forever Dad said, I bet youd like my
daughter. Names Samantha Duggan.
Shes a bit strange sometimes, though.
Probably on accounta that time we
dropped her on her head as a baby. Like
right now, shes under the counter here,

sucking her thumb and humming Wont

You Take Me to Funky Town.
Dad! I jumped up, mortified and
ready to kill him. I couldnt even look at
Taylor.
Oh, here she is now, he said.
Sami, say hi to your little friend.
I spun around, but Taylor wasnt
there. Neither was her mom.
Gotcha! Dad fell back into his
chair, laughing.
So not funny.

Miss Harmon began the next NewsCrew

meeting by sending us back to our

partners and making us introduce each
other. Taylor went first. Im not exactly
sure what she said because I held my
breath the whole time and waited for the
snark. I only realized the lack of snark
when Miss Harmon said, Okay, Sami.
Lets hear about Taylor, and there
hadnt been any snark-inspired laughter.
Introducing Miss Pop-ularity was
like trying to introduce Selena Gomez to
a hoard of eight-year-old girls. I took a
breath and stared at a spot on the back
wall.
I opened my mouth to take another

breath, but instead I morphed into my

dad doing his best Jack Nicholson grin
and saying, Heeeeeeeres Taylor,
maven of horror films, pom girl
extraordinaire, and soon to be the proud
owner of a shiny new Volkswagen
Beetle. I leaned over and punched
Jennifer in the arm, adding, Slug bug,
red!
Immediate laughter.
For a second I thought this was the
laughing-at-me kind of laughter. Or, even
worse, that I had caused laughing-atTaylor kind of laughter, which was
surely social suicide. But when I

allowed myself to look up, there was no

whispering behind hands or snarknarrowed eyes. Just boy-that-was-funny
kind of laughter. The proverbial laughing
with me laughter.
I glanced at Taylor. She grinned at
me. I plopped back down in my seat,
amazed. Maybe I could fit in here.
Maybe I was NewsCrew material. One
glance at Jennifers scowl told me she
did not agree. Note to selfwatch out
for that girl. Shed make one vicious
enemy.
When intros ended, Miss Harmon
doled out assignments for the first issue

to about a third of the kids. The rest of

you help out wherever youre needed,
she said. There was a great deal of chair
scooting and talking as teams divided
up. A flashback to choosing dodge ball
teams killed my newfound confidence. I
looked around for someoneanyone
that I could pair up with. Maybe the
quiet girl in charge of movie reviews. I
pushed back from the table.
Wait, wherere you going? Taylor
asked.
Ium
Taylor grabbed my chair and hauled
it back. Our groups doing Sports

Report. Know anyone on Varsity?

Jennifer snorted, her As if thoughts
broadcasted on her face. I just shrugged
and wilted into the seat next to Taylor.
Aislinns brother plays, Jennifer
said.
Okay, lets go to the game Friday
and hook up with him at half-time. Get a
few quotes about the season, Taylor
said. Jennifer nodded.
No prob, I said.

Prob.
Dad had seen way too many

episodes of When Teens Go Missing.

Youre not going. Period.
By
six-thirty
Friday
night
desperation had set in. Please, Dad? I
begged over dinner. I have to go. Its
for an article!
He scooped up a forkful of rice.
Youre not going, he said for like, the
fiftieth time.
Ill go, Shane said. Yeah, like that
was gonna happen.
What a great idea, Dad said. Why
dont we all go?
I gave him my Seriously? look.
Whats so bad about that? Youd

rather miss the game than go with us?

Um, Pat? Mom called from the
kitchen.
But Dad was warming to the idea. I
havent been to a middle school football
game since
Pat! Mom called again.
Dads chair scraped the floor. He
ducked his head sheepishly. Im being
summoned.
Shane took his absence as the perfect
opportunity to make his case. Kyle
lives right by there. He can meet us so I
wont even sit with you, okay? Well just
make his parents think youre watching

us and Dad will think were watching

you and
Dad came back into the room
carrying a dish of orange chicken. Mom
followed. They wore matching wevecome-to-a-decision expressions.
Sami, youre just too young to go
someplace like that alone, Mom said.
Im not going alone, I announced.
Im taking Shane and Kyle.
Two pairs of parental eyebrows
arched. One ten-year-old boy dashed for
the phone.
So, thats how I arrived at the
football game in a rusty old truck

accompanied by two fourth graders.

Well, hey there, Duggans, a
middle-aged man called out from behind
me as I forked over money for tickets.
Hi, Mr. Jolly, Shane said. The
sight of our old gym teacher brought
back the smell of floor polish and
sweaty socks.
He clapped Shane on the shoulder.
Hey, guys. Hows the egg business?
Dad has a booth at the Farmers
Market now, Shane told him. We get to
work there!
I made a mental note to duct tape his
mouth shut.

That right? Mr. Jolly nodded in

approval.
I nodded back. Yep. We sell quite a
few. I didnt tell him that all of the
restaurants Dad pitched to refused to buy
his eggs due to some stupid FDA
certification process.
Or that even if we sold two dozen
eggs a day, that would not begin to cover
what forty-three chickens produced.
Or that at the current rate of
production versus sale, in another month
our whole kitchen would be filled with
egg cartons.
Instead I asked if his family might

like some farm fresh eggs.

Thatd be great! Just send them in
with Shane here.
Will do! I called. I grabbed
Shanes sleeve and quick-stepped him
toward the ticket taker. Kyle hustled to
keep up. Meet me right here after the
game, I said. I waited for Shane and
Kyle to hand over their tickets and
disappear into the crowd, before I
stepped up and held out my own ticket.
The man who took it had to be about
ninety and bore a striking resemblance to
Mort, this old guy from the center. If
anyone could give me interesting tidbits

about football, itd be this guy. I handed

him my ticket and rummaged in my purse
for my notebook. As he held out my stub
I took a deep breath and racked my brain
for an insightful question. A cluster of
parents jostled me out of their way and
thrust their tickets at the Mort-clone. I
slipped my notebook back into my purse.
Hey, kid! You forgot your stub,
Mort-clone called after me.
If that wasnt an invitation to be
interviewed, I didnt know what was. I
whipped out my notebook and channeled
the confident NewsCrew girl that had
introduced Taylor. Hi, Im Samantha

Duggan, a reporter for the Pokagon

Sentinel. Can I ask you a few questions
about football?
Mort-clone raised a bushy unibrow. I
pushed on. Maybe you could tell me
how football has transformed over the
years?
It hasnt, he said. Footballs
football. Always been football.
I didnt bother to write that one
down.
I searched for Taylor, but couldnt
find any sign of her or Jennifer. Id have
to find them at halftime. Meanwhile, I
took a seat in the stands next to some

guys in Notre Dame jerseys and vowed

to learn as much as I could about
football. Except nothing that happened
on the field even slightly resembled the
football Dom and I used to play in his
backyard. No help from the ND fans.
They kept throwing out terms like Hail
Mary Pass and Quarterback Sneak
without bothering to include the English
translation. An old couplethe proud
grandparents of #44, it turned outkept
trying to explain the plays to me, but
everything they said highlighted #44s
contribution to each play. Even when, as
far as I could tell, he was nowhere near

the action. The truth was, I didnt care. It

seemed like a total waste of time, all
these people spending money to sit
around watching a bunch of middle
school kids beat each other up.

By halftime, my notebook was a

jumbled mess. I stood up and
immediately spotted Taylor walking
away from the concession stand. I
stuffed my notebook into my purse and
dashed after her.
Taylor, I called, but she didnt
look back. Probably couldnt hear me
over the chatter of all the students whod
abandoned the bleachers in search of
munchies. She stopped next to a cluster
of girls and handed a candy bar to one of
them. Jennifer. Ugh.

I scanned the faces. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Pop. When Taylor suggested we go to
the game, she never said anything about
it being a Pop-a-thon. And she certainly
hadnt mentioned the short skirt, flip
flop, sparkly-toe-polish dress code. I
glanced down at my old jeans and beat
up shoes. I must have been delusional to
think I could hang out with Taylor
Statton. Talking to her in NewsCrew
was one thing. Approaching Taylor at a
football game surrounded by Pops was,
well, not going to happen.
No way.
Except...Taylor had invited me.

I glanced at her back. Not so

intimidating. I edged closer. Closer.
NewsCrew Sami wouldnt let a few
shallow Pops intimidate her. I took a big
gulp of air and eased myself in on
Taylors non-Jennifer side. Hey, I
said, all I-hang-out-here-all-the-time.
Hey, she said back. Not oh-thereyou-are. Not its-good-to-see-you. Just
hey. I could live with hey. Jennifer eyed
me like a piece of spinach stuck between
Taylors teeth. The rest of the Pops
continued their discussion, oblivious to
my arrival.
So we could interview him, right?

Hed be sure to notice us then, one of

the Pops said with a wink.
Jennifer shook her head. Wed have
to find out his name first, though. We
cant just walk up and be all, Hi,
Number Fourty-four, new in town?
Doesnt your brother know him?
Taylor asked a brunette girl, probably
the Aislinn Jennifer mentioned at
NewsCrew.
Aislinn shrugged. Its a huge team.
Brad doesnt know half the guys.
Maybe we could just walk up. You
know, if we had a line. Guys use them
all the time. We could say it flirty, like,

Fourty-fours my lucky number.

Jennifer and Taylor just blinked at that
Pop like she was totally stupid.
That number sounded familiar. Wait
did you say fourty-four?
Jennifer sneered at me. Why is that
your lucky number, too?
No, I justI might I reached for
my notebook, but my purse had twisted
behind me. The strap was caught in my
hood.
Who are you? a Pop asked, like
Id just randomly glommed onto their
clique. My eyes flicked to the faces
around me, unsure who had spoken.

Taylor didnt laugh, but she didnt tell

Jennifer to knock it off or introduce me
to everyone either. She just stood there
and waited for me to spit it out.
I, um, I think I managed to get
my purse where I could open it. I
reached in for my notebook, but Jennifer
snatched the bag from my arm.
What in the world, look at this
purse! she screeched.
Another Pop grabbed it from
Jennifer, turning the purse this way and
that, spilling my notebook and lip gloss
on the ground. Whered you get this
Walmart?

She probably sewed it herself. You

sew, dont you Sa-man-dah?
I made a grab for it, but they held it
just out of my reach. I felt ridiculous
like a little kid trying to get a ball from
the playground bullies.
Let me see! another Pop yelled.
They tossed the bag over my head. Who
made thisEdward Scissorhands?
I, um...
Taylor reached out and pulled the
bag from Jennifer. Wait, Ive seen these
before. I think it might be... She peered
at the red and green quilted design, then
gasped. Its a Sabatini!

I had just enough time to think, What

in the world is a Sabatini? before a
mass of hysterical Pops swallowed me
up, fawning over my wonderful fashion
sense.
Only Jennifer remained skeptical.
Whered you get it? she asked and not
in a cuz-I-want-one-too kind of way.
Her tone was cold enough to flash freeze
the hysteria. Everyone stared at me.
Now was the time to confess. To
admit that not only was this purse not a
Sabatini, but until a moment ago, I would
have guessed Sabatini was some kind of
pasta. I focused on the least scary Pop, a

brunette girl with small daisy petal

earrings, and opened my mouth to tell
her the truth. Except, the expression on
her face surprised me. Kind of a friendly
curiosity that made me realize two
things:
1. Something had shifted on an
elemental level.
And
2) If I didnt want it to shift back, Id
better come up with a plausible answer.
Well, I
You have to special order it from
Antonio Sabatini himself, Taylor said.

So, how much do they cost?

Brunette Pop asked.
Taylor shrugged. If you have to
ask...
You cant afford it! all the Pops
chimed, laughing. All, that is, except for
Jennifer, whose scowl only intensified
as the Pops swept me up into the stands.
It was like some fantasy where the shy
kid is transformed into a princess.
Everyone wanted to sit near me and talk
to me and one of the Pops even handed
me her lipstick after it made the
community rounds.
After the game they swept me along

with them out into the parking lot and

piled me into somebodys moms
minivan and we all laughed and sang
along to U93s Ten OClock Take Over
all the way home. I had them drop me at
Doms house and just before they pulled
away, Taylor yelled out the window that
they were all going to a movie Saturday
night and I should meet them at Cinemark
at seven. As I walked home through the
woods I pictured us all in a crowded
theaterclutching at each other as our
stomachs dropped in giddy terror during
whatever horror movie Taylor talked us
into seeing.

My stomach plummeted for an

entirely different reason when I stepped
out of the woods and saw Dad sitting on
the porch steps.
Shane.
Oh no, Dad, I forgot Shane! I
slapped my own forehead.
And Kyle, he added.
And Kyle! I confirmed. I grabbed
Dads arm and tried to pull him toward
the truck. We have to go get them.
He pulled away. Theyre home.
Oh, thank goodness! Im so sorry, I
just
Got caught up with your friends?

I blinked back tears. But I didnt

mean to just leave Shane.
And Kyle, he added.
And Kyle. Im sorry.
Dad frowned. I braced myself for the
lecture, knowing I deserved it and more,
but Dad just said, Friends are
important, Sami, but family... Familys
gotta be able to count on each other.
Then he went in the house.
No lecture.
Just me, alone on the porch, thinking
about that Christmas the three-year-old
version of Shane got lost at the mall. Id
found him hunched up in a tiny ball

under a table outside a shoe store, crying

so hard that his eyes swelled shut. I
wondered if he thought of that day when
he got to the gate after the football game
and I wasnt there. I wondered if he was
scared and if he cried in front of Kyle.
Standing on the front porch
wondering all that was worse than any
lecture.

SCRAMBLED

D ad woke me up Saturday morning by

yelling from the front room that we were
leaving in five minutes. I pulled on my
jeans and grabbed my pursemy

Sabatiniand dashed down the hall.

I found Dad in the kitchen, half in the
fridge, digging out egg cartons and
handing them to Shane who loaded them
into a big cardboard box. Here, take
that out to the truck, will ya? Dad
pointed an egg carton at an already full
box.
Sure. I carried the box out and slid
it into the truck bed.
Shane came out with another box. It
was weird to see him without a chicken
trailing after him. Wheres Fluffykins?
I asked.
Who cares?

Guess I didnt.
Shane stopped shuffling around the
cartons and looked at me, his eyes all
how-could-you-just-leave-me-like-that?
Poor little kid. He counted on me and I
just forgot about him. I put my hand on
his shoulder, lining up an apology.
Before I could say anything he said,
Sorry about ditching you last night.
Oh, Shane, you must have been so
Wait, what?
Shane ducked his head. Dad
already grounded me, so no lectures
from you, okay?
You ditched me? Youre grounded?

Sometimes conversations with ten-yearolds were like reruns of The Twilight

Zone.
Yeah, Kyle had some money and
Zappos Arcade was right around the
corner and they had Zombie Massacre
you know how good we are at that game
I didnt, but Shane didnt pause long
enough for me to say so. We were
beating all the zombies and then Zappo
told us he was closing and we ran back
to the game, but you were already gone.
Sorry.
Huh. Shane ditched me.
I headed for the house, calling, Oh,

Daaaddy dear.
As soon as I stepped in the kitchen, I
could tell Mom and Dad had been
arguing again. It was the way Moms
splayed fingers pressed on the counter
and the teeth-gritted tenseness in Dads
jaw. I changed tacks and gave them both
a brilliant smile. Good morning, Mom.
Just loading up all these eggs for Dad.
Got some more for me?
Dad passed me another box and I
exited stage left.
Theyre fighting again, I told
Shane.
Yep, he said.

Part of meprobably the same part

that realized although Shane had ditched
me, he was probably still pretty freaked
out when he got back to the game and
couldnt find mewanted to be all bigsister and tell him not to worry, parents
fight like that all the time. Everything
would be okay. The rest of me realized
that while other parents fought like that
all the time, ours didnt. Until Dad
brought home the chickens.
What are we doing with these
eggs? I hoped, hoped, hoped he
wouldnt tell me we now had to spend
Saturday mornings at the Farmers

Market instead of helping Mom at St.

Matt's.
Dads gonna donate them to Gene.
Looks like were in charge of breakfast
on Saturdays, Shane said.
Just until I figure out what to do
with these eggs. Dad appeared with an
armful of yellow cartons.
Maybe things will pick up at the
Farmers Market once people realize
were there.
Dad gave me a far away not-smile
and ruffled my hair, all thats-cute-kid.
A lot of people stop by already. But
then they open the carton and see brown

eggs. I actually had some lady ask to see

the freshness stamp. Like she works for
the Department of Agriculture or
something. I dont see her looking for the
Jolly Green Giant at the corn stand. Or
Johnny Appleseed over in fruits.
Or Bugs Bunny at the carrot place,
Shane added. I just looked at that kid.
Dad seemed not to hear him.
Anyway, the booths costing more than
were making. Gonna have to let it go, if
this keeps up.
Isnt it too soon to think that way?
I asked. It wasnt like Dad to give up
before an idea even had a chance. As

much as I hated sitting in that booth

selling eggs like some gingham-clad
farmers daughter, I hated that I-give-up
look on Dads face even more. There
had to be some way to get people to buy
our eggs. I stared out the truck window
on the way to St. Matt's trying to get my
brain to come up with some fantastic
solution.
But my hands kept kneading the
fabric of my Sabatini. I tried to swallow
around the lump that formed in my throat.
Never in my life had I possessed a
name-brand anything. The one time I
asked for a pair of jeans from Penneys I

got this whole lecture about saving

money for more important things and
how buying from Goodwill provided
jobs. Like even our clothes had to serve
a higher purpose.
Now shopping at Goodwill had paid
off. I had loved the purse from the
moment I found it lying on the discount
table, looking like someone had tried to
origami-fy Christmas. Hard to believe it
was a fashionistas dream-catch. Harder
to believe that out of all the people that
shopped there, Id picked it up. Only in
fairy tales did magic lamps fall into a
kids hand and solve all her problems.

Suddenly I realized that lump wasnt

there because I felt lucky. It was there
because I felt doubt.
I unzipped the purse and fingered the
tag. One of Dads stupid sayings popped
into my head: Dont look a gift horse in
the mouth.
I looked.
Embroidered in purple script were
the
words
Hand
made
by
__________. The handwritten name on
the line was smudged so bad I couldnt
read it. Still, it was a pretty safe bet that
Antonio Sabatini did not draw tiny red
hearts all around his name.

Those hearts kept eating at me while

I cracked eggs for Dad and Gene, then
dished out heaps of scrambled eggs to
the guests at St. Matt's. If I told Taylor
she was wrongthat my purse wasnt
actually a Sabatini, but a pile of rags
some kid had sewn together and, even
worse, that I got it at Goodwillwould
she still like me?
As if in answer, a voice cut through
my thoughts. No, it said and then,
No, again.
Alices daughter stood beside Marta,
holding out Martas tray for me to plop
on the eggs, but Marta pulled at the girls

arm and shook her head. No huevos,

Susie.
Dont you like eggs? I asked her.
She stuck out her tongue and made a
blechy face.
Well, you have to eat something,
Alice Jr. told her. Youre wasting away
to nothing.
No huevos, Marta repeated.

Alice Jr. gave me a can-you-believethis look.

Wanna switch? I asked. Before I
could blink, that girl came around the
counter and took the spatula from me.
Even Marta looked relieved.
No eggs, Marta? I asked.
No, she said.

No big deal, I told her. Well just

get you some of these biscuits Alice
whipped up. But she shook her head no
to those, too.
And to the sausage patties.
And to the orange juice.
Cantaloupe? I suggested, but I
already knew the answer.
You gotta eat, Marta, Alice said as
we passed by. Marta responded in
Spanish, but the look on her face
translated to Actually, no, I dont. By the
time we reached a table, Martas plate
contained one triangle of crusty toast
placed there against Martas wishes. I

put it down in front of her along with a

sippy cup worth of milk. She studied the
toast as if it were some science
experiment gone horribly awry.
Although I barely knew Marta, I
could see the changes in her since we
first met. Her eyes were red-rimmed and
sunken. Her cheeks hung like deflated
balloons. Even her hands were worn and
wrinkled, as if every ounce of fat had
been drained from them.
Here, Marta, try some toast. I held
the bread out to her, but Marta took my
wrist and pushed it toward my own
mouth. I took a small bite and made a

mmmm sound, then pushed the bread

against her pressed-tight lips.
It reminded me of feeding the baby
version of Shane and I was half-tempted
to make those choo-choo noises that
miraculously opened the mouth of even
the most stubborn toddler. Instead I said,
Come on, Marta, just one bite.
Her eyes focused right on me and her
lips parted enough to let the toast touch
the closed fence of her teeth. Pretty,
white teeth, so different from most the
guests at St. Matt's. Clearly someone had
loved this woman, cared for her. That
just made it all the more sad that she had

ended up here.

I didnt even notice that Marta had

taken a bite of the toast until Val walked
by and said, Yay! You did it, Sami!

One bite of toast couldnt combat

Martas starving-to-death week, but it
felt good when Val rubbed my shoulder
like Id cured world hunger. Maybe
thats all it tookgetting Marta to start
with just one bite. I watched with
increasing pride as Marta picked up the
small cup of milk that she had
emphatically refused a minute ago and
put it to her mouth. A piece of toast and
some milknot much, but a good start. I
could come back at lunch and maybe she
would eat something for me then. I could
make her a sandwichPBJ or tuna.
Maybe if I toasted the bread on the

sandwich...
Marta, I said, meaning to ask how
she felt about PB and banana
sandwiches. But her eyes had that faraway look again so I picked up the toast
and tried to feed her another bite. This
time her teeth stayed shut and she shook
her head like a little kid. I shrugged and
tossed the toast in the trash.
One bite was a good start.
I picked up her tiny cup of milk,
expecting it to be empty. But it wasnt.
One chewed up clump of toast floated on
top of the milk. I knew just how it felt.

Dad and Shane took off for the Farmers

Market, so I caught a ride home with
Mom. She stopped off at some house on
Colfax and came out carrying a big box.
Whats that? I asked.
Just some receipts that need
organizing, she said. I remembered the
newspaper with its red circle around
book keeper and wondered when
shed have time for that.
At home I sat the box next to the
rickety old card table doubling as a desk
in Moms bedroom. Miscellaneous
forms fanned across the table between
piles of office products. Black pens, red

pens, paper clips. Two more boxes sat

waiting. I could do some of this.
What? Sort receipts? Mom
shrugged at the piles. Ill get to it.
I wanted to ask her whenwith all
the time she already spent writing grants
and doing whatever else she did at St.
Matt'swhen would she possibly have
time for all this? But she gave my arm a
little enough-of-that squeeze and
suggested meatball subs for lunch.
I devoted the afternoon to working
on the Sports Report article. Well,
thinking about it anyway. I read through
my notes and came up with some ideas

for an interview with Number Fourtyfour, whose name was indeed in my

notebook. Josh Allen. If Taylor had a
crush on him and I helped her get an
interview, maybe the whole Sabatini
thing wouldnt matter.
By five oclock possible interview
questions filled six pages of my
notebook.
I spent the next hour rummaging
through my closet and Shanes for
somethinganythingI could wear to
the movies and look cool but not like I
was trying to look cool. I settled on a
white sweater that bunched up a bit in

the chest and went in to ask Mom if she

thought it looked okay. She wasnt in her
room. I knocked on her bathroom door,
but it swung open. I glanced out her
windowno car. Then I caught a
glimpse of sage green fabric in Moms
latest found-at-Goodwill pile. I pulled at
it. A gorgeous chiffon tunic. I hated
wearing stuff from Goodwill. I couldnt
help worrying that the previous owner of
the item would see me wearing it. Now,
I had to worry that Taylor might mistake
it for some froufrou frock from France.
Still. This was one gorgeous shirt. I ran
back in my room and switched into my

black leggings.
I grabbed a leftover slice of pizza
and asked Dad for a ride to the movies.
After grilling me over who would be
there, he agreedexcept when we got
there he was all I-have-to-meet-thesegirls.
No.
Way.
If the truck wasnt evidence enough
that I didnt fit in with them, an
unemployed father in raggedy jeans with
uncombed hair would be.
Dad! I whined, stalling long
enough for my brain to catch up. Were

late. Theyre already inside saving me a

seat. Im gonna miss the whole show.
Fine, but I want to meet them when
I pick you up.
I huffed and did a mental calculation.
Okay, nine forty-five. About fifteen
minutes after the movie should end.
Plenty of time for the Pops to exit stage
right.
I found them in the popcorn line.
Cute shirt, said Blond Pop.
If I had hair that long, Id French
braid it, said Brunette Pop.
Taylor gave me a smile and handed
me her popcorn. Jennifer pretty much

ignored me, except to hip check me out

of the way so she and Aislinn could
follow Taylor into the aisle.
Why dont we sit behind them?
suggested Brunette Pop. That way we
can all chat.
I followed her down the next aisle
and sat between the two nameless Pops.
Their idea of chatting consisted mainly
of listening in on Jennifer, Taylor, and
Aislinns chatting and laughing in all the
right places.
I squeezed the bag of popcorn
between my knees and dug my notebook
out of my purse. Flipped to the page with

Number Fourty-fours name on it.

Waited for Jennifer to take a breath so I
could tell Taylor about my hook for the
Sports Report article. The dancing candy
bar demanded we turn off our cell
phones.
I took a quick breath and leaned
forward between Jennifer and Taylor.
Heres your popcorn, I interrupted
Jennifer in mid-sentence and plunged
ahead. So, I was thinking about the
article for NewsCrew
Oh, thats done already, Jennifer
cut in.
What? Surely she was joking. We

havent even worked on it yet.

Aislinn and I slept over at
Taylors, Jennifer said. We wrote it
this morning, just to get it out of the
way.
Heat raced up my neck. They did it
without me. Like I didnt even exist.
I blinked at the back of Jennifers
head, trying to believe it was as Jennifer
had said, that they just wanted to get it
out of the way. But then she pivoted in
her seat and gave me a pouty-face. Oh,
you dont mind do you? We figured
football wasnt your thing. And I knew
it wasnt the article she wanted out of

the way.
Well, I
Shhh! The movies starting,
Aislinn said.
Good thing Taylor took her popcorn
or Jennifer might have ended up wearing
it.
When the movie ended, I trailed the
Pops out of the theater listening to them
squeal over how cute so-and-so was and
how theyd all been surprised at the
ending when he kissed the other girl.
Jennifers mom waited out front and
everyone flowed right out the door and
into her van without so much as a see

ya later in my direction.
I stood there for fifteen minutes
waiting for Dad. When he pulled up, he
was all, Where are your friends?
I just shrugged and climbed into the
truck. Slouched against the window.
Prepared myself for a lecture on
responsibility or some quippy remark
meant to cheer me up. Miraculously, Dad
drove back to the house without saying
one single word.

FINE FEATHERED FRIENDS

B eth Egan was the first one to ask.

Did you really hang out with Taylor
Statton all weekend? she blurted as
soon as I climbed on the bus. I hated the

way Beth always said Taylors whole

name. As if someone might get her
confused with all the other Taylors at
Pokagon. I walked past Beth like she
didnt exist, but I could feel Doms eyes
on me. All accusatory. Like being
friends with Taylor made me a bad
person or something.
The fact that Taylor sat at the front of
the bus and probably didnt even know
we rode the same bus should have
RIPed any rumor of our friendship, but
whispers of it rippled alongside me in
the hallway, splashing against my locker
and coating me in speculation: Was

Samantha Duggan the newest Pop?

More like a kernel.
Still. Taylor had asked me to work
on that article. Shed invited me to the
football game and to the movie. Maybe
she did like me. I spent the whole
morning replaying our interactions,
trying to figure out where I fit into her
world. Acquaintance? Friend? Pain in
the rear tag-along? I doubted Taylor was
the type to put up with tag-alongs. By
lunchtime, I felt like a kindergartener,
plucking petals off a daisyshe likes
me, she likes me not. As if my thoughts
summoned her, Taylor waited at the

lunchroom door. Hey, there, Sami.

She likes me.
I heyed her back and followed her
into the chaos of the cafeteria. She
joined the rest of the Pops in the hot
lunch line. I tucked my own brown bag
under my arm. They fussed over which
salad appeared less wilty, settling on the
chef. I hung back while they paid for
their lunches, then followed them over to
their table. I wasnt sure whether I
should try to sit next to Taylor. Before I
could decide, Jennifer waved me over.
Relief washed over me. Maybe she was
starting to accept me.

I headed for the spot between her

and Brunette Pop, but instead of
scooching over to make room for me,
Jennifer said, Oh, Sami? Can you grab
me some ranch?
Sure, I said. At least she had
acknowledged my presence. I asked two
people where the ranch was before I
found it in a basket by the salads. I
grabbed a packet and started back
toward the tables, but the lunch lady
called after me, Arent you going to pay
for that?
Oh, um, I thought it came with the
salad.

What salad? She wiggled her

meaty fingers. Fifty cents.
I fumbled in my pockets, praying that
the jingle represented more than my
house key. It didnt. After some frantic
digging in my pseudo-Sabatini, I
scrounged a quarter, two nickels, and
enough pennies to get the woman off my
back.
I tapped Jennifer on the shoulder and
held out the dressing. Here you go.
What? She eyed the packet in my
hands then her half-eaten ranch-covered
salad. Oh, no thanks, Im good.
Like she hadnt just asked me to go

get her some. And while Brunette Pop

gave me a sympathetic smile, she didnt
exactly move over. Taylor was too busy
laughing at something Aislinn said to
notice me hovering.
I pretended to notice someone
waving at me. Gotta go, I said to the
back of Jennifers head.
When I slid onto the edge of Doms
table, he asked why I wasnt sitting with
my new friends. Like I had any friends
old or new. Apparently he was still
mad at me for telling everyone on the
bus that his dad worked at the dog food
plant.

If you could drill holes in the back of

someones head by staring at them, by
the time lunch ended Jennifers whole
head should have been one empty
cavern. But she must have still had some
motor skills intact, because she stood up
when the bell rang and dumped her tray
in the trash like everyone else.
Maybe if I acted like nothing had
happened, they would too. There were
plenty of other kids in NewsCrew. After
school I headed straight to the library,
hoping to beat everyone else there. Id
ask Miss Harmon for a new assignment.
One that came with a new partner. In my

hurry I raced around a corner and came

face to face with Jennifer. Too bad the
article didnt work out, she sneered.
Then she leaned in all confidential and
asked, Whatever made you think Taylor
could like someone like you?
I could have said, Bug off, you
idiot.
I should have said, Just because
youre popular doesnt mean people
actually like you.
I did say, Oh, um, well...
Jennifer tossed a laugh over her
shoulder as she disappeared into the
library.

No way could I go to NewsCrew.

I slipped out the back door and
dashed around to the front of the school
just in time to see the last bus pull away.
Options:
a) Subject myself to the private
humiliation of an endless car ride with
Dad and one of Moms fitting in as a
maturing adolescent in todays society of
social networking lectures.
Or...
2) Subject myself to public
humiliation aboard the city buswith
the possible benefit of contracting a
fungal infection or bacterial meningitis

requiring years of home schooling.

City bus won by a landslide. Id just
go to St. Matts and check on Marta.
Hang out just long enough to avoid Dad
asking why I was home early.
Marta sat in her rocker, hands still as
two small stones weighing down the
knitting in her lap. She stared slackjawed out the window. Marta? I said
and repeated when she didnt respond.
I think shes dead, a small boy
whispered, then went back to singing
La, la, la la. La, la, la, la along with
Sesame Street on the TV.
Marta? I shook her shoulder and

she blinked. I said her name again and

she grabbed my hand and hopped up like
shed been waiting for me. She pulled
me toward the door, babbling in Spanish
about Tom Teo again. And soap.
Wait, Marta! Wait, I I redirected
her toward the bathroom. You want to
wash up? I asked her. I pointed to the
sink with its hand soap dispenser.
Soap-a?
Sopa, she confirmed, but she
didnt reach for the soap. Instead she
pulled me back out to the main room and
pointed at the front doors.
No go, I told her, then added a

tentative, No va, hoping va meant go.

Martas shoulders slumped and she
let me lead her back to her chair. I
picked up the needles and yarn and held
them out to her, asked what she was
making. When she didnt respond, I held
up the already done part and shrugged.
Raised my eyebrows questioningly.
Voiced a half-remembered phrase, Que
hacemos? which I thought might meant,
What are you making?
A smile broke across her face and
she clapped her hands together. She
reached behind the chair and pulled out
a pleather handbag that probably

predated my birth. She rummaged in it,

surfacing with two knitting needles and
some purple yarn. She held them out to
me.
Uh, no, I, um...I dont know how to
knit.
Marta gave the needles an insistent
shake and said something that began
with, Susita, and ended with, por
favor.
Great, one more thing for me to suck
at. I glanced at the clock. Still too early
to go home. Okay, Marta. Help me get
my knit on. Marta turned out to be a
pretty good teacher. As she taught me, I

wondered about her life in Mexico, or

Puerto Rico, or wherever she was from.
The way she folded her hands around
mine and guided my fingers, she must
have taught other kids to knit. Maybe she
was a teacher. Or a grandmother. If I had
a grandma, Id be sad to know she was
all alone in some shelter.
Wow, Sami, thats quite a scarf you
have going there, Val said. I glanced
down, surprised to see how much Id
done. It wasnt even close to being a
scarf but maybe if I kept going...
Marta said something that started
with, Susie, and ended with, "bueno."

Val touched Martas arm. Hola,

Marta, vamos a comer.
Marta scowled at Val, but got up to
follow her into the cafeteria. Whats for
dinner? I asked Alice.
She handed Marta a tray. Soup.
Marta raised her eyebrows and said,
Blech. No es sopa, Susie. Es basura.
Alice glanced at Val for a
translation, but Val shrugged. Probably a
good thing.
What kind? I asked.
Chicken and rice. One of the other
servers ladled some soup into a bowl
for Marta and put it on her tray. Although

Marta waved her hand at me when I

offered her some bread, I put some of
that on her tray, too.
Marta sat at the table and refused to
eat. Try a tiny bite, I urged, but she
just pressed her lips together in a repeat
of last time.
I scooped some onto her spoon and
sampled it. Bland, but otherwise not that
bad. It just needs some spicing up, I
told Marta and left to get some pepper
from the kitchen.
When I came back, Marta was gone
and her bowl sat upside down in a
puddle of soup. I picked up the soggy

bread and wrapped it in a napkin. Marta

knitted away in her chair. I grabbed her
hand with the same determination shed
used on me earlier. Her eyes met mine,
bloodshot, yellow, empty. You gotta
eat, I told her, placing the bread in her
hand and curling her fingers around it.
She put it in her bag with a reluctant,
Gracias.
I found Mom in her office, elbows
on the table, both hands in her hair,
staring at the computer screen. I had to
say her name twice before she looked
up. The weariness around her eyes
struck me. You okay?

She glanced back at the screen, then

at me. Yep, she said with a smile.
Fine here, you?
I nodded, probably no more
convincing than her smile. I waited
while she packed up and told Val shed
be in early the next day. Helped her
carry a box of paperwork out to the car.
On the drive home I told her about
Marta.
Yep, shes a stubborn one, Mom
agreed. But no one ever starves to
death at St. Matt's.
I couldnt help but add a mental yet.

Some

girl called four times for you.

Wanted your cell number, Shane
informed me when I got home with
Mom. He favored her with a see-Imnot-the-only-one-who-needs-a-cellphone look.
Who was she? I asked.
How should I know? Shane said,
like taking a message was a new
concept. I punched him in the shoulder
and he gave a lame, Ow.
Sami, Mom warned. No use
arguing that he had it coming. Shed just
say whoever it was would call back.
As if on cue the phone rang. Shane

lurched for it, but I elbowed him out of

the way and snatched it. Took a
cleansing breath so the caller wouldnt
know her call had ignited a battle. Said
hello in my best I-am-so-bored murmur.
Where were you? a semi-familiar
voice accused, like Id left her standing
on a street corner somewhere. In the
rain. With rabid dogs.
Um, hello? I repeated. Maybe it
was a wrong number.
Wherewereyou? the voice
repeated.
Whoisthis? I countered.
Tay-lor, the voice said. Stat-ton.

Your partner for the NewsCrew ar-ticle?

Partner? Thats an awfully big
promotion from we-wrote-it-withoutyou.
Silence.
No way had I just snarked at Taylor
Statton. I wasnt sure which of us was
more shocked. Now she would hang up
and invisibility would take on a whole
new meaning for me. I braced myself for
the click, but instead I heard something
that sounded a teeny bit like, Sorry.
Huh?
A slow breath from the other end of

the line and then a rather sincere

sounding, Sorry, followed by a, Can
we please talk?
She blurted out that Miss Harmon
branded their article flat and onedimensional. She told us to rewrite it,
then said, Never mind, Ill assign it to
someone who understands athletics at a
deeper level. Like being pom captain
doesnt qualify me to write about
sports.
I took that opportunity to practice my
supportive listening skills and murmured
a, Mm-hmm.
So, I said we should rewrite it

anyway. But Jennifer and Kaleigh dont

want to. They switched over to writing
up the fall musical. So, its just you and
me. Can you come over tomorrow? Like,
after school?
My brain seized on the words its
just you and me and was too busy doing
its own little happy-new-BFF dance to
form an answer.

There were twenty-four Allens in the

phone book. A few hung up right away
when I asked for Josh, but most were
polite enough to say, Wrong number.

But the old man who answered on my

nineteenth try had a smile that was
audible through the phone. Oh, thats
my grandson! he said. I asked if he
remembered me from the football game
the student reporter interested in
writing an article about his grandson. He
sure did. He asked if I wanted Joshs
number. I sure did.
Josh, aka Number Fourty-four,
answered on the first ring. I nearly
choked on my own spit, trying to say
hello.
He sounded nice, though, and
friendlylike we were long-lost friends

or something. After I explained my

reason for calling he agreed to let Taylor
and me interview him for our article.
Friday. Before the next game.
I couldnt wait to tell Taylor and
dialed her number right away.
Busy.
Redial.
Busy. Redial.
Busy. Redial. Busy. Redial. Busy.
Redial.
Still busy.
Okay, so maybe that was a bit
stalker-ish. I hung up and tried to do
homework.

The next day I tried to catch Taylors

eye as she got on the bus, but she slid
into a seat toward the front without even
glancing back at her usual spot. As the
bus spilled us in front of the school, the
crowd swept her away and I didnt see
her again until lunch. I thought of
walking over and sitting at her table, but
all the seats were taken, with Jennifer
sitting so close they could have been
Siamese twins.
I waited at her locker after school,
but I must have missed her. Probably
saving me a seat on the bus. By the time I
climbed on, the bus was packed. I

craned my neck, looking for Taylor.

But she wasnt on the bus.
No biggie, Id just see her at her
house then. Like she said.
I got stuck sitting with Beth Egan,
whose mouth couldnt stop moving for
two seconds.
As soon as I sat down she started in,
like the compression of the seat cushion
caused the switch in her jaw to flip
open. Did you see Taylors outfit? I bet
she got it from GloriaAnns. I wish we
had one in South Bend. I bet she had to
go to Chicago to find it. Her family
probably drives in all the time just to

shop. She is such a total fashionista...

When the buss engine roared to life
I channeled the blessed white noise,
along with the cramped conversations of
everyone on board, to drown Beth out.
At least she didnt require responses
from her captives. She chattered on and
on and probably never noticed me
ignoring her.
Dom got off at our usual stop. He
didnt seem to notice that I didnt get off
with him. As we passed my house, I
stared out the window at the screen door
still hanging from its broken hinge. The
paint peeling off the old wood porch

steps. The big ugly garage-turned-hen

house and the barely visible corner of
the attached chicken coop courtyard.
Beth noticed me staring. Ever
wonder who lives there? she asked.
What a dump.
I could have told Beth to shut up.
I should have told Beth that it is
wrong to judge other people by their
homes.
Instead, I shrugged, all if-you-say-so.
Its not that bad.
Are you kidding? Its pink! Who
paints their house pink? It was not pink,
it was salmon and it was salmon

because that was Moms favorite color.

(Although even she was shocked when
she came home from a weekend
conference to discover Dad had painted
the entire house salmon.) But of course I
couldnt say that even if I wanted to,
because Beth rambled on without taking
a breath. Usually theres garbage all
over the place, too. Its probably one of
those hoarders, like you see on Oprah.
Then she launched into some story about
a lady who tripped over her own piles
of junk and died because no one could
find her, but I was stuck on the word
garbage. Junk, maybe. But garbage?

And even at its worst, Dad always kept

it in the backyard. Never all over the
place. Luckily Beth didnt notice the
chickens on the garage roof.
Oops, Joy called from the drivers
seat, Miss your stop, Samantha? and
her foot lifted from the pedal enough for
the bus to slow right in front of my
house.
NO! I yelled back, too loud.
Getting off at the Stattons. Taylors.
Taylor Statton. Thats where Im going.
To Taylor Stattons house. Because she
invited me. Man, I sounded just like a
two-year-old.

That shut Beth up for about a

nanosecond. Then she machine-gunned
me with Taylor questionseverything
from Taylors favorite perfume to what
kind of toothpaste she used. If Beth ever
paused to take a breath, I might have had
to admit I hardly knew Taylor. But she
didnt. So I didnt.
The bus turned right into Deer
Forest, the subdivision behind my house,
and wound down several tree-lined
streets. I wobbled my way to the front as
Joy pulled to a stop at the end of a culde-sac named, according to the street
sign on the corner, Statton Court. Funny,

I had never noticed that before.

Bye, Samantha! Beth called after
me. Have fun hanging with Taylor! Be
sure to The bus door whooshed shut.
I would have to live the rest of my life
never knowing what Beth Egan wanted
me to be sure to do.
Somehow Id have to survive.
The
pristine
whiteness
and
gargantuan huge-iosity of Taylors house
took my breath away. All the little
touchescopper shingles over the
balcony, a twisted brick chimney, and a
gargoyle-dog thing guarding the front
steppropelled it from house to

McMansion.
Before I could ring the doorbell, the
door opened and Jennifer smirked at me
through a crack big enough to let out her
pouty lips, but not the two little
Chihuahuas trying to squeeze past her.
What are you doing here? she asked.
I apologized and then realized I was
invited. I didnt have to explain myself
to Jennifer. Can I talk to Taylor,
please?
What are yousome kind of
stalker? Cant you tell when someone
doesnt like you?
I sure could tell Jennifer didnt like

me, but Taylor seemed to. She had

invited me over, after all. I straightened
my shoulders and asked for Taylor again.
She doesnt want you here.
She called me, I said. She asked
me to come.
Jennifer laughed. Oh, that? We
dared her to. She had you on speaker
phonehilarious!
In the background I could hear
Taylor call out, Who is it, Jen?
Nobody, Jennifer said. And she
shut the door in my face.
I stumbled back half a step. She was
lying. Any second Taylor would open the

door and invite me in.

But the seconds ticked by.
I raised my hand to knock. Lowered
it. Raised it again. Muffled laughter from
inside told me all I needed to know. I
stuffed both hands in my pockets and
backed down the steps. As soon as my
feet hit the sidewalk I ran until a stitch in
my side made me gasp for air. I slumped
against a huge rock at the edge of
somebodys perfectly manicured lawn,
glad for the stand of fir trees that
blocked me from Taylors house. It was
a joke. And I bought it. I could just see
them nowTaylor and all her little Pops

laughing over poor, pathetic Sa-man-duh

Duggan. My eyes burned but no tears
came. I just felt...empty.
A five minute bus ride between my
stop and Taylors morphed into a half
hour walk back home. A cell phone
would have come in handy right about
then.
Dad knelt over a pile of dirt and
busted up eggshells in our front yard.
Hey, there Sambi, he called as I
trudged past, why so glum?
Im not glum. Im positively perky.
I gave him one of my patented
everything-is-perfect-in-the-universe

grins.
He fired back one of his Im-notstupid-so-fess-up frowns.
Time to change the subject. What
are you working on?
New fertilizing method.
I nodded as if that were the most
logical answer in the world.
Dad handed me a mini-rake and I
hung my book bag from the handle of the
wheelbarrow. Busting clumps of eggcoated dirt relaxed me in a mindnumbing kind of way.
Wanna talk? he asked after a bit.
Nope.

Mom would have pushed itasked

again, randomly guessed at the issue
whatever it took to get me to open up.
But Dad was clueless. Aspiring to cure
our financial woes through egg products
seemed normal to him, so my
glumness probably did, too.
Shane opened the front door and
yelled, Taylors on the phone.
Most likely calling to rub it in. Put
me on speaker phone again. Id give
them something to laugh about. I put one
final dirt clod to death, then stood up,
brushing the soil from my knees.
Dad eyed the rake clenched in my

fist. Take it easy on her, he said.

Dont do anything you might regret.
I tossed aside the rake with a snort.
Tell her that.
What? I huffed into the phone.
Sami? Taylor asked. Why arent
you here?
I was so not in the mood for games.
That, and being so ticked off, kept me
from caring about what I may or may not
regret later. I dont have time for this
crap. Leave me alone.
I hung up before she could say
anything else. I meant to get started on
my homework, but as I went into my

room to grab my calculator the

gravitational pull of my bed sucked me
in.
My eyes still burned with unshed
tears and I closed them. My eyelids
transformed into mini-movie screens
playing reel after reel of Taylor clips in
slow motion. Taylor laughing with me
over Mr. Curtisss whacked-out beard.
Taylor at the football game, gushing over
Number Fourty-four. Taylor saving me
from public humiliation with her
Sabatini-mistake. Taylor at the movie
handing me popcorn.
When I couldnt stand it anymore, I

got back up. Pulled out my world history

homework. Tried to decipher the
mishmash of notes. Usually I could
easily follow Mr. Curtiss, but lately hed
been all wound up over the recession.
Today he spent the whole period in a
rant about how government bailout
programs just made things worse for the
middle class without helping the lower
class.
Whateverblah, blah, blah.
Except at the end of class he said
something that made a lot of sense. He
said, sometimes when there is a
catastrophe people focus so much on all

the symptoms that they overlook the

initial cause. When he said it, I just
copied it into my notes without thinking
about it. But as I reread it, I suddenly
saw the connection to this thing with
Taylorthe phone call and the prank
and her standing me up were all
symptoms of a deeper cause. The idea
kept bouncing around with no real
direction until I flashed on the time I met
Taylor at the football game. Taylor
didnt even notice me until I reached into
my purse for my notebook and everyone
made fun of me. Except Taylor...she
grabbed my jumbled rag of a purse and

declared it a Sabatini.
The purse of all purses. The ticket
into the inner sanctum of Pops.
Except.
If a Sabatini was so great, how come
Taylor didnt have one? She had
everything else, all the best brands. I
couldnt imagine her not being able to
order a Sabatini online.
The pale beacon of Moms laptop
screen glowed from the kitchen counter.
I jiggled the mouse and the computer
hummed to life.
I typed Sabatini in the search box.
Gabriela Sabatini. Rafael Sabatini.

Sabatini Pizza. Sabatini Garden.

Sabatini Elementary School.
Architects, athletes, and authors.
Doctors and diamond cutters. Tailors,
taxidermists, and yoga teachers. All
named Sabatini.
Twenty-six million results and not
one of them had to do with a purse.

COMING HOME TO ROOST

D ad leaned against the kitchen counter,

drinking coffee and buttering the less

blackened side of some extra-well-done
toast. I could never figure out why, when

he was a pretty good cook, he always

charcoaled the toast.
I can make some more, he offered.
Thats okay, I told him. I got it.
I dropped two slices of bread in the
toaster and adjusted the gauge back to an
edible setting.
Youre up early.
Couldnt sleep. He raised his
eyebrows, but I changed the subject.
So, why are you all dressed up?
He had on a pair of corduroys with a
striped polo shirt. A white undershirt
peeked out from the open triangle at the
neck. Some dads wear ties when they

want to dress up. My dad splashed on

some aftershave and put on an
undershirt.
Dad shrugged. He nibbled his toast.
Then he studied me out of the corner of
his eye sheepishly. I think I prefer it to
be a surprise.
Okay.
Well, if you really want to know...
He crammed the end of the bread crust
into his mouth and sloshed coffee on the
linoleum in his hurry to get across the
kitchen to me. He rested a hand on my
shoulder as if to brace me for the big
news. I have an appointment with the

K-9 Kibble people this morning.

An interview? I thought of Doms
dad and the way the smell from that
place followed him like a black cloud.
At least Mr. Pollan had a job, though.
They gonna hire you?
No! I never wanna work in a
factory again. Its a sales call.
He downed the rest of his coffee and
motioned for me to follow him outside. I
grabbed my toast on the way out. The
chickens rushed over to the fence as we
approached. Hey, girls, Dad cooed at
them, producing cornmeal from a little
baggie he seemed to keep in the pocket

of every pair of pants. They went nuts,

clucking and climbing over one another
to get a beakful.
Grab that box, okay? Dad pointed
to a large crate that leaned against the
side of the garage. I crammed half a
piece of toast into my mouth and threw
the rest to the chickens. I bent down and
hoisted the crate. Okay, hold it in front
of the opening. I struggled to position
the box in front of the chicken pens gate
and braced it as he shooed about ten of
his biggest hens into it. They stood
shoulder to shoulder, feathers fluffing out
to fill every inch of the box. Thats

gotta be at least eighty pounds, right?

I nodded.
Theyll weigh them on their own
scales, of course, but I want to have a
ballpark. Think we can lift this into the
truck?
Youre taking the chickens to your
meeting? My stomach did a long, lazy
roll.
Honey, the chickens are the
meeting.
But K-9 Kibbles are beef flavored.
Remember? 'K-9 Kibbles, the beefy treat
dogs like to eat'? I added the bark-barkgrrr that ended the commercial.

Change is good, la, la, la, he sang

back, punctuated with the cha-ching of
the cash register from the Buyers Club
commercial.

I sat on the back porch staring at the

remaining chickens until it was time to
catch the bus. Its not like I actually
cared about them. Still my stomach felt
like the spin cycle on a washing
machine.
Whats up? Dom asked when I
showed up at the bus stop. I shrugged.
But.

Its not easy sitting through school

when your chickens are about to be
ground up into dog food and everyone
that you might talk to about it hates your
guts. Mr. Curtiss called on me and I
didnt have a clue what hed been
talking about. I didnt even care that I
didnt have a clue. I just sat there and let
my eyes tear up so he would move on.
They started out as fake tears, but as the
bell rang my stomach lurched and I
raced for the bathroom. Barfed up that
half piece of toast.
The bathroom sinks were notorious
for never getting warm, but today the

cool water felt like a blessing on my hot

face. In the hall I ignored the line of kids
waiting for drinks and stayed bent over
the fountain, gulping water long after
kids griped at me to hurry up already.
When I came up for air, Dom stared at
me. You all right?
Um, yeah, I said, all whywouldnt-I-be.
No youre not. Come on. He
grabbed my wrist and led me down the
hall by the gym and out the back door.
Sit.
I sat. Dom reached into a brown bag
I hadnt even noticed and pulled out a

sandwich. Ripped it in two and handed

half to me. Sorry, no T. Just BL.
We ate in silence, Dom fishing in the
bag whenever we finished a coursehe
fed me half an orange, half a monster
cookie, half a bag of potato straws. I ate
it all without complaint, surprised at
how bottomless my stomach had
become. When the last potato straw was
consumed, Dom crumpled the paper sack
and tossed it into the bushes. Spill it,
he said.
I told Dom about the chickens. I
dont know what I expected, maybe that
because his dad worked at K-9 Kibble,

hed give me some lecture about how

even dogs have to eat or remind me that I
had no qualms eating poultry, so why
should dogs be denied their chickeny
goodness. But Dom didnt say any of
those things. He just frowned and said,
That sucks.
And then, maybe because I missed
the times we sat in the tree fort and
griped about the injustices of childhood
or because I thought if he understood
about the chickens, hed understand all
the other crap, I spilled all the TaylorJennifer drama.
This time he didnt frown. He didnt

comfort me with a sympathetic, That

sucks. He just shook his head.
What?
You dont want to hear it, he said.
He got up and reached for the door, but I
grabbed his arm.
What?
Youre so hung up on being part of
all that, Dom said. You dont even see
the big picture.
So tell me. Whats the big picture?
Dom leveled his eyes at me. Thats
who they are. They use people. Why do
you want to be part of that? You dont
belong with them.

A red heat blossomed in my belly.

Oh, yeah? How do you know? Youre
not exactly Mr. Popularity yourself.
Immediately I wished I could take
that back. Doms eyes went flat, his
mouth ruler-straight, measuring the
distance between us. Then he whipped
open the door and disappeared into the
building.
The words you dont belong clanged
against the inside of my head like a big
metal gong. Fire scorched the inside of
my throat and I knew if I opened my
mouth I would start bawling like a baby.
I pushed Doms words awayhe didnt

know Taylor, barely knew me anymore.

Who was he to say I didnt belong? Just
a guy I used to hang out with. A guy who
used to be my best friend. I sat against
the rough brick wall, my knees drawn up
to my chest and waited for the bell to
call me back to class.
When it rang I walked stiff-legged to
the bathroom, splashed water on my face
to hide the fact that Id been crying. It
didnt work. The tardy bell rang and I
was still standing in front of the mirror,
eyes blotchy and swollen. No way could
I go to class like this. I walked head
down to the nurses office. Told her I

had a headache. She rummaged in her

cabinet for some aspirin and told me I
could lie on her cot until I felt up to
going back to class. She even dimmed
the lights.
I stretched out and tried to let the
chatter of the office staff wash away the
deep down exhaustion I felt. Maybe
Dom was right, maybe Taylor was using
me. Maybe Id been fooling myself to
think Id ever belong. I slept off and on,
waking with the Charlie Brown drone of
the after school announcements. No sign
of the nurse, so I stayed in her office
until after second bell cleared the halls. I

headed toward my locker, but when I

saw who leaned against it I almost went
back in the office.
Taylor Statton.
The last person I wanted to see right
now.
Whats up with you? she asked.
I wanted to tell her to go jump off a
cliff.
I wanted to tell her I didnt have to
explain myself to her.
But more than anything I wanted to
tell her she had hallucinated the whole
thing and we had never actually met.
Instead of saying any of those things,

I just shrugged and asked if I could get

into my locker. She shook her head all Ijust-dont-get-you, but she shifted out of
my way. I had to try the lock three times
before I could get the combo to work. I
took my time digging through the pile for
my Spanish text and then the book we
were reading for Mrs. K. Maybe if I
prolonged this enough, Taylor would get
sick of waiting and disappear. But when
I turned around, she was still there.
The only thing Id accomplished was
giving her enough time to rephrase her
question into one I couldnt just shrug
off. Why are you being such a total

jerk?
My mouth filled with saliva and I
swallowed hard. I so did not want to
throw down with Taylor, but sometimes
the best defense equaled a good offense.
Me? How about you? Why are you such
a jerk? Go find someone else to laugh
at.
What are you talking about?
Like she didnt know. I could almost
hear the rest of the Pops giggling and
shushing each other from around the
corner. I slammed my locker and picked
up my backpack to leave, but something
about the look on Taylors face stopped

me. Come on. You know exactly what

Im talking about. The phone call?
Inviting me over?
Yeah? Taylor nodded. Why didnt
you come? I needed your help on that
rewrite.
Oh, she was good. It must take years
to develop such a convincing Im-soinnocent face. Just drop it. Its not like
were ever going to be friends.
Maybe youre right. She turned to
go and then spun back around. I just
dont get you. You seemed so real. But
youre just another poseur, like all the
rest.

Im the poseur? A flash of anger

seared the roof of my mouth and turned
my tongue into the Sahara. Youre the
one that lied about the Sabatini.
She blinked in surprise.
I looked it up online. No. Such.
Thing.
Yeah, okay, I lied. That was the
only way I could get them to stop making
fun of you.
I could only sputter. What did she
care if the Pops chewed me up and spat
me out?
Taylor stepped closer to me. Look,
I like you. Youre funny and real. Not

like the restthey try too hard, but you

just are, ya know?
No, I didnt know.
I thought we could be friends, but if
you dont want to...
No, I said.
Fine!
No, I mean no, I dont not want to
be friends.
Taylor flashed her perfect teeth at me
and laughed. See? Thats what I like
about you. She tapped my purse.
Howd you end up with that purse
anyway?
What do you mean?

I made that. Like, in fourth grade. It

disappeared after we moved here. My
mom must have donated it or
something.
I tried to figure out how to change
the subject before I had to admit that we
shopped at Goodwill, but Taylor did it
for me. Lets skip NewsCrew and go to
my house. We can rewrite the article and
surprise Miss Harmon with it
tomorrow.
The logical part of me clung to the
idea that this might all be part of some
evil plot to totally humiliate me. But
Taylor squeezed my arm and gradually

the echo of Doms, You dont belong,

was replaced by Taylors, I like you. I
let her tug me down the hall. But outside
while we waited for a ride, doubt crept
back in. I just couldnt let it go. I did
come.
Huh? Come where?
To your house.
I watched her face for a reaction, but
she seemed totally confused. When?
After school that day we were
supposed to work on the article.
No. We waited and waited for you.
You didnt show.
Yes, I did.

Taylor rolled her eyes. I think I

would know if you came to my house.
The only person that came was Jennifer.
Well, and some Girl Scout selling
cookies.
Jennifer told you it was a Girl
Scout, I guessed. Taylor nodded. Well,
it wasnt. It was me.
You were selling cookies?
No, I
Taylor laughed. I get it, Sami.
Jennifers not as bad as you think,
though. She just getsI dont know
jealous?
It bothered me, the way Taylor just

dismissed Jennifers lies, but I was

afraid to say anything that might
jeopardize the thin thread of friendship
Taylor had offered me.

If Taylors house was imposing from the

front step, the vast openness of the foyer
was suffocating. Taylor led me through
an open arch into a huge windowwalled, fire-placed space with a leather
sectional that could have seated half the
football team.
We call this the White Room,
Taylor said with a grimace. Have a

seat, Ill grab some munchies.

White walls. White couch. Lacy
white curtains. Even the carpet was
white. High up on a shelf one single
splash of red cowered between two
large milk-stained vases. Some kind of
squished looking bowl. It would be ugly
if its redness in the room of white wasnt
perfectly beautiful. Taylor came back in
and plopped down on the couch next to
me. I made that, she said.
Cool. Unlike my house, where
Mom met some primal need to celebrate
her childrens brilliance on every square
inch of wall space, this bowl was the

only evidence in the room of Taylors

existence.
The door to the kitchen swung open
and Taylors little dogs came rushing
out, their tiny toes clickity-clicking
across the tile. They wove in and out of
Mrs. Stattons legs as she carried a tray
over to us.
Tink! Taylor scolded. Both dogs
dashed over to us and leaped onto the
couch, licking Taylors face as if it were
coated in bacon grease. Yuck. That was
probably the only good thing about
chickens. They didnt lick you.
Mrs. Statton set the tray on the table.

My mouth watered at the cheesy pile of

nachos. Next to it sat a plate of mini
brownies. Would you like a glass of ice
tea? she asked.
Yes, please, I said. Taylor nodded,
her mouth already too busy chewing.
Taylor filled me in on the Sports
Report progress. No wonder Miss
Harmon didnt like itit was just a
recap of that one game. Fine for a
weekly paper, but if we werent going to
press until the beginning of December,
we
needed
something
more
comprehensivea recap of the whole
season, maybe. Before I could say

anything, Taylors mom came back in

and handed me a glass of ice tea. She
blushed a subtle pink when I said,
Thank you, Mrs. Statton.
Oh, thats not my mom, Taylor
laughed. Thats my Sally.
As if everyone had a Sally.
Thats my mom. Taylor pointed to
a silver framed portrait on the mantle.
The woman in the picture looked like
someone out of a silent filmporcelain
skin, gray-black lips.
Does she have something against
color? I asked.
Taylor laughed. You noticed, huh?

She hopped up, spilling the Chihuahuas

to the floor. Come on, Ill show you my
room.
Down a white hallway and up a
spiral staircase. Past white doors, all
closed. We rounded the corner at the end
of the hall and I squinted at the sudden
burst of red. A red door.
I know, right? Taylor pushed the
door open and flopped down on the bed.
Immediately she was buried in cats.
Whoa. I could imagine what Dad
would say about thished quote that
old guy who used to do The Price Is
Right: Help control the pet population

blah, blah, blah. I managed to perch on

the edge of the bed. Three cats instantly
attached themselves to me. Arent you
going to introduce me to your herd?
Taylor rolled over and peered at me.
Cats, Sami. Sami, cats.
Whered they come from?
Pound. Mom gets me one whenever
she has to go out of town. I have to keep
them in here, otherwise they bully
Tinkerbell and Bambi.
So what do you call them? I
imagined more syrupy Disney names.
Cats.
No, I mean, what are their names?

Taylor shrugged. Too many of them

to keep track off. Besides, its not like
theyll come if I call them.
Uncle Rick had said pretty much the
same thing when a much younger me
asked him the names of his pigs. Except
he had added, You dont name
something youre eventually gonna eat.
Taylor asked what I thought of the
article. I hemmed and hawed enough for
her to ask, So, how do we make it
unsuck?
Remember at the game how you
guys were I searched for a more
respectable word than drooling.

paying all that attention to Number

Fourty-four? Well, I talked to him.
Taylor sat up so fast she caused a
kitty-quake. Really?
I nodded and stroked a displaced
tiger cat. He said we can interview him
on Friday. Before the game.
Taylor grabbed her pillow and
screamed into it, bouncing up and down
on the bed. When she came up for air,
her face glowed almost as red as her
bedroom door. Are you joking?
Nope.
Oh, man! Just wait until I tell
Jennifer, shes going to die! Number

Fourtyfour!
Josh, I said, but she had already
dialed the phone.
Oh man was right. I thought we just
covered the fact that Jennifer blew me
off and lied to Taylor about it. Now
Taylor was calling her up like nothing
had happened. I muttered that I had to
use the restroom and pulled the red door
shut on my way out. I found Sally in the
kitchen and asked for a glass of water.
She handed me a fancy green bottle
from the fridge. Here you go, hon.
I thanked her and wandered back
into the white room. I gazed out the wall

of windows at a backyard pulled

directly from a magazine. Fairies
perched atop ceramic mushrooms and
trailed their fingers in a stone-lined
pond. A trellis draped greenery to
waters edge. Tinkerbell and Bambi
surveyed their doggy-paradise from a
fancy wicker couch near an inset fire pit
on the patio.
The spectacular yard pushed all my
anger away and filled me with a sense of
awe. I wondered what it would be like
to grow up here. With your very own
Sally to drive you around and make cool
snacks for all of your friends. A mom

who loved you so much she bought you a

million cats. Friends who lied to you
because they liked you too much.
My mind focused so hard on
imagining all this that it took me a while
to process one familiar aspect of
Taylors yard. The same green ferny
bush lined my backyard. Not a huge
surprisethe Deer Forest developers
used those privacy hedges all over the
subdivision, separating the new
development from existing homes like
mine. But from Taylors window I could
make out several crabapple trees
looming on the other side of that hedge.

And, just barely visible between them,

the broken off brick of our chimney.

I interrupted Taylors conversation long

enough to tell her I had to go. Okay, see
ya tomorrow, she said and went back to
squealing with Jennifer about Number
Fourty-four.
Sally insisted on giving me a ride. I
had her drop me off in front of Doms
house, but then she sat at the curb
waiting to make sure I got in. I gave her
a wave and walked around back, like I
always went in that way. After a minute

she drove off and I crossed Doms lawn

to the woods.
No sign of Dads truck or Moms
car. Every window dark. The crate wed
packed the chickens into lay at the top of
the drive, empty. I stared at the coop,
counting chickens. Id get all the way up
to twenty-something and then lose count.
Forty-three or thirty-three? No way to
tell with them all milling around in there.
I grabbed the crate, meaning to put it
away, but a sharp pain in my finger made
me gasp. I drop kicked the crate across
the yard and sucked at the splinter in my
hand. It was small and not nearly big

enough to be the reason for my tears or

the sudden anger that coursed through my
veins. I kicked the crate again and again,
smashing it up until nothing was left but
little battered bits.

OVER EASY

I hit snooze three times Friday morning.

Finally the smell of brown sugar and

cinnamon lured me downstairs. Moms
laptop perched precariously on the edge

of the kitchen counter. Her right hand

hovered over the keyboard while her left
stirred a huge pot with a wooden spoon.
Tons of empty instant oatmeal packets
littered the counter. My stomach growled
I was so sick of cereal.
Feeding an army?
Its teacher appreciation week at
Shanes school. Im supposed to bring
breakfast today. She sucked her bottom
lip and frowned at the pot. I was going
to make easy-cheesy-over-easies, but
Dad used all the crescent rolls.
Now, that I knew better than to ask
about. I peered over Moms shoulder.

The cursor blinked on an otherwise

empty screen. Hows the grant
application coming?
She sighed. Its all here, she said
tapping her head with the hand that held
the spoon. I just cant get it all there.
Oatmeal sailed toward the screen.
For weeks shed been working on a
new grant for St. Matt. Since the layoffs,
theyd taken on the role of soup kitchen,
serving out-of-work families. People
just dont understand that one meal can
be the difference between down on your
luck and destitute, she told me.
Youll convince them.

Im glad you think so. Want some

oatmeal? She slid a bowl toward me.
Shane trudged down the stairs and
slumped into his usual seat at the
breakfast nook. I put the bowl Mom had
given me in front of Shane. He grunted at
me. He was always moody first thing in
the morning, like his brain had an
automatic snooze button and didnt
actually wake up until after nine. Dad
said he had all the symptoms of a sulky
teenager except the lip-fuzz. Shane
pointed out more than once that he also
lacked another essential component: a
smart phone. I always reminded him that

I didnt have one either and I was long

past ten.
Mom informed me that she would be
driving me to school. I need you guys to
keep the oatmeal from spilling. The
stress on her face killed any thought of
arguing. I carried her bag of paper
bowls and plastic spoons out to the car.
When I came back in to get my
backpack, Mom held the phone out to
me.
Who is it? I mouthed.
Mom shrugged. Sounds pretty.
Like that made any kind of sense.
I took the phone and said hello.

Hey! Taylor said.

Hi?
So, I was thinking maybe you could
sit with us at lunch today.
I didnt even know what to say. Me
sit with the Pops.
What about Jennifer? I asked.
Oh, shes cool with it.
Doubtful. I suddenly realized one
important fact: the Pops never brought
their own lunches. Never. No way could
I show up with my usual brown bag. I
scrambled for an excuse, but Taylor said
shed see me on the bus.
Actually, I wont be on the bus.

Oh. She sounded disappointed. I

have a surprise for you, she said.
We agreed to meet at her locker
before first period.
As soon as I opened the car door, I
knew Mom and Shane had been fighting.
I climbed in the back and Shane shoved
the vat of oatmeal at me. Mom gave him
a watch-it-buster look in the rearview
mirror. He glared back at her. I let them
smolder in silence while I contemplated
what to do about lunch. If I wanted to sit
with the Pops (which I did), Id have to
have money to buy lunch (which I
didnt). Id spent my last bit of

babysitting money on bus fare to St.

Matts. I knew Shane didnt have any
money. He hadnt mowed Mrs.
Underdowns lawn at all this summer,
even though he kept saying he would. Id
have to ask Mom for five dollars.
Sorry, Sami. Not today.
Three? That wouldnt buy me a
whole lunch, but I could get a sandwich
and some fruit.
Sorry.
That warning tone had slipped into
her voice, but I pressed on. It wasnt like
I asked her for money all the time. Its
only three bucks!

I dont have it right now.

I scoffed audibly. You have that
much change in the bottom of your
purse. Mom guided the car to a stop on
the side of the road.
Uh-oh. Here it comes, Shane said.
Mom chewed her lip. We need to
have a talk.
Really, Mom? Now? Five minutes
until first bell. Taylor was probably
already at her locker. I dont have time
for this.
Itll only take a second.
For Petes sake, I just wanted a
couple dollars. If its that big a deal,

forget it!
Sami. Moms hands squeezed the
steering wheel so hard her knuckles
blanched.
Just drive already.
She inhaled and blew the air out
through her nose.
Mom!
She breathed in again. Dad is going
through a tough time right now, she
began, but I cut her off.
I know, but I have to get to school.
I shoved the oatmeal at Shane and
opened my door.
Sami Mom called, but I jumped

out of the car. I slammed the door and

took off toward school.
Behind me tires squealed and a horn
blared. Mr. Lankfords truck swerved,
just missing the side of Moms car as she
peeled away.

Needless to say, Taylor was long gone

by the time I got to her locker. I scanned
the halls between classes, but couldnt
find her.
Before I knew it, it was lunch time. I
stood outside the cafeteria holding my
twisted-up brown bag with its boiled

egg and bologna sandwich. No way

could I walk up to the Pops with that. I
tossed my lunch in the nearest trashcan
and headed for the bathroom.
Taylor materialized out of nowhere.
Where are you going? Ive been
looking all over for you. Something soft
thudded against my chest. Here, she
said.
Green and blue fabric. Swirls of
yellow paisley. Short handles of knotted
mismatched fabric.
Its a Sabatini lunch tote. Taylor
pulled a not-quite-matching one from
behind her back. It must have taken her

half the night to sew them. I figured we

can make them for Jennifer and
everybody. Then it would be cool to
bring your lunch. And, since you thought
of it, even Jennifer would want you to sit
with us.
Leave it to Taylor to come up with a
plan that not only got me a seat at the
table, but made it so I could afford to sit
there.
Only one problem.
Um, I forgot my lunch today.
No prob. I had Sally make you one.
Its in the bag. Taylor grinned all
Cheshire-like. As soon as we entered the

cafeteria I felt Doms eyes on me. My

face flushed, but I kept my focus on
Taylor. She squeezed in between
Jennifer and another Pop all, Hey
guys, and left me just standing there.
Again.
My eyes flicked to Dom. He stood
up and started in my direction, probably
to rescue me from certain humiliation.
Someone tugged at my sleeve. Brunette
Pop said, Hey, girl. Where you been?
and scooted over to make room for me. I
wedged myself between Brunette Pop
and Aislinn.
Where were you? Jennifer asked

Taylor. I thought we were going to go

over the questions for our interview with
Number Fourty-four.
You could start by asking his
name, Blond Pop sniped.
Its Josh, Jennifer and I said in
stereo, but no one seemed to hear me.
Jennifer went on without waiting for
Taylor to reply. Ill just come over after
school and well work on it then.
Actually, Sami and I have plans
after school, Taylor said.
You do? Jennifer looked as
shocked as I felt.
Yeah, her moms driving us into

Chicago to pick up a few more of these!

Taylor plopped her lunch tote on the
table. For half a second I wondered how
Taylor had convinced my mom to waste
gas driving us anywhere, then it clicked.
Boy, was Taylor great at lying.
What is that? Jennifers upper lip
curled in disgust.
That is a Sabatini lunch tote. Sami
thought it would be fun to order one for
each of you. An early Christmas present!
Thats why were going to Chicago. We
have to pick them up.
I hadnt heard that much squealing
since the last time I visited Uncle Ricks

piglets. I glanced over at Doms table

again, but he was gone.
Pops passed our totes up and down
the table, running their fingers over the
rugged inside-outness of the seams and
discussing the artistic genius of pairing
orange with lime green and neon yellow
with magenta.
Jennifer didnt say a word.

I managed to find a Pop-less Taylor in

the hall between periods. Expecting
Jennifer to swoop in at any moment I
whispered, What about the interview?

What about it? Taylor shrugged.

Were just ditching it?
What? No, well still interview
him. Just like we planned. Taylor
stopped at a drinking fountain and took a
delicate slurp.
Apparently she had not thought the
whole plan through. How do we do that
if everyone thinks we are in Chicago?
Her lips formed the perfect bubbleblowing, Oh.
We could call him back and
postpone...
No! Taylor grabbed my arm. We
cant blow him off.

But if we go, well run into

somebody and theyll wonder why we
arent in Chicago.
So, we make up a reason.
I could think of severalall of them
centered around two important facts:
a) Sabatinis did not exist.
And
2) No way would my family drive an
hour and a half just to buy some
fashionista accessory.
Taylor tapped her fingers against the
pale denim of her jeans. Then her whole
face lit up and I understood why
cartoonists drew light bulbs over

characters heads. If we run into

anyone, we just tell them your dad got us
tickets to see Hairspray and were going
in Saturday instead.
The image of my dad sitting in a
theaterany theater, much less one
featuring a musicalmade me snort so
loud several people glared. Until they
noticed Taylor standing next to me. Then
the glares cooled into icy smiles.
While were at it, why dont we tell
them he took us to Water Tower Place
for lunch? I laughed at the thought of my
family being escorted to a table in a
restaurant with valet parking and a

matre de.
Thats great! Taylor squeezed my
arm. We were just there last month, so I
can fill you in on all the details and
youll sound so posh. Plus we can rent
the video of Hairspray and watch it
while were making the Sabatinis.
She dashed off to class, but I just
stood there with my head spinning. No
way was I going to be able to keep up
with Taylor Statton when I couldnt even
afford a five-dollar school lunch.

I rang Taylors bell and braced myself. If

Jennifer answered the door Id wedge

my foot in before she could slam it.
Sally answered, saving both my dignity
and a potential trip to the E.R. Taylors
upstairs, she said and pointed, like I
should go on up.
I hesitated. Is...Jennifer here?
Sally gave me what might have been
a no-thank-goodness look, but I didnt
know her well enough to say for sure. I
found Taylor, surrounded by cats, laying
out fabric scraps into tote-shaped
formations. Her head bobbed along to
Bob Marley.
You like reggae?

Yeah, but its like the sewingour

little secret.
I dont know which surprised me
more, Taylor liking reggae or Taylor
telling me stuff Jennifer didnt know.
I held a polka-dotted box out to her.
I brought you something.
Oh man, not another kitten.
I laughed. Just open it.
Taylor set the box down on her
comforter and lifted off the lid. Fabric
scraps spilled out of the box. Yay! she
cried. Now I wont have to figure out
how to convince everyone that some
designer deliberately paired avocado

with periwinkle. She brushed away the

scraps shed been working with and
dumped mine on the bed. Cats batted at
the scraps Taylor sifted through her
hands like snowflakes. Whered you get
all these?
I displaced a few of Taylors
furballs and settled onto the bed. Friend
of my dads. I didnt tell her that the
friend was our neighbor at the
Farmers Market.
So, were meeting Josh outside the
locker room at six. Wanna talk about
what we should ask him? I pulled my
notebook from my purse and set it

between the fabric piles. A marmalade

cat pounced on it and chewed at the
spiral wire.
Taylor told me a few of her ideas
and I wrestled my notebook away from
the cat so I could record them. By the
time Sally knocked on the door to tell us
we had to leave, wed laid out fabric for
six totes, filled two pages of my
notebook with questions (half of which
wed be way too embarrassed to ask),
and Id secretly named three of her
kittens.

10

YOU CANT JUDGE AN EGG

BY ITS SHELL

Turns out we didnt need the whole

cover story about lunch and the theater

not one single Pop showed up at the
football game. Taylor wasnt surprised.

Nobody likes football. They just come

to hang out with me, she said. We
pressed through the crowd and tried four
doors before we found one propped
open at the back of the school.
The halls were dark, but the stadium
lights shone through the gyms high
windows. At the far end by the boys
locker room, the broad jersey of Number
Fourty-four leaned over the drinking
fountain.
Hello? Taylor called out. The boy
waved at us. He sat down on the bottom
row of the bleachers.
Hey, Sami, he said as we got

closer. Not Hey, Taylor, but Hey, Sami.

And not in a so-youre-Sami kinda way,
but more familiar. Because he knew me.
J-Dawg? Youre Number Fourtyfour? I couldnt believe it. Id waited
all week to interview some gorgeous
football player that all the Pops were
crushing on only to get the rapperwannabe who always sat on the other
side of Dom during lunch.
Yeah? J-Dawg nodded. So youre
into football now?
And, apparently, so are you.
Hi? Remember me? Taylor nudged
me. Hard.

Oh, J-DaaaaJoshthis is Taylor.

Statton. Shes working on the article
with me. Taylor stepped past me and
stuck out her hand. Josh stood and shook
it. Then they just stood there looking at
each other. Awkward.
Okay, so...we have a few questions
for you, I said.
I sat down on the bench.
Josh sat down too.
Taylor stood there smiling until I
reached up and pulled her down beside
me. I opened my notebook and pulled out
a pen. Handed them to Taylor.
Josh and I waited for Taylor to ask

him a question.
She didnt.
I cleared my throat.
Twice.
Taylor stared at Josh like someone
had poured chocolate all over him. I let
out a slow breath. I grabbed my
notebook and scanned the questions,
selecting one at random. What has been
the hardest part of the season for you? I
asked.
Josh tipped his head, as if
considering the question, but then eyed
Taylor all why-is-she-staring-at-me. I
shrugged. Um. I guess the hardest thing

has been getting the other players to trust

me. Im the only seventh grader on
Varsity. They all know each other.
Nobody knows what I can do, so they
dont get me the ball.
Taylor made an aww pouty face. I
grappled for a follow up question but my
mind hadnt quite wrapped itself around
the fact that J-Dawg hadnt once broke
into rap. And that he not only played
football, but actually made Varsity. I
glanced down to see the only part of his
answer Id managed to write was the
word Trust.
Um, so how important is trust on the

football field? I asked.

Man, its all about trust. If the
quarterback doesnt trust his blockers to
hold off the defense, hell force a pass.
If the receiver doesnt trust the
quarterback, hell be looking back over
his shoulder and not get any yardage. If
the... Josh went on with several more
if-thes but it was all blah, blah, blah
to me. I did understand that he had given
us the perfect angle for our article, one
that even nonsport-aholics could grasp:
It takes trust to build a team.

Id like to say that Taylor and I stuck

around to watch the football game
because of our new found appreciation
for the sport or even so that Taylor could
swoon over Josh, but as soon as he
headed back into the locker room, Taylor
pulled out her cell and asked Sally to
pick us up.
What about the game? I asked.
Taylor frowned. I told you,
everybody hates football.
Well, what about Josh? Dont you
want to watch him play?
Why?
I thought... Well, you seemed to like

him.
Yeah, until he rambled on and on
about football. Taylor gave an
exaggerated yawn.
We were interviewing him about
football. What did you expect him to talk
about?
Taylor shrugged. On the way home,
she announced that I was spending the
night at her house. Just swing by Samis
house so she can grab her stuff, she told
Sally.
Several scenarios flashed through
my head. I could do what they always
did on TVcome up with a lame-

brained plan. I could have Taylor wait in

front of Doms house while I pretended
to go in, but really ran next door to my
own house, got my stuff and then
somehow made it back to the van
without
a) My dad following me out so he
could meet my little friend,
b) Doms family coming out to
investigate the strange vehicle in their
driveway, or
3) Taylor discovering that I actually
lived in one of Oprahs hoarder houses.
Since something always went
radically wrong with lame-brained

plans, I decided to go with a safer

alternative. Oh, man! I said in my best
Im-not-making-up-an-excuse voice. I
forgot my key and no one will be home
until late.
Sallys eyes met mine in the mirror.
She had the same I-smell-a-rat
expression that my mom got when I lied
about finishing off the last of the Oreos.
Luckily Taylor swooped in. No prob!
You can borrow some of my pjs.
Amazingly, when I called my mom,
she said yes. Taylor loaned me her
favorite pair of pjssatiny and blue
and some fuzzy bunny slippers that were

so comfy they felt like little pillows for

my feet. We stayed up until three in the
morning watching reruns on the Sci-fi
Channel and eating gooey caramel corn
(Sallys specialty) while Taylor sewed
together all the Sabatini totes. It all gave
me this weird feeling in my stomach,
like being homesick. Only instead of
wanting to go home, I felt sick because I
didnt want to go home. Ever.
Sally rapped on the door to wake us
in the morning. Taylor groaned that she
didnt wanna go to school. Sally stepped
over my makeshift bed on the floor and
shook Taylor. No school, but you have

to get ready for poms. Come on,

sleepyheads.
My head had that lets-just-benocturnal fuzz and I dozed off and on
until Sally walked back in and cranked
the Marley. Youre going to be late,
she said.
Taylor tossed a pillow in her
direction. Sally batted it away and
pulled the quilt off Taylors bed. Come
on, girls. Its already eleven oclock.
That woke me up. I should have been
at St. Matts making lunches. And then
there was Marta. I had been so wrapped
up in the NewsCrew/Sabatini/Taylor

part of my life that I hadnt even checked

in on her. As soon as I got home, Id ask
Mom how she was doing.
When we stumbled into the kitchen
Sally set a mug in front of each of us.
The milky drink smelled like cinnamon
and some other spice I couldnt place.
Maybe cloves. Taylor laughed at the way
I sniffed at it. Havent you ever had
chai? Sally makes the best lattes.
I sipped it like I drank lattes all the
time. Once I got past the bitterness of the
cloves or whatever, it tasted pretty good.
Taylor and I sat at the counter while
Sally
assembled
brunch-type

ingredients.
French toast? Taylor asked.
No, Eggs Benedict, Sally said. My
stomach lurched at the thought of eggs
again, but Taylor made little yum-yum
happy noises. Sally leaned into the
fridge for something, telling us over her
shoulder that shed made a special trip
to the Farmers Market because one of
the neighbors had mentioned these new
eggs. Then she turned around holding a
carton ofDads eggs. I could tell by
the sloppiness of the sell by date
scrawled on the side. Thank goodness he
reused old egg cartons and didnt do

something cute like have his face

stamped on it or something.
Ew. Theyre brown, Taylor said.
Sally tsked at her. You sound like a
city girl.
I am a city girl.
Sally gave a pointed glance out the
window at the suburban sprawl of their
backyard. Not any more. Browns not
bad. These are fresh.
Like from a chickens butt?
I would have laughed, but Taylor
was serious. For Petes sake, I wanted
to shout, where do you think the grocery
store gets them? Luckily Sally said it

for me. She took out an egg and went to

crack it into a cup.
Wait! Taylor gasped. Is there a
baby chick in there?
No! Sally scoffed, but her eggholding hand remained poised over the
cups rim for an extra beat before she
whacked the egg against the cup.
Taylor cringed, but all that spilled
out of the egg was the usual yolk and
white. Sally slid it into the skillet.
Why dont they?
Sally glanced up at Taylor. Why
dont they what?
Have chicks in them?

Sally shrugged. I sucked my lips in. I

so did not want to be the expert on that
one.

On their way to poms Sally dropped me

off at Doms. As I walked up the
driveway of my make believe house, I
pretended not to notice Dom watching
me like some stalker-freak out the side
window. Sally didnt wait for me to get
in the house this time, so I veered
toward the woods before he could
decide to come out.
As soon as I stepped into the woods

I could hear yelling and clucking that

could only mean trouble. I hiked my
backpack on my shoulder and sprinted
the rest of the way home. Dad came
around the side of the house brandishing
a rake and Shane came from the other
direction with a shovel. Shane gestured
toward the backyard, but all the
squawking coming from the chicken pen
made it impossible to hear what he said.
Did one get out again? I shouted,
although I couldnt imagine why theyd
be this panicked over one or even ten
runaway hens. Then something half
ran/half flew past us and Dad yelled,

Get em! Shane dove on the thing and

came up gasping and panting for breath
with a huge black and gold pile of
feathers pinned against his chest.
Dad reached out and grabbed the
thing by the neck. Sambo, meet
Sebastian, he said.
Dads gonna breed the hens, Shane
explained.

11

SOMETHING TO CROW
ABOUT

Thank

goodness Mom was at St.

Matt's. Dad explained that since we
couldnt get rid of the unfertilized eggs
and the dog food company didnt want

the birds for meat, he would make back

his money through shipping off fertilized
eggs.
Thanks to Shane here, I had just
enough money to buy a few roosters.
Dad ruffled Shanes hair. Shane
beamed. I couldnt figure out where
Shane would have gotten any money. Its
not like he stockpiled his allowances or
worked in neighbors yards or whatever.
He blew any cash on video games the
second it hit his palm.
I had a dull throb behind my eyes. It
was too much to think about, this new
plan. We couldnt even get rid of the

eggs we had, but at least if they didnt

sell we could bury them in the backyard.
Fertilized eggs would eventually hatch. I
didnt even want to think about how
many chickens wed have then.
After lunch Dad and Shane headed
back out to the coop. They were making
some compartmenty thingsplitting up
the hens so the roosters wouldnt go
crazy, I guess.
I spent a few hours doing homework
and working on the article and then lay
on my bed with my eyes closed, trying
not to think. I must have dozed off
because the next thing I knew, a horrid

shriek from out back rolled me out of

bed. I ran to the window, but I could
only see Dads truck in the driveway and
the distant glow of Doms house through
the woods.
The shriek came again. I headed for
the back door, sure Id find a fox out
there devouring one of the chickens.
Dad and Shane sat on the back
porch, sipping pop, like nothing was
wrong. What was that noise? I asked.
Sebastian, Shane informed me.
The rooster? Arent roosters
supposed to crow?
The sound came again. Without the

walls to mute it, it made the hair on the

back of my neck prickle. Another rooster
joined in, his voice less shriek and more
of a raspy, yodeling howl. Still nothing
near what I would call a crow.
Kinda cool, huh? Dad said. He
leaned forward with both hands on his
knees and let out his own, Cockadoodle-doo!
Rrr-er-er-er-rrrrr! Shane cried,
leaping to his feet like Peter Pan
summoning the Lost Boys.
I had never been so thankful for the
woods between our house and Doms.
Come on, Sambo. Let out your inner

rooster. Cock-a-DOO-dle-doooooooo!
Sebastians crow seemed measly in
comparison to Dad and Shane crowing
louder and louder, trying to drown each
other out.
The Underdowns floodlights lit up
our backyard.
Oops, Dad said. Too loud?
Nah, Shane said and opened his
mouth as if to crow again, but Sebastian
let forth with the mother of all crows.
Not to be outdone, the rooster in the next
stall let out a crow of its own. Kind of
mournful and sad. Then the other
roosters joined in. If I thought Dad and

Shane had been loud...

Light intense enough to be confused
with a military landing pad pierced the
hedge between our house and Deer
Forest.
Shhhhh, I urged the roosters, but
apparently shhhh was rooster-ese for
Crow as loud as you want because thats
exactly what they did. All five of them.
Mrs. Underdown stuck her head out
of her side door like a frightened
tortoise. Shane waved at her and after a
minute of shooting rays of disapproval
from her little turtle eyes, Mrs.
Underdown retreated back into her shell.

The flood lights behind the hedge stayed

on. High pitched yaps punctuated the
spaces between the crowing.
Cant you get them to shut up? I
asked.
Dad raised his hands all whatd-yawant-me-to-do? I could just see Mrs.
Underdowndialing 9-1-1 on her old
fashioned rotary. Then the police would
come and cart Dad off and tomorrow
morning the whole town would see his
face on the front of the Tribune.
Headlights flashed against the trees
lining our driveway and swung around to
light the garage. Oh, crap. I didnt even

realize the crowing had stopped until I

heard a car door slam and the crunch of
gravel under shoe.
I took a few steps across the porch,
hoping to head off the officer and
explain things, but froze on the bottom
step. Mom trudged toward me. Bad
day, she said.
Sebastian crowed again and Moms
eyes widened. What the She
stormed toward the backyard.
I scrambled to intercept her. Mom,
wait.
She ignored me. Shane and I
followed Mom down to the coop.

Sebastian perched atop the fence, his tail

feathers splayed in an arrogant display
of roosterhood.
Mom held out her hands toward the
coop. Where did thisthis
Rooster, Shane and I said together.
She threw up her hands. Never
mind. It absolutely does not matter. She
started toward the house.
Mom! Shane called. He launched
himself after her. Mom!
She stopped so quick Shane ran right
into her. What? she snapped.
I, just, um...
What? Are you going to tell me

about another one of Dads great plans? I

just had to sit through a two hour town
council meeting wherethanks to our
gracious neighborsthe sole topic of
debate was your father. Seems he failed
to check the statutes before he decided to
raise chickens in our backyard. Now, on
top of everything else, were going to be
fined. Wheres that money going come
from? In fact, heres a question for you
where, when were struggling just to
pay our electric bill, where did he get
the money to buy a rooster? Ask him
that, Shane.
Shane stared up at her, until she

came to that part about the money for the

rooster. Then he studied his shoes. Mom
didnt see Shanes reaction, though. She
focused on a car pulling in next to hers.
The door opened and a woman in slacks
and a sweater set got out. Two pint-sized
fluff balls tumbled out after her. Man,
did everyone around here have
Chihuahuas?
She marched toward us, the dogs
trailing on her heels. Excuse me, I need
to talk to you about this noise. The
woman pointed at Sebastian, but her
words were nearly drowned out by
another rooster and the yipping and

growling of the Chihuahuas.

Mom spun toward the woman. Do
you think
Sebastian chose that moment to
swoop at the dogs. Sweater-set lady
screamed and kicked at him and one of
her high-heeled shoes flew off and
landed on top of the coop. The
Chihuahuas took off across the backyard
and dashed through the hedge, Sebastian
right on their tails. Sweater-set chased
after them but couldnt squeeze her
skinny behind through the hedge, so she
dashed back toward us.
Come on! she yelled. I jerked

forward half a step, my body responding

to the order before my brain realized that
she wasnt talking to me. Of course she
wasnt talking to me. She was talking to
a girl standing just to the side of the car.
A girl none of us had noticed during all
the commotion.
Taylor.
My hands flew up, cold against my
cheeks. Taylors mom shouted for her to
get in the car. Taylor glanced at her, then
back at me. Say something, I willed
myself. Anything. I opened my mouth,
but Taylor had already folded herself
into the car. She never took her eyes off

me as they drove away.

12

WHEN LIFE SUCKS EGGS

M onday morning Shane was in the

kitchen wearing one of Moms aprons,

all Joan Cleaveror Barb Cleaveror
whatever that womans name was from

that show about the perfect family.

Except that lady was a lady, not a little
kid. And she didnt have puffy eyes that
made her look like shed been crying.
And, she could cook. Shane hadnt quite
mastered the advanced chemistry
necessary to just add water to pancake
mix.
Dad still sleeping? I asked.
Shane shrugged and pointed a
spatula at a plate stacked high with
questionable looking pancakes. I stabbed
two with a fork and put them on a plate.
Doused them in syrup. Questionable or
not, my stomach rumbled.

Moms door opened and she came

out dressed and make-uped and looking
like she did any other day. Her nose
wrinkled when Shane thrust a plate of
pancakes at her, but she obediently sat.

Shane joined us at the table. He

stabbed his pancake with a fork and

lifted the whole thing to his mouth,

tearing off an over-sized bite and
chewing it without bothering to close his
mouth.
Mom put her fork down after just one
bite. You guys doing okay?
I couldnt believe she just asked that.
Like she and Dad hadnt argued so loud
last night they drowned out the roosters.
Couldnt she see Shanes puffy eyes or
the deep furrow in his brow or how hard
he had worked to make breakfast? And
the sad part was Shane probably
believed pancakes could fix everything.
No! No, we arent okay! I screamed in

my head. Shane mumbled something that

sounded like a no to me, but Mom got up
as if she didnt hear him. Got a glass and
poured herself some orange juice. Sat
back down, eyeing the plate of pancakes.
Breakfast is a good idea, she said, like
Shane invented it or something.
Neither of us responded. Mom stared
out the window with a flatness that made
me wonder if she even saw the way the
streetlight glittered off the frost on the
grass.
Mom? Shane said. Her eyes flitted
to him. Why are you so mad at Dad?
Mom closed her eyes and took one

of her deep, cleansing breaths. She

opened her mouth to speak, but before
she could, Shane asked, Are you guys
gonna get a divorce?
My mouth went dry.
Mom barked a short laugh. No, she
said, then, No, again. I can be mad
and still love him, you know?
But why are you so mad? You tell
us all the time to follow our dreams.
Thats all Dad is doingfollowing his
dreams.
Life is a balance, Shane. Following
your dreams is not the same thing as
packing up and moving in with them.

Dads doing it for us. He doesnt

care about crabapples or chickens or any
of that crap. He just wants to make it big
so we wont have to struggle to pay
bills.
I know, but there has to be balance.
Its not fair to the rest of the family for
Dad to keep
Shane jumped out of his seat so fast
his chair clattered to the floor. He
banged his fist on the table. Who are
you to decide whats fair for us? Youre
always working or holed up in your
room with other peoples receipts while
the rest of us are out here with Dad. Hes

the one who should decide whats best

for us. You dont even care!
Shane, Mom said, reaching for
him, It isnt going to do any good to
He batted her hand away and ran for
the door. The screen slammed behind
him.
I dumped the smooshy pile of
pancakes in the trash and went to get my
bag. When I came back, Mom still sat
there.
Do you want some more juice? I
asked.
Mom nodded. Muttered a vague,
You, too, that didnt even make sense.

Bus brakes squawked at Doms and I

grabbed my bag and raced for the door. I
ran along the road between my house
and Doms, knowing I couldnt get there
before Joy closed the door. Just as I got
to the edge of Doms property, the bus
passed me by and I could see Joy
glowering at me from her perch in the
drivers seat. But then the bus slowed
and stopped. I ran to where it had ground
to a halt just before my driveway and
climbed on.
Thanks, I said to Joy, but her
frown deepened and she said low, so
only I could hear, Tell your Dad I want

me some a them eggs.

I felt everyones eyes on me as I
walked to the first empty seat and
plopped down. I wondered how long it
had taken the news to spread to everyone
in school: Sa-man-duh Duggan, chicken
hoarder.

When Taylor got on, she passed by

me like I wasnt there. No surprise. She
probably spent the whole ride talking
about me, but I didnt care all that much.
I stared out the window at the frosttipped trees, my stomach churning.

Anyone could have predicted the rest of

the day would suck.
I bombed my Spanish test. Seora
Hernandez
murmured
something
sympathetic sounding in Spanish as I
stammered my way through the exam, but

when I finished the last partwhere we

had to recite this big, long quote
sympathy or no, she shook her head and
made a mark in her grade book that had
at least two horizontal slashes and
probably wasnt a B.
When the bell rang for lunch, I
headed for the bathroom by the gymit
was out of the way and nobody ever
went in there.
The stalls were all empty and I
chose the roomy handicapped one near
the back wall. The toilet seat felt weird
through my jeans and I wished I had
something to lean back against, besides

the metal pipe, but at least it was quiet.

Mom wouldnt divorce Dad; she still
loved him. I remembered how easily he
made her laughwrestling around in
huge leaf piles while we raked the yard,
waging whole family snowball fights in
an April storm, falling asleep to the
sound of laughter from the two of them
curled around each other on the couch,
watching old Seinfeld reruns.
Except.
When was the last time Mom had
laughed like that? Or laughed at all?
This morning I didnt really look at her
face because I knew what I would see.

The laugh lines by her eyes had

deepened into crows feet. She couldnt
laugh because she worked all day with
people who had lost everything and then
came home to her own, equally
depressing life and a heaping pile of
other peoples tattered finances.
On the bus, Dom slid into the seat
beside me. Where were you? he
asked, but I shrugged and said I didnt
feel like talking. I waited for him to say
something about the rooster racket from
the night before, but he gave me his
upside down Im-here-you-know smile.
Boy, Id missed that. I couldnt

remember the last time someone had

chosen to sit beside me on the bus.
Maybe Dom was over the awkward ohcrap-youre-a-girl phase and we could
be friends again. Maybe when we got to
his house, hed offer me more hot
chocolate and Id admit he was right. I
would never fit in with Taylors crowd
as long as my family was so messed up.
But when Joy pulled up in front of
Doms house and Taylor was sitting on
his front step, my heart did a weird little
lurch.
Look, theres your new BFF, Dom
said.

Whatever, I said back.

I headed toward the trail without
even glancing in Taylors direction, but
she jumped up and fell into step beside
me. I waited for her to say something,
but she didnt. She just walked next to
me. By the time we got to my driveway I
couldnt take it anymore. I spun to look
at her. What?
Um, hi? she said.
We stared at each other. Then it
dawned on me why she was there.
NewsCrew. Ill have the article done
by tomorrow, okay? You dont have to
keep faking that you like me.

Faking? Taylors whole face

changed. Surprisehurtangerdoubt.
She flitted from emotion to emotion so
fast I felt like I was looking at one of
those mood charts in the hall outside the
guidance counselors office. She flipped
back to anger. Youre calling me a
fake?
What would you call pretending to
be someones friend just so you can get
them to do what you want?
Um, Id call that Samantha
Duggan.
All I could do was shake my head in
disbelief. Im fake?

You lied to me about where you

live!
I didnt lie! People get on the bus at
other peoples houses all the time.
Taylor huffed. Youre using me to
get popular.
Youre using me to get an article in
the paper.
The rumbling approach of Dads
truck broke our stalemate. I tried to
shake her off with a, Whatever, and
walk away, but she followed.
Dad climbed out of his truck and
bee-lined straight for us. This must be
Taylor.

Taylor blushed. Or maybe her face

was red from yelling at me. Yep, she
said. Thats me.
Welcome to our humble abode.
Now, Im off to use the humble
commode. As he headed toward the
house, Taylor gave me a look I couldnt
read.
Um, my dads a bit... I began,
realizing too late how impossible it was
to define someone like my dad.
Hes hilarious! Taylor announced.
Hilarious? I studied her face, trying
to figure out if she meant hilarious as in
what-a-great-guy or hilarious as in can-

you-believe-him? Before I could figure

it out, Taylor whistled. Whoa. Wheres
that gonna go?
I followed her gaze to a huge box in
the back of Dads truck. Bold black
letters proclaimed Samsung, 55 inch.
HD Ready.
I snorted.
What?
Its not a TV, I said. There. The
truth. Now Id see if Taylor meant it
when she said she liked me because I
was real.
Taylor wrinkled her nose. Its not?
Nope. Probably something to do

with chickens.
The dying-goose honk of bus brakes
announced Shanes arrival. Usually the
next sound would be the slam of the
screen door followed by pounding music
or blaring gunfire. Instead Shane let out
a whoop and screamed, CRAP!
I could understand why Taylor
thought the TV box might hold a TV, but
Shane should know better. He was
probably imagining how great his space
alien shootout game would look on the
new big screen. Before I could tell him
that there was no way that was a TV,
Shane climbed in the truck bed to read

the spec label on the box.

Crap! he called to me. Did you
see this?
Above us, the bay window swung
open. Dad leaned out. Stay there, guys.
I need some help getting that in the
house.
Dad came out a moment later. He
climbed up in the truck and motioned for
me to go open the back door.
Where we gonna put it, Dad?
Shane asked.
Probably start off on the kitchen
table so we can all watch it.
Taylor and I exchanged a glance.

Could it actually be a TV? No way. No

way would Dad go out and buy a huge
TV with Mom already so upset over
money.
Please God, let there be NO WAY he
would do that.
Dad and Shane pulled the box from
the truck. It took both of them to lift it. I
found myself wondering how much flat
screens weighed.
The two of them struggled up the
porch steps and elbowed past me as I
held the door wide. They headed for the
kitchen table. Dad braced the weight of
the box against Shane long enough to

sweep aside a pile of Moms

paperwork, then slid the box to the
middle of the kitchen table.
Dad pulled several glass panels
from the box and stacked them on one
end of the table. Shane came in with
another box and just stood there holding
it. Poor kid looked like someone stole
his plasma screen TV. Dad took the box
from him and upended it. Metal parts
and wires clattered onto the table.
It occurred to me that Taylor Statton
was standing in my living room about to
witness the inception of one of my dads
plans. Wanna go to my room? I asked

her. Too late. She pulled over a stool

and hovered over Dad like he was
performing some magic trick. I wished
hed make that junk disappear. I grabbed
a couple bags of chips from the pantry.
Want some?
Taylor ignored me, but caught the
bag I tossed to her. She didnt even look
up to say thanks.
Reason #546 why having a Dad like
mine sucked: His experiments always
took center stage.
Taylor, I said. I have the article
pretty much done.
She nodded distractedly. It was a

lost cause, so I pulled up a stool next to

her.
Dad and Shane were building some
kind of box, with glass sides and rotating
shelves, like a Ferris wheel. Dad
screwed in light bulbs and told Shane to
plug it in.
The box glowed golden warm and
the shelves began to turn.
Isnt that a chick hatchy thing?
Taylor asked.
Dad cried out in his best Young
Frankenstein voice, Eggs, Igor! I need
eggs! Shane rushed out to the garage
and came back carrying a tray of

fertilized eggs.

13

ONE FLEW OVER THE

CUCKOOS NEST

M om wasnt as

upset as I thought
shed be. I thought thered be another
behind-closed-doors fight, but there
wasnt. In fact, she wouldnt even

acknowledge the big glowing box in the

center of our breakfast nook. And the
one time Dad tried to talk to her about it,
to explain that people all over town had
been asking him when hed be selling
baby chicks, she walked right out of the
room.
Taylor kissed her Chihuahuas
goodbye and bounced up the bus steps
like any other morning. Unlike any other
morning, she did not sit in the back of the
bus with her groupies. Instead she slid
into the seat next to me. I took a deep
breath and let it out slow and long. Im
sorry that

Taylor waved a hand at me, all yeahyeah. She leaned forward and
whispered, When do they hatch?
Id been practicing my apology all
night, but Taylor hadnt even heard it.
Her eyes shone with that excitement Dad
gets at the start of a new project. Um,
like a month, I think.
Maybe we should do an article on
thatraising chickens in your kitchen
or something.
I stared at her. Hmmm, let me think
about that. Me, bare my soul to the
whole school?
No.

Way.
Speaking of articles... I pulled out
the rewrite of the Sports Report.
Taylor grabbed it and skimmed it
quickly. Miss Harmon will love this!
At school we raced straight to Miss
Harmons room. She sat behind her desk,
typing furiously. I rapped on the open
door, but Taylor rushed in before Miss
Harmon even looked up.
Heres a rewrite of our Sports
Report article, she said, thrusting the
paper across the desk.
Miss Harmon clasped her hands all
oh-dear-me. Taylor, she said, I

thought we already covered this.

Taylor nodded. Yes, but Sami and I
well, Sami, reallyspent the
weekend rewriting the piece and I think
it has more of the multi-whatchamacallit
feeling you wanted.
Sami? Miss Harmon asked. I
didnt say anything. Okay, so Ill take a
look. She sat the article on top of a pile
of ungraded papers.
We didnt go anywhere.
Well, I guess I could read it now...
she said.
Great, I said.
Thanks, Taylor said.

I watched her eyes flick back and

forth as she read. After a minute, Miss
Harmon tilted her head in a hmm kinda
way. She looked up at us. This is
good, she said, not even trying to keep
the surprise out of her voice.
Yeah, Taylor agreed. Samis a
great writer.
Well, Id like to run this. We dont
have enough articles yet for the issue,
though. Think you could write another
one?
Yeah! Taylor said. But Miss
Harmon was looking at me. I nodded.
Maybe you could interview the

guidance counselors about the services

they offer students or talk to the drama
club about... Her voice trailed off. I
think she noticed the that-has-so-beendone look I failed to suppress. You
have a different idea?
I nodded. Taylor nudged me. Um,
maybe I could write about how area
families are coping with all the layoffs?
Miss Harmon pursed her lips.
Usually school papers focus on schoolrelated issues...
This is school related, though. Tell
her, Sami. Taylor nudged me again. If
she didnt quit with all the nudging I was

gonna end up with a bruise. I told Miss

Harmon the stuff Id talked about with
Taylor last night after wed put the eggs
in the chick-ubator. About how the
economy has affected students abilities
to buy hot lunch, to afford supplies,
school clothes. Maybe I could add in
some volunteer opportunities for kids
who want to help, I finished.
Volunteer opportunities! Miss
Harmon beamed. Id love to see an
article about that.

So,

can I come over and watch the

eggs? Taylor asked, following me off

the bus and down the trail toward my
house.
I stopped walking. Surely she didnt
want to sit in my kitchen and watch
unhatched eggs ride around and around
on their little metal Ferris wheel. Um,
that might get boring pretty quick.
Okay, so lets work on the layoff
article then. I couldnt imagine what
Taylor Statton might know about having
to reincarnate last years school supplies
because you couldnt afford new pens.
But something in her voice made me
think maybe the reason she was

following me home had nothing to do

with chickens or NewsCrew. She
seemed...lonely.
Still,
I
didnt
particularly want to have Taylor at my
house. Even if she knew about my goofy
dad, and the roosters, and the chickubator on the table. Maybe Taylor didnt
see the same dumpy pink house Beth
Egan did, but if she hung out in it long
enough she was bound to notice all the
broken things Dad kept promising to fix.
And the forest of failed experiments in
the backyard was kinda hard to miss.
Why dont we go to your house? I
suggested.

Taylor gave a quick shake of her

head. Were already here. She dashed
up the porch steps and through the front
door. I trailed behind her to the kitchen
like a guest in my own home.
She went straight for the fridge. Got
any nachos? she asked, pulling out the
co-jack. I rummaged through the cabinet
until I found a half-stale bag of chips,
dumped some on a plate and watched
Taylor sprinkle cheese on top. She stuck
it in the microwave, but when she hit
start nothing happened. Taylor opened
the door and closed it again. Pressed
start. Whats wrong with your

microwave?
I shrugged. Probably broke like the
screen door and the garbage disposal,
but I didnt tell her that.
Shane said something from the next
room. I would have sworn he wasnt
home. What? I called back. No
answer. I peered into the darkened living
room. A dim light came from behind the
couch, where Shane lay reading by
flashlight. Whatd you say?
Powers out.
Okay, so maybe there were more
ways to die of embarrassment than Id
thought.

Taylor was still in the kitchen,

flipping the light switch back and forth
with the determined concentration of
someone whose electricity had never
been shut off by the power company. I
pulled her by the elbow. Come on, lets
go to your house.
How come the fridge works if the
powers out? she asked. Good question.
Taylor crossed to the table and tapped
on the side of the chick-ubator, which
glowed like some freakish centerpiece.
And this works.
Yeah, theyve got their own
lifeline, Shane said. He came into the

kitchen and shined his flashlight at the

chick-ubator cord. It trailed off the table,
across the floor, and joined the
refrigerator cord at the end of a thick
orange extension cord.
Well, whats that plugged into?
Shane walked over and opened the
back door. The orange cord snaked
across our yard to the outlet at the back
of Mrs. Underdowns house.
Shoot.
Me.
Now.
Why is your power out? Taylor
asked.

I gave Shane a let-me-do-the-talking

look. Our meter reader makes mistakes
all the time. Once he screwed up so bad
we were overcharged like a thousand
dollars. My parentsll call them and
everything will get turned back on
lickety-split. I dont know which was
worse, the sing-song quality that had
crept into my voice or the fact that I used
a word like lickety-split.
Taylor shot me a sympathetic glance
and went back into the house. She placed
her fingertips on the warm glass of the
chick-ubator. When do they hatch?
I showed her the calendar Dad

tacked up on the wall. A thick red circle

marked November second as Hatching
Day.
How does he know? Taylor asked.
I shrugged. My guess is he doesnt,
really.
Oh, itll be November second. It
says so hereexactly twenty-one days
to incubate. Shane held up the book
hed been reading. Living With
Chickens.
Arent you supposed to hatch chicks
in the spring? What are you gonna do
with them when it gets coldlet them
live in the house? Taylor laughed at her

idea, but I could see by the look on his

face that even Shane wondered if Dad
had factored winter into his plan. It
could be easy to forget fourteen degree
cold snaps and five foot snow drifts
when the weather guy predicted an
unseasonably warm fall.
Dads insulating the coop, Shane
said. Then he added a not-so-confident,
I think.
Taylor eyed the dark microwave and
our plate of cold nachos. Wanna go to
Macris? Man, I love their nachos.
Shane emerged from his secret hidey
place. Sounds great!

I could have kicked him. Where

were we gonna get the money for that?
Thats okay, I said. You got me in the
mood to write that article. For someone
whod been chastised for lying, the fibs
were flying today. Why dont we go to
your house to work on it? I could use
one of Sallys brownies.
Taylor tapped her fingers on the
counter, like she was stalling long
enough to think of a reason to say no.
Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap. Finally
she said, Okay.
Okay? I echoed.
Yep, lets go to my house. She

trudged out the front door, down the

steps and across the lawn. Wed barely
made it ten feet up the road when Taylor
reeled toward me. You know, not
everybody has such a great family.
I froze, not sure what I was supposed
to say. I knew my family wasnt normal,
but I didnt expect Taylor to go all
school counselor and try to help me feel
better about my roots. Except, as I
replayed her words trying to come up
with my own response, I realized she
didnt actually sound comforting. She
sounded accusatory. I bit the inside of
my cheek. It wasnt my fault my family

was weird. I didnt get why shed be

mad at me.
Taylor stood waiting, hands on hips,
for me to say something. Problem was I
had no clue what I was supposed to say.
With a huff she dropped her arms to her
sides. Fine! Its not like you dont
already know, she said, sinking down
on the curb in surrender of whatever
argument she thought wed been having.
I sat next to her. Sorry? I said, part
apology, part huh?
My moms home, okay?
Okay.
So I just dont want to be there.

Maybe my family wasnt the only

one with problems. I thought of Taylors
red bowl cowering between white
vases. Maybe living in a McMansion
with your very own Sally and a mom
who bought you a million cats was just
as hard as living in a dumpy pink house
with a backyard full of chickens and a
dad who invented weird stuff. Suddenly
I didnt care if Taylor knew it allabout
the real reason the power was off or my
mom working at St. Matts.
Okay, I said, getting to my feet. I
held out my hand and pulled Taylor up
too. You can help me with some

research.
I recognized the look on Taylors
face. It was the same one I must have
had when she accepted me as her
NewsCrew partner.
She followed me down the road to
the bus stop. Where are we going?
St. Matts.
Saint who? she asked. The bus
wheezed to a stop and I handed the
driver my crumpled dollar bill. Taylor
tried to hand him a credit card.
Are you kidding me? he said.
Sadly, she was not. I dont carry
cash, Taylor explained.

I fumbled in my pockets. Seventyfour cents. The driver eyed the money in

my hand. Thats not enough, he said.
Like I didnt know that.
Come on, Taylor. You dont have
any money at all?
She raised her shoulders and let
them fall. I motioned for her to get off
the bus and went to follow her, but a
flash of grayed silver caught my eye. I
bent and pried it loose from the floor. A
gummed-up quarter.
Ew, Taylor breathed.
Still not enough, the driver said,
but he fished a penny out of his shirt

pocket and plunked it in the fare box.

There ya go, ladies. Get yaself a seat.
As the bus eased onto Michigan
Street, Taylors eyes widened. The front
of St. Matt's was beautifula brick and
window wall framed by an oak tree at
each corner. Across the front a mural
declared, Whatever you failed to do for
one of my brothers or sisters, you failed
to do for me. Matthew 25:45. Three
children sprawled across the sidewalk
at their mothers feet, chalking rainbows
and butterflies and other, happier
versions of themselves on swings and
slides and merry-go-rounds. Gene

chatted with the mom, his wiry hair

jutting out at odd angles from under a
Patriots cap. I hoped I could sneak into
St. Matt's without Gene spotting me. I
reached for the bell cord, but the bus
slowed before I could pull it.
Oh, I get it! Taylor said. The
homeless shelter.
I didnt tell her how much Gene and
my mom hated that name. Homeless
shelter doesnt even begin to describe
what we offer these people, Mom told
me once. For many of them, were the
only family they have.
Michigan and Sample, the driver

called out.
As soon as she stepped onto the
sidewalk, I grabbed Taylors arm and
quick-stepped her toward the door.
Behind us Gene shouted, Hey-ho! Is
that our Sami?
I gave Gene a huge hey-there-niceto-see-you-gotta-go-were-in-a-hurry
wave. He walked toward us, already
talking about how great it was to see me
again and how thrilled he was that I
brought a friend.
I willed the large SUV that had
stopped a few feet away to lurch into
gear and plow straight into the side of

the building. Or for one of the crows that

cackled from the dumpster across the
street to go Hitchcock on us. Even the
sudden appearance of a tornado might
work.
But Gene ushered us into St. Matt's
with a what-can-I-do-for-you.
Taylor beamed at him. Were from
Pokagon Middle School and were
doing an article on poverty. Could you
give us a tour of your center?
Gene frowned. A tour? I willed
him not to say what he must be thinking.
Unfortunately I still have some work to
do on my telepathy. Sami knows her

way around St. Matt's bettern I do.

And then, because that wasnt bad
enough, he added, She practically lives
here.
Oh? Taylors eyebrows arched.
What was I thinking? This was way
worse than the chickens and the power
outage. Maybe I could convince her that
Gene had me confused with someone
else. Or that Gene had himself confused
with someone else. Or maybe I could
confuse her by convincing her that she
was someone else.
I wished Id thought this idea
through. All I needed now was for Alice

to show up and
Oh, thank God! Alice cried from
down the hall. Were so short today.
Wash up quick, girls. Dinners pert near
ready.
Um, sorry, we um... I gave Taylor
my Ill-get-us-out-of-this look.
But Taylor was already following
Alice toward the kitchen. Come on,
Sami, she called over her shoulder.
They need our help.
While Taylor scrubbed her hands, I
pulled Alice aside. Hows Marta?
Oh, baby, that stubborn mule got
herself in the hospital. Wont eat a

blasted thing.
In the hospital? Since when?
Been in a few days. Since Saturday,
maybe.
On Saturday Id been at Taylors
sipping lattes. Maybe if Id been here, I
could have gotten her to eat something.
Alice patted my arm, like she could read
my thoughts. Nobodys fault, girl. We
all been trying to convince her to eat, but
that woman's just hungry for her family.
Taylor came over and asked me to
help her tie her apron. I grabbed a
couple of plastic hairnets from the
cabinet and snapped one on Taylor. I

swear youd have thought Taylor was

putting on a ball gown by the way her
face glowed.
I wonder if they have any of those
little booties to go over your shoes, she
said. I pointed to the bootie bin.
Alice made an awesome spaghetti
and meat sauce, so we didnt finish
handing out seconds (and a few thirds)
until after dark. I was exhausted, but
Taylor asked if Alice needed help
cleaning up. Aw, thanks, sugar. You
done enough. Go on home now, but we
sure could use your help round here
tomorrow.

We sat out back in the courtyard

while we waited for Sally to pick us up.
Taylor gave me a weird look.
What?
You work here?
I shrugged, hoping she couldnt see
me blushing in the dim glare from the
street lights. Um. Not exactly. I just
help sometimes.
She nodded. Smiled. Nodded again.
Thats pretty cool, she said.

14

DONT COUNT YOUR CHICKS

BEFORE THEY HATCH

Thank goodness the power came back

on in time for me to shower Monday

morning. Get out of the bathroom!
Shane yelled, but I ignored him. Today

Taylor and I would pass out the Sabatini

lunch totes to the Pops. I conditioned my
hair three times to make up for not being
able to wash it all weekend.
You got em? I asked Taylor on the
bus, partly hoping shed say no. She
patted her shoulder bag.
I met Taylor at her locker at lunch
time. Are you sure this is a good idea?
She nodded.
What if they dont like them?
Would you quit freaking out? Itll
be like popsicles at the playground
theyll eat this up.
Even Jennifer?

Mmm-hmm, Taylor said.

Taylor strolled up to the Pops.
Present time! she sang out, dropping
the totes in a pile on the table. Jennifers
face went red. I held my breath and
glanced at Taylor. The fact that she
wasnt breathing either made me even
more nervous.
Jennifer reached out and took one of
the totes with a noncommittal, Thanks.
Thats all it took to release the Pops.
They squealed and fought over the bags
like it was Black Friday at Macys.

Where

were you? Mom asked, the

second I walked in the door. She didnt
even wait for an answer. Come on, we
gotta go down to St. Matt's.
Why? I followed her out to the car.
Marta is asking for you.
Shes out of the hospital?
Yep.
And shes asking for me?
Well, actually she asked for some
Tommy person, but no one knows who
that is. Then she asked for Susita.
Everyone tells me thats you. Mom
grinnedthe first time Id seen her
smile since before the rooster-fiasco.

Maybe Shane would be able to put away

his cookbooks now.
Only Martas face and hands stuck
out from under the bundle of blankets
someone had piled on her. She stared
idly at an old episode of Drew Carey,
her fingers working in her lap, though
they held no needles or yarn. She
stopped when I said her name. I pulled a
chair over to her rocker and sat down.
Took her hand. We sat there quite a
while, watching as Drew gave way to
Seinfeld, gave way to Raymond. Marta
only spoke once to say, Susita, and
squeeze my hand when Mom told me it

was time to go.

Is she gonna be okay? I asked on
the ride home.
Mom pulled her eyes away from the
road long enough to give me her howmuch-should-I-tell-you look. Then she
said, Everyone heals quicker when they
have someone cheering them on.
I went to St. Matt's more often after
that, bringing Marta things from home
that I thought she might likea
peppermint stick one time, licorice the
next. She always smiled and patted my
hand, saying, Gracias, Susie. Then
shed tuck whatever I brought down into

the cushion of the rocker, but whether as

treasure or trash I couldnt guess. She
kept on about Tommy Teo and I vowed I
would find out who that was. Maybe he
would be the cheerleader she needed.

On Halloween Shane went to his school

dance dressed like a chicken. Bad idea.
He was a funny guy and he might have
been able to pull it off, but some other
kids who lived in the apartments near the
school knew about Dad (Shane actually
brought eggs to a few of his teachers, as
if they were apples). Those guys ran

home and came back with a store bought

carton of eggs. They lured Shane outside
and let him have it.
Dad would have went in there like
gang-busters, but Shane didnt tell him.
He didnt tell Mom either. He might
have if theyd been home, but Dad went
to help Mom with something at St.
Matt's. Im pretty sure he wouldnt have
told me either if the yellow goo dripping
from his hair hadnt made it pretty
obvious.
Theyre messing with the wrong
family, I assured Shane, but I didnt
even know what that meant. It wasnt

like we were going to load up our truck

and launch South Bends first drive-by
egging.

It was still dark when I stepped outside

November second. A hard frost had
come during the night and sparkled in the
light of the predawn moon. I pulled the
door shut behind me and stopped, certain
I heard something. Rapid little clicks.
Boo, someone whispered. I spun
around to find Taylor huddled on the
porch rail, shivering so hard her teeth
chattered.

What are you doing here? I

snapped.
Some welcome that is.
I wondered if she could see me blush
in the dark. Taylor had gotten up who
knew when and stumbled through the
darkness to show up on my front porch.
Sorry. You, um, scared the crap out of
me. I thought we were meeting at
school.
I wanted to see if the eggs hatched
yet.
I wondered if she had circled Chick
Hatching Day on her calendar, too.
Nope, not even a crack, I said. Truth

was I had no idea if they had hatched or

not, I hadnt checked.
Can I see?
Taylor jumped up and bounced on
her toes while I fumbled for my keys and
let us into the house. We found Shane
slumped across the table near the chickubator, snoring quietly.
Doesnt he go to school? Taylor
asked.
Chick Hatching Day is a holiday in
some places.
She leaned over and stared at the
eggs. What time do you think theyll
hatch?

I shrugged. I wouldnt be surprise if

they never hatched. Just par for the
whacked up course in our family.

Outside the lunchroom, Taylor handed

me her cell. Call home.
What? Why? Did something
happen?
You need to check on the chickens.
Dad answered on the first ring. No
progress, he informed me. There might
have been a trace of concern under his
upbeat enthusiasm.
Taylor shoved her phone at me on the

bus. Call, she insisted.

Well be there in like ten minutes,
I said, handing the phone back. Just get
off with me.
As soon as the bus stopped, Taylor
grabbed me by the wrist and hustled me
off the bus and across Doms yard.
Whats the hurry? Dom called.
The chickens are coming! Taylor
shouted.
So am I, Dom yelled, hustling to
catch up.
Theyre hatching! Shane shouted
as I came through the door. My whole
family huddled around the chick-ubator.

Even Mom.
Taylor! Dad shouted. Dom!
Havent seen you around much. He
wrapped a big bear arm around each of
them.
Hey, Mr. Duggan. Heard youre
giving birth today.
Dads grin widened to fill his whole
face. I swear if the man had some cigars
hed have passed them out right then.
Water droplets clung to the inside of
the chick-ubator. Mom rubbed at the
fogged up glass with her sleeve. Looks
like a sauna in there, she said. Are you
sure its not too hot?

Dad tapped the temperature gauge

and shook his head. Little buggers need
it that warm so they dont catch a chill
when they pip.
I peered at the eggs. They seemed
perfectly intact to me. How do you
know theyre hatching? I asked.
Shane pulled me around to his side
of the table and pointed at several eggs
on the wire mesh tray below the shelves.
A tiny lightning bolt of a crack marred
one egg. I started to say something to
Taylor, but Shane tapped me excitedly
and pointed back to the egg. A tiny dark
speck pressed against the fissure,

gradually widening the crevice. The egg

rocked and the crack grew as the little
beak worked at it and in a blink, the side
of the egg fell away and a wet ball of
fluff tumbled out.
Oh! Mom said. It worked!
Two more chicks broke out of their
shells and then we forgot to pay attention
to them for awhile as we swallowed
Dad up with hugs and claps on the back.
It wasnt until that moment, when
Dad stood by his chick-ubator beaming
with new-father joy, the rest of us
fawning over his accomplishment, that I
realized how desperate Id been for him

to succeed at somethinganything. It
didnt matter that hatching eggs was
something brainless hens could do; Dad
had done it. Maybe this one little
triumph could start him on a roll.
Shane insisted on cooking spaghetti
for dinner. By himself. Dad winked at
Shane and herded the rest of us out the
back door. Gotta show you something.
Scraps of wood littered the
backyard. A structure that resembled a
miniature corral took up a quarter of the
porch. Two lights hung above it on
clamps.
Gonna have yourself a rodeo?

Taylor asked. You know, miniature

horses arent that miniature.
Its for the chicks, Dad said.
An image popped into my head
dozens of fluffy, yellow bronco-busting
chicks rodeoing their way around the
tiny arenaand I laughed so hard I
snorted, which made Taylor laugh too.
Whats so funny? Dom asked. I
tried to tell him, but every time I got to
the part about tiny cowboy hats and ittybitty spurs, I lost it again. By now Taylor
was full-out laughing, too, even though
she had no idea why.
You two crack yourselves up,

Mom said and I laughed even harder,

until I dissolved into a huge coughing fit.
Taylor whacked me on the backa
gesture that, as far as I knew, never
worked to stop someone from coughing.
She sat there with her arm loosely
around my shoulders while I caught my
breath. This is how it should be, I
thought. The whole family home and
happy, Taylor and me hanging out
without all the drama of Pops and
NewsCrew. But then I noticed the way
Dom was looking at us. I stepped
forward so that Taylors arm slipped off
of me. So, whats this here thing were

looking at? I asked.

Its a brood pen, Dad said. When
the chicks hatch and dry off a bit, they
come out here.
But its been pretty cold at night,
Taylor said.
Dad tapped the lights. These babies
pump out two hundred fifty watts. Keep
em plenty warm. Plus well move the
pen in the garage at night.
Pretty cool, Mr. Duggan, Dom
said. I better get home though, before
Mom wonders what happened to me.
You could give her a call, stick
around for Shanes spaghetti, I

suggested.
Naw, Dads supposed to pick up
pizza. On his way home. From the dog
food plant. He directed those last
words at Taylor. She smiled back at him,
apparently unaware of his latent anger.
After Dom left, Taylor asked an
innocent question about boneless
chicken breasts and Dad rambled on
about all the great ways to use dark meat
until Shane came out and yelled, Your
noodles are getting gluey.
We followed him into the kitchen.
Happy chicky day, he said, motioning
to the breakfast nook where our dinner

surrounded the chick-ubator. On each

plate a noodle nest cradled three perfect
egg-shaped meatballs.

While we ate, Dad kept putting his fork

down to move the newly cracked eggs to
the mesh tray. By the time we had taken
our last bite, the chicks that hatched
before dinner had morphed into what
most people visualize when they think of
baby chickens. They were fluffy and
yellow now that their feathers had dried.
They wobbled around on stick-like legs.
Time to move a few to the brood

pen, Dad said. We cleared the table

while he went to get a box. He opened
the chick-ubators glass door and
carefully lifted out one of the baby
chicks.
Oooh! Can I hold him? Taylor
cooed.
Dad nodded. Her. Theyre all
gonna be hens.
How do you know?
Dad shrugged. Dont really. But the
company said theyd all be hens, so I
guess Ill have to take their word for it.
He handed the chick to Taylor and told
her to hold it close to her body to keep it

warm.
Taylor rubbed the chick against her
cheek. Shes so soft.

Wheres a camera when you need

one? Dad smacked his forehead. Too

bad we didnt time this better. Coulda

made a few bucks doing Easter
pictures.
While Taylor held a love fest with
the chick, Dad transferred its sisters to
the brood pen and cleaned away the
broken shells and other debris. Lastly he
reached for one egg that had started to
hatch, but failed to get much farther than
the initial crack. Sorry little guy.
Waitwhat do you mean, sorry? I
asked.
This one pipped before dinner. If it
isnt out by now, its better to just let it
go.

What? You mean throw it out?

Taylor plopped the chick she had been
holding into the cardboard box and
pressed her hands against the glass of the
chick-ubator. Its still moving! Look!
Dad nodded. I know its still
moving, honey, but its been too long. Its
not viable if it cant even get out of its
own shell.
We can help it, I suggested.
Dad rubbed his hands on his pant
legs. Chicks are bendable when theyre
all warm and cozy in the egg. Soon as
they break through the shell, their bones
start to harden up. That chicks not gonna

be right. Its bones are hardening in the

shape of the egg.
Please, Mr. Duggan. We have to
try. Taylor blinked up at my dad with
her big, wide eyes. I leaned toward her
so our heads were side by side and
together we said, Pleeeease?
Oh, come on, Patty, Mom said.
Give the girls the chicken.
Taylor clapped her hands. Dad
reached back into the chick-ubator and
lifted out the egg. Taylor spread a paper
towel on the table and set the egg on it.
The chicks little beak peeked out of the
crack it had managed so far. It didnt

move and I wondered if it might have

died in the time it took us to convince
Dad, but then Taylor slipped the tip of
her pinky nail under the edge of the
crack and lifted a small piece of egg
away. The beak wiggled and pushed at
the shell. Taylor pried some more and
then the chick spilled out, not wet and
wobbly like its sisters, but dry and
brittle and still.
Taylor brushed away the shell and
folded the towel around the chick, lifting
it up by her face to coo quietly at it.
Honey, its not gonna make it, Dad
said.

We could name it Chrysanthemum,

Taylor whispered as if she hadnt heard
him.
Taylor, sweetie. We should let that
poor thing go, Dad said again. I wanted
to tell him to shut up. What did it hurt if
she tried? But Dad touched Taylors arm
lightly and said again, Its not gonna
make it.
Yes, it will, she said and the
certainty in her voice made my throat
ache.
When Taylor had to go, we carried
the chick outside to the brood pen. She
leaned over to set it down but Dad

stopped her. Theyll tear it to pieces,

he said.
He was right. It would be like
putting The Diary of a Wimpy Kid kid in
the ring with Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Next to Taylors chick, the rest looked
like a science experiment for steroids.
Taylor warmed the chick by holding
it close while Dad got out an old shoe
box and rigged a desk lamp over the top.
As she lowered the chick into the
makeshift brood pen, Dad scattered a
handful of feed in the bottom and went in
search of something to hold water.
The little chick just sat there

shivering miserably. Now that Taylor

wasnt holding it any more I could see
how deformed it actually was. You
better eat, I told it, although I doubted
Id have much of an appetite if I was that
wretched.

15

THE SCHWARZENCHICKEN
FAMILY REUNION

Half the eggs in Dads first batch of

potential chicks didnt hatch. I didnt

realize how much that bothered him until
a week later when a mysterious box

showed up on our doorstep. Its a

Calibrated Ovum Viridity Validator,
Dad said, as if such things arrived in the
mail daily.
A what? I asked.
It tests the freshness of eggs, Dad
explained.
Dad found it online, Shane added.
Mom sucked in her lips and nodded.
I could see her mentally subtracting
money from the mortgage payment. Dad
cut open the box and pulled out a huge
sheet of folded paper. It had elaborate
directions and detailed illustrations.
While Dad tried to figure out his

Calibrated Ovum Viridity Validator,

Taylor came over. Chrysanthemum
hopped up and down in the cardboard
box that we still kept next to the chickubator. Taylor got her out and let her
trail on our heels as we went out to some
grab eggs for Dad. She didnt ask what
he was up to, but I filled her in anyway.
Dad sorted the eggs into two groups
duds, which he put in foam cartons to
store, and chicks, which he loaded into
the chick-ubator. Shane reached under
the table and plugged in the cord.
Nothing. Try a different outlet, Dad
suggested. Still nothing.

Dont worry, well get this working

in no time, Dad said.
Come on, I said to Taylor. We
made popcorn and curled up on the
couch to watch some sci-fi. Shane
fluctuated between stealing our popcorn
and fetching tools for Dad.
Two hours later Dad and Shane
carried the dismembered chick-ubator
out of the house and added it to all the
other not-working crap in the backyard.
Shane helped Dad pack up the fertilized
eggs. What are we going to do with
these little guys? Shane asked.
Ill take them over to Ricks. Hell

know who could use them. We helped

Dad put the eggs back in cartons. After a
brief phone call to Uncle Rick, Dad
asked us to help move the chicks out into
the coop.
We carried the brood pen outside
and scooted it right up to the small
courtyard hed tacked on next to the big
chickens pen to keep them all separate.
When Shane lifted the flap we thought
there would be a stampede or at least a
mad dash, but not one chick seemed even
remotely interested in the promise of
freedom offered by the open gate. Shane
stepped gingerly into the pen, like

Gulliver amongst the chicki-putians. He

shuffle-stepped around the pen, widetoed, heels hinged, creating a chickie
plow with the v of his feet. Cmon my
little chickadees, he coaxed. Gradually
the chicks flowed from pen to courtyard.
Look
Taylor
told
Chrysanthemum, who had climbed up on
the top of her shoe those are your
sisters.
Taylor tipped Chrysanthemum off her
shoe. The chick hobbled up to the edge
of the chicken wire and peeped in her
high squeaky voice.
Taylor must have figured that was

chick-ese for, Hey you up there! Pick

me up and put me in that pen with all
those Schwarzenchickens, because
before any of us could stop her, Taylor
picked up Chrysanthemum and put her in
that
pen
with
all
those
Schwarzenchickens and I could tell by
the light shade of green on Dads face
that he envisioned the same pecked-todeath scenario as me.
Dont
move,
I
willed
Chrysanthemum, but we humans were
frozen as the little chick jerked her
knobby ball of feathers over to the other
chicks, then right on past them to the feed

tray.
Pip! Chrysanthemum said to us,
then Pip! she said to the other chicks.
Pip! they all cried back and then
Chrysanthemum and her fifteen sisters
descended on that food tray like an army
of ants at a school picnic.

Miss Harmon brought in Kelly Vitale, a

reporter for the South Bend Tribune, for
the next NewsCrew meeting. Mrs. Vitale
talked about generating story ideas and
interview techniques, then had us go
around the room and describe the

articles we were working on. Most

people picked school-related topics:
extra-curricular activities, homework
loads, st. On my turn, I told them about
St. Matthews Shelter for the
Disadvantaged and how the recession
affected the number of people being
served. And how St. Matt's could use
volunteers from Pokagon Middle
School. Mrs. Vitale asked me a few
questions and gave a few pointers on
focusing the article to a more human
angle.
Because apparently the homeless
arent human enough.

Whatever.
No, youre taking that the wrong
way, Miss Harmon assured me after the
meeting. She dragged me over to where
Mrs. Vitale was packing up her
materials. Can you explain to Sami
what you mean when you say she needs a
more human angle?
Mrs. Vitale shoved the last pile of
newspapers in her bag and straightened
up. Of course. I just think that you have
a lot of information there, but no real
face for readers to associate that
information with. You need to show us
how all thisthe cut backs on funding,

the increasing unemploymenthow it

affects one person we can care about.
Maybe even give readers something they
can do to help that one person. Does that
make sense? Do you know one of these
homeless people? Maybe someone who
could use some help?
Faces flashed before my eyes: Larrywho-used-to-work-with-Dad, the old
ladies I played cards with, little kids
building cardboard box towers while
their moms worried about how theyd
ever get the money for birthday presents.
I knew them all.
They could all use some help.

But then, one face floated out above

the others. Someone whose poverty went
beyond the others. Someone with no
family, no friends, no common language,
and no appetite.
Marta.

Of course, Taylor insisted on coming.

She brought her camera.
We found Marta in the PLS,
jaundiced by the suns reflection off the
sunflower wall.
Susie! she cried when she saw me.
Susie? Taylor echoed.

Long story. Marta saved me from

having to explain it by yammering on in
Spanish and pointing at the door, like she
wanted to go for a stroll. I knew she was
asking me something because she kept
pausing, like she was waiting for an
answer.
When I didnt answer the second
time, Marta grabbed Taylors hand.
Taylor pulled her hand away, but nodded
and said something to Marta. In Spanish.
Waityou speak Spanish?
Yeah, Taylor said, all doesnteverybody.
Marta seemed so happy to be

understood that she forgot all about the

door and wanting to leave. She rambled
on and on without hardly pausing for
breath. After a while Taylor nodded
toward my notebook. What do we want
to ask her?
Um... Watching Marta all animated
and alive wiped everything else from my
mind. I wished she could be that way all
the time. I tried to focus back on the
notebook, the article, NewsCrew.
Possible questions swirled across the
landscape of my brain, but none seemed
important enough to ask. Taylor rolled
her eyes and asked Marta something

about casa, familia, espouso. Marta

started to answer, but I grabbed Taylors
arm. Ask her about Tommy Teo!
Taylor huffed at me like Id
suggested she ask Marta something as
random as how she felt about
cauliflower. I hit her on the arm. Who
is Tommy Teo? Ask her!
Quin es Tommy Teo?
Marta stared back at Taylor. Tommy
Teo? she repeated.
S, Taylor said. Quin es Tommy
Teo?
Tommy to? No es toe-me-ti-yo.
Marta leaned toward me and pronounced

each syllable deliberately, as if

explaining something to a two-year-old.
An incredibly stupid two-year-old. And
then she ran all the syllables together in
that super-fast way she normally spoke,
TommyTeo! She leaned back in her
chair and grinned at Taylor.
Taylor nodded. Ah, TommyTeo!
I tapped her on the arm. So?
So, what?
Who. Is. TommyTeo?
Taylor gave me her big toothy grin.
How should I know?

16

FLY AWAY HOME

A t lunch Taylor and I fleshed out our

article. After school we raced to Miss

Harmons room.
We stood there while Miss Harmon

skimmed and nodded, nodded and

skimmed. She put the article down on
her desk. Powerful stuff, girls, she
said.
I have pictures, Taylor said. She
pulled a flash drive out of her pocket
and plugged it into one of the lab
computers. The screen filled with a shot
of Martas careworn face staring up at
me. I couldnt remember Taylor even
taking that picture.
Great shot, Miss Harmon said. I
like what youve done with this woman.
Your article will make it harder for
people to ignore the homeless. Maybe it

will make someone care enough to help

this poor woman. Looks like a winner.
I should have squealed with delight.
Jumped for joy. Whatever. Instead I
accepted Taylors fist bump with a
weight in my stomach as indigestible as
a peach pit. All through bio and Spanish
I thought about what Miss Harmon said,
that my article could make someone care
enough to help Marta. The people at St.
Matt's cared enough to help Marta. The
doctors at the hospital cared enough to
help Marta. I cared enough to help
Marta. I didnt see what good it would
do to make more people care if Marta

didnt care. I had to find the one person

that could make her care.
After calling on me twice, Seora
Hernandez asked me if I was okay. I
shook my head and asked for a pass to
the nurse. Walked right past the nurses
station to the office. The secretary barely
glanced at me when I asked for a phone
book. Didnt comment as I flipped
through page after page looking for
Tommy Teo. Not one Teo in the whole
book.
I tried Teeyo. Nope.
Tieyo. Nada.
Teayo. Nothing.

Cars and trucks packed the lot at the

Farmers Market. Dad parked across the
street at the bridal shop. A woman came
to the storefront window with a
welcoming smile that flipped to an
accusatory stare as the three of us slunk
off toward the market with our crates of
eggs.
People clustered outside the Market,
waiting to enter.
Whats the deal? Shane asked.
Dad shrugged. Warm weather?
Thanksgiving coming up?
Either way, the halls were packed

with shoppers.
Behind the counter of Franks Farm
Fresh Eggs Dad shuffled stuff around
like he did every day, preparing for the
rush of customers that never came.
Fresh eggs! Dad called out. I shrank
lower in my seat. People milled past
like we didnt exist.
I dont think they can hear you,
Shane said.
Dad rummaged under the counter and
popped up holding a megaphone. I
knew thisd come in handy. He flipped
a switch and the thing squawked to life.
Farm fresh eggs! Dad called. The

people nearest us covered their ears and

hurried past.
After about twenty minutes of that I
stood up and made a point of stretching
my legs. Im gonna go grab a pop.
Dad didnt even glance my way.
Dad! Im gonna get a pop. Want
one?
No, thanks, he said into the
megaphone.
I do! Shane said.
Whatev.
The quilting lady waved at me as I
passed her booth. Nobody lined up to
buy her stuff either, but she rocked and

quilted, quilted and rocked just like she

did every other day. I sent her a mental
Rock on, quilting lady.
Apparently I was not the only one
needing a popthe line at the soda
machine snaked past the bathrooms and
moved slower than one of Mrs. Ks
Shakespeare lectures. I envied the kid in
front of me whose earbuds leaked heavy
metal remix. He didnt have to listen to
Ma and Pa Moses debate which sausage
shop to visit and some whiny kids
demand for ice cream. Or the trumpety
salsa drifting under the whining and the
arguing and the heavy metal leakage.

Ugh. I dug the change out of my pocket

and jingled it impatiently, counting down
the number of people between me and an
ice cold pop. Five more.
Four more.
Three more.
The kid in front of me gave me a
grin. Almost there, he said. I nodded.
He said something else but two Hispanic
women passing by drowned him out with
their spirited conversation. I tried to tune
them out like all the rest of the racket,
but just as they passed me, one said,
Tommy Teo.
Or at least, that might have been

what she said.

I raced after them. The taller ones
white shirt stood out against the rainbow
of sausage-buying, ice cream-craving
shoppers. I kept my eyes glued to her
back as I bobbed and weaved through
the thick crowd outside the Butchers
Block and past Barbs Bakery. Hi,
Sami, Barb called, stepping in front of
me with a huge box. Could you carry

I craned to see over her shoulder.

Sorry, gotta run, I called, edging
around her, frantic not to lose sight of
The white shirt was gone.

I stopped and scanned the crowd.

Men flooded the butcher shop. Kids
swarmed the penny candy store. Crowds
flowed away from me in both directions.
I dashed after a glimpse of white, but it
turned out to be a false alarm. I took a
few tentative steps back toward Barbs
Bakery, then stopped.
This was crazy.
Id never find them in this crowd.
Besides, maybe Id misheard them. Or
maybe I heard someone else and was
stalking White Shirt Lady for no reason.
Still. I thought of Marta, all alone at
St. Matts, asking for Tommy Teo. If I

had even a small chance of finding him, I

had to try.
I ran back to Barbs Bakery and
scooted behind the counter, looking for a
step stool or ladder, anything that would
boost me higher than everyone else. I
grabbed a chair and made for the crowd.
Barb stepped in front of me. Sami?
What are
Ill bring it right back, I swear, I
said, side-stepping around her.
I plopped the chair in the center of
the packed hallway and climbed up,
looking for the white shirt. Every color
merged into the next like the whole

Farmers Market coated in a mess of

confetti. My vision blurred. Sorry,
Marta.
Barb shook my pant leg and reached
up for my hand. Just a sec, I said, but
she cupped her hand around her ear.
Probably couldnt hear me over the
blasted trumpet music. I climbed down
and thats when it dawned on me.
The trumpets were playing Salsa
music.
I spun around until I found the sign
for La Fanega and plunged through the
crowd toward the store. Rapid-fire
Spanish ricocheted back and forth across

the counter. And there, at one corner,

White Shirt Lady. I tugged on the
womans sleeve like a little kid and tried
to remember what Taylor had said to
Marta. Key-in es Tommy Teo?
She humored me with a nice-try-butthats-not-Spanish smile and pointed
toward a woman in a black apron.
Excuse me, I said to the apron-lady.
She ignored me, barking orders at a
stock boy, her hands flying around like
spastic birds. I cleared my throat and
repeated my, Excuse me.
Apron-lady spun on me. Yes? What
you want?

Im looking for Tommy Teo. Does

he work here?
What you want?
Tommy Teo.
Her hands flapped at me. Juan! she
called to the stock boy. Something,
something
Spanish,
something,
something, Tommy Teo.
Tommy Teo? the boy repeated.
Tommy Teo, we both answered.
Juan disappeared beneath the counter
and reappeared moments later with a
crate of tiny green apples, each encased
in its own little corn husk.
Apron-lady grabbed a plastic bag

and plunged her free hand into the crate.

How much you want? She slid a
handful of the green apples into the bag.
Mas?
No, I
Apron-lady dropped another handful
of apples into the bag and shoved it at
me, jabbed her finger toward the
register.
The cashier took the bag, eyed it.
Two dollars, she said.
But I dont want apples. Im
looking for Tommy Teo.
Tommy Teo, she agreed. Two
dollars.

I counted the change in my pocket.

One-fifty.
One-fifty, the cashier said and
handed me my bag of apples.
Back at the booth Shane eyed the bag
sticking out of my purse and asked,
Wheres my pop?

Uncle Ricks flatbed waited for us,

angled across the backyard. He climbed
out of the cab and waved. Shane
clambered out of our truck and ran over
to high-five Uncle Rick.
I opened my door as Dad killed the

engine. Whats Uncle Rick doing

here? I asked.
No answer.
Dad? You coming?
He nodded, but didnt move. I
hesitated. I said, Im coming, he
barked.
O-kay, I snapped back, adding a
silent, Excuse me for caring. I climbed
out and slammed my door, wondering
why he was ticked at me.
I walked over and said hi to Uncle
Rick. Shane bounced around like a little
kidasking if he could sit in the cab of
the flatbed. Asking if it was fun to drive

it. Asking what Uncle Rick needed the

flatbed for.
Uncle Ricks eyes flicked toward the
truck where Dad still sat, his hands hung
over the top of the steering wheel. Grab
me a pop, will ya, Shane?
As Shane ran toward the house Dad
climbed out of the truck. He walked past
us without so much as a hi to Uncle
Rick. He stopped at the edge of the
backyard and stood with his hands on his
hips, looking at all the old experiments
hed cleaned out of the garage.
Pat? Uncle Rick said.
Dad swung around. Changed my

mind. Dont need the truck after all.

Uncle Rick patted the air with both
hands, like he could push down the
tension. Now, Pat, we talked about this
already.
Whats up? I asked.
He thinks we should sell all this to
the junkyard, Dad said, flinging an arm
toward the experiments.
Uncle Rick hefted himself onto the
back of the flatbed and sat there, his legs
dangling. You need money for the bills.
Got all this scrap metal laying around.
You tell me, Pat. What should we do?
Dad deflated like a popped balloon.

He walked over and sat on the back of

the flatbed next to Uncle Rick. I hated
the way his shoulders slumped, the Igive-upness in his eyes. Of course,
Shane materialized right at that moment
with the pop. Both men ignored Shane,
so I took the pop and climbed up on the
truck between Dad and Uncle Rick, the
cold can sweating in my hand. I wished
Mom was home.
Its not junk, Dad said, so quiet I
wondered if he was talking to himself.
Nobodys saying it is, Pat. Just time
to trade it in for some cash on hand.
Uncle Rick waited until Dad gave him a

nod, then jumped down from the flatbed

and heaved the nearest piece onto the
flatbed. Dad cringed at the clatter.
We worked in a silence broken only
by the clang and crash of metal against
metal. The four of us loaded the flatbed
with all of Dads experiments. I would
have thought this day would make me
happyafter all, how many times had I
crouched down on the bus, hoping no
one would notice the latest pile of junk
in my backyard? But with each pile of
junk, there was a project. And each
project came with the memory of Dads
excitement, his determination that this

would be the one to make us rich. The

auto-ice beach bucket cooler that had
earned me and Shane a day off school to
test it at Warren Dunes. The insta-fold
banquet table that collapsed and
smooshed all the desserts at a PTA
meeting. Uncle Ricks motorcycle ruined
by Dads crabapple converter. I laughed
at the memory of running around the
backyard, pushing Shane on that thing,
while Dad yelled at him to squeeze the
choke so the crabapple gas would kick
in. Id hated all this stuff, wished every
day Dad would just be normal and get a
real job. So why did my best memories

involved all this junk?

Cant we keep this one? Shane
asked as we surveyed the final piece, the
broken chick-ubator.
Probably get twenty bucks just for
the glass, Uncle Rick said, but he
helped Dad carry it back into the garage
anyway.
Wed finished eating dinner and
were just cleaning up when Uncle Rick
returned with the empty flatbed. Mom
offered him a plate, but he shook his
head. Held out a crumpled wad of bills.
He didnt sit as Mom laid the bills out
on the table and counted them.

Seventy-six dollars? she asked,

her eyes all please-tell-me-theres-more.
Uncle Rick shook his head again.
Itll keep the power on, but thats
it, Mom said.
Shanes eyes met mine. We had to be
thinking the same thing: Seventy-six
dollars for all of Dads hopes and
dreams.
Dads chair scraped against the
floor. He went in the bathroom and shut
the door. Uncle Rick gave Moms
shoulders a squeeze. Be all right, sis,
he said in an unusually gruff voice.
Mom pulled away and gave us a

hard look. Yep, gonna be just fine, she

said.
Shane nodded at her. When she went
into the other room to talk with Uncle
Rick, Shane whispered, Is it?
His eyes were too old for his face. I
wanted him to smile, to go back to his
Guitar Hero and Star Trek reruns. It
wasnt fair that he could be ten one day
and have to grow up the next.
Yes. I forced that single word past
the lump in my throat. I hoped he
believed it as much as I wanted to. I held
out a clump of leftover bread. Lets
give this to the hens.

17

POLLOS LOCOS

Y oure

coming tonight, right?

Taylor asked for the umpteenth time.
Shed obsessed about the NewsCrew
party ever since Miss Harmon suggested

a celebration for sending the first edition

to the printer. Taylor jumped at hosting
the party at her house and from that point
on everything had been about what she
would wear, what she would serve,
what color napkins she would blot her
lips on. She couldnt wait. Neither could
II just wanted the thing to be over. I
had no idea what to wear, what to bring,
what people even did at these things.
The last party Id been to was Doms
ninth birthday. And that was a pool party
at the Y.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm, it
seemed to matter to Taylor that I not only

come, but be excited about the party. It

was her first in South Bend and, as she
kept telling me, the perfect chance for
her to show us all how people threw
parties in Chicago. I hoped it wouldnt
be the perfect chance for me to prove
once and for all that I did not belong in
her crowd. I swallowed my fear and
nodded.
Is your mom gonna be there?
Jennifer asked.
Taylor laughed. Shell be gone.
Sally is dropping her at the airport this
morning. Some meeting in D.C. or
something.

An early snow started to fall in third

period and half the guys rushed to the
windows. Supposed to be a big storm
tonight, the teacher said.
Snow day! a few guys yelled,
high-fiving.
Taylor stopped me again after school
as we slushed through ankle deep snow
to the bus. Come help me set up,
please? she said. I cant do this
alone.
I didnt see what the big deal was.
Taylor had a gorgeous home, her Sally
was a great cook. She couldnt possibly
need me. Still. I stayed on the bus past

Doms stop, past my own house. Taylor

reached across the aisle and gave my
arm a thank-you squeeze.
As the bus slowed to drop us at her
house, her face fell. Oh no, oh no, she
cried. They said they would be done!
There, at the foot of her driveway,
stood Kimballs septic truck, its huge
white tank beckoning us to call 1-800BYE-2POOP. Laughter erupted from the
back of the bus as a group of boys sang,
Heres the scoop, dial 1-800-BYE2POOP.
Taylor made it off the bus, but then
stood there in the swirling snow, staring

at the letters on the side of the truck. A

stench worse than a hundred chicken
coops wafted across her snow covered
lawn.
What happened? I asked.
I dont know! The toilets all backed
up last night. Sally said our septic field
probably failed. She swore theyd fix it
before I got home. What are we going to
do?
I stifled a gag and pulled her toward
the house. Maybe you cant smell it
inside.
Taylor said fifteen oh-craps between
the bus stop and her front door. When we

stepped inside and were confronted by

the white fur of her moms Cruella de
Vil coat draped across the banister,
Taylor dropped the crap and pulled
out the big guns. I tried to hush her
before her mom or Sally could hear the
things coming out of her mouth. Instead
of shushing, Taylor spun at me. What
am I going to do, Sami? I cant have the
party here now!
I wanted to tell her itd be okay. That
her mom wasnt as bad as she thought.
But her mom was that bad. Id take the
stench of septic over her shrill voice any
day. I so did not want to be there when

she appeared on her broom. I backed

toward the door.
Waitwhere are you going?
Taylor cried.
My house, I said, meaning I was
going home.
Simple statement.
Except Taylor must have heard
something totally different because next
thing I knew she hugged me and thanked
me and ushered me into the kitchen
where Sally helped us load all the food
into the minivan and then started driving
and on the way Taylor texted everyone
on NewsCrew that the party was now at

my house.
Crap.
By the time we got to my house, a
beige minivan already sat in the drive.
Jennifer leaned out the window and
yelled to me. Whats up, Sami?
Crap. Crap. Crap.
Except...
All the reasons it would suck to have
the meeting at my house had
disappeared.
The junk in the backyardgone.
Chick-ubator on kitchen table
gone.
And a light glowed in the kitchen

window. We had power.

Maybe it wouldnt be so bad.
I said the words out loud. Partys at
my house.
Jennifer rolled her eyes. Duh. Im
here, arent I?
Several cars pulled up at the curb,
dumping out shivering Newsies. Taylor
hopped out and beckoned for Sally to
bring the food in. A few Pops huddled
near Jennifer and I tried not to see my
house through their eyes. Gravel drive.
Broken screen. Salmon-pink paint.
Taylor called Jennifer over to help
carry stuff. She handed me a tray of

cookies and told me to go on in. The rest

of the Newsies followed me up the steps
and into...
The worlds largest indoor chicken
coop.
Chickens on the couch, on the table,
all over the floor.

A few Newsies cooed, Aww, and

bent down to pet the poultry, but most of
the group just stood there and watched
hordes of chickens peck at their wet
shoelaces.
Hey, guys! Shane waved from the
kitchen table, where the chick-ubator
had made an unwelcome return. Even
less welcome was the sight of Dom
holding a screwdriver. Shane hopped up
and came toward me, Chrysanthemum
under one arm, a carton of eggs under the
other. Look! he pressed the carton into
my hand and bent to plug in a cord. The
chick-ubator lit up like a solar flare.

We fixed it. We can start another

brood.
Fluffykins pecked at my shoelaces.
Why are the chickens. In. The. House?
It was cold and Dad forgot to
insulate the coop. I didnt want them to

What the? Jennifers voice cut

through the crowd. She stood in the
middle of the living room, holding a
huge bowl of popcorn.
The room was absolutely silent for
about one-point-two seconds and then
Sebastian let out a war cry from on top
the TV and swooped at the popcorn.

Jennifer screamed and threw the bowl.

She kicked at the chickens near her feet
and waved her arms in a panicked dash
for the door, which provoked a stampede
of terrified Newsies and freaked-out
chickens.
This was worse than any nightmare.
And I had done it to myself by agreeing
to have the party here. My house. The
home of all craziness. I stood in the
middle of the chaos and vowed I would
never go back to school. This was far,
far worse than anything Jennifer had
done to sabotage my friendship with
Taylor.

Taylor.
I stepped over chickens and pushed
past Newsies, trying to get to the door
before Taylor came in. I found her in the
front yard, staggering through the snow,
her arms stacked with food trays.
Wait! she called as everyone pulled
out cell phones to summon their rides.
Whats wrong? Wait! She stumbled up
the porch steps and stared at me all
wide-eyed. What happened?
I could feel everyone watching to
see what I would say, what Taylor
would do. Even Jennifer stopped yelling
into her cell. But Taylor didnt seem mad

or shocked. Just stunned. Like Id ruined

her party and she didnt know why. And
suddenly it didnt matter so much what
everyone else thought. What mattered
was that Taylor was my friend. I took her
trays and sat them on the porch rail.
Tried to explain about the storm and
Shane feeling sorry for the chickens. He
thought the chickens would freeze, I
told her.
So you brought them in the house?
Taylor said, her eyes flicking toward the
door, where Shane and Dom stood.
Jennifer stepped up beside Taylor.
Why not? The whole place is a dump

anyway, she said, her voice rising to

draw a few Oooohs from a group of
boys at the base of the steps. Dozens of
cell phone conversations paused to see
what would happen. Emboldened by the
buzz of the crowd, Jennifer eyed Shane
and added, What a freaking idiot.
Shane stood there, the same way
hed stood on Halloween with egg yolk
dripping from his hair. His chin jutted
out defiantly, but his lower lip quivered.
Nobody did that to my little brother.
Shut your face, I said.
Huh? Jennifer looked at Taylor all
can-you-believe-these-people.

Shut up, I repeated. Shane is one

of the smartest kids I know.
What kind of person brings
chickens in the house? Jennifer said.
Her voice loud, but wobbly under the
strain of a nervous laugh.
Taylor stepped up and slung her arm
around Shane. The kind of person who
cares, she said.
Whatever, Jennifer said. You can
stay here with these freaks, but I am so
outta here.
Aislinns head swiveled from
Jennifer to Taylor and back to Jennifer.
I swear I didnt mean to do it. I dont

even remember taking the egg out of the

carton. But the next thing I knew,
something round and white flew through
the air and splattered against the back of
Jennifers straight blond hair. What the
? she shrieked, turning back toward
us just in time to take a hit in the face.
You little piece of
Chick fight! someone yelled and
the crowd pressed in for a better view.
Jennifer started toward me but the blare
of a vans horn stopped her in her tracks.
A red-faced man leaned out of the
window. Jennifer Burliss! he yelled.
Get your rear in this van. Jennifer did,

dragging Aislinn with her. The man

pointed at me. You will be hearing from
us, young lady.
I nodded. The weight of what I had
done sat in my gut. Not just one, but
TWO of Dads fertilized eggs wasted on
Jennifer Burliss.
As soon as the van disappeared
around the corner, Taylor high-fived me,
then Shane. A little of the spark was
back in Shanes eyes.
A few of the other Newsies followed
Jennifers exodus, but most stayed to
help us corral the chickens into the
basement. Not much they could destroy

down there. As we headed back

upstairs, Taylor pulled me to the side,
letting the other Newsies flow around
us. That was great, she whispered.
You were great.
I knew I should have said something
like, Youre not so bad yourself, but
all I could managed was a red-faced,
Thanks, as I turned away to hide how
much her words meant to me.
We found the Newsies packed like
chickens in a coop in my too-small
kitchen. In the center my dad stood with
Miss Harmon. He gestured wildly, a
sure sign that hed entered storytelling

mode.
Oh crap! When did they get here? I
ducked back in the stairwell, but Taylor
grabbed my arm.
Whats wrong?
I pointed to my dad. If the chickens
werent bad enough, now hes telling
one of his stories.
Taylor held my arm tight and pivoted
me to face the scene. Give him some
credit, Taylor said. Hes not going to
do anything to embarrass you.
Since when?
Obviously Taylor didnt know my
dad as well as I did. I could tell by the

way he crooked his elbows and flapped

his arms, he was telling another one of
his stupid chicken stories. I strained to
hear which one, praying it wouldnt be
about Sebastians mutant crowing. Sure
enough, Dad tilted his head back and
crowed so loud he drowned out
everyones laughter.
I twisted out of Taylors grasp.
What is your problem? she said.
Thats my problem! I pointed at
my dad, inviting everyone to let out their
inner roosters. Even Miss Harmons
shoulders shook with silent laughter.
Cant he see what a total fool hes

making of himself? Everyones laughing

at him!
Taylor grabbed me again. Theyre
not laughing at him, Sami, theyre
laughing with him.
What a crock. Same diff.
No, its not.
Yes, it is! Look!
You look! Your dads funny. They
like him.
Since Taylor wouldnt let go of my
arm, I spun around to point out the snark
on everyones faces.
Come on, let me hear you crow!
Dad yelled.

Er-er-er-er-rrrrr! Shane cried.

Dom slung his arm around Shanes
shoulders and crowd too. And then
everyone crowed and laughed and
crowed some more. And Taylor was
right. Not one ounce of snark anywhere
to be found.
After the party Dad and Shane took
off for the store. Taylor stayed to help
me clean up and when she left, I plopped
down on the couch exhausted by the
days events. I was so tired I didnt even
protest when Fluffykins climbed up on
my lap. Everything swirled in my head
like glitter flakes in a snow globe. The

septic truck, orange yolk dripping down

Jennifers forehead, her dadred-faced
and vowing to get me. But beneath it all,
the soft down of happiness settled over
me. Taylor had seen everything there
was to see about my family and she still
wanted to be my friend.

Heard

you had some party last night,

Mom said as she steered the car into the
parking lot at St. Matts.
I studied her expression, trying to
guess how much she'd heard. Yeah, um,
it was something all right.

Your dad says youve got a nice

group of friends, good kids.
I started to correct herthey were
Newsies, not friendsbut then I
reconsidered. Anyone who would stick
around to help corral all those chickens
was more than some random Newsie. I
nodded, Yeah, theyre pretty cool.
I got a call this morning, though.
I melted down into the bucket seat.
Id been on high alert for the phone,
hoping to head off Mr. Burliss, but he
must have called during the two minutes
I was in the shower.
Some girls dad was pretty upset.

He said you pelted his daughter with

eggs.
Um, yeah. About that... I told her
all about Jennifer ripping on Shane and
how I got so mad partly because she was
such a total witch and partly because of
all that Shane had been going through at
schooland then of course I had to tell
her about Shane getting egged at the
Halloween dance and
Whoa, Sami, its okay, Mom said,
but I just kept blabbering on until she
reached over and tapped my leg. Its
okay, she said again. Taylors mom
called me last night and we had a long

chat about Jennifer.

Mrs. Statton called you? No way
could I picture that woman defending
me.
Yeah. Sally told me all about
Whoawait. Sally? My brain
stumbled along trying to piece together
what Mom was saying.
Mom frowned. Sally. Mrs. Statton.
Anyway, she thought I should know how
Jennifers been treating you at school.
While I absolutely do not condone your
behavior, I am proud of you for standing
up to her. And thats exactly what I told
Mr. Burliss.

Thank you, Sally.

Marta wasnt in the PLS and my
heart raced as I asked the kids if theyd
seen her.
I think shes dead, the same Elmoloving boy whispered, but before I could
totally fall apart, his sister shushed him.
No shes not. Miss Rachel took her to
the cafeteria.
Miss Rachel turned out to be Alice
Jr. I found them at the front table, Alice
Jr. torturing Marta. Eat it, she said as
she held the spoon against Martas
pressed tight lips. When she saw me,
Alice Jr. tossed the spoon on the table.

Pink yogurt splattered Martas sweater.

Marta wiped at it indignantly. She
wont eat, Alice Jr. told me.
Oh, Marta. I took the napkin from
her hand and cleaned her up. I could feel
her cheek bones through her too-thin skin
as I wiped her face. She pushed away
my hand with her brittle-bird fingers and
ranted at me in Spanish, too quick for me
to pick out a single word.
You are too hungry. Now quit being
stubborn, Alice Jr. said.
I had never seen her so impatient
with anyone. You speak Spanish?
No.

I picked up the spoon and wiped it

down. Can I try?
Alice Jr. shrugged then paced back
and forth as I scooped up a small dab of
yogurt.
No gusta, Marta said.
I held up the spoon, but Marta
pressed her lips together again.
Marta, comer, por favor. I didnt
know if comer meant eat or not, but it
sounded familiar.
Marta shook her head and babbled at
me again. Perfect opportunity to stick the
yogurt into her mouth. She pushed it back
out with her tongue and fixed me with a

hard stare. I wiped her mouth again. I

could
understand
Alice
Jr.s
exasperation.
Marta, I said, Do you want me to
see if I can find some soup?
Her face lit up at the word soup. For
a second I thought we were getting
somewhere and then she clutched my
wrist. Susie, she said, slowly, like I
was stupid. Susie, pollos locos.
Pollos locos, I repeated, nodding
like I understood. Okay, Ill be right
back.
Alice (the senior) stood at the sink,
scrubbing a black cauldron. She jumped

when I called her name.

Can I get some soup for Marta? I
asked.
Alice waved a soapy sponge toward
the pantry. Wont eat it, though, she
said.
I know.
Alice dropped her sponge in the
water and came over to put her soapy
hands on my shoulders. People gotta
save themselves. Cant do it for them.
I didnt look at her. Just waited until
her hands slipped from my shoulders and
then grabbed a can of chicken soup and
warmed it up.

When I got back to the cafeteria, I

was floored to see Taylor sitting across
from Marta, trying to shove yogurt in
Martas mouth. When did you get
here? I asked.
Not long ago. Your dad said
Pollos locos? Marta asked,
reaching for the bowl in my hand.
I sat it in front of her and tried to
hand her the spoon. She wrinkled her
nose. Whats the matter, Marta? You
dont like noodles?
Pollos locos! Marta reminded me.
Taylor tossed the yogurt in the trash.
Whys she keep saying that? Did you

tell her about last night?

I shook my head. Whats she
saying?
Pollos locos.
Duh. Whats that mean?
Crazy chickens, Taylor said, like
homeless people all over the world
were clairvoyant and the fact that Marta
knew about last nights feathered fiasco
was completely normal.
Hows she know that?
Taylor shrugged. I didnt tell her.
So, did you find out anything else about
that relative of hers? Tommy-whateverhis-name-is?

Not unless hes an apple. I pulled

one of the little green apples from my
purse.
Marta snatched it from my hand and
yelled, Tommy Teo!
The few people scattered throughout
the cafeteria stared. Nothing to see
here, folks, Taylor called out. Woman
just likes her apples.
Before I could stop her Marta
grabbed my purse. Riffling through it,
she pulled out the rest of the apples and
made a small pile in the center of the
table. Ah, Susita! She pinched my
cheeks like I was her grandbaby or

something, then fumbled the husk off an

apple and popped it in her mouth.
Mmmm.
Taylor grimaced. Waitshouldnt
she, like, de-core-ify that or something?
Marta scooped the remaining apples
into the basket of her shirt, grabbed her
bowl of soup, and headed for the
kitchen. Taylor and I trailed after her.
Marta dumped the apples on the
table and pulled off their husks. She
pointed at a pan on the stove and said
something that sounded suspiciously like
fetch. I fetched. Marta dumped the
chicken noodle soup into the pan and

plopped in a few of the apples. She

lifted the pan and stepped toward the
stove.
Alice stood, arms folded, right in her
path. Residents are not allowed kitchen
privileges.
Are you kidding me? Taylor said.
This woman hasnt eaten anything since
she got here and youre going to deny her
some chicken apple soup?
St. Matts has to follow the health
code. No residents in the kitchen.
I took the pan from Marta. Let me
cook it, then.
No.

Okay, you cook it. Here. I held the

pan out to her.
She didnt budge. Its more than just
who cooks it. The hospital sent Marta
home on a soft food diet. Her body isnt
ready to deal with solids yet.
A minute ago you were okay with
me feeding her chicken noodle soup,
whys this different?
Alice ignored me. She took the pan
and dumped it in the garbage. Sorry,
Marta.
Sorry Marta? My pulse thumped
in my temple like someone was kicking
the side of my face. We finally get her

interested in food and and My

words trailed off as I realized everyone
was looking over my shoulder.
Gene stood in the doorway. Sami?
Alice? he flashed a cant-we-settlethis-peacefully grin. Whats all the
shouting about?
Alice is trying to kill Marta,
Taylor said.
Now, now, Im sure that is an
exaggeration. Alices food doesnt taste
that bad. His smile faded under four icy
glares. Okay, whats the problem?
Alice explained about doctors
orders and center policy and all the

logistics of feeding the elderly and

infirm. When she quit talking I opened
my mouth to make my case, but Gene
held up his hand and said, Sorry guys,
as far as food goes, Alice reigns
supreme.
But, youre the director! Dont you
have veto power?
I am and I do, but in this case Alice
is right. We have to consider Martas
best interests.
Taylor scoffed. Starving to death is
in her best interest?
Its hard to see the big picture when
youre young, Gene said.

I huffed out of his office and down

the hall to my moms. She jumped when I
burst through her door with Gene and
Taylor right behind me.
The three of us all spoke at once, our
words jumbling together like little kids
vying for Moms attention. She stood and
held up her hands. Whoa, whoa. Gene?
Whats going on?
Taylor and I started to protest, but
Mom gave us her I-think-I-asked-Gene
look. We shut up. Gene explained that
we were trying to use the kitchen against
center policy.
Taylor and I both tried to answer.

Taylor reached out and touched my arm,

all I-got-this.
She put on her sweetest face and
said, Were sorry, Mrs. Duggan. Genes
right. St. Matts has these rules for a
reason and we shouldnt argue.
My mom eyed her suspiciously. I
was suspicious toowhen exactly had
the aliens taken over her body? Gene
asked Mom how the grant was coming
along. I opened my mouth, but Taylors
grasp on my arm tightened. I have a
plan, she whispered.
The plan, it turned out, was that she
planned to come up with a plan.

Great! I snapped at her on the

walk to the bus stop. We could have
gotten my mom on our side and you just
let Gene steamroll right over us.
No. I let Gene think he steamrolled
over us. That way hell let his guard
down.
Okay, so then what?
Youll think of something, she
said.

Dom had always hated cold weather, so

the last thing I expected when I stepped
off the trail between our houses the next

morning was to see him at the edge of

the driveway, his breath coming in thick
foggy puffs.
He didnt even wait for me to say
hi before he said, Guess I owe you an
apology.
I walked right past him and stood in
my usual waiting-for-the-bus spot. He
came over next to me, so close his
elbow bumped mine. I ignored him and
kept my eyes focused on the snow
covered road.
Come on, Sami. Im sorry, all
right?
I rolled my eyes. For what?

He kicked at a clump of dirt-stained

snow. Seems like Taylor isnt who I
thought she was. Sorry I said all that
stuff about her.
She did seem like a total snot,
huh?
Dom nodded.
I bumped his elbow with mine. Im
sorry, too.

It should not have surprised me that

everyone at Pokagon had heard about the
chick-tastrophe of a NewsCrew party.
Or that Jennifer had spent all day Sunday

texting Taylor. When Taylor ignored her,

Jennifer began texting all the Pops. She
told them that I lived with chickens. That
they roosted in my bed. No wonder
everyone at school gawked at me like I
had feathers growing out of my back.
But that was nothing compared to the
whole clucking thing.
It started right after second period. I
was in the bathroom, in a stalldoing,
you know, what people do in bathroom
stallsand someone leaned down and
peeked under the door, like to check if
the stall was taken. Jennifer must have
recognized my blue Keds because she

mumbled
something-something-SamiDuggan. Someone else giggled. Soft
bock-bock-bock noises whispered off
the pea-green tiles, multiplied by echoes
and a chorus of who knew how many
other voices. I stayed in my stall until the
bell rang and the clucking faded off into
the hallway.
But I couldnt stay in there forever.
Jennifer spotted me as soon as I
stepped into the main hall. Bock-babock-bock! she cried. Heads turned,
smirks widened. The story of my dads
chicken escapades whipped down the
crowded hall like wildfire. By lunch I

couldnt turn a corner without feeling

like Chrysanthemum and her fifteen
sisters had invaded Pokagon Middle
School.
The clucking stopped though when I
met Taylor at her locker. It was like her
force field of coolness protected those in
her presence from public ridicule.
Aislinn joined us and we walked into the
cafeteria on the burning sand of snarky
whispers, punctuated with an occasional
giggle. Taylor led us to our usual table,
but there was nowhere to sit. The Pops
had spread their lunches out and sat in
unified silence, occupying every inch of

space.
Um, hi? Aislinn said.
Brunette Pop glanced over her
shoulder. Hey, Ais, she said,
scooching over to make room for
Aislinn. But when Aislinn tried to make
room for us, Jennifer gave a loud, UhHUM. The Pop next to Aislinn jutted
out an elbow to fill the empty space.
Really? Taylor said. Youre
going to justjust
I linked my arm through hers and
guided her away. Who needs them? I
asked. But I could tell by the tears in her
eyes that even Taylors force field

couldnt combat the silent power of

shunning.
Hey, chicken girl! Dom and JDawg grinned at me. Come hang with
your peeps.
I led Taylor over to the table. J-dawg
and Dom joked around like usual, but I
kept my eyes on Taylor. The tears were
gone, but she was awfully quiet.
Probably regretting not feeding me to the
Pops that first time we met.

18

TASTES LIKE CHICKEN

Shane spat a mouthful of Thanksgiving

dinner into his napkin. This is not
turkey, he announced.
Dad and Mom exchanged a glance.

Um, sweetie, Mom said. We all knew

the chickens were not pets.
Shane was out of that chair in an
instant and running for the chicken coop.
He came back when hed made sure the
bird on his plate wasnt Fluffykins or
Chrysanthemum. But he didnt take
another bite of the turkey.
I didnt either, but it wasnt because
the idea of eating the chickens freaked
me out. It was because eating chicken for
Thanksgiving was just wrong. And sad. I
hated the idea that our family was too
broke to afford a flippin turkey.
Shane spent the whole holiday

weekend sulking.
Why dont we play a board game?
Dad suggested, trying to put some
holiday spirit into us. I was too busy
obsessing over how we could get Marta
into St. Matts kitchen to play something
as stupid as Monopoly. I curled up on
my bed and doodled while my brain
refused to come up with one single idea.
By Monday morning I still had
nothing.
Got a plan? Taylor asked as she
slid into the bus seat next to me.
Nope.
No prob, she said. I do!

Please tell me it doesnt involve

chickens.
Taylor laughed, but did not actually
tell me her plan did not involve
chickens. In fact, the only thing she did
tell me was that I should get more little
green apples from the Farmers Market
and meet her at her house by four-thirty.
Oh, and bring your dad."
The bring your dad part worried
me.
Getting the green apples wasnt too
difficult. Apron lady remembered me
and shouted for Juan, who brought them
right up. The hard part was convincing

Dad to give me a ride to the Farmers

Market and then to Taylors, but I
invoked the word plan and his eyes lit
up like they did each time another issue
of Do It Yourself Patents arrived in our
mailbox. Harder still was getting him to
come in once we got to Taylors house.
Look, he said. I like Taylor just fine.
But her mom...
Her moms never home. Taylor said
you had to come. Pleeease? I gave him
my pretty-please eyes.
Sally answered the door and after
brief introductions led Dad and me into
the kitchen, where Taylor sat talking to a

short
dark-skinned
woman
she
introduced as Brisha. Brisha stood to
shake Dads hand, but before Taylor
could explain why we were all there, the
bathroom door opened and a familiar
voice cried, Susie!
You stole Marta!
No, we borrowed her, Taylor
corrected.
Dads eyes bugged out, all whathave-you-done.
Marta hurried across the room with
her arms out and I braced for the hug, but
instead she grabbed the bag of green
apples out of my hand and dumped them

on the counter, speaking rapid Spanish.

Brisha said something back.
Shes here to translate for us,
Taylor said.
I knew Taylors family was rich, but
wowza! You hired a translator?
Im a friend of Sallys, Brisha
said. And actually, Im an accountant.
Dad cleared his throat. So, howd
you manage to bust Marta out of St.
Matt's?
Easy! Taylor said. Brisha just
went in and invited Marta to come over.
They probably wouldnt have let her
leave with a kid, but for all they know,

Brisha is family.
Marta ripped the papery husks from
the apples and sliced them in half on a
cutting board. Lined them up in neat
rows on a baking sheet. Sally took the
tray and slipped it into the oven.
All this to make some soup, huh?
Dad asked.
Brisha shook her head. Not just
some soup. Martas famous, you know.
Back in her village, her family ran a
restaurant for three generations. Marta
specialized in Sopa de Pollos Locos.
Crazy Chicken Soup? Taylor
asked.

Brisha nodded.
So wheres her family? Someones
gotta be looking for her, right?
Probably. Talking to Marta makes
me think shes suffering from some kind
of memory loss. She doesnt remember
her last name or where exactly shes
from. She cant even tell me the names
of her friends or family.
Thats not trueshe keeps asking
for Tommy Teo. If we can find him
Brisha cut me off. Tommy Teo? You
think thats a person?
Well, yeah. She keeps asking for
him. I thought I found him at the

Farmers Market, but by the time I got to

the shop, hed disappeared.
Brishas cheeks flushed and she
stifled a laugh.
What?
Not Tommy Teo. Tomatillo. Little
tomato. Marta asked you for tomatillos
so she could make her soup.
Marta watched us all laugh until
Brisha caught her breath enough to
translate. Marta smacked me on the
head. Estpido!
No translation needed on that one.
Marta put us all to work, dicing
veggies, browning chicken, making

broth. When the tomatillos were roasted

to her satisfaction, Marta insisted on
chopping them herself and threw all the
ingredients into one big pot. While it
cooked, Taylor took us up to see the cats.
Marta settled on the bed and let them
climb all over her, cooing at each new
face. Brisha asked her a question and
after a moment Marta answered. She
had cats back home, Brisha translated.
Her father never allowed them in the
house. Nasty creatures, he called them.
But Marta loved her kitties.
Marta told us about the village she
lived in as a child, how she washed

dishes and served meals in her uncles

restaurant, what it was like for her grow
up and to have her own restaurant.
She remembers all of that, but not
coming to America? Dad asked.
Brisha nodded.
Sally called up from the kitchen that
the soup looked ready. Marta grasped
Brishas arm and navigated the stairs at
a pace so agonizingly slow that I wanted
to lift her up and carry her on my back
just to get down to the kitchen quicker.
This soup meant everything. If she liked
it, she might start eating again. If she ate,
she could get her strength back. If she

regained her strength, she might

remember how to find her family. And
then...happily ever after.
Brisha settled Marta at the table
while Sally ladled soup into a white
bowl and brought it over. Dad placed a
spoon near Marta and we all crowded
around, waiting for her verdict. She
leaned over the bowl and scooped the
steam toward her face, inhaling,
nodding. Taylor squeezed my arm so
tight it hurt. Marta grasped the spoon in
her gnarled fingers, dipped it in the soup
and brought it trembling to her lips.
She slurped the broth and

immediately her face folded into a

grimace. Basura, she cried, tossing
the spoon on the table.
Garbage, Brisha informed us.
No, no, no, Dad said. Its not
done yet. Marta, you need spices! How
can it be crazy chicken soup without
some kick? Dad pulled open cabinet
after cabinet until Sally directed him to
the Statton spice stash. He shook his
head as he riffled through bottles and
jars and canisters. White pepper?
Coriander? Parsley? Wheres the good
stuff?
Here. Sally hipped him aside and

reached way into the cabinet to pull out

handfuls of spice jars.
Marta and Dad opened jars and
passed them back and forth, sniffing
them. Sally ladled spoonfuls of the soup
into several small bowls and stirred
while Marta sprinkled a spice or two in
each one and pronounced each attempt
equally basura. My hopes sank. Despite
the spoonfuls of soup she swallowed,
Marta appeared to shrink before my
eyes.
Taylors plan wasnt working and
admitting that opened a floodgate for all
my worries.

A backyard full of chickens whose

eggs we couldnt sell.
Mom scrounging every month to pay
the bills.
My parents arguing.
All the people who St. Matts
couldnt feed unless Mom got that grant.
I breathed through my nose and
repeated Moms mantra in my head. One
at a time. One at a time. I tried to push
all the rest away and just focus on the
problem in front of megetting Marta to
eatexcept the others kept crowding
back in.
You cant spice up soup if youre

afraid of wrecking it, Dad snapped. He

snatched the ladle out of Sallys hand
and chucked it back in the main pot.
Then he randomly grabbed two spice
jars and shook them over the pot.
Stirred.
Grabbed two more.
Six or seven spices later, he tasted
the concoction.
Added more.
Stirred.
Tasted.
Smiled.

Without ceremony, Dad dished some

in a bowl and handed it to Marta with a

clean spoon. She eyed him suspiciously.
Behind me Taylor whispered, Come on,
Marta. Taste it.
Marta tasted it. Her eyes widened.
She tasted it again and her slow smile
gave me a glimpse of the girl shed once
been. She looked from the bowl to Dad
and back to the bowl. Then she sat the
spoon down on the counter and slurped
that crazy chicken soup right out of the
bowl.
My skin went cold. Oh.
Taylor clapped me on the back. I
know, right?

But I wasnt even thinking about

Marta right then. My knees were all
tingly and black dots danced in front of
my eyes. Dad?
Whats wrong, honey? Dad asked.
But it wasnt anything I could
explain with words. I had been watching
Dad throw out all our carefully seasoned
soups, watching him toss spices in the
main pot without rhyme or reason and
suddenly a weird energy built up in my
stomach and I knew, just knew, that Mom
was wrong. My problems couldnt be
handled one by one because they were
all interrelated. To solve them, I had to

throw them all in the pot.

Like the spices.
Youve got a weird look on your
face, Taylor said.
I do? I asked. But I was pretty sure
I knew the look she meant. The same Iknow-it-might-sound-crazy look Dad got
every time he told us about one of his
plans.

It took me a week to figure out a way to

explain my idea to Dad. First I called up
Uncle Rick and got the name of that guy
who butchered the Thanksgiving

chickens. He gave me the basicsscald,

pluck, eviscerate. Uncle Rick offered to
come and help with the first batch. The
only thing he wouldnt do was help me
convince Dad. Youre on your own for
that, he said.
No problem, Id told him. Dad
never balked at a change in plans.
But I like the chickens, Dad
balked. This from the guy that tried to
sell them off as dog food.
Were not going to kill them all, I
told him. Just enough to make a big
batch of soup.
Not Sebastian.

Not Sebastian, I agreed. We keep

him to breed.
And not Chrysanthemum. Or
Fluffykins, either, he bartered.
Of course not.
Once he gained clemency for his
favorites, Dad perked up a bit. By the
time I sent him to the store with a
shopping list, his eyes twinkled with that
old spark again.
Figuring out when to butcher the
chickens was hard. I want to surprise
Mom, I told Dad and Shane, but I think
Dad suspected the truth. After the
layoffs, when Dad told us all about his

first plan, wed been so excited. Our

dad, the inventor. And Mom was his
biggest cheerleader. But each time one
of his plans flopped only to be replaced
by another, Mom cheered a little less
and worried a lot more. Id rather have
no cheerleader now than risk
disappointing her if my plan failed.
Shane suggested that we all fake being
sick, but Dad dug the school calendar
out from the papers taped to the fridge.
He drew a circle around Friday, the
twelfth.
No
classesSchool
Improvement Day. Youll both be off,
but Momll have to work, he said.

I called Taylor and warned her to

stay away from the house that day. To my
surprise, she got all excited and
demanded to help.
What about Dom? she asked.
Of course.
And J-Dawg?
She seemed to be asking about him a
lot lately. Okay, I said. Ill call them
next.
Just a sec. It sounded like Taylor
sat the phone down. Muffled voices and
then a guy-sounding clearing of the
throat, before someonedefinitely male
picked up the phone and said, Um,

hi, Sami.
J-Dawg?
Uh-huh.
Oh. Well. Should have seen that
one coming. Wanna help with
murdering some innocent poultry?
Sure. You know me, always down
for a good clean slaughter.
In the background Taylor said,
Shes not kidding.
Sure, J-Dawg repeated, but his
voice cracked.

Dad kept a checklist on the garage door.

Every time one of us thought of

something we needed, wed add it to the
list. Shane found this cone-thingy online.
It reminded me of the Calibrated Ovum
Viridity Validator, but Shane insisted we
order it. It prevents the bruising that can
occur when the hen flails about after it is
decapitated, he explained. He sounded
like the websites spokesperson. None
of us knew why bruising would be a
major concern for the chickensurely
losing its head would be more of an
issuebut Dad ordered four of them for
overnight delivery anyway.
By Thursday night we had everything

on our listvolunteers, supplies, even

an order from St. Matt's for our first
batch of soup. We met in Shanes room
after Mom went to bed, to go over
procedures. Just to be sure nothing
would go wrong.

19

NO GUTS, NO GLORY

I used to think of barnyard animals as

totally separate from the meat that

appeared on my plate each day. Sure, I
knew that sausage came from pigs, a few

minutes on Uncle Ricks farm made that

clear. And the whole farm-ocology thing
every kindergartner learnedhamburger
from cows, drumsticks from chickens,
yada yada. But until that Saturday when I
struggled to hold the cool steel of the
cone still while Chrysanthemum ran in
circles pecking at my ankles and Dad
fought to shove a squawking, clawing
hen head-first into the cones opening,
there had been somewhat of a gap in my
understanding of what that meant.
Throughout the day, the gap gradually
closed.
8 am: Although hens seem pretty

clueless, they definitely have a grasp of

life and death. Enough so that if you
threaten their life, they reciprocate with
repeated attempts to claw you to death.
9:23 am: Sometimes guys (like JDawg) pass out when they come upon a
lot of blood unexpectedly. Slapping them
doesnt bring them back as quickly as it
does in the movies. Dousing them with
ice cold water works, but really ticks
them off.
10:30 am: Scalding the feathers off
of a chicken is not as easy as the internet
would have you believe.
Noon: It is impossible to eat lunch

with the smell of thirty dead chickens

lingering on your skin and bits of their
feathers stuck in your hair.
3 pm: Chickens do not magically
divide themselves into thighs and
breasts upon death. Someone has to
cut them up.
3:23 pm: When your family decides
to undertake a massive butchering
project, it is a good idea to let everyone
in the family know, or if that is not
possible, at least leave a note to warn
any unsuspecting family members not to
bring home men in business suits.

We didnt get a chance to explain to the

man in the business suit that the blood he
saw was not human. In all fairness, he
probably wishes he had been able to
explain to us that the high-pitch girly
scream we heard as he ran back to his
car did not reflect his normal reaction to
stressful situations.
Mom did not run away or scream.
She just stood there for a minute, taking
it all in. Then she gave a slow nod of her
head, like yep-this-would-be-my-family.
Dad looked up from the cutting
board too late to see the retreat of the
suit guy. Everything okay, Joanie?

When she didnt answer, he came

around the table, elbows bent like a
surgeon, blood dripping from his yellow
gardening gloves and smeared across the
plastic apron he wore over his winter
coat.
Mom walked into the house with
Dad following after her saying, Joanie?
Joan?
She slammed the door in his face.
It said online that you had to get the
chickens cut up and cooled quickly or
the meat would toughen, so Dad grabbed
his butcher knife and went back to work.
Taylor looked at me like what-the-crap

just-happened.
Maybe you should go home now, I
said. My voice sounded all squeezed off,
like someone had pressed my head
through one of those cones.
Taylor hesitated. Um, Ill stay out
here and help your dad, okay?
I couldnt even nod.
Mom sat at the breakfast nook with
her head in her hands, her hair split in
big random clumps where her splayed
fingers parted it.
Mom? I said in my squeezed-off
voice.
She didnt look up.

Mom? I put a hand on her back and

knelt down, trying to see her face behind
the curtain of hair. Its gonna be all
right. Weve got this plan Oh no, I
did not just say that.
Mom made a choking kind of huh
sound.
Its different this time. Can I just
tell you what were doing?
I am so. Sick. Of. Plans. She spat
the words out one by one. Do you know
who that was? That man that threw up all
over our driveway? The one you all
laughed at? Bob Ramsey. From Chase
Bank. The mortgage officer.

Waitwhat? I couldnt figure out

why some guy from the bank would
come to our house. Unless Mom was
trying to sell our home. My throat
completely closed.
Her face softened the tiniest bit. Her
eyes drifted toward the window and she
gave that little nod again. Go help your
dad clean up.
Are we moving? I croaked.
I wanted to refinance. Get smaller
payments. Fat chance of that now.
Sorry. Like that helped.
But Mom gave me a small smile.
Well be okay. We always are. Now go

help your dad.

My eyes blurred and I swiped away
tears with the back of my hand. I took in
the backyard like someone coming upon
it for the first time. The cones still hung
from the clothesline between the garage
and a tree at the far edge of the lot.
Blessedly empty now, the evidence of
their function pooled thickly beneath
them, melting the snow, blackening the
dirt. Chrysanthemum stumbled about like
the sole survivor of a plane crash.

Dad grilled up some chicken for dinner

and, although I would have thought a day

spent butchering chickens would have
nixed everyones appetites, when Mom
opened the back door and called us all
in for supper we rushed in like pigs to
the trough. The sight of Moms corn on
the cob made my mouth water and we
each loaded our platesbuttered
biscuits, barbecue chicken, beans and
corn. But silence lay across the table and
no one took a bite until Mom did. Dad
lifted his ear of corn, then set it down,
reaching for Moms hand. Sorry about
the mortgage guy, he said.
Mom nodded at a chorus of sorries

from around the table. Dad squeezed her

hand. If you want to invite him back...
Nope, Mom said.
How are we going to refinance
without him? Dad asked.
We dont need him, Mom said
with a shrug. What we need is a new
plan. A grin played around the corners
of her mouth.
Shane was the first to laugha quick
snort that sent biscuit crumbs spraying
out his nose. Then Uncle Rick joined in
and before long we were all laughing
and talking and laughing some more. It
was kind of like someone had opened

the vent on the pressure cooker of our

lives and now all the stress came
steaming out until our sides hurt from all
the chicken and laughter.

20

MARTAS CRAZY CHICKEN

SOUP

Gene and Marta waved from the icy

sidewalk of St. Matthews Shelter for
the Disadvantaged. Dad drove around to
the lot and parked next to Sallys van.

Gene walked right past Dom and JDawg, Taylor and Shane, and pulled my
door open. This is so great, Sami, he
said over and over as he linked his arm
in mine like we were off to see the
Wizard. I swear, he was more excited
than I was.
Alice glowered as we entered her
kitchen. Her crew had just finished
cleaning up from breakfast. Everything
gleamed and reeked lemony freshness.
If youve never made soup from
scratch, its a whole lot different than
nuking one of those prepackaged cups.
That takes about thirty seconds. This

took us all day. I guess I thought the soup

making would go somewhat like the
chicken slaughter the day beforean
assembly line of sorts, Dad giving
orders, everyone else carrying them out.
Boy, did I have that wrong. Marta made
it clear from the second she set foot in
the kitchen that she was in charge. One
big problemshe still had no clue what
went in the soup.
Luckily, Dad had some idea of what
hed thrown in the pot. He followed
Marta around, swapping out ingredients
when she wasnt looking. We all set to
work chopping, dicing, mincing, and

measuring while fifteen chickens boiled

in huge pots and Marta marched around
harrumphing over shoulders.
While the veggies cooked, the
tortilla preparation began. Marta
abdicated her throne as kitchen goddess
and Brisha led us as we pounded,
shaped, fried, and flipped a bazillion
and fifty tortillas.
We ladled the soup into the huge
trays Gene provided, covered them with
foil. Broke up the tortillas and put them
in plastic baggies to be sprinkled over
the top of the soup before serving. Taped
the baggies to the trays and slid them

into the freezer. High-fived each other at

a job well done. Looked around at the
kitchen. Gasped. It looked like an
explosion at the Farmers Market.
You guys want help cleaning up?
Gene asked.
Naw. Youve done enough. Dad
clapped Gene on the back. Thanks,
man.
My pleasure. Thats some great
soup.
Whatre we gonna do with the
leftovers? Mom asked.
Two full pots sat untouched on the
back of the stove.

That strange feeling roiled in the pit

of my stomach again. I bit my tongue to
keep from voicing the crazy idea that
popped into my head. Everyone looked
at me.
Whats wrong? Dom asked.
Nothing. My voice sounded tinny
and far away. I wiped sweaty hands on
my pant legs. I just needed to sit down.
Sambo? Dad said, but trying to
look at him just made me dizzy. He
grabbed my arm and pulled me into a
chair. What it is?
She has another plan, Taylor said.
You do? Shane asked.

I do, I admitted. I looked right at

Dad as I let the most ridiculous of all the
Duggan plans come spilling out of my
mouth: Wed sell the soup. We could put
an ad in the school paper, offer it at the
Farmers Market, and maybe even sell it
online if we could figure out how to
freeze and ship it. I was talking so fast,
one word tripping over the next, only
tumbling to a stop when Mom said my
name. Afraid of the oh-no-not-you-too
look that was sure to be on her face, I
studied my hands.
Sami, she said again. I looked up
to see the crows feet around her eyes

take flight on the wings of laughter. You

brilliant girl! she said and folded me
into her momness.

The snow fell heavy and wet the next

morning. I stared at the TV as school
closing after school closing rolled
across the bottom of the screen. Shane
read them aloud. Argos, Concord,
Niles, Brandywine...
Snow day? Dad asked as he
emerged from the bathroom.
Not for us, Shane pouted.
Sorry, guys, Dad said, but I

flashed him a smile and grabbed my bag

from the counter. Shane banged on the
window as I passed under it. I looked up
and laughed at his goofball face
scrunched up against the glass.
You got it? Taylor asked on the
bus. I nodded.
As soon as we got to school, we
split up. Taylor went to find Miss
Harmon and I headed for the print shop.
We met back up at my locker. Got it?
she asked, like I might have lost it since
the bus.
I slipped her the flash drive and told
her that the print shop could get the

copies done by three oclock, if Miss

Harmon gave the okay. She says she
will, Taylor promised. I could see it
now: Wed hand out the first edition of
the newspaper tomorrow morning.
Everyone would see Martas article and
the supplemental insert wed print today
my follow up article about Martas
soup. It ended with the words You can
help! and included an order form for
Crazy Chicken Soup.

Sallys van pulled into the drive the next

morning so early the surviving chickens

didnt even stir at the sound of her tires

kicking up gravel. Dom came sprinting
from the trail between our houses.
Whew! I thought I missed you guys.
We climbed in the back with JDawg. Taylor passed back a box of
donuts. Miss Harmon waited for us by
the print shop. Neatly twined stacks of
newspapers dwarfed her on all sides.
Taylor handed out donuts to the Newsies
who trickled in to help haul the papers to
the main entrance.
The first groups off the buses
ignored us completely, averting their
eyes like the newspapers in our hands

were Sunday school pamphlets. As the

sidewalk became more crowded, it was
harder for kids to avoid us, but somehow
they managed. They ignored Doms
shouts that the papers were free and my
insistence that they, Read all about it!
in our new Pokagon Sentinel. Even
Taylor only managed to hand off a few
copies.
We discussed our dismal failure
over lunch.
We need more oomph, J-Dawg
said. More pizzazz. We all nodded.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright.
I didnt like the look in his eyes.

What?
You actually let the chickens sleep
in your bed? J-Dawg asked. I blinked at
him, too stunned to respond. He was
looking at me funny and talking way too
loud, in the same all-the-worlds-a-stage
kind of voice the Pops used. He jerked
his head twice. In your bed. With you?
he repeated with more head jerks. I just
stared at him.
Dom must have gotten some clue
from J-Dawgs head jerks because Dom
sat up and bellowed, All of them?
My eyes burned and a lump formed
in my throat. I could take that crap from

Jennifer, but Dom and J-Dawg were

supposed to be my friends. And all that
head jerking made them look like they
were in some kind of synchronized
chicken neck contest.
Taylor jerked her head twice, then
said, I know theyre soft, but really?
She gave me a hard look, then rolled her
eyes. Jennifers listening, she
whispered.
Oh! The tears evaporated. I
swallowed hard. Theyre cuddly! But,
keep your voice down, I fakeadmonished. If anyone finds out, theres
no way I can show my face around

here.
What? Youd go to another
school? Taylors fake stage voice was
even louder than her usual stage voice.
Are you kidding? Id have to.
Taylor shushed us, still in
performance mode. A few seconds later,
her shoulders slumped. Whew! Theyre
gone.
I couldnt help glancing over my
shoulder. No sign of the Pops. Did they
buy it?
Guess well have to wait to find
out.
We didnt have to wait long. As soon

as I stepped out of the cafeteria, the

clucking began again.
You cant buy this kind of
marketing, J-Dawg said.

We got permission to skip out of last

period and spent the time hauling the
papers back to the front of the school. I
sat down on the last pile, feeling tired.
The clucking was great and all, but
what if we still cant get rid of the
papers?
Well get rid of them.
I wish I had one-tenth of J-Dawgs

confidence. How do you know?

Taylor nodded at him. Tell her.
We called your dad. Hes bringing
Sebastian.
Crap. Crap. Crappity crap.
Now the whole school would see
Dad in action. That would totally kill
any chance of ever fitting in. Taylor
shook me, asking, Whats wrong? She
looked concerned. Like a friend should.
I looked from her to Dom to J-Dawg.
My friends.
Just disappointed I didnt think of
that myself, I said, smiling as Dad
pulled up in his truck.

We rushed to help him unload

Sebastian. I brought a few of the girls,
he said. He looked like a kid who has
just been told his yo-yo trick is the best
in the world.
Thanks, Dad, I said.
By the time the first kids trickled out
of school, Sebastian stood tethered to the
top of his crate by a thin length of twine.
Fluffykins and Chrysanthemum milled
around the piles of papers.
People flowed on past like chickens
hung out here all the time.
Dont be a chicken, read the news!
J-Dawg yelled. All of us held out

papers, practically shoving them at

people.
Get the latest on the crazy chicken
girl, Taylor tried. A few kids took the
bait, but it still wasnt enough. If we
couldnt get people to take the papers,
theyd never see the order forms for the
soup. If they didnt see the forms, they
wouldnt order the soup. If they didnt
order the soup, wed never be able to
pay the bills. And then...no happily ever
after.
Its not working, Dom said.
We gotta make it big, J-Dawg said.
It needs to be much more much-li-er.

He was right. We needed something

sensational. Something that kids couldnt
just walk by. Something guaranteed to
stop traffic. At Pokagon, the only thing
capable of that was a fight or public
humiliation. Wheres your bullhorn? I
asked Dad.
Truck.
I rummaged through the junk in the
back of his truck, looking for the yellow
plastic of the megaphone. Snack
wrappers, crushed pop cans, two old
Del-co uniforms, and...
One chicken costume.
Thought it might come in handy,

Dad said from behind me.

Quit smiling and help me get into
this thing, I said.
I hunched and wiggled. Dad pulled
and yanked until we managed to squeeze
teenage-sized me into kid-sized chicken
suit that still smelled faintly of rotten
eggs.
Taylor was the first one to notice me.
Oh. My. Word. That outfit is...so totally
you! Her smile split her face in half.
I know, right? I grinned back. She
was kidding, but in a way I realized she
was rightbeing squished into a tenyear-olds chicken suit pretty much

defined my life. But that wasnt all bad.

When Dom saw me, he let out a long,
low whistle. Sebastian gave an
answering cry. I glanced at Dad. You
only live once, he said.
I told myself that meant I couldnt
die of embarrassment twice in one
school year. I climbed up on the stone
ledge around the flagpole (which is not
easy to do in a chicken suit).
Dom cupped his hands around his
mouth and shouted, Look! Its the crazy
chicken girl!
I leaned back and RRRR-rrrrrrRRRRRRed my heart out. That must

have been some kind of chicken mating

cry, because both Fluffykins and
Chrysanthemum launched themselves in
the air and flew up to perch on my
shoulders. I let out another RRR-rrrrrRRRRR.
Traffic screeched to a halt. Taylor
waved a paper and shouted, Read all
about Pokagons Crazy Chicken Girl!
After that the papers flew out of our
hands like chicken feed.
And...

By the end of the week, we had over

a hundred orders for Martas Crazy
Chicken Soup.

21

SUNNY SIDE UP

Theyre here, Shane yelled. Like I

couldnt hear all the racket in the front
yard.
A waterfall of baby chicks cascaded

from my lap as I stood. They flowed

around my feet, following me to the gate
of the brood pen. Ill be back, I
promised.
It was the second Sunday in June.
Taylors birthday.
I lifted the side of the red and black
polka-dotted crate and clicked my
tongue. Chrysanthemum waddled over.
Poor girl had gotten so fat since Dom
discovered her secret vice. Want
some? I asked, holding out a few of the
greasy potato straws. She pipped at me,
stretching her neck and almost jumping
for the snack. I tossed it in the crate and

shut the door after her. She wolfed down

the treat then poked the tip of her beak
through the slats and peeped at me. I
know, I know, I cooed. Its only for a
few minutes.
Brisha parked her blue Suburban
behind the house. The doors flew open
and her kids spilled out, while Brisha
circled around to help Marta out of the
front seat. Hola, Susita! Marta cried,
opening and closing her hands all giveme-a-hug.
I sat Chrysanthemums crate on the
front step and let Marta enfold me. She
smelled like cinnamony goodness.

Baking today? I asked.

Brisha reached back into the SUV
and emerged with a plate piled high with
sweet-smelling corn husks. Tamales
dulces, she said. Marta spent all day
making them.
Gracias, Marta. Taylor will love
them. Chrysanthemum wasnt the only
one gaining weight. Ever since Martad
moved in with Brisha and been given
full reign of the kitchen, wed all been
spoiled rotten with her baking. While I
doubted shed ever be considered
plump, even Marta had begun to look
well-fed. I lifted the polka-dotted crate

and led everyone into the house.

Wow, it looks great in here, Brisha
said.
Oh, good, youre here, Mom
called from the top of a ladder. Is this
straight? I surveyed the Happy Birthday
banner stretched over the kitchen table
and nodded.
Who made the cake? Brishas
oldest daughter asked.
I did, Shane and Dom said in
unison.
Okaaaay... Nice cake. But she
rolled her eyes at me. Youd think after
having Sunday dinner together once a

month since January theyd get used to

her curvy-ocity. Apparently not.
A car horn beeped in the driveway.
Crap! Shes here!
Chaos ensued as everyone dove
behind couches and doors, under tables
and into closets. As designated dooropener I took a calming breath, then
gasped. Wait! Wheres Dad?
Mom frowned. He said he had to
pick up something. I thought hed be
back by now.
Get your feet out of my face! Dom
yelled from behind the couch.
I peeked out the window. Taylor and

Josh were already climbing out of

Sallys van.
Get your butt off my arm! Shane
snapped back.
Taylor was stepping onto the porch.
Shhhhhhh! Shes almost to the d
The doorbell rang and I yanked open
the door. Taylor stepped back in
surprise. Josh cleared his throat and said
in a voice that couldnt have been more
fake if he was reading off a
teleprompter, Hi, Sami. Are you nearly
ready to join us for the movie?
I shot him a look. Yeah, just come
in a sec, I gotta grab my purse.

Um, okay... Taylor said. It was

pretty obvious she was peeved that we
might miss the beginning of the movie.
Louder, I said, Yeah, Taylor, just
come in and help me As soon as
Taylor stepped through the door,
everyone jumped out and screamed,
Surprise! Mom started singing Happy
Birthday and everyone joined in.
Everyone except Taylor, who burst into
tears.
The song disintegrated into a chorus
of, Whats wrong?
Taylor shook her head and wiped at
her eyes. We just surprised her, thats

all, Mom said, sweeping her toward the

bedroom. Why dont you all get some
food?
Everyone except me headed for the
kitchen to claim one of Shanes fried
chicken and smashed potato sandwiches.
I trailed after Mom and stood in the
doorway, watching her sit Taylor on the
edge of the bed and work her momming
magic. I could almost feel the gentle
comfort of Moms fingers on my own
back, the soft tickly circles that had
always told me everything would be
okay.
When Taylors tears slowed, Mom

asked, Honey, what is it?

Taylor shook her head. Its stupid.
Come on, you can tell me.
No ones ever done that. Thrown
me a party.
Aw, Im sure your mother
No, never. Shes always gone.
Surely not every birthday. Mom
gave Taylors knee two quick pats. She
always did thatpatted your knee
when she was sure she was right about
something and you were wrong.
Well, Taylor gave a half-hearted
laugh, not the first one.
I think it clicked for my mom then

because she made a soft noise low in her

throat and pulled Taylor into a hug. I
leaned over the bed and wrapped my
arms around them both. Well, Mom
said giving an extra squeeze, guess
youll just have to be part of our family,
then.
Tears glistened in Taylors eyes
again and I knew Mom had just given her
the best present ever. Better than the
shiny new slug bug shed be getting a
few birthdays from now. Better than
corn-wrapped tamales. Better than a
gawky chicken packed in a polka-dotted
crate.

Okay, so Chrysanthemum did make a

pretty good gift. Taylor whooped and
danced around with Chrysanthemum
tucked under her arm. Dad said you can
keep her here or well help build a coop
at your house, Shane said.
Taylor snorted. Like my mom
would allow a coop. Hey, where is your
dad?
As if on cue, Dads horn sounded.
Everyone rushed to the window just in
time to see Dad pull in towing two
alpacas and the fuselage of a Cessna
310.

He climbed out of the truck and

yelled,
Somebody
grab
the
wheelbarrow! Beside me I felt Shanes
body tense, but not even he moved. Dad
shaded his eyes from the suns glare and
peered up at us, his familyMom and
Shane, Taylor and mehuddled in the
window. He held out both arms and
flashed his I-know-it-might-sound-crazy
look.
That man is going to drive me
insane, Mom said, but I could hear the
smile in her voice and I knew that just
like me, she couldnt wait to see what he
invented next.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katherine Higgs-Coulthard lives in

Southwest Michigan with four wonderful kids,
one amazing husband, two hilarious dogs, a
purple fish, and no chickens.
Katherine loves to hear from her readers!
www.writewithkathy.com/