Chicken Girl

by Heather T. Smith

  I tightened my abs and smiled. Peach. I liked that.

  It made perfect sense that roller derby would be big in the forties. Women were really coming into their own back then and strong, curvy bodies were the trend. I would have been right at home. Admittedly, I was a little bit more than curvy. But I did have the desirable hourglass shape of the era. In fact, mine was even better—instead of being made from hard, breakable glass, it was as soft and as squishy as a luxury feather pillow.

  I liked Eve. She was blunt, but she was honest and she had good instincts. She was right about derby—I did fit in. I became a valuable part of the team, thanks in big part to my build. I was lucky. Most people were either slim, chubby, fat, or obese. But I was an hourglass-shaped brick shithouse with the softness of feathers. My only problem was, that strong inner core didn’t show in photos.

  One night, about four a.m., Cam barged into my room. He’d gotten up to go to the bathroom and saw the light on under my door. Tears streamed down my face. I said, “I’ve been trying to close my laptop for hours now.” He closed it for me. He said, “Those comments are garbage.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And garbage never goes away. Just look at the landfills.”

  He didn’t have a response to that. He just hugged me. I breathed in the springtime scent of his pajama shirt. It was a nice change from the stench that was constantly under my nose.

  He said, “Things aren’t as bad as they seem, Pops.”

  I laughed. “That’s easy to say when you’re on the outside looking in.”

  His face fell. “Outside looking in? We’re twins, Pops. I’m on the inside with you, looking out. Always.”

  Part of me wished it was true. I’d like to have company in the dark. But Cam didn’t belong on the inside with me. He deserved to be free.

  The struggle to keep away from the filth was almost as troubling as the filth itself. In the end it was easier to let go, to immerse myself in it, to roll over and say, Yes, yes. You’re right. Look at me. Who did I think I was, believing in myself?

  I hung up my bandana, waved it like a white flag.

  I traded my lipstick for Chapstick. The original kind. I didn’t deserve cherry. The only thing I deserved was liposuction or death.

  I became a faded version of myself.

  I was like a Polaroid left out in the sun.

  * * *

  The problem with school was that it was a bit of a laugh. Cam and I were the dynamic duo known for entertaining the students and teachers alike. But what came easy before—the jokes, the witty repartee—was becoming harder to deliver. Any humor I could muster came out flat so I avoided it altogether. The school library became my fortress and the books that I pretended to read were my armor. It was boring as hell but I knew it was better than sitting home watching horrific crap on the internet.

  Mom knocked on my door. “You’re going to be late, Poppy.”

  I was glad school was almost over but I’d miss the structure—if I didn’t get up for school, I mightn’t get up at all. At least I had my daily four o’clock supper shift at Chen Chicken to look forward to.

  God, I was pathetic.

  I got out of bed and pulled a brush through my hair. Cam’s voice floated from his room to mine. He was rehearsing his lines. I tossed the brush on my dresser and got back in bed. I sunk deep down under the covers and convinced myself I was doing it for Cam. My absence on the stage would be easier to explain if I was absent from school.

  A few minutes later, my door swung open.

  “Poppy! Didn’t you hear me calling? You’re going to be late.”

  I curled up and held my stomach. “I’ve got cramps. They’re killing me.”

  Her face softened. “Aw, that’s too bad. You’ll be missing the very last day.”

  I played along. “Yeah, bummer.”

  I must have been wearing a convincing my uterus is killing me face because later, at lunchtime, she came back with a bottle of ginger ale, a bag of popcorn, and a bucket-load of sympathy. “I thought we could watch a movie together.”

  It was like offering a drink to an alcoholic. I would have loved to gobble down Mom’s offer—but I’d have only been left riddled with guilt. There was a cloud over me now. Whenever nice things happened it darkened. It was a reminder—I may have been having a jolly old time but somewhere there was somebody who wasn’t.

  “Sorry,” I said, throwing back the covers. “I told Cam I’d come in if the Advil kicked in.”

  Her face fell.

  I gathered my clothes. I wouldn’t change in front of her.

  As I passed her on my way to the bathroom I said, “Another time, okay? We have all summer, right?”

  She smiled. “Of course. Have fun at the assembly.”

  I sat on the edge of the tub, waiting for her shadow to pass across the crack at the bottom of the door. I’d left her cold, feet frozen to the floor, staring at the emptiness of the space I’d filled moments before.

  What she didn’t know was that the emptiness had been there all along.

  It had been in the shape of an hourglass.

  * * *

  Ralph Donaldson was sitting on a plastic lawn chair in front of Plan 47-4.

  Frank Rogers was trimming his hedge outside Plan 47-14.

  They were talking loudly about the weather. Frank figured it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Ralph said he’d watched a science program on the CBC and the experts had concluded that it was unlikely—that the egg would cook unevenly, if at all, and that a better choice would be to fry the egg on the hood of a car because metal is a better conductor than concrete. Frank said he’d be tempted to give it a try but didn’t want to waste a good egg. Frank and Ralph pronounced egg as “aig.” When Frank saw me approaching he said, “Here’s someone who should be an expert on the subject.”

  I laughed. “Is that all you see me as now? A chicken? I’m not even in costume.”

  He looked at his watch. “You will be at a quarter to four. I figure even part-time chickens must be experts on aigs.”

  I leaned against the picket fence at the end of his lawn. “To be honest,” I said, “the only thing I know about aigs is that they really hate Fry-days.”

  Frank didn’t get it. Ralph explained. “Friday but with a y?”

  Frank laughed. “Good one, Poppy.”

  I could have stayed there all afternoon, talking about the weather and making corny jokes about aigs. I liked Frank and Ralph. They’d both had me in their houses to look at their four-bedroom layouts (ours was only three). Frank’s bedroom and living room were in the front, while his kitchen/dining room and second bedroom were in the back. Ralph, on the other hand, had his kitchen/dining room in the front, adjacent to his living room, and in the back were both his first and second bedrooms. Every room was just the right size. Both had the charming sloped-ceiling top floor with two bedrooms side by side.

  I went to a party in the suburbs once. At Eve’s cousin’s house. From the front door I could see the kitchen, living room, and dining area. A spiral staircase wound its way to a balcony that I assumed led to a multitude of bedrooms. What this house needs, I thought, is walls.

  The houses in my neighborhood were full of them. Every room had four and being enclosed within them felt cozy and safe.

  I said goodbye to Frank and Ralph and continued on to school. When I passed the chicken shop I stopped and squinted through the window. Mr. Chen was in the back, lowering a bucket of soapy water from the sink to the floor. I figured a friendly wave might improve our relationship so I knocked—Tum-ti-ti-tum-tum. Tum-tum! He jumped a mile and dropped his bucket. We watched, he from the kitchen and me from the window, as soapy water flooded the floor. Eventually he looked up. When he did, I waved. He wasn’t impressed.

  I continued down Elgin, crossed the even grungier James Street, and eventually turned onto Queen, which was full of bistros, bakeries, and bookshops. I felt an urge to knock on the windows. The occupants would drop their breakfasts, breads, and boo
ks and I’d run off, leaving chaos and confusion behind. I’d become the notorious neighborhood knocker. There’d be community meetings about how to stop me. People would pull together. The owner of the Friendly Bean would meet the owner of Sweetie Pies and together, with the owner of Turn the Page, they’d form a neighborhood watch. They’d become a tight-knit community. And even though I’d eventually get caught, the relationships between the residents would remain strong because of what they’d been through. They’d be the Home Front and I’d be the War, and when it was over they’d all be better for it.

  I turned off Queen and looked to the sky. I imagined a bomb dropping and wondered if the person who posted The Photo would run into the streets to help or cower under their computer.

  I thought I knew the answer.

  My school appeared in the distance. Another faded Polaroid. I walked into the pale-pink brick building grateful it was the last day, hoping that any final good moments wouldn’t cloud my judgment. I wouldn’t want to be duped into a false sense of security.

  The assembly was just starting. Cam was surrounded by the usual gaggle of girls. He called them his Cam-elles. I called them the Drome-drearies. Cam didn’t get it until I said, “You know? Dromedary? As in Arabian camel?” He said, “What do you call a camel with no humps?” and when I said, “A horse?” he said, “No, Humphrey!”

  Cam was my antidote to everything.

  When Cam came out of the closet, the Cam-elles came out of the woodwork. They loved their little gay mascot. Cam couldn’t see it, but he was being defined by his sexuality. It’s like how gay characters on TV can’t just happen to be gay—their homosexuality has to be part of some comedic shtick. Like that’s all they’re about as human beings. I asked Cam if he even liked these girls. He said he liked the attention. At least he was honest.

  Cam came out at the beginning of ninth grade. A few months later, I found his boxing gloves in the trash. I told him he was becoming one-dimensional. He said, “Why? Because I don’t like butch sports anymore?”

  I said, “Don’t you know, Cam? You can be the boxing king and the eyeliner queen, all at once.”

  My sweet Cam. He’d come out of the closet only to squish himself into a box. I hated that.

  The assembly started. Cam was rocking his heels and rocking the mic. He looked gorgeous. But then he always had a way with makeup, even as a little kid. I loved that side of him.

  I loved all sides of him.

  Eve found me sitting in the back row of bleachers. “I wish you wouldn’t hide from me.”

  “Me? Hiding? Pfssh. I’m not hiding.”

  She sat down beside me. “I hate your jeans.”

  They were boyfriend cut, loose fit with rips at the knees.

  “You have the same pair,” I said. “I’ve seen you wear them.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But they suit me. These don’t suit you.”

  I knew what she was getting at but chose not to respond.

  “I was in Value Village last week,” she said. “There was this dress—you would have loved it. It had puffed sleeves and it went in tight at the waist and the skirt part was really big.”

  I kept my attention on the jazz band, who were killing “Fly Me to the Moon”—and not in a good way.

  Eve talked over them.

  “Last week, after we beat the Killbillies, I tweeted a photo of the team looking all badass and victorious, and before I knew it there were a hundred strangers commenting about how derby girls were a bunch of man-hating dykes.”

  I made a mental note to find the thread and strangle myself with it.

  She pulled a Jolly Rancher out of her pocket, green apple to match her freshly dyed hair.

  “Some people around here have been wondering how one stupid photo made you lose your mind,” she said. “But I get it. It’s not the photo or what was said about it, it’s that nastiness is the norm.”

  Her perceptiveness was why I’d been hiding from her. If she kept identifying my problems, I’d be expected to work through them, and I wasn’t nearly done wallowing.

  “In the Mood” blared from the stage. If I’d been wearing the Value Village dress I could have jitterbugged to it. God knows I’d watched enough instructional videos.

  The Jolly Rancher clickity-clacked in Eve’s teeth.

  “Don’t you miss it?” she said. “I’d die without derby.”

  Eve was a jammer. Her job was to skate through a pack of blockers. I was the pivot—a special blocker who could become a jammer during the course of play. I had the best of both worlds. I got to lead my team in blocking the other team’s jammer but I also had the opportunity to score whenever Eve passed me her helmet cover with the special star designation. Would I die without derby? Obviously not. But I did miss it.

  She popped another candy in her mouth and offered me a blue raspberry one. I put it in my pocket.

  “Just so you know,” I said, “I haven’t lost my mind.”

  She swept her shoulder-length hair to the side, revealing a sleek razed undercut. “You sure?”

  I took no notice of her. Her skate name might have been Poison Evie but there was nothing toxic about her at all.

  “There’s a new girl on the team,” she said. “She’s good, but she’s no Rosie the Pivoter.”

  I took the Jolly Rancher out of my pocket and slipped it in my mouth. It was all at once sweet and sour.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I work at the arena now. At the concession stand. You should come for a skate sometime. I’ll give you a free slushie when Eddie’s not around.”

  The last time I had been skating was almost five months before. I had spent the whole time feeling unsettled because I didn’t know if I was having fun or not. It’s like when you’re feeling nauseous and you’re not sure if it’s because you’re hungry or because you’re sick. It’d be easier if you were throwing your guts up because at least then you’d know for sure. That’s why I started wallowing—because being miserable when you’re wallowing is way easier than being miserable while you’re having fun.

  I inched away from Eve and nodded to the stage. “Cam’s coming back on.”

  He worked the stage like a pro but he was playing up his sexuality, cracking jokes at his own expense. He had his own comedic shtick and I hated it.

  Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blared from the speakers. Cam was known for nailing lip-sync routines and this one was no exception. He was Mr. Fahrenheit alright. He was two hundred degrees of hot shit and the audience loved him. He was turning the world inside out, just like he always did, and when he was done burning through the sky he slid across the stage on his knees and collapsed in a dramatic heap. He stayed there until a good thirty seconds after the song ended, and the effect was staggering. When the cheering died down he hopped up and bowed. I felt proud until he said, “Just thought a little queen would brighten your day.”

  Eve leaned in. “That brother of yours is the total package.”

  I agreed. He was like a beautiful box tied up in ribbons and bows.

  It was what was happening on the inside that I was worried about.

  * * *

  Instead of spending the rest of the school day in the library pretending to read like usual, I spent it hanging out with Eve, pretending I hadn’t lost my mind. We went to the gym to watch a friendly teacher-student volleyball match, then ate some cake the principal was handing out in the lobby. It was chocolate.

  When school was over, I walked home with Cam. He told me he missed me being on the stage but we both knew I couldn’t have pulled off that much happiness.

  When we got home, I put on my chicken suit. I liked looking at the world through chicken eyes. In a weird way, it suspended reality. Say, for example, one of the druggies from James Street stumbled up onto Elgin and collapsed in the middle of the sidewalk and died right in front of your eyes—well, when you’re in a chicken costume you’re not really there, you’re just a pair of beady eyes under
a pile of feathers. Not that any of that really happened. It could have, it’s hard to say for sure. That’s just one of the perks of being a chicken.

  As I was leaving, Cam tweaked my beak. “This getup never gets old.”

  “If you like it so much, you should apply for the lunchtime shift,” I said.

  “This summer job thing,” he said, “it’s so below me.”

  “You’re going to have to find something,” I said.

  “What I really want,” he said, “is to become a”—he paused for effect—“celebutant.”

  “Like the Kardashians?” I said.

  He nodded. “I want to be rich and famous for no good reason.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “But being rich and famous has its drawbacks. I mean, you wouldn’t want to come down with a bad case of”—I paused for effect—“affluenza.”