Chicken Girl

by Heather T. Smith

  He laughed. “Um. Actually no. It’s not like that at all.”

  I rubbed my chin. “I think I might need to think on this a bit longer.”

  Lewis smiled. “It’s a lot to get your head around if you don’t live it.”

  I looked into his face. “I’m sorry you were born with bits you didn’t want.”

  He tapped the end of my nose with his finger. “You’re adorkable.”

  I smiled. “My brother would like that word.”

  “You have a brother?”

  That’s when I remembered. I pulled the keychain out of my pocket. “I don’t know much about you either,” I said. “But I thought you might like this.”

  I passed it to him. “Happy birthday.”

  He held it like it was a precious jewel.

  “I hope you get your bottom surgery,” I said. “So you can be complete.”

  “It’s not about being complete,” he said. “I mean, plenty of people choose not to get surgery and they’re just as complete as anyone else.”

  I had a lot to learn from Lewis.

  We kept walking. He swung his new keychain round and round on his finger. We talked the whole way home. I told him I had a birthmark on my thigh and won a pie-eating contest once. He told me he dressed as SpongeBob for Halloween three years in a row and he broke his arm when he was five. We both loved Honeycombs.

  * * *

  Cam was in bed but awake. I plunked down next to him.

  “What’s up, Popsicle?”

  “Buck called me the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

  “Want me to go give him a knuckle sandwich?”

  I almost said yes. I would have loved to see Cam throw a punch again.

  “He’s such a stupid asshole,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s a real”—he paused for effect—“ignoranus.”

  “Ha,” I said. “Good one.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder.

  He was scrolling through his Instagram account. Every photo a close-up of his beautifully made-up face.

  “Is that a new phone?”

  He nodded. “Fabian got it for me. Mine was scratched.”

  “Why would your boss buy you a new phone?”

  “He said it was a bonus. Doesn’t Mr. Chen ever give you a bonus?”

  “He gave me a chicken wing once.”

  “See? Every job has its perks.”

  We lay side by side, our breath synchronized and getting deeper. I reached for his pinkie. “Say something funny, Cam.”

  “When it comes to illegal drug use, cocaine is where I draw the line.”

  I laughed.

  Together, we slept until morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day the whole thing replayed in my mind.

  The Pillsbury Doughboy giggles when he’s poked in his wibbly-wobbly belly.

  Look familiar, Poppy?

  Have a google of those letters on his arm.

  I pictured it—the four letters above the motorcycle tattoo.

  I opened my laptop.

  Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come as a surprise. Nothing did anymore.

  I typed them in.

  S.O.A.R.

  Results included a village in Wales, an aviation unit in the U.S. army, and a song by Christina Aguilera.

  I added motorcycle to my search. The first result was a biker club.

  Sons of Aryan Resistance.

  I liked Thumper. He’d rewritten the Bible. He made it nicer.

  Mission: to patrol the streets and cleanse them of undesirables

  Undesirables: racial minorities, immigrants, and sexual degenerates

  I felt sick.

  Maybe he was part of that aviation unit. Or was Christina Aguilera’s number one fan.

  I watched footage of them in action. Boots on heads and red, red blood.

  Maybe that’s why he’s called Thumper.

  I got dressed. I had to go out but I didn’t know where.

  I walked down Churchill wishing for that thirty-second loop of Miracle and me walking hand in hand down James Street. Clip-clop, flash, flash, repeat.

  Ralph was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house. He waved me over.

  “A young couple just moved into number thirty-two,” he said. “They’re putting on an addition. It’s going to ruin the look of the whole street.”

  Normally, I’d have cared. Normally, I’d have stood with him and ranted and raved. I’d have said that renovations compromise the integrity of historic homes, that modernization strips wartime houses of their quaintness and charm. But suddenly, I didn’t care. “Oh well,” I said. “C’est la vie.”

  I walked to Victoria Road and knocked on the door of Plan 47-11.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  Lewis nodded. “Give me a sec.”

  I heard a woman’s voice. “You go. Don’t worry. Have fun.”

  We walked along the tracks, just as we had the night before.

  “Did you know,” I said, “that the royal train carried King George and Queen Elizabeth down these very tracks in 1939?”

  He smiled. “And you know this because…”

  “I googled steam trains in the forties and saw a photo.”

  “Wow,” he said. “You really are obsessed.”

  I smiled. “It was a great era.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “Really? How so?”

  “Well, first of all,” I said, “there was no internet.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Fair enough. What else?”

  “Things were just…I don’t know…simpler.”

  “Really?” he said. “There was a war going on. How is that simple?”

  I sighed. “Because right was right and wrong was wrong. I mean, nobody questioned whether Hitler was breaking any harassment guidelines or debated hate speech versus free speech.”

  He stopped walking. “Whoa. Are you serious?”

  “I’m just saying. Back then, there was no ambiguity. Things were pretty clear-cut.”

  “So let me get this right. You would rather live during World War II when millions and millions of people died because living in the world today puts you at risk of cyberbullying?”

  “Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

  “That’s because it is stupid.”

  I sighed. “The war was terrible. I know that. But people came together over it, you know? It was all for one and one for all. It was a very empowering time for women too.”

  “Until the war ended and they were barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen again.”

  “Geez, Lewis. Why are you being so difficult? This is supposed to be easier with you.”

  He frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Buck’s an arsehole. But you…you’re a good guy.”

  “Which means what?” he said. “Everything I do should be perfect?”

  “No, that’s not what I—”

  “Maybe I should put on an army uniform and march off to war or say, Golly gee willikers, Poppy, you sure are swell to everything you say.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying—”

  “Life is a mixture of good and bad, Poppy. It was then, it is now, and it always will be.”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry. I’m frustrated. Your thinking is really warped.”

  The gravel next to the tracks crunched under our feet.

  “The thing is,” I said, “my issues wouldn’t have existed if I lived in the forties.”

  “And mine would have been shameful,” he said. “I’d have been unhappy my whole life.”

  My heart quivered.

  We heard the ding-ding-ding of the commuter train in the distance. We moved well away from the tracks. When the train passed I could see Chen Chicken between two buildings that backed onto the railway line. Mr. Chen was outside his shop chatting enthusiastically with the other shop owners. Lewis bumped his shoulder into mine. “Just think, if this was the forties you probabl
y wouldn’t have a job as a giant chicken.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Bummer.”

  When the train was gone we turned back toward home. We veered off the tracks and onto Richmond Street. Lewis went into a corner store and came out with a Popsicle. He broke it in half.

  “Pineapple,” I said. “My favorite.”

  Back on the tracks I said, “I’m sorry about how your life would be in the forties.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t plan on taking a trip back in time.”

  The icy cold felt nice on my lips. “Did you know that the word Popsicle is a word blend? The inventor’s kids came up with it. Pop’s icicles. Popsicles!”

  He tapped the end of my nose with his ice pop. “Have I told you you’re adorkable?”

  I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and wondered if it was unbecoming.

  At the bottom of Churchill we said goodbye.

  “Will I see you again?” he asked. “Under the bridge?”

  I shook my head. “Not while Buck’s around.”

  “Maybe we can go for a walk again?”

  I smiled. “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  When I got home Mom was hanging a sign in our kitchen that said Homemade with love. In other words, I licked the spoon and kept using it.

  She looked down at me from the stepstool. “Hilarious, huh?”

  I didn’t get it. Was she trying to say that spit equaled love? If so, my pfsshes were basically saliva hugs.

  “How’s the boyfriend?” she said.

  “Nonexistent right now.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, hon.”

  She passed me a package of Oreos the way she’d pass me a Band-Aid for a cut.

  “Here. This’ll help.”

  I took one out and twisted it in half.

  Mom sat beside me. “Eve called today.”

  I scraped the icing off with my teeth. “She did?”

  Mom nodded. “I thought you’d be back on the team, now that it’s summer.”

  I’d told her I left because I was falling behind on my studies.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Luckily, Cam burst in with an announcement.

  “I’ve been promoted!”

  “To what?” I asked. “Senior hair sweeper?”

  He shot me a look. “Head of guest services.”

  Mom was impressed. “Good for you, Cam!”

  “I still sweep,” he said. “But Fabe says I’ll be mostly on cash, dealing with customers.”

  Fabe.

  I stood up. “I have to get ready for work.”

  “Have fun sweating your ass off in your chicken costume,” said Cam.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”

  I hated it when there was tension between us. I went upstairs and texted an apology for the senior sweeper comment. He texted back: No prob. Love you, Popsicle. He signed off with six x’s and six o’s.

  * * *

  I sat on the barbershop bench with Miracle. Her little body was pressed up close to mine. I didn’t feel sad but I didn’t feel happy either. The sun was shining and she’d just placed a random kiss on my feathery elbow. It wasn’t bad and it wasn’t good, it just was.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I went to James Street today. MaJonna taught me to twerk.”

  “I told you to stay away from that neighborhood.”

  “He sang ‘Like a Virgin’ and now I know all the words.”

  I sighed. “Great.”

  “MaJonna taught me some cool moves,” she said. “Want me to teach them to you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  She showed me how to do the Roger Rabbit and the Running Man. A couple of drunks joined in. Someone yelled, “Go Chicken, it’s your birthday” from a passing car. Another mascot, Willie the Wiener from Hawt Dawgs, challenged me to a dance-off. A crowd formed. The wiener won. The shift went by fast. When it was over I asked Mr. Chen if he wanted me to stay longer.

  He was suspicious. “Why?”

  Because if I went home I’d watch videos of S.O.A.R.

  “Because I’m broke and need to earn a few bucks.”

  He looked me up and down. “You always did strike me as a spendthrift.”

  “Maybe I can help in the kitchen,” I said.

  “You? In the kitchen? I want satisfied customers, Poppy Flower! Not dead ones!”

  All of a sudden I felt drained.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Mr. Chen.”

  I picked up my head and walked to the door.

  “Poppy,” he said. “Wait.”

  I turned around. “Yeah?”

  He nodded at the till. “You can work the cash.”

  I let myself smile. “Really?”

  “Why not?” he said. “You’re probably good with money—seeing how you spend it like it’s going out of style.”

  We worked well together, him cooking the chicken and me selling it.

  “See?” I said, during a quiet moment. “Isn’t this better than you doing it all yourself?”

  He was about to answer when the phone rang. I picked it up quickly. “Chen Chicken. Poppy speaking. How may I be of service?”

  He rolled his eyes but I could tell he was impressed with my professionalism.

  It was a great night and it only got better. When we closed up shop I walked outside to see not just Chen Chicken but the whole of Elgin Street lit up in white fairy lights.

  It was all for one and one for all.

  Just like the good old days.

  * * *

  A couple of weeks went by. I worked extra shifts to keep busy. Miracle asked if I’d ever forgive Buck and I said no, third chances were for suckers.

  Lewis and I went on occasional walks. We talked about everything: his dad, who was getting weaker by the day, and my Cam, whose new job had me worried.

  We talked about Miracle too. “If she’s twerking at age six,” I said, “imagine how provocative she’ll be when she’s older.” Lewis said, “Your Rosie the Riveter was pretty sexy. And what about those pinup girls?” I explained that pinup girls owned their sexuality at a time when they were expected to act demure. “In my opinion,” I said, “they are symbols of feminism.” He said, “Maybe Miracle will be a symbol of feminism too.”

  These were the deep conversations I had with Lewis.

  I didn’t miss Buck very much.

  But Thumper? Lewis said he was doing fine but my heart still pained to think of him.

  * * *

  One day, early in August, Buck showed up at Chen Chicken. I put up an ice shield in all directions.

  “Take your head off, Poppy.”

  He had an expensive bouquet of flowers in his hand. I shook my head.

  “Come on. Please?”

  “You made fun of me.”

  “I was plastered.”

  “You were nasty.”

  “I’m a twonk. I don’t know why I said the things that I said.”

  “Go away. I’m working.”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  “Come with you where?”

  “I want you to see the streets. Through my eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because maybe then you’d understand me.”

  “You’re going to blame the streets now, are you?” I said. “For being an asshole?”

  “Just give me a chance. Please?”

  “I’m working.”

  “After work.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Pidge. You can help me deliver these flowers to Miracle’s mom.”

  “They’re for Miracle’s mom?”

  “I want to thank her for the home cooking she sends under the bridge.”

  He brought the flowers to his nose. “I also wanted to show her that not all men are tossers.”

  I thawed a bit beneath my costume.

  “So,” he said. “Will you come?”

  It was like Lewis said, life is a
mixture of good and bad. I couldn’t expect him to be perfect.

  “I’m off in an hour.”

  * * *

  Miracle’s mom was skin and bones. The forget-me-nots matched the veins in her arms.

  “Thanks, Buck. They’re lovely.”

  She was lovely too—despite her pale and haggard appearance.

  Miracle’s house was the same as Ralph’s—Plan 47-4. We sat in the living room, which faced the street. Portraits filled the wall, mostly of Miracle, but of a man in uniform too. Miracle followed my gaze. “That’s Papa.”

  She pointed to the words on a plaque underneath. Corporal Mateo Melendez. Royal Canadian Regiment.

  Miracle’s mom made a whimper. Buck left me on the loveseat and moved to the couch. He put an arm around her. He was the nicest asshole I’d ever met.

  There were upholstery buttons on the arm of the loveseat. Miracle straddled it and held one in each hand. She was twisting them—counterclockwise with her left hand, clockwise with her right. She turned them until they had no give. I waited for them to pop. “A social worker came today,” she said. “They might take me away.”

  Buck patted the space next to him. “Come here, love.” She wiggled in close and stuck her thumb in her mouth. I stayed where I was, useless as always.

  Miracle’s mom wiped her eyes. “I’d clean toilets all day long if I could. But no one wants an ex-addict in their house, around their valuables.”

  She looked at the portrait on the wall. “I’ve made a mess of things. He’d be so disappointed.”

  I was worried for Miracle. Who would buy her clothes that clatched?

  “No one is going anywhere,” said Buck. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I wasn’t sure why he was saying these things. Miracle could get taken away. Stuff like that happened all the time.

  “Now,” said Buck, “as we say in England, a nice cup of tea solves everything.”

  Miracle’s mom smiled. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Buck caught my eye. He made Gilbert the rabbit dance on his knee. A smile formed around Miracle’s thumb. I was no longer a block of ice, I was a puddle.