Chicken Girl

by Heather T. Smith

  I stood at the end of his bed. “I was just trying to help.”

  “You made things worse.”

  “It felt like the right thing to do.”

  “Funny,” he said. “Telling Mom and Dad about the photo felt like the right thing to do too. But I didn’t. You know why? Because you asked me not to!”

  “This is worse.”

  His face softened. “Is it? You’ve been pretty messed up, Poppy. And I’ve been pretty worried.”

  “You’ve been worried?”

  He pointed at the door. “Get out, Poppy.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  He stood up and opened the door. “Go.”

  The air was being sucked out of me. Because I couldn’t breathe, the tears came without sound.

  “Here we go,” he said. “Cue the waterworks.”

  He had a beautiful face, even when he was hurt and angry and sad. I wanted to touch it. I wanted all of his Cam-ness to transfer from his body into my fingers and through my whole being.

  I managed a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  “You can say sorry all you want,” he said. “I had to tell my parents what happened in that back room. I had to give the details to the cops. Do you know how hard that was? I will never, ever forgive you.”

  * * *

  My parents, not ours. I was no longer part of them, part of him. Still, I could feel him, the way amputees could feel pain in their missing limbs. He was my phantom brother. And all I wanted was to be part of him again.

  * * *

  I tried on all my outfits. I watched the Andrews Sisters sing about apple trees and I played the air bugle.

  And I still felt like shit.

  I went to the end of my street, sat on a neighbor’s brick wall. A police cruiser pulled up to the house. The officer knocked but nobody answered. I waved him down as he drove past. He stopped, got out of the car.

  “Everything okay?”

  I shook my head no.

  He sat on the wall with me. “What’s up?”

  “I killed my brother,” I said.

  He didn’t believe me. I couldn’t see why. Anyone could murder anyone. It happened all the time. It wasn’t just weird, creepy people—it could be the little old lady next door. She could smack someone over the head with a frying pan because they refused her a cup of sugar.

  “You killed your brother?” he said. “Really?”

  He looked strong. Probably never ate a donut in his life.

  “I killed him figuratively,” I said. “I crushed his soul. He’ll never be the same again.”

  He smiled and I said, “It’s not funny.”

  “Of course it’s not,” he said.

  His accent made me think of palm trees. I said, “Do you like Bob Marley?” and wondered if that was racist.

  “Of course,” he said. Then he sang, “‘Don’t worry, about a thing.’” He said thing without the h.

  “You live around here?” he asked.

  My eyes flicked to my house. “No.”

  * * *

  A call came in on his radio. He went to his car and answered it. I wondered what I’d have to do for him to arrest me. I wanted to get locked up in a dirty, stinky jail cell with a toilet right there in the middle of it that I’d have to use with the guards watching. That’d teach me for being a snitch.

  When he came back I said, “I smoke marijuana.”

  He sat next to me. “You didn’t crush your brother’s soul. You saved it.”

  I blinked back tears. “He said I made things worse by telling.”

  “You made it better. He’ll get the help he needs now.”

  I nodded toward the house. “They’re home, you know. They just didn’t answer.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll come back.”

  Before he got in his car I said, “Did you hear what I said? I did drugs. I smoked marijuana.”

  “I heard you,” he said.

  Then he drove away.

  * * *

  I went home and sat outside Cam’s bedroom door. I fell asleep there. When I woke I didn’t move. I just stayed on the floor looking under the crack. He came out to go downstairs to the bathroom. I said, “I wish I didn’t tell. I’d take it all back if I could.” He stepped over me like I was a piece of dog shit. On his way back he said, “And the Academy Award goes to…”

  The door missed my nose by an inch.

  * * *

  I imagined myself in drought-ridden Africa surrounded by toddlers with sunken eyes. We couldn’t cry because our tears were dried up. I kept that image in my mind until the moment passed, then I went to my room and re-watched the video of a cat being put in a microwave.

  * * *

  I went to the bridge. I wanted to see Buck. I wanted him to call me Pidge and lie about everything being okay.

  He wasn’t there.

  Miracle’s mom brought pizzas. She kissed Miracle on the cheek and told her to have fun.

  I whispered to Lewis. “That’s messed up.”

  “What is?” he said.

  “She kisses her goodbye like she’s dropping her off at a slumber party or something. She acts like everything’s normal.”

  “Actually,” he said, “things are kind of normal. Tonight is Miracle’s last night here. Her Mom’s not working nights anymore.”

  “She’s not?”

  “Nope. She offered me a room too. Said I could stay as long as I liked.”

  “What about your grandmother?” I asked.

  He smiled. “She was relieved. It was a win-win.”

  Something happened inside my chest.

  “You okay, Poppy?”

  “I think my heart just swelled.”

  He looked at my chest. “It did?”

  I nodded. “Tell me more good things.”

  Lewis smiled. “My grandmother found a buyer for the house. She said that all the proceeds of the sale go to me. She said it’s what my dad wanted.”

  “You mean…”

  He nodded. “And my aunt said she’ll fly out to be with me when the time comes.”

  I clutched my chest. “I’m literally the Grinch right now.”

  He laughed. “Your heart grew three sizes?”

  “Or more.”

  He cast his eyes down to the little wooden boy walking across his wrist. “I’ll be a real boy soon.”

  I touched his face. “You’re a real boy now.”

  Buck rounded the corner just as Lewis laid his hand on mine.

  “Get your mitts off my girlfriend.”

  He was drunk. I could tell by the way he looked at the pizza. It was as if each pie were a magical creature. It took him three attempts to grab a slice. He waved it in Lewis’s face. “You’re bang out of order, mate. You’d better watch yourself.”

  Miracle tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, Buck. What do you get when you cross an apple and a Christmas tree?”

  The answer was written all over his pizza.

  “I don’t bloody well know, do I?” He shoved the slice in his mouth, then spit it out. “Fucking hell. Who puts pineapple on pizza?”

  I opened my arms to Miracle.

  “That was a good joke,” said Lewis. “I have one too. Want to hear it?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s a vampire’s favorite fruit?”

  She shrugged.

  “A neck-tarine.”

  She smiled.

  “How about this one?” he said. “How is history like a fruitcake?”

  “It’s full of crap,” said Buck.

  “Actually,” I said, “it’s full of dates.”

  “Oooh,” said Buck. “Get a load of Miss Smarty-pants and her best friend, the freaky HeShe.”

  Lewis’s jaw hardened.

  “Ignore him,” I whispered.

  My blood was boiling but it was Thumper who spoke up.

  “Let me tell you something, Buck. God doesn’t make mistakes.”

  Buck stared at him. It looked as if he was really listening. “I’ve got
one,” he said. “What do you call a gay drive-by shooting?”

  Lewis stood up. “If you don’t shut your mouth, Buck, I’m going to shut it for you.”

  Buck looked around. “Anyone?”

  He grinned. “A fruit rollup. Get it?”

  Lewis lunged toward him.

  “Lewis,” said Thumper. “Stop.”

  Buck rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do, mate? Karate chop me to death?”

  Lewis grabbed him by the collar and shoved him to the ground. Miracle burrowed into me, her thumb in her mouth and her eyes closed.

  Thumper pulled himself shakily to standing. He stood between them.

  “Buck, it’s time you moved on. I wish you peace.”

  I could see them, the tears that filled Buck’s eyes.

  But he wouldn’t let up.

  “A piece of what?” he said.

  When no one reacted he packed up and left. I stared at a loose thread on Lewis’s sleeping bag. I wanted to pull it until I unraveled.

  “Sorry, Poppy,” said Thumper. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Lewis whispered in Miracle’s ear. “I think Thumper needs a cuddle.”

  Then he took my hand. “Let’s walk.”

  We made our way alongside the river.

  “The answer,” he said, “is to get to the other side.”

  “The answer to what?”

  “Why the chicken crossed the road.”

  “Yeah, well, my road is full of car crashes. And Buck is the biggest one of all.”

  He nodded to a clearing near the water. “Let’s sit.”

  I sat on a boulder. Lewis sat on one a couple of feet away.

  It was dark but I could see stones embedded in the mud at my feet. I loosened them with my heel. We sat in silence. The river trickled and the bushes rustled in the breeze. Lewis cleared his throat. I could see, out of the corner of my eye, his hand stretched toward mine. I reached out and held it. We sat there, linked, like a pair of figures in a paper-doll chain.

  “I can use my money,” he said. “To buy you a big bulldozer. You could scrape up all of the crashes and throw them in the dump.”

  I smiled. “That would be nice. But I still wouldn’t know how.”

  “How to what?” he asked.

  I turned to look at him. “How to get to the other side.”

  “Rule number one,” he said. “Always cross with a buddy.”

  I moved to his boulder. He put his arm around me. I thought about Cam, about what his road was like. I wondered if I was the wreck in the middle of it.

  After a while Lewis stood up. “Let’s head back.”

  I led the way.

  * * *

  Mom was dozing on the couch. She was curled up on her side and there was this gap between her elbows and her knees that I was desperate to fill.

  She opened her eyes. “You okay?”

  “No.”

  She patted the spot. I sat in it.

  “Lie down if you want.”

  “Okay.”

  I faced away from her. I hated how stiff I was.

  She stroked my hair.

  “You’ll be back to school in a couple of weeks.”

  I closed my eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Are you ready?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  She put her arm around my waist.

  “Cam will be okay, you know. Promise.”

  I let myself settle against the warmth of her body.

  I didn’t wake until morning.

  * * *

  I went to the pharmacy and bought a hot-water bottle. I filled it at the drop-in center. I watched him sleep for a few minutes before placing the bottle next to his hip.

  He opened his eyes. “What’s this?”

  “It’s for your arthritis.”

  His eyes went watery.

  “Thank you, Poppy.”

  I helped him sit up.

  “How’s your brother?” he asked.

  “It’s like half of me is missing.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be whole again.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But it won’t be the same. It’s like when your ice cream falls off the cone and lands on the ground. You can pick it up and put it back on, but it’ll be messy and covered in shit.”

  He laughed. “Interesting analogy. But here’s a better one. Think of a broken vase that’s been fixed. Sure, there’s a huge crack running down the center of it, but there’s a thick layer of superglue too—and that makes the vase stronger than ever.”

  I didn’t want a big, ugly crack between me and Cam.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  He pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt. “This is the glue the holds me together.”

  I ran my fingers across the tattoo. R.I.P. Rodrigo.

  For a second I wondered if Thumper was coming out to me.

  “Who’s Rodrigo?”

  “My cellmate.” He let his sleeve drop. “He saved my life.”

  He moved the hot-water bottle to his knee. “I used to be half a person too, Poppy. Less than half. A quarter. An eighth. A sixteenth. Hell, I was barely human.”

  He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it again.

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” I said. “If you don’t want to.”

  “I hated him,” he said. “Because he was Latino. I gave him a hard time, cornering him, threatening him. His response was always the same. I don’t want to fight you, brother.”

  I pictured a bony old hand on a tiny, sweet shoulder. I inched in closer until we were touching. Then I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “The other Latinos, they got tired of my bullshit. They beat me to a pulp in the courtyard one day. They’d have killed me if it wasn’t for Rodrigo. He was my human shield.”

  I placed my hand on his arm, my fingertips just under his shirt.

  “Afterwards, in our cell, he became my healer. He cleaned my wounds and dressed them with strips of cloth he tore from his bedsheet.”

  Watering eyes, it seemed, were contagious.

  “I’d been stuck in a hole, Poppy. A pit of hate. Rodrigo pulled me out.”

  I wondered if I’d been in a pit too.

  “It was his stories,” he said. “About his abuela and the country he came from. Seeing him as human made me more human.”

  He put his hand over mine, squeezed it as tight as an arthritic hand could. “That’s when I wrote my bible. I preached to anyone who would listen. They called me Bible Thumper.”

  I felt proud. It was amazing how much one man could change.

  I linked my arm around his. “I’d put my hand in fire for you, Thumper.”

  His voice was a whisper. “Thank you, Poppy.”

  We sat quietly and when Thumper’s eyes began to close I eased him back down onto his blankets. I kissed his cheek goodbye.

  Before I left I looked in the snub tub.

  And immediately wished that I hadn’t.

  * * *

  Miracle and her mom were reading on the couch. They waved me in.

  “Is Lewis here?”

  “Upstairs,” said her mom. “First door on the right.”

  He looked startled to see me.

  I passed him the note. “It’s from Buck.”

  He read it aloud. “‘This is who I am. Sorry.’”

  He looked up. “What the hell?”

  We sat side by side at his desk. Lewis typed in the website address Buck had included in the note.

  www.buckleytwhittingham.co.uk

  A photo appeared on the screen. The caption underneath read Buckley at home. He was sitting on a chrome barstool in front of a floor-to-ceiling painting of a naked woman.

  Our eyes scanned the page.

  Buckley immigrated to Canada when his mother, Dr. Flora Whittingham, received a top research position at one of Canada’s most prestigious universities. Buckley’s interest in photography started at an early ag
e. His work has shown in galleries throughout the U.K. Click here to see Buckley’s most recent collection: Life in the Concrete Jungle.

  I was stunned.

  We both were.

  Another photo—Buck in the doorway of an abandoned building, his arm around a dog’s neck. Underneath, a quote: To really capture life on the streets I lived for several months as a homeless youth. It has all at once been exciting, wonderful, and heartbreaking. Enjoy!

  Lewis looked at me. I nodded. He hit the “next” button.

  The first photo was of Thumper, reading his bible under the bridge. It was called “Criminal Contemplation.”

  The “add to cart” button made me sick.

  “He said enjoy,” I said. “As if he was selling cotton candy. Or movie tickets.”

  We clicked through the gallery. Many of the photos I’d already seen—the old lady smoking a cigarette, the girl kicking the beer can down the alley. They all had heartbreaking captions.

  I pushed my chair away from the computer and moved to the bed.

  I leaned against the headboard and stared at the ceiling.

  “You okay?” said Lewis.

  “No.”

  I glanced back at the computer screen. Thumper was brushing his teeth near the river. A private moment, exploited.

  I knew there’d be more. I’d be there. And Miracle. I wondered how much he charged for us.

  Lewis sat beside me and put an arm around me.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You can cry.”

  I turned into him, put my arms around his waist and my head on his shoulder. But I couldn’t cry. I was numb.

  “Lewis?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you ever asked yourself, What’s the point?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t ask myself stupid questions.”

  “How is that a stupid question?” I asked.

  “Everyone says ‘the point.’ As if there’s just one thing that makes life worth living. But the point is lots of things.”