Are You Ready to Hatch an Unusual Chicken?

by Kelly Jones

  I stared at him for a minute, still sniffing. Chris didn’t leave me to figure it out by myself, and he didn’t bring a riot. He called for backup.

  I handed him the pitchfork.

  Chris leaned the pitchfork up in a corner. “Okay,” he said. “What’s the plan?”

  I shrugged. If I knew what the plan was, I wouldn’t be just standing there.

  Chris opened the door to the coop and went in, closing it carefully behind him. “Okay, everything’s damp, nothing’s going to burn for now. So we need to start a list, because you know Sam’s going to want one anyway when she gets here.”

  I tried to clear my throat, but my voice still wobbled. “I was trying to find something to put in there that wouldn’t burn.”

  Chris nodded, ignoring my wobbly voice. “Step one: find some dirt or gravel or something. Step two: put it in the henhouse.”

  He came back out of the coop. “Okay, let’s go look in the bins.” He grabbed the pitchfork and carried it back to the barn.

  When Sam got there, we’d found a bin of gravel and were carrying it in buckets to the henhouse.

  Sam nodded at Chris and me. “Have you examined the coops to see which one Agnes might have kept chickens like that in?” she asked.

  Chris’s eyebrows went up. “Not yet,” he said.

  We looked around at the coops.

  “They all have wood frames,” Sam told me.

  My heart sank. “Did Agnes have chickens like these?”

  Neither of them looked at me.

  “Not that I ever heard of,” Sam said.

  Chris was still examining the coops. “What about that one?” he asked. He was pointing at a coop almost like all the others, with a wood frame and wire mesh all around it, and a wooden henhouse in the top part, with a ramp going up. But this one didn’t have any wood shavings on the ground, only dirt, and the run had a big shallow hole in the ground. “Agnes’s duck coop?”

  “Can you put chickens in a duck coop?” I asked.

  Chris shrugged. “Sure. We could put a metal pole in the shade for them to roost on, and we could probably find something for the ramp that wouldn’t burn.”

  Sam nodded. “It could work,” she said. “Chris, see if you can find a metal pipe, and something for a ramp.” She grabbed Chris’s buckets of gravel and started walking toward the duck coop.

  Sam and I put gravel over the wooden floor of the duck house and stapled tinfoil on the walls, while Chris dragged a couple of long metal tubes and a piece of sturdy wire fence out and sang songs about working on the chain gang and in coal mines. (Normally Sam would have pointed out there are no coal mines on Agnes’s farm, but today, she didn’t.)

  Sam figured out how to attach a long metal tube to the coop walls so that it wouldn’t spin around when a chick hopped on it and throw the chick off. Chris figured out how to remove the old wooden ramp and put the narrow piece of wire fence in, and how to attach it so it wouldn’t fall off. It’s a good thing that my friends already know how to make do with what you have around.

  I filled up the hole with a little bit of water to make a pond, even though I was putting chickens in there, not ducks, because it couldn’t hurt to have some water around if we needed it. Then Chris bailed some of it out, to be sure the chicks couldn’t drown themselves in it, since they aren’t exactly babies anymore but they aren’t old enough to have any sense yet.

  Chris stacked concrete blocks up in front of the wooden frame posts, high enough so the chicks couldn’t set them on fire. Then Sam pushed on them to make sure they couldn’t fall over and crush anyone.

  Sam measured the distance between the gravel on the ground of the coop and the wooden duck house bottom above it. It was three feet.

  “How far can the chicks shoot flames?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them do it.”

  “Do they breathe fire, or shoot fire out of their eyeballs, or move matches with their minds, or what?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know, okay?” I guess I snapped a little.

  They were both quiet for a while, long enough that I remembered that they were both here helping me with something scary, something that didn’t have to be their problem. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just worried.”

  Sam nodded. “Chris, you drag the hose back here and turn it on. Squirt down the whole coop, just in case anything flammable is in range. Sophie, we’re going to figure out how to move the chicks from the coop they’re in to this one as safely as we can.”

  I nodded. Chris went to get the hose, and Sam and I went to look at the chicks.

  We stared at them in silence for a while. They weren’t trying to set anything on fire, just doing what they always do: trying to sit in the water dish (the dark brownish-gray ones) and watching from a corner (the light gray one).

  “Do you think they’re trying to make themselves fireproof?” Sam asked.

  I just shrugged.

  Then Sam said, “We could really use a rabbit cage.”

  Chris ran over from the duck coop. “I didn’t see one anywhere. But there’s a plastic dog crate in the barn.”

  “Does plastic burn?” I asked.

  “Sort of,” Sam said. “It mostly melts, and it gives off noxious fumes that are bad for you and the earth. But it doesn’t catch on fire like paper or wood, or at least it doesn’t at normal fire temperatures.”

  “Do these chickens have superheat-force abilities?” Chris asked.

  I shrugged again. I didn’t think any words could get past the lump in my throat anymore, so why try?

  “All right, team,” Chris said, standing tall and sticking out his chest. “We are about to attempt a dangerous maneuver. If we fail, terrible—” He looked at my face and stopped. “Uh, right. We’re just going to put the chicks in the dog crate and move them to the duck coop, and everything will be fine.”

  We left Chris to watch the chicks. Sam and I went to the barn and found the dog crate, a wheelbarrow to move it in, some safety goggles, four mismatched oven mitts, two pairs of long barbecue tongs, some tinfoil, and a jar full of sunflower seeds.

  We wheeled everything back to the chicken coop.

  “No signs of unusual activity,” Chris reported, putting his goggles and oven mitts on.

  Sam wrapped tinfoil around Chris’s oven mitts and then around mine, so they wouldn’t catch on fire. The crinkle of the tinfoil sounded really loud in the sudden quiet. “There aren’t enough mitts for everyone, so I’ll be the backup, since you two know more about chickens.” She took a pair of barbecue tongs and put her goggles on. “Now bring the crate in, put the sunflower seeds inside, wait until all the chicks are inside, latch the crate, and lift it into the wheelbarrow. I’ll drive.”

  I took a deep breath.

  Chris just opened the coop door and took the crate in.

  I dumped the sunflower seeds into the crate. Then I got back by the door.

  Chris was trying to herd the chicks toward the crate.

  “Get away from them, Chris!” Sam yelled. “You’re wearing shorts! They’re going to burn you!”

  Chris stepped back, but not very far. The chicks ran around in circles and fell over in little wet piles for a minute. Then a chick noticed the open crate and rushed inside.

  All the dark brownish-gray chicks followed it. I looked around. Where was the light gray chick?

  Very carefully, I swung the big cleaning door of the henhouse open, just as the light gray chick shot a tiny stream of fire from its beak.

  Chris stared. “That’s it?” He pulled off his oven mitts and picked up the chick. It peeped at him, struggling in his hand. “I’ve seen bigger flames on a match.” He put the light gray chick in the crate, and shut the door.

  “Matches are dangerous too!” Sam told him.

  “
Sure, but not like a blowtorch,” Chris told her. “Grab the feeder and the waterer, Soph. It’s going to be fine.” Then he carried the crate to the duck coop.

  I grabbed the waterer and handed the feeder to Sam. We followed him.

  We set the feeder and waterer up in the duck coop while Chris set the crate down. He opened the door and stepped back.

  One of the dark brownish-gray chicks stepped cautiously out. It saw the pond, and made a run for it. The rest of the dark brownish-gray chicks followed.

  Chris made a funny noise. “They’re swimming,” he said.

  I shrugged. “So?”

  Chris watched the brownish-gray chicks paddle around. “Chickens’ feathers aren’t waterproof, Soph. They get all soggy, and chickens don’t float, so they can’t swim.” He stared at the chicks. “Well, normal chickens can’t swim.”

  The light gray chick crept out after them. It stepped on the wet gravel, picked its foot up again, and shook it. A tiny flame shot from its beak.

  Slowly, I sank down onto the path. “We need to make some observations here. Sam, can you find us some pencils and paper?”

  Sam nodded, and took off for the barn.

  We sat and ate the apples Sam picked and recorded our observations for at least an hour. Nothing caught on fire. No one got hurt. I collected all the research, and I told Chris and Sam thanks, that I was okay now, and I was going to go home.

  Sam bit her lip. “What are your parents going to do to Lupe?” she asked. “Are you going to tell them about your chicks?”

  I watched the chicks for a minute or so, storing the memory up in my mind, in case things got bad again. The dark brownish-gray chicks were still paddling around the pond, not caring at all that chickens don’t do that. The light gray chick was fast asleep, looking just like the regular chicks in Jane’s feedstore.

  Then I met Sam’s eyes. Just because you don’t want to do something doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do. “I have to tell them. It isn’t fair to Lupe to let them think she did something bad. Besides, they need to know, just in case something bad does happen.”

  Sam nodded. So did Chris.

  We walked along the path to where our bikes were parked.

  Sam gave me a hug. “Call us if you need something. We’ll help.”

  Chris nodded.

  “Sorry about the pitchfork,” I told him.

  He grinned. “We might have to put that in a comic someday.”

  I wasn’t up to laughing yet. But at least it made me smile.

  The whole bike ride home, I thought about how I’d tell my parents and Lupe. I’d start by explaining about the chicks. Then I could tell them about my other chickens. They’d be amazed, of course, but they’d start to finally understand why Redwood Farm was important. They’d probably be pretty impressed by how responsibly I’d dealt with things, even though they might be kind of mad I hadn’t told them all the details. But I could explain they’d been pretty busy, and they could tell me they were never too busy to help me with important things.

  I’m scared. But I’m going to tell them now.

  I know you’re dead, but please cross your fingers for me anyway, Abuelita.

  Te extraño,

  Soficita

  Poultry breed observations by: Sophie Brown, unusual chicken farmer

  Observations made: Saturday, September 20

  Type of bird: Brownish-gray chicks. No idea yet—they look like half the chicks at the feedstore

  Gender of bird: Too soon to tell, Chris says

  PLEASE RECORD YOUR NOTES ABOUT THE FOLLOWING:

  Comb: none yet

  Beak: yellow

  Eyes: black

  Wattles: none yet

  Earlobes: I can’t see them yet

  Beard: none yet

  Head: yellow on top

  Neck: yellowish brownish gray

  Body: brownish gray

  Tail: chicks don’t really have tails yet

  Legs and Feet: pinkish-yellowish toes, with brownish-gray fluff. They’re really small, so it’s hard to tell, but we think there might be webbing between their toes.

  Eggs: Not yet!

  Typical movements: They paddle around in a puddle a lot, and try to sit in the waterer or wet shavings. Otherwise they just eat, sleep, and poop.

  Typical vocalizations (if any): They peep like any other chicks.

  Interactions with other poultry: They don’t seem scared of the light gray chick. Sometimes they hang out together, when they’re not swimming.

  Unusual abilities: They can swim, I think? Their feathers might be waterproof, and they can float.

  Light gray chick:

  Same as above, except light gray for the brownish-gray parts. Even its toes look the same. So maybe it could swim, if it wanted to? Or, maybe it isn’t webbing after all. I’ll try to observe the chicks’ toes at the feedstore so I know what regular chick toes look like.

  Typical movements: Doesn’t play in water or swim like the others. Eats, sleeps, poops like other chicks. Sometimes very small flames come out of its beak. Afterward, it rubs its beak on its shoulder fluff, like my big chickens do when they eat something messy.

  Interactions with other poultry: HAS NOT SET ANY CHICKS ON FIRE. Or even come close. At least not while I was watching. Hangs out with the other chicks when they’re not swimming.

  Unusual abilities: Breathes flames 1/2 inch long (that’s an estimate). But not at other chicks, not even when they bump into it or step on it while it’s asleep. Honestly, I have no idea what makes it do that. Neither do Chris and Sam.

  Needs further research: Everything

  Saturday, September 20

  Mariposa García González

  Heaven

  Querida Abuelita,

  I told Mom and Dad about my chicks, just like I planned.

  The problem was that they didn’t believe me.

  Mom gave me a hug. “Mija, I know you love your prima and want to help her. But when Lupe does something she shouldn’t, she has to deal with the consequences, just like you do.”

  “But Lupe didn’t do anything bad!” I told them again. “Lupe put out the fire that my chick started. She acted right away when I got scared. She saved us.”

  Dad gave me a look. “Right. From the fire-breathing chick.”

  “No, from the fire it started,” I told him. “Come see it yourself! Or ask Chris and Sam—they saw it too!” My voice wobbled, but I couldn’t give up.

  Mom hugged me harder. “Honey, I’m glad you’ve found true friends here. I’m impressed with your imagination, and I know your chickens are special to you, but no fire-breathing chick can get Lupe out of trouble.”

  “There’s no need to make things up to help her. We’re not going to send her back to LA,” Dad said.

  I pulled away. “I’m not making things up,” I told them. “I’m telling you the truth, even though I didn’t want to, because it’s the right thing to do.” I could feel tears burning my eyes. “I can’t make you believe me. But I’m going to tell Lupe too. She deserves to know.”

  I turned and ran up the stairs before the tears went everywhere.

  Lupe was sitting on her bed, staring at the stacks of boxes. “Hey, primita,” she said when I burst in. Then she saw my face, and she got up to give me a hug. “What’s wrong?”

  It all gushed out, how scared I was for my chicks, how I knew I should have spoken up but I hadn’t, how it was all my fault, what my chicks could do, how I told my parents but they didn’t believe me.

  Lupe didn’t push me away or tell me to go clean myself up, even though I was a big dripping snotty mess. She just hugged me until I was done.

  I stepped back. “Are you mad?” I asked her, sniffing, looking down at my sneakers.

  “I’m not mad at you,
Soficita,” Lupe said. “I’m kind of mad at the situation. It sucks to be blamed for something you didn’t do, and to have people you normally respect thinking you’re irresponsible and lying.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She handed me a tissue. “Your parents have assigned me twenty hours of community service.”

  “I’ll help,” I told her. “I’ll do the work with you, or I can do it for you.”

  Lupe shook her head. “You can do whatever you want, but I’m not lying to your parents, and I’m not letting you do the work they assigned me, whether it was fair or not. That’s between me and them.”

  “I just want to make things right,” I said. “I feel sick in my stomach, and I don’t know how else to fix it.”

  “You don’t fix something that’s wrong by doing something else that’s wrong—Abuelita taught us that,” she told me. “You fix it by doing things that are right. Sometimes it’s still not enough, but at least you know you tried.”

  I nodded. “Sometimes it’s just hard to remember,” I said, and my voice went funny when my eyes filled up again. “Especially when people don’t believe you tried.”

  “I think I better take a closer look at these chicks of yours,” Lupe said, grabbing her purse and her keys.

  Mom and Dad weren’t exactly happy that Lupe and I were going to Redwood Farm. But they didn’t try to stop us.

  They didn’t want to come with us either, though.

  Nothing had changed much since I was there. Nothing was on fire. None of the concrete blocks had fallen on anyone and squashed them. The dark brownish-gray chicks were still swimming around in the puddle. The light gray chick was taking a nap next to an apple core.

  “Hey, pollitos,” I called softly. “My cousin Lupe is here to say hi.”

  The dark brownish-gray chicks didn’t pay any attention. The light gray chick didn’t wake up.

  I sat down on the path to wait. Lupe sat down next to me.

  “Chris says regular chickens can’t swim. Their feathers aren’t waterproof, so they can’t float,” I told Lupe after a while.