CHAPTER ONE
I had one leg in the feathery yellow costume my boss called a uniform when Cam stomped into my room like a runway model on crack and thrust his chest out at the end of my bed.
“Pops? Be honest. Do I have”—he paused for effect—“moobs?”
It was a running gag, our use of word blends. He was obviously trying to one-up me after I’d used automagically earlier that day.
“Nice try,” I said. “But if it doesn’t fit organically into a conversation it doesn’t count.”
He looked down at his torso. “If you must know, the development of man boobs are a genuine concern of mine.”
I gave his naturally athletic body a once-over. “Pfssh. Yeah, right.”
I stepped into the other leg of my costume. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m running late and don’t have time for this meaningless”—I paused for effect—“nonversation.”
He groaned in defeat. “Damn you, Poppy.”
I was almost out the door when he said, “Pops?”
I turned around. “Yeah?”
“I love seeing you happy.”
And just like that, the smile fell from my face.
“What’s wrong, Pops?”
My sweet Cam. Didn’t he know? Happiness was only temporary.
I put on my head. “I’m fine. I’m late, that’s all.”
It was true.
I only had ten minutes before I had to be curbside holding a sign: Hot and spicy chicken wings, $8.99 a dozen.
I walked down Churchill Street identifying each house as I passed: Plan 47-17, Plan 47-28, Plan 47-6. I’d been obsessed with wartime houses ever since I’d found the blueprints in the basement when I was ten. Each design was outlined in an affordable housing pamphlet for returning vets. Discovering that I lived in a home built during the war sent my imagination soaring. I became obsessed not only with wartime housing but with the whole era. It made me feel a longing, for what I didn’t know. Simpler times, maybe. I figured everyone was happier in the forties.
I followed the railway tracks into the downtown core. If I kept walking I’d reach the nicer part of downtown and eventually my school, but I stopped smack-dab in the middle of Elgin Street, where the surroundings were rundown and shabby. One building stood out though: Chen Chicken. Its white fairy lights twinkled all year round and the crisp white storefront looked warm and inviting.
I snuck in the back door and grabbed my sign. I was ten minutes late. With any luck Mr. Chen would think I had been there all along.
I walked up and down Elgin doing my usual moves—the hop, the skip, the jump. The sweat rolled off me. It wasn’t the best summer job in the world but it was nice to be someone else for a change. Even if that someone was a bird.
I held the sign skyward, gave it a shake. A drunk walked up to me, said he wanted to cluck me. I said, “Selfies and high fives only.” I wasn’t about to engage in interspecies sex for ten dollars an hour, that was for cluckin’ sure.
Mr. Chen yelled from the shop. “Work harder, Poppy Flower!”
I didn’t hate the nickname. It was kind of clever…Poppy Bauer, Poppy Flower. What I hated was having it yelled at me ten times a day.
I did a violent 360-degree spin and cocked my head as if to say, Happy now, old man?
He wobbled his hand back and forth. I’d never be more than a so-so.
When he went inside I tried grapevining. Not easy with giant chicken toes. Especially with that thing sticking out the back. What even is that? Another toe pointing backwards? Jesus, chickens were weird. And I was one of them.
A little girl appeared in front of me. She was a beautiful mix of pattern and color. Her yellow sundress was covered in cat faces and her backpack was dotted and striped. She wore her hair in two braided buns, high on her head like mouse ears.
I stood up and wiggled my hips to dislodge my last-resort underwear, the thong I’d bought because Vogue said they were in. In. Ha ha.
The little girl clapped her hands four times. I’d worked in a chicken costume long enough to know why.
“I wasn’t doing the Birdie Dance,” I said. “It was my underwear. It was kind of stuck.”
The way her face fell—this wasn’t her first disappointment and it wouldn’t be the last.
“Sorry,” I said. “That song, I’m mocked with it like ten times a day.”
She smiled as if she understood. “I get it.”
She wrapped her fingers around her backpack straps. “Well, bye.”
I watched her walk down the road. Halfway down, she sat on the curb. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a stuffed toy. She wrapped her hand around one of its long ears and popped her thumb in her mouth. She wasn’t doing it on purpose, but she was pulling my heartstrings, plucking and playing them like a maestro. I waddled toward her and put down my sign. When she looked up, I formed beaks with the tips of my wings. A smile formed around her thumb.
I cleared my throat.
“Da-da-da-da-da-da-da…”
We did the whole song, even the skipping in a circle bit. When we were done she said, “You’re a really nice chicken.”
I felt my spirits lifting. All because a random child told me I was nice. Go on, spirits, I thought, sink. You’ll only get pulled down anyway.
“My name’s Miracle,” she said. “And this is Gilbert.”
I shook her rabbit’s paw. “Nice to meet you, Gilbert.”
I picked up my sign and got back to work. Miracle walked alongside me.
“Miracle,” I said. “Why are you out all by yourself?”
She linked her arm around my wing. “Why are you so yellow?”
“Because chickens are yellow,” I said.
She looked up. “Are they?”
I pictured one in my head. It was brown.
“Actually, now that I think of it, maybe not.”
“Maybe you’re a chick,” she said.
“Seriously though,” I said, “aren’t you too little to be out on your own?”
“Little?” she said. “I’m six!”
When she talked to me, she looked up into the costume’s face—not mine, which was hidden behind a mesh screen in the chicken’s neck.
I stopped walking and crouched down. “I’m right here, you know.”
She squinted through the sheer material. “Oooh, you’re pretty.”
I steeled myself. Stay where you are, spirits.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Poppy.”
“How old are you, Poppy?”
“Ten years older than you.”
She counted on her fingers.
“You’re forty-two?”
I laughed. “Sixteen.”
“So you’re in eleventh grade,” she said. “Like Lewis.”
“Who’s Lewis?” I asked.
“He’s my very best pal.”
She reached up, stroked my feathers as if I were a real live animal.
“Tomorrow’s the last day of school,” she said. “We’re having cake. I voted for vanilla but chocolate won.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “They should compromise and get marble.”
She ran her fingers across the feathers on my shoulder. “You’re smart, Poppy. I’m going to tell Thumper all about you.”
I bent forward so she could pet my head. “Who’s Thumper?”
“Thumper’s my friend,” she said. “He’s one hundred years old. He lives under the Fifth Street bridge.”
“You’ve been under the Fifth Street bridge?”
“I’m there every night.”
Any more pulling and my heartstrings would snap.
I straightened up and we continued walking.
“You should come,” she said. “You could meet Buck. He talks funny. He says it’s because he’s from across the pond. You could meet Lewis too. He takes care of me. His head is shaved on the sides. It feels like stubble. You know, like when a man forgets to shave? My dad had stubble all over his head. He was in the army. But then he died.”
She waved her arms around a lot when she talked. Her lips moved around a lot too. Probably because her tongue was busy navigating the toothy gaps that filled her mouth. She wore Mary Jane shoes with lights in the soles. Her socks were red with white polka dots. Everything about her made my heart feel achy. I wasn’t sure why.
She stopped walking and turned to face me. “So, will you come?”
There was something heartbreaking about the way she lisped the word so.
I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I answered with a maybe.
But for the rest of the day they sat in the back of my mind—the girl, her rabbit, and her polka-dotted socks.
The best thing about going to work was coming home to Plan 47-24. It was, in my opinion, the best of the wartime home designs. My favorite part was the upstairs. There were just two rooms, one on the left, one on the right—one for me, one for Cam. Our slanted ceilings made things extra cozy.
It was 7:45. My parents would be watching Coronation Street. It was the same every night—while they filled their heads with the fictitious lives of working-class Brits, I filled my head with darkness.
It was what I did now.
Our living room was small and sparsely decorated. Even though there were two leather recliners, my parents chose to curl up together on the old, lumpy couch. It wasn’t long ago that I’d have joined them, making room for myself by squishing my healthy-sized butt between them. I had stopped doing that. It was too risky. I was getting bad at faking it and I didn’t want them to see the clues. They’d only blame themselves for my sadness. And they had nothing to do with it.
I said a quick hi and went upstairs. Within minutes I was in my sweats, looking at The Photo. I read the comments. Twice. Then, as I always did, I looked for evidence that it wasn’t just me, that there had been other victims as well. It was meant to be helpful, knowing that I wasn’t alone, but it only made me more miserable.
It didn’t stop me from searching though.
There was this one photo of a baby born with birth defects. His skull was larger than average and his eyes drooped. Someone had taken his photo from a fundraising page and captioned it: That face you make when your parents are actually cousins.
The Photo seemed lame in comparison.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was, the world is a cruel place. I knew that now.
The Photo changed me. It opened up a portal into wickedness and I jumped in with two feet.
I clicked from one horrible video to another. I was watching a boy being beaten up for carrying a purse when Cam barged in. He stood in front of my mirror with his hands on his hips, giving himself a good once-over. He had legs for days, even more so in his denim shorts. He nodded toward the floor. “What do you think?”
I looked down. He was wearing the most sparkly silver heels I’d ever seen.
“They’re quite”—I paused for effect—“fantabulous.”
He groaned. “Lame.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “They’re quite”—I paused longer for even more effect—“craptacular.”
He laughed. “I’m thinking of wearing these when I emcee the assembly tomorrow.”
It was supposed to be the two of us up there, our final double act of the year. We’d been practicing for months.
I burst out crying.
“Oh, Pops.”
He sat on the bed and wrapped his arms around me. He’d overdone it on the cologne, but I sobbed into his designer shirt anyway. It must have been killing him but he let me soak it—further proof he was the greatest brother on earth.
I sat up and wiped my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just a bit jealous, that’s all.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. You can borrow my craptacular shoes anytime you like.”
I snorted with laughter.
“Don’t do that, Pops,” he said. “It’s very unbecoming.”
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “Being female doesn’t make me a delicate little flower, you know.”
“Don’t worry, Pops. No one would ever describe you as delicate.”
He slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. “You know, you can still join me on stage tomorrow. There’s still time.”
I filled the space beside him and stared at the ceiling. “No thanks. I’ve had enough of the limelight.”
He turned to me. “You’re not still looking at that stupid photo, are you?”
“Pfssh. No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
I sighed. “It’s like I’ve been poisoned. I see sadness in everything now.”
He stared at me for a minute, then said, “Russian dolls. They’re so full of themselves.”
I laughed. “What was that?”
He smiled. “Me being your antidote to sadness.”
He reached out, wrapped his pinkie around mine. “Remember how we used to fall asleep like this?”
I liked it back then, when life was simple.
“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”
“Do you remember our very first pinkie promise?”
“No.”
“It was in the womb.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it was,” he said. “I remember it clearly. I punched through my amniotic sac and into yours and I grabbed your teeny-tiny baby finger and promised to love you forever.”
I almost believed him. Cam was born a fighter. He’d been in boxing lessons since he was three. In fourth grade he’d threatened a kid for stealing my granola bar. He said, “Still hungry? Here, have a knuckle sandwich.” He was suspended for a week.
I rolled on my side. He had a gorgeous face. Gorgeous skin, high cheekbones. He knew how to work it too. Brows plucked perfectly, a touch of liner under the eyes, hair dyed a golden blond. A friggin’ goddess.
“I met a little girl today,” I said. “She wore Mary Jane shoes with lights in the sole and red-and-white polka-dot socks.”
His eyes followed mine to the Rosie the Riveter poster that hung on my wall.
Rosie used to make me think I could do anything.
Then I found out that I couldn’t.
Cam had bought me the Rosie poster for our eleventh birthday. I loved how badass she looked in her iconic polka-dotted bandana and denim coveralls. The best part was the way she flexed her right bicep. The “We Can Do It!” in the speech bubble above her head was the icing on the cake.
The campaign would have worked on me, had I been alive in the forties. I’d have marched out of my traditional role in the home and joined the workforce, replacing the men who were fighting overseas. I’d have been a pioneer.
When I was twelve, I dressed as Rosie the Riveter for Halloween. I even went to Canadian Tire and bought a rivet gun. I told the treat-givers that I was going to build airplanes someday. Or ships, or tanks. I got some funny looks…and some extra candy. I adopted the red-and-white polka-dotted bandana into my regular style after that. Soon after came the thrift-store shopping. I’d mix vintage with modern—pleated A-line skirts with Doc Martens, red peep-toe shoes with ripped cut-offs. All looks would be finished off with a touch of bright red lipstick.
Then, six months ago, The Photo appeared, and slowly I slipped away. Cam would say, “Stop sucking in, Pops, for God’s sake. You’re going to cause internal organ damage.” I’d let the body shaming get to me. I had thought I was stronger than that.
In ninth grade, the captain of the girls’ rugby team said I should try out for the team because I was built like a brick shithouse. I loved that description. It was so much better than “big-boned,” which was how my mother described me. I was welcomed to my first (and last) rugby practice with open arms. A particularly vocal girl told me she was impressed by my tree-trunk legs and linebacker shoulders. I made sure she was the recipient of my very first tackle. When I landed on top of her she poked me deep in the belly and said, “Wow, you’re, like, all flab on the outside but your core is rock hard.” In the change room, while I stood in my bra and underwear, she shared her findings with the rest of the team. They laughed and told me not to mind Eve, she was born with no filter. The next day, she plunked herself next to me in the lunchroom. With more freckles than face and a head of wild copper hair, she was striking to look at. She said, “I was up all night thinking about what’s soft on the outside but hard on the inside, but I could only think of examples for the other way around—turtles, eggs, a human head. But then I closed my eyes and remembered my fingers sinking into your gut and reaching your kick-ass abs and then I finally came up with one.” She didn’t tell me what it was—she showed me photos of her roller derby team instead. She nodded at my headband and said, “It was a popular sport in the forties. You’d fit right in.” Then she stood up and said, “See ya, Peach.”
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 books 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.”
He groaned in defeat. “Damn you, Poppy.”
Frank called to me from Ralph’s lawn. “Hey, Poppy, how does a chicken tell the time?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “How?”
Frank elbowed Ralph. “Tell her, Ralph.”
Ralph cleared his throat. “He looks at the cluck.”
“Ha ha. Good one,” I said.
Frank slapped his knees. Ralph wiped his eyes. I said goodbye and kept walking. I wondered how long they took to come up with their joint joke. Then again, what did it matter? They had all the time in the world.
He looks at the cluck.
I wondered if male was always their default.
Sometimes I wondered about their wives. What did they do all day? Cook? Clean? Do the laundry? I liked Frank and Ralph but wondered what gave them the luxury of sitting on their arses all day talking about aigs?
As I got closer to work I worried less about Frank and Ralph’s wives and more about Mr. Chen. I wondered if he’d still be mad about earlier.
I tapped lightly on the back door.
Tum-ti-ti-tum-tum.
The door swung open.
Tum-tum!
I was pretty sure getting bonked twice in the head with a chicken-wing sign was against some kind of workplace health and safety rules, but the grin on Mr. Chen’s face suggested it was all fun and games.
I rubbed my head. “I guess we’re even now?”
He passed me my sign. “Get to work, Poppy Flower.”
Just as he turned his attention back to the deep-fat fryer, two new customers arrived and the telephone started ringing.
“You know, you should get some extra help,” I said. “This job will be the death of you.”
He waved me away. “You worry about your job, Nosy Parker, and I’ll worry about mine.”
I marched up and down Elgin hoping I’d see Miracle again. Halfway through my shift she showed up.
“I told my friends about you,” she said. “Buck wants to meet you so that he can ask why you cross the road.”
I laughed out loud.
“I told you he was funny.”
She was wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon narwhal on the front. It said, Always be yourself. Unless you can be a narwhal. Then always be a narwhal.
As she walked alongside me I asked, “Miracle? What do you want to be when you grow up?”
I was hoping for astronaut or prime minister. I got backup dancer.
“Watch this,” she said.
She did a backwards flip on the spot.
“Whoa,” I said. “How did you do that?”
She shrugged. “Practice.”
I stood firmly on my giant chicken feet and imagined flipping backwards. I rocked my hips back and forth and pumped my arms. All I produced was a pathetic little hop. Miracle laughed.
“How do you get the guts?” I said. “To just throw yourself backwards like that?”
“You have to be brave,” she said.
“Well, I’m a chicken,” I said. “So that’s not going to happen.”
We continued our walk. I could feel droplets of sweat rolling from the small of my back to the inside of my underwear. I wondered if there was such a thing as buttcrack deodorant.
Miracle skipped beside me. “Will you come under the bridge tonight?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Don’t come as a chicken, okay? I want you as you.”
I don’t think she knew how beautiful that was.
When we got to Chen Chicken she hugged me. “I have to go home now. Lewis will be taking me under the bridge soon.”
I wanted to know why but thought it best not to ask.
Mr. Chen popped his head out of the shop. “Merry-girl. Come here!”
“Wait,” I said. “You know her?”
He passed her a family pack of chicken wings and fries. “Bring this home. Share with your mother. And don’t ever put a rubber chicken in my deep-fat fryer again.”
I turned to Miracle. “You put a rubber chicken in the deep-fat fryer?”
Miracle hugged him around the waist. “Thank you, Mr. Chen.”
When she disappeared down Elgin Street I said, “How do you know her?”
He looked me up and down. “You always did strike me as a busybody.”
“Always?” I said. “Pfssh! I’ve only known you three weeks.”
He scratched his head. “Really? Feels like an eternity.”
He went into the shop and shut the door behind him.
Busybody or not, I wanted to know Miracle’s story.
And there was only one way to find out.