OTHER YA NOVELS BY HEATHER SMITH
The Agony of Bun O’Keefe
Baygirl (Orca)
PENGUIN TEEN
an imprint of Penguin Random House Canada Young Readers,
a Penguin Random House Company
First published 2019
Copyright © Heather Smith, 2019
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover illustration and design by Jennifer Griffiths
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Smith, Heather, 1968-, author
Chicken girl / Heather T. Smith.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 9780143198680 (hardcover).—ISBN 9780143198697 (EPUB)
I. Title.
PS8637.M5623C55 2019 jC813’.6 C2018-900742-7
C2018-900743-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018936947
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
v5.3.2
a
To Rosie, who makes my heart swell.
And, always, to Rob.
CONTENTS
Cover
Other YA novels by Heather Smith
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Excrept from The Agony of Bun O’Keefe
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 b
een 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.”
Chicken Girl Page 1