Horse Camp

by Nicole Helget

  Dear Mom,

  I am not being nosy. Wanting to know what happened to Stretch’s family is a natural thing. What is the big secret? If I were you, I’d be very worried that I’d be endangering my everlasting soul by covering up the crime of my brother. The Lord’s work is supposed to be your first priority, not being an accomplice to Stretch’s crime! But, then again, what do you care about crime? Apparently, the laws of God and the laws of the United States simply don’t apply to you. You, apparently, can feel free to do whatever you want.

  And, as far as Stretch’s relationship with Sheryl goes, it is my business because I’m not comfortable with two unmarried people having sexual relations around my brothers, which I know Stretch and Sheryl are doing. And, no, I don’t think that what happens between two consenting adults is fine and dandy and none of my business. I’d think that, as our mother, you would be concerned about the type of example Stretch is setting for us and would be writing to Daddy to tell him to come and pick us up and bring us home. While you’re at it, you can tell Daddy you’re sorry, so we can just put all this ridiculous business behind us. But, apparently, the rules of motherhood don’t apply to you, either. If you didn’t want to raise us, why did you even have us?! Why have kids at all if you’re just going to abandon them?! Sometimes I wish I was never even born!!!

  (I had to take a break to calm down, but now I am back.)

  Thanks for sending the information on breast development. I knew all of the information already, but I can’t help wondering why mine don’t grow. I’ve read that breast size is genetic, so I was just wondering why mine didn’t look more like yours yet. You know, really full and round. It may be due to low estrogen or a problem with my pituitary gland.

  Remember all those African girls whose mothers would start ironing and pounding down their breasts at ages nine and ten? Weird! If my daughter started developing breasts early, I would never do that. I would tell her that she looks beautiful, and she’s lucky! Remember when you held a medical seminar to tell the mothers about the pain and damage they were inflicting upon their daughters, and they just looked at you like you were the weird one? Like you didn’t understand that their daughters were under constant sexual pressure from the men in their village. Like you didn’t understand that they wanted educations for their daughters rather than early marriages and babies. Like you didn’t get that they really believed that stalling breast development could improve their daughters’ lives. C’mon, ladies! I studied those girls really hard, and it was clear that breast ironing did not stop their development in the least. You can’t stop progress and shouldn’t mess with nature. Someone should have told those mothers that.

  Yes, I am enjoying my books, but only because I’m finding so many things about them that are sinful. I will have no problem developing an entire curriculum about the need to censor all zombie, werewolf, and vampire books. In Zombie Cowboy, the main character, Eamon Cloversniffer, falls in love with the beautiful and thoughtful and very poor Patience Lonelyheart, who has to take care of her dying father before she marries the town’s richest man, who is the mean and terrible Handle Boomton. Patience, who has long and glorious hair just like mine, admires Eamon’s pale skin and red lips and tender voice and especially the way he calls her Honey Dear, but then he admits to her that he is a zombie and is doomed to walk the earth for eternity. Eamon Cloversniffer loves Patience so much but can’t marry her or he will destine her to the same terrible fate. But, now Patience and Eamon are debating whether they should turn Patience’s father into a zombie so that he never dies, and she’ll never have to marry Handle Boomton. I must say, the book is very interesting. I can see why so many young girls read these books and get swept away and on the road to hell before they even know what happened. Lucky for me, I know that what I am reading is pure sinful temptation.

  Have you heard from Daddy? He sent an envelope with money to Stretch with a Post-it note that said, For school clothing and supplies. Why is Stretch supposed to take us school shopping? Daddy said we’d be home long before school started.

  And what do you mean that I should “prepare myself for the worst” regarding your chances for an acquittal? Seriously, Mom. You can’t honestly be thinking of going to prison over all this nonsense! Daddy told you he’d testify on your behalf if you’d just publicly say you’re sorry and repent. Wouldn’t it be exciting if Daddy brought you to the front of the new church and laid his hands on you in cleansing and forgiveness and did that thing in which he calls down the power of the Spirit and all the people shout and lift their hands and pray to the Lord? Maybe you could even tremble and cry and fall to your knees, and all the congregation could call out, Heal her, Jesus. Heal her, Jesus. And Daddy would finally banish the devil from your body and then lift you to your feet and kiss your forehead and say, You are forgiven, Sister. You are healed. Go and sin no more. Wouldn’t that be great?! Remember how Daddy would get so moved by the Spirit working in him that his forehead would get real sweaty and his hair would stick to his face? Mother, please call him and say you’re sorry! Please. Please. Please. I don’t think you understand how important this is to me.

  Love,

  Penny

  Dear Daddy,

  I haven’t heard from you in a while. I know you are very busy with the new church building.

  I believe Mom is ready to ask you for forgiveness. I think she’s realized that she caused the disintegration of our nuclear family and wants to put it back together. I think that if you called or visited her, we could put all this behind us. Timing is very important. The devil is here on our uncle’s farm. I am sure of it. Some sinful things are happening that require your immediate attention. I pray really hard to keep the evil at bay, but I am only twelve and am not sure that I have your strength as a holy person.

  Blessings in Jesus’s name,

  Penelope

  Chapter 7

  Percy and June Bug

  JUNE BUG used to bug me, but she doesn’t as much anymore. I thought early on she had a crush on me, which would’ve been annoying and something I’ve had to deal with before. When I was in foreign lands and the only white boy running around, I think girls just liked me because I looked different. Exotic, or whatever the word is. Now that I’ve been around June Bug for a couple of weeks, training chickens together, I can see she’s more into the chickens than boys, at this point. Fine by me! We’ve got some serious work to do before we show them at the fair.

  “You gotta wash ’em three days before the show so you get ’em clean but they still have enough time to get their natural oils back,” says June Bug, looking over the flock.

  Pauly’s over in the corner of the henhouse, running at the chickens and then skidding to a stop, which makes them start clucking and flapping around. “Hey,” I yell. “Knock it off, Pauly! We don’t want them flapping their wings or spazzing out at the judges.”

  Pauly does it again and almost steps on Carl, an old banty rooster who’s too slow to get out of the way.

  “Pauly!” I shout. “Leave Carl alone!”

  June Bug grabs my arm. “It’s okay, Pers. He’s just a kid.”

  “He’s an idiot!” I say.

  “Ah, just leave him be,” she says. She pats me on the back and smiles. Before I know it, I smile back. Like I said in the beginning, June Bug seemed bossy, a lot like her mom or Penny, but lately, she’s been pretty cool. She’s about the only one around here who doesn’t yell at me, and she is fun to play with. Like play catch, you know, or play tag, or work, or whatever. Not like play “house” or anything.

  “Today we need to pick the ones we’re gonna show and check ’em for diseases and stuff before we wash ’em,” June Bug says. “You want to pick first?”

  “Nah, you go first,” I say.

  June Bug shrugs and walks over to a group of ten or twelve chickens all pecking at the ground. Pauly’s got Carl cornered and is shuffling his feet at him. Nobody wants to show Carl, anyway. He looks like some of the straggly chickens we used to se
e in Africa or the Philippines. That’s probably why Pauly likes messing with Carl—reminds him of home.

  June Bug bends down and gently gathers one of the bigger chickens into her arms, cradling it like a running back who just took a handoff. The chicken clucks once and is quiet. She brings it over to the table where we’ll do our washing business.

  “Looks pretty good,” I say.

  “He’s all right,” says June Bug. “I left the tamest, best-looking ones for you and Pauly. I’ve done this before, and half of showing is just letting your birds know you’re calm, and being confident about your overall chicken knowledge when the judge asks you questions.”

  She looks her chicken over, stretching his wings out and combing through his feathers with her fingers. It barely makes a sound. It looks like it might even be enjoying June Bug touching it. Then June Bug stares, close up, at its feet.

  “What are you doing that for?” I say.

  “Checking for bumblefoot, or other diseases you can see with the naked eye.”

  I blush at that. Naked. Suddenly, Pauly’s right next to us, asking questions. “You mean the chickens get sick?” he says.

  “Of course they do, stupid,” I say, elbowing him out of the way.

  “Do they bawf oh have a cough?” asks Pauly.

  “Pauly, you’re a real dummy,” I say.

  “No, you’re not, Pauly,” says June Bug. She takes a long strand of hair that came loose from her ponytail and tucks it back behind her ear. “I’ve seen lots of chickens with diseases.”

  “How many?” says Pauly.

  “Well, once we had to kill our entire flock—pullorum took hold, and by law you have to get rid of any chicken with pullorum.”

  “Jeez,” I say. I wonder if pullorum is like leprosy or what. People in the Bible were always getting that and then having to go off by themselves.

  “No,” says Pauly. “I meant how many diseases?”

  “I don’t know, dude,” she says. “Lots. There’s quite a few.”

  “What ahw they called?”

  “Shut up, Pauly!” I say. “You wouldn’t even understand!”

  “Well,” says June Bug, “there’s bumblefoot, fowl pox, rot gut, swollen head syndrome, gray eye, parrot fever, helicopter disease. …”

  “Whoa,” says Pauly.

  “Different strains of egg drop syndrome are some of the most common,” she says. “When your hens lay less and less eggs, you know something’s up.”

  “I think Cah-wel might have egg dwop syndwome,” says Pauly.

  “Roosters can’t lay eggs, you dipstick!” I shout.

  “He’s just old, that’s why he looks so gaunt,” says June Bug. “My mom says he used to be the king of Stretch’s flock, though. Like probably back in the days when Stretch’s son was still alive.”

  “Roland?” I say. “You know about Roland?”

  “Naw, not really,” June Bug says. She scratches behind her chicken’s head. I swear, the chicken smiles. “Just that I guess Stretch changed a lot when he died—that’s what my mom says, anyways. He used to be wilder, I think. Grab yours now, Pers,” she says.

  “Nah,” I say, “let Pauly go next.”

  “You’re afraid to hold ’em, still?”

  “No!”

  “Well, pick one up, then.”

  I start windmilling my arms and holding my foot behind my back to stretch my quads.

  “What are you doing?” asks June Bug.

  “Stretching, obviously,” I say.

  “You’re just wasting time,” says June Bug. “You must have some issues with being afraid of live animals.”

  “He’s always been pwetty scay-ohd of animals,” says Pauly.

  “At least I’m an American citizen!” I say.

  June Bug glares at me. “Anyway, if you’re done stretching now, it’s your turn,” she says, “unless you’re too scared.”

  “I’m not scared of anything,” I say. I walk over to where most of the chickens stand around, pecking at the dirt or just looking bored. I take a good look, moving slowly so they don’t start squawking or jutting their freaky necks or flapping their dusty wings. I look back at June Bug and Pauly, and I see Penny sticking her head in the barn door, spying.

  “What are you doing here?” I yell.

  Penny’s head disappears, and you can hear her running away, her shoes mashing gravel. Shaking my head, I turn back to the chickens and find one that looks fat and slow. I crack a couple of knuckles and stretch my neck by bobbing my head side to side. This is the part I hate. I can just picture it flapping and clawing at me, drawing blood or worse. I get low and quickly jolt my hands around its body, and the thing practically screams at me, beating its wings in my face. I jump back and look over to June Bug. “Dang!” I say.

  Pauly looks up at June Bug and says, “He’s scayohd.”

  “Put a sock in it, dunderhead!” I yell at Pauly.

  “Just stay calm,” says June Bug. “Imagine your arms are cotton balls.”

  “Um, these things have way too many muscles in them for that to happen,” I say. I flex.

  June Bug shakes her head. “How long you think this’ll take?” she says.

  After two more tries, I nab one, and June Bug has her answer.

  At the dinner table, Sheryl stands over me, dishing up some mashed potatoes. Apparently, she and June Bug are now being invited to family dinners in Stretch’s dining room. I can tell it bugs Penny because she can barely look at Sheryl or June Bug without rolling her eyes. Sheryl bends way over me, and I can see her bra again—jeez! It’s light blue today. Then Uncle Stretch comes in with the main course on a big plate and sets it down.

  “Chicken?” I say. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  He gives me the evil eye, starts to say something, then looks at Sheryl, who shows him this little smile. This chain reaction has been happening a lot lately. Uncle Stretch takes a deep breath. He picks up a knife, hacks off a leg, thunks it down on my plate, and says, “Yep. Chicken.”

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I say. “No disrespect, Uncle Stretch, but I’ve been working with these things all day, and it just doesn’t seem right.”

  Sheryl takes a seat, and Uncle Stretch goes on hacking up the chicken, not saying anything but slinging pieces on everybody’s plate, one by one. June Bug tears right in, as if we hadn’t just spent the entire afternoon washing our own chickens.

  I look at Penny, and she looks at Uncle Stretch. The only time she sides with me anymore is when I’m against Uncle Stretch, which is pretty common. But still, it’s more about her rebelling against Uncle Stretch than supporting me. Pauly follows June Bug’s example, chewing loudly as he wolfs down the meat.

  “How can you two eat that?” I say.

  “Perseus,” says Uncle Stretch. Sheryl puts her hand on Uncle Stretch’s arm.

  “But,” I say, “what if that thing had parrot fever or rot gut?”

  Everybody looks at me like I’m crazy—except Penny, who seems suddenly very interested. “What’s parrot fever?” she says.

  “It’s rare,” says June Bug. “Beak discharge, conjunctivitis, diarrhea, green feces.”

  “What’s rot gut?” asks Penny.

  “A bacteria,” says June Bug. “It causes the bird’s feces to smell, well, worse than normal or look slightly darker because of blood staining, and the bird may become emaciated. Highly treatable, though.”

  “Hey, I’ve heard of that,” says Penny. “I’ve heard of the avian flu, too. This chicken could very well have that.”

  “Doubtful,” says June Bug.

  “It might have egg dwop sydwome, too,” says Pauly.

  “He’s right,” I say. “Lots of chickens get egg drop syndrome—ask June Bug. I’ll just give mine to Penny. She doesn’t mind eating diseased chickens.” I pick up my plate and shove it in her direction. “Here you go, Penny.”

  Penny screeches and jumps back from the table. “I’m not eating this chicken,” she says. “It definitely cou
ld be contaminated. I’ve seen that barn, and it’s not very clean. Who knows what the living conditions were even like for this chicken?”

  Uncle Stretch bangs his fist down on the table and the silverware rings. “That does it!” he says. He gets up from the table and storms into the kitchen and out through the screen door with a slam.

  We all look at Sheryl, the only adult left. She smiles at June Bug. “Did you tell these kids about all the chicken diseases you’ve researched?”

  “Not all of them,” says June Bug.

  “They-oh’s quite a few,” says Pauly, taking a bite of drumstick.

  “Kids,” says Sheryl. “This chicken is perfectly healthy to eat. However, if you don’t want to eat chicken tonight, just have some mashed potatoes, corn, and salad.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out, like she’s real overwhelmed.

  “Jeez, why’s everybody gotta get so bent out of shape?” I say.

  “We’re just following the leader, the guy who had an aneurysm and walked away from the dinner table,” says Penny. “The guy who’s always having an aneurysm.”

  Sheryl stares at Penny with a sad look, but Penny just takes a big spoonful of corn, dumps it on her mashed potatoes, mixes it around, and shovels a big bite into her mouth. Sometimes she can be worse than me when it comes to disrespect.

  Chapter 8

  Penny Has Questions

  Dear Diary,

  Knowing right and wrong was so, so much easier when we lived together with Mom and Dad, when we worshipped together and Daddy taught us the path to heaven. The recent dinner table argument last night has gotten me thinking how topsy-turvy things are now. It’s nearly midnight, but I can’t sleep. Stretch called us all together tonight to watch the ten o’clock news even though that’s usually when we’re forced to go to bed. Right away, I knew something was up because he normally doesn’t let anyone watch TV. Sheryl and June Bug were there, too. Sheryl looked sympathetic (even though she was wearing a really inappropriate sundress) and bustled around getting glasses of water for everyone and putting boxes of Kleenex here and there as though we were getting ready for a funeral, which, it turns out, we sort of were.