Luckily my ear model is three times the size of a real human ear, so I can see what I’m doing. As I attach the malleus to the incus, deep inside by the eardrum, I hear my brothers downstairs, hollering and banging into furniture. I’m not sure why they’re home—normally they go straight from school to soccer. I wish this ear model came with earplugs.
I’m connecting a semicircular duct to the cochlea when someone knocks at my door.
From the knock, I can tell who it is.
I open the door and Piper stares up at me, all somber. She comes over sometimes, asking to play chess. She doesn’t usually say much, which is fine with me. I don’t say much, either, which seems to be fine with her.
“Did you read to the chickens yet?” she says.
“Creeeeeepy,” wails Ty, in my doorway now, too, looking inside.
I guess he noticed all the ear bones on my desk.
“Watch out, he dug those up at a cemetery.” Trevor’s behind him, trying to scare Piper.
But my brothers have it all wrong. I don’t like anatomy models because they’re creepy. I like them because I’m curious about people, and this is what people are like on the inside. I don’t see what’s so creepy about that.
“You are one weird little dude,” says Ty.
“The weird bone’s connected to the dork bone,” sings Trevor. “The dork bone’s connected to the fart bone—”
“Trevor,” says Mom, behind them. “Come on, boys, your ride’s here.”
“The fart bone’s connected to the—”
“Do not go there, Trevor,” says Mom. “Not unless you want a repeat of last week.”
Last week, Trevor got grounded for writing something inappropriate on the car window. He breathed on it to make it foggy and then wrote backward so people outside could read it. I was impressed he could write backward, but he didn’t get any bonus points for that with Mom.
Instead of finishing his smelly song, Trevor hugs me from behind, so hard that my legs swing up, and then he gives me a noogie. I’m starting to get that he does this to people he likes. Both of my brothers do. Luckily, they don’t bug me as much as they used to, since I had my tonsils out last month and my parents said they had to be gentler with me or lose their video games.
“Guess what?” Piper whispers, after the twins leave for soccer.
“What?”
“I think the chickens are really bored,” she says.
Without asking permission, she goes and picks out a book from my shelves.
It’s Harold and the Purple Crayon. One of my favorites from when I was little.
Even before I ever read it, I already did what Harold in the book does. I took myself places by drawing them. I learned about people and things by drawing them. It almost felt like Harold in the book was copying me. (But I know he wasn’t, since his story was written in 1955.)
“Ms. Rivers, my teacher last year, used to say that books aren’t things you have. They’re places you go,” I tell Piper. “I hope you get her for second grade, too.”
Piper holds the book up, all hopeful. I love that she wants to go read to the chickens. But still, I don’t want to be with anyone right now. Thanksgiving is going to be long and loud tomorrow, and I need some alone time. I want to finish my ear model, and work on my card for Quinny. I want to make Quinny smile when she sees it. I want to make her proud of herself.
“Some other time, Piper. Sorry, I just feel like being by myself.”
“Me, too,” she says.
She stands there, stubborn and small, waiting for me to get moving.
And I realize that maybe Piper and I can be by ourselves, together. At least for a little while. We’re pretty good at it when we play chess, after all.
So I get up and follow her, and Harold and his crayon, over to the cooped-up chickens.
I would never brag about this at school, but my family does the best Thanksgiving. We always go to my cousins Gemma and Sal’s apartment in New York City and from their roof we can see all the Macy’s parade balloons float by. Aunt Carla is actually in that parade—she’s a balloon pilot in charge of a whole balloon (a different one every year), and she walks backward for the entire parade wearing a white jumpsuit and a green pilot cap and headset. She also wears a necklace with instructions for what to do with the balloon if it gets really windy or stormy. She’s never been on TV, but she has a very, very, extra-very important job.
After the parade, Aunt Carla always lets me try on that green pilot cap, and I pretend I’m in charge of one of those magnificent balloons! And Uncle Rex cooks a turkey in his Big Green Egg (which is like an outside grill but in the shape of an egg) and it’s all smoky and savory, like a barbecue turkey. The turkey skin is so crackly-juicy-sweet that you could just eat that for dinner, though I guess that’d be a little gross. And after dinner, there’s always lots of pie. (Sweet-potato pie counts as a vegetable, though, so we eat it with dinner.)
After all the food there is always music. My cousin Sal is ten and plays the guitar, and my cousin Gemma is almost thirteen and sings, and they have a brand-new four-year-old sister named Lilia who they adopted last year and she’s awesome at shaking a tambourine. I bring my accordion and we take requests and sing and play and talk, and we always stay up too late and feel exhausted the next day but it’s worth it.
Maybe the grown-ups argue a little, too, but we don’t pay them much attention.
All of this excitement happens back in New York City, where we used to live before moving to Whisper Valley, so this morning we have a long drive back there. Mom wakes us up early and we pack up the car with food and extra clothes and air mattresses, so we can sleep on my cousins’ living room floor tonight because we don’t want to drive home late with stuffed bellies. I can’t wait for the parade, the turkey, the music, the sleepover with my cousins, and all the noise and excitement that I miss so much. I can’t wait to get on the road!
But just as we are pulling out of the driveway, Mom gets a call from Uncle Rex.
“Uh-huh….Oh no….Oh dear….I’m so sorry, hang in there….No, no, don’t worry about us.”
“Mom, what is it?”
Mom turns to us in the backseat with a frowny face. “Change of plans, guys. Aunt Carla and Sal woke up this morning with stomach bugs.”
She says Thanksgiving at my cousins’ apartment is canceled and we’re staying home.
Oh no! I hope they feel better soon.
And I don’t even know what we’re going to eat since we didn’t get a turkey to cook.
“Okay, Plan B,” says Dad. “Vegetable lasagna from the freezer. Or maybe Mrs. Porridge can spare a chicken?”
“Daddy, bite your tongue! Mrs. Porridge loves those chickens—”
“She does not.”
“You can’t just eat someone’s pet chicken. And she isn’t home anyway.”
Victoria told me that she, her dad, and aunt Myrna, who is also called Mrs. Porridge, are spending Thanksgiving at a senior citizen home, serving meals and talking with the seniors. Mom calls Mrs. Porridge to see if we could also volunteer there today, but they already have more volunteers than they need.
I know Hopper won’t be home, either. He’s going to watch his mom run some race, and then go to his aunt LuAnne’s house. “Let’s go eat at Cracker Barrel,” I say. “I saw on a billboard they have yummy turkey dinner platters.”
“I’d rather not spend Thanksgiving at a restaurant,” says Daddy. “We’ll be fine at home. Nothing wrong with staying put and being grateful for what we already have.”
“I agree,” says Mom. “I just hope Aunt Carla and Sal feel better soon.”
Piper doesn’t want to stay home, so she starts crying, and then Cleo starts crying, and Daddy turns around and sticks a Binky in her face. Mom starts arguing with Daddy about why-are-you-still-giving-her-that-Binky and Daddy argues back and it doesn’t exactly look like we are giving thanks for anything.
“Everyone, stop, stop! Okay, so Mom and Daddy want to stay home, but
Piper and I want to go somewhere. I’ve got an idea that’s called a compromise.”
Daddy laughs. “Listen to you.”
“Yes, listen to me. A compromise”—I turn to Piper—“is when we get some of what we want, and they get some of what they want. Now, what food do we have in the car, exactly?”
“Pie,” says Mom. “Three pies. Pecan, apple, and pumpkin, exactly.”
“Okay, great. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
“Quinny, what are you up to?” says Daddy.
I’m definitely up to something. I tell my idea for a compromise slow and calm, with words full of manners.
And Daddy looks at me like I just landed here from Mars, but in a good way.
Aunt LuAnne is having Thanksgiving at her house. That means we all have to go to it.
But first we get to go cheer Mom on as she runs the Turkey Trot 5K race.
I don’t cheer as loud as my brothers, but I cheer louder than I ever have before. Mom worked so hard training for this. I watch her and push her along with my eyes. Go-go-go.
She’s in the back of the pack of runners.
But toward the end of the race, she speeds up. And my heart goes go-go-go all over again. I like the look on Mom’s face. She’s tired, but she’s not giving up.
I watch her cross that finish line, with her hands up and her smile glowing, and I run over and give her a hug. Mom is the easiest person in the world for me to hug. Even though right now she’s sweaty. She didn’t come in first, or even twenty-first, but she grabs me tight and laughs.
As soon as I’m ages twelve and up, I’m going to run this race with her.
I’m going to pace myself. I’m going to finish strong.
Later, after the race, we go to Aunt LuAnne’s house, and it’s the same.
Same people, same food, same thing as last year.
Aunt LuAnne’s house is bigger than ours, and filled with my cousins Max and Ally, who are little, and a bunch of rough teenage cousins who my brothers like to hang out with.
There’s no one here my size or my style, and I’m used to that.
But this year, when it’s time to sit down for dinner, there’s one big change.
My cousin Max is old enough to move from his high chair to a regular chair at the kids’ table. That bumps me off the kids’ table and up to the big dining room table.
Actually, it bumps me up to a folding table that Aunt LuAnne puts next to the real dining room table and covers with a white tablecloth, to pretend that it’s all one table.
I knock my knee against the diagonal metal bar that runs under the folding table.
Ouch! I actually remember this metal bar—I knocked my head on it at Aunt LuAnne’s July Fourth BBQ party last summer. That was such a hot, crowded day. I just wanted to get out of the heat, and away from all the noise. So I crawled under this table and sat there, eating my lunch.
“Hopper? What about you?” says Aunt LuAnne.
Everyone is staring at me now. Every year Aunt LuAnne goes around the room and makes us say what we’re grateful for. Every year I get nervous and mumble something, but all the good things to say are usually taken by the time it’s my turn. And I guess I’ve been zoning out—thinking about that hot, crowded July Fourth party, and how I hid under the table—so I missed hearing the answers that other people just gave.
What if I say I’m grateful for the exact same thing as the person before me?
“Hopper, is there anything you’re especially grateful for this year?” Aunt LuAnne repeats herself, gently. Dad looks at me, less gently. He’s waiting to hear my answer.
But then the doorbell rings. And my answer walks right in.
It’s Quinny Bumble, along with her family.
Which makes no sense. And yet it makes perfect sense.
Because she’s what I’m grateful for. She changed my year. She changed my life.
“Hopper Hopper Hopper! We brought pie! Everyone in New York was barfing, so we couldn’t go there, so we ate a boring vegetable lasagna at home and then your spectacular aunt let us invite ourselves here for dessert, wasn’t that nice of her? Thank you, Aunt LuAnne! We brought pie! Which is your favorite: pecan, pumpkin, or apple? I love pecan the best!”
Quinny slips right into talking with everybody, just like that, and soon we’re back to the gratitude speeches and it’s her turn.
“I’m grateful for pie, and for Aunt LuAnne letting us come over, and for my family, and my friends, especially that one—” She points to me. “And oh oh! I’m grateful for the new and improved save the cookies! petition, and all the new chickens that Hopper and I are taking care of, and also for my guinea pig Crescent, who I named after my favorite dinner rolls that I make myself, except Mom just has to turn on the oven for me, and I’m grateful for the skating rink and swimming pool and rec soccer and—”
“What?” says Trevor. “What do you mean rec soccer?”
“I mean, I’m going to switch to rec soccer from now on, because it’s once a week instead of a bunch of times, so I’ll still have time for cannonballs and public sessions and—”
“Are you nuts?” says Trevor.
“You’ll never make the club team if you do rec soccer,” says Ty.
“Then I guess I’ll just play soccer at recess.”
“What?” the twins say—they almost spit—at the same time.
Quinny’s parents don’t seem to care if she does rec soccer, or recess soccer, but my own dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Quinny, you have a gift,” he says.
“I do? Where is it?” She looks around the room.
Dad smiles, like this is a joke. “I’m serious, Quinny, it’s worth developing,” he says. “You’ve got great timing, great instincts, you’re aggressive and agile and—”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey, but I’ve already done a ton of fancy soccer this fall, and now the rest of my life wants a turn at some fun, too. I want to improve my cannonball, and I need to feed the new chickens more or they’ll never get to know me. And, by the way, Mom, I want to go back to skating class with Victoria, too.”
“You want to go back to the place you almost broke your arm?” asks Mrs. Bumble.
“Of course!”
People are talking in smaller groups now, but Aunt LuAnne takes control of all the talking again and keeps asking for more gratitude answers, and then it’s back to me.
“Hopper?” she says. “Your turn. What are you grateful for this year?”
There is a big silence now. So big that nothing I say could ever fill it.
I wish I were a poet, or a comedian, or even just interesting.
But all I can be is myself.
“I’m grateful to be sitting here with everyone at this table,” I finally say.
Instead of hiding under it by myself, I don’t say.
The problem with cleaning my room is that Mom always picks the nicest, sunniest days to make me do it. Like now, on this last afternoon of Thanksgiving break, while my sisters are outside with Hopper and the chickens, I’m stuck in here trying to organize my desk, because Mom decided we’re going to start taking homework seriously and get on a schedule and do it IN THE SAME PLACE EVERY SINGLE TIME. But honestly, I don’t think sitting at my desk is going to make me understand decimals any better.
Mom sometimes gets in this mood where she wants life to be perfect—but luckily the mood never lasts very long, and everything eventually goes back to normal.
Finally, after lots of pain and suffering, my desk is clean-ish and Mom says good enough and I’m free! I run over to the Chalet des Poulets, where Hopper and Piper are reading a story out loud, and Walter is lounging in the sun, and all the chickens are out hopping around and brrruuping and bipping and bockbockbocking. Poodle flaps up to peck at a cabbage piñata hanging on a rope. Pumpkin rolls a broken mushy pumpkin and makes a happy mess. Polar Bear kicks a nubby ball around with my baby sister Cleo.
“Mrs. Porridge, look! Did you notice these chickens aren’t trying to kill e
ach other anymore, and they don’t look scared or confused?”
“I noticed,” says Mrs. Porridge, sitting on her porch. “Turns out the chickens love a good story. Calms them down. We also brought out a few odds and ends, to give them some exercise and keep them out of trouble. They’ve sorted themselves out, and figured out who’s in charge.”
“They have? Who?”
“Look around, Quinny.”
I do. And what I notice is a big surprise, actually.
I would have guessed Walter would become a bossy rooster-cat in charge, or Pumpkin, whose beak is a fierce weapon, or even Polar Bear, because she’s ten times the size of a regular chicken. But it’s Cha-Cha who gets my attention.
Cha-Cha shrieks when Pumpkin won’t share her sticky pumpkin with Poodle. Cha-Cha nudges Polar Bear to keep playing when she tries to go back in the henhouse. Cha-Cha bips and bocks up at Poodle when she flaps too high up in the rafters.
And then Cha-Cha hops onto Walter, like a tiny queen on her furry throne. She stares out at the Chalet des Poulets like it’s hers to rule, and clucks out a speech.
I was wrong this whole time—Cha-Cha isn’t Walter’s sidekick. He’s hers.
“But Mrs. Porridge, how can Cha-Cha be in charge? She’s the smallest and youngest.”
“You don’t have to be loud or large to be a leader, Quinny,” says Mrs. Porridge. “You just have to be observant, hardworking, and care a lot about your fellow chickens.”
“Well, I think Cha-Cha is doing a great job. These chickens look so happy.”
And then I notice that Piper looks happy, too. Even though I know this reading-out-loud stuff isn’t easy for her. She can’t say every word in the story, but she’s trying. If she doesn’t know a word, she doesn’t just skip over it, she stays there and doesn’t give up and Hopper helps her try it again, over and over, until she kind-of-sort-of says it right.
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