A Short Story
“What's
that supposed to be?”
The
girl turned around and met the eyes of a young man standing behind
her. She looked back at the window where the advertisement was
pasted, blaring out into the street. The woman portrayed was thin and
angular with a full head of glossy hair. Her eye had been altered to
look bruised and her eyebrows were screwed into an anguished
expression. Underneath her was written, Don't Let Taxes Knock You
Out. She didn't understand the
undertones, but the man did. He tilted his head and bent forward, his
turned-up nose inches from the glass. Then his jammed his finger
against the woman's black eye and snorted.
“I
don't get it,” he said.
“The
taxes knocked her out,” said the girl.
“It's
domestic abuse,” said the boy. “Who the hell buys things after
seeing an ad like that?”
The
girl didn't understand but she kept her mouth shut. Instead she
focused on his reflection in the store window. He was tall, over six
feet, with a rounded face and a mop of brown
hair. He had the stretched
look of someone who had
grown a lot in a short time. His eyes were light blue and his lashes
were thick and dark, like feathers against his cheek. He
had an angsty look, as if he smoked and threw eggs at cars just for
kicks.
The girl decided right away that she did not like him.
“What's
your name?” she asked.
“Ceaser
Augustus,” he announced. He pushed his hands in the pockets of his
dark wash jeans.
The
girl was unimpressed. “I'm not stupid,” she said. She walked past
him and started down the hot sidewalk, her sandals slapping against
the pavement. The town was empty because it was a Sunday, and the
dust had settled on the street. As she walked little sand devils
whirled around her feet, the sweat between her toes making mud in her
sandals. Behind her Caeser Augustus started after her, his expensive
blazer flapping against his
sides. She lifted her nose in
the air and ignored him as she ducked into a dime
store.
“What's
your name?” he said.
She
picked up a pack
of strawberry bootlaces and went to the checkout. “Mary Jane,”
she said. She slapped a quarter on the counter and took the bag and
left the store. He followed her as she unwrapped it and wound the
strawberry candy around her neck and inserted the end in her mouth.
“Like
the sweet?” he asked.
“Yes,”
she said.
She
began twisting and braiding the bootlaces, making a lasso. When she
was younger she had spent a good deal of time pretending she was a
cowgirl and she was proficient at snagging wooden horses. She
hung the noose around her neck and continued biting down at the other
end. The candy gathered, sticky and sweet, in the back of her teeth.
Behind her the young man was following at a safe distance.
They
were almost to the woods when he saw the chicken. It was round and
orange, it's feathers fluffed like a down pillow. He started laughing
and kicked a pile of gravel at it, making it squawk and dance aside.
Its tail fanned out as it skittered
back, skinny legs peddling.
“It's
a chicken,” he said.
She
stood, staring at the chicken. “Stop it. Don't kick it,” she
ordered.
“Why?”
he demanded.
“Cause
it ain't your chicken, dummy,” she said. She unwrapped the bootlace
from her neck, the noose hanging from her limp wrist. Then she
swirled it over her head, around and around, until she let it fly
through the air. The chicken darted out of the way, aiming a savage
peck at the bootlace. Then it ruffled its feathers and headed towards
the woods.
Mary
Jane gathered the bootlace and started after it. Caeser was right
behind her, leaves crunching under his expensive, leather shoes. The
woods were cool and moist in contrast with the town, the trees empty
of birds until high afternoon was over. She kept to the path, the
chicken just in sight, and swung the bootlace back and forth.
“What
the hell do you think you're doing with that chicken?” said Caeser.
“I'm
catching it,” said Mary Jane.
“Why
do you want that chicken?” said Caeser.
“So
I can make Chicken
Caesar
salad. Ha!” said the girl.
“Wee
hawkins,” said Caeser. “You're a funny little squirt.”
“Where
are you from? I haven't seen you around here?” said Mary Jane. The
chicken began skidding down a hill, heading towards a mossy creek.
She planted the edges of her feet into the loose soil and scrabbled
down. Mud smeared the sides of her legs and hitched her skirt up to
her thighs. She stumbled to a
stop on the slippery rocks of the creek and watched the chicken hop
through the water.
“Do
you need that chicken?” Caeser asked. “I'm from the good side of
town. There isn't chickens up there. We keep our birds cool and
processed.”
“You
haven't seen a real, live chicken?” she asked. They started up the
hill, pushing through the ground cover of ferns. Caeser took the lead
this time, long legs eating up the distance. He put a cigarette
between his teeth and lit it, shaking his head as if to get the smoke
from his lungs.
“Smokes
will kill you,” she said.
“So
can chickens,” he said. “You go to the supermarket and buy a
frozen chicken and it's got salmonella all over it. Then you don't
cook it well enough and you're a goner.”
“I
want that bird,” she said. “I need it for later.”
“What
happens later?” he asked. They had arrived at the crest of the
hill, the chicken already heading down the other side. It seemed to
have sensed that it was being followed closely and it had picked up
its pace.
“If
I need it later, I'll have it,” she said.
“But
you don't need it now,” he said. She glanced at him, noticing that
he had dark circles underneath his eyes. Down his cheeks were faint
scars, as if he had had acne and had scraped open the blisters too
many times. He filled his scarred face from the cigarette and blew it
out, making her cough as the smoke hit her. Then he smiled, the
corner of his mouth turning up, and began walking down the hill. She
scowled at him and looked around, trying to locate the chicken. It
had disappeared.
She
took off running, long hair flying behind her. “Where is it?” she
howled. “What have you done with it?”
He
stopped. “I don't know. How could I when I can't even catch it same
as you?” he said. “It's gone now and you're not going to find it.
Let's
go.”
“You
go, I'm not leaving,” she said. She blinked rapidly, unwilling to
cry in front of him.
“I'll
help you find the stupid chicken,” he said. He scowled and pushed
his hair from his eyes. She hiccupped and wiped her face, putting the
bootlace back in her mouth. He waited, cigarette hanging from his
lips, as she squared her shoulders. There was a stick jabbing her
foot, tangled in the strap of her sandal. “Take off those shoes.
You don't need them.”
“I
need my shoes,” she said. She pulled the stick out and threw it
away and he scowled again. “Now where did the chicken go?”
“Probably
to lower ground,” he said. “Chickens mostly spend their time on
lower ground.”
They
set off, the thin, pale girl with a mess of brambly hair following
the tall, young man. The woods were quieter than they had been, and
the ground under their feet was dappled with yellow and white. They
kept going for at least an hour, treading in silence as the girl
chewed the bootlace. He asked for a piece eventually and she broke
one off, handing it over. Her palms were sticky, but he didn't seem
to mind.
“My
father owns that store,” he said. “The one you bought the
bootlaces at.”
“Good
for him,” she said. “I don't see no chicken.”
“Why
are you so obsessed with this chicken?” he said. “It's better if
you just forgot about the chicken. If you need a pet to play with,
just find some bug or something.”
“No,
I got to have that bird,” she said.
The
woods cleared and they paused at the edge of a clearing, a sheer drop
below them. The girl peered over the edge and gave a sharp cry,
waving her arm. “There it
is,” she said.
The
young man frowned, squinting over the edge. He could see that
something was different. The feathers on the bird were red, not
orange, and it was a rooster. He looked at the girl, bending closer
to inspect her face; her eyes were red and strained. She needed
glasses. He opened his mouth to tell her that it was the wrong bird,
but then he stopped. She wanted a bird and he wanted to go home, so
this bird was as good as any.
“Let's
go down,” he said.
They
found a roundabout, a trail squashed by many tramping feet. He kicked
in disgust at the empty wrappers and Popsicle sticks, feeling
repulsed by the trash. He did it himself, flicked cigarette butts on
the edge of the highway and spat tobacco out the window. She barely
seemed to notice, her eyes alight and her gummy fingers holding the
tangled bootlace. They skidded into the dry valley, dust rising from
their feet. The chicken was sitting still, watching them with its
head turned sideways. He held the cigarette partway under his tongue,
the burning tip near his lips. She indicated that he stop, and he
crouched down, his hands hanging between his knees.
She
lifted the bootlace above her head and swung it around. He watched
with bated breath, hoping she would not realize it was the wrong
chicken. The bootlace noose flew past him and fell around the bird's
neck, jerking tight. The girl crowed, jumping forward and seizing her
captive chicken with glee. The bird didn't make a sound, its neck
stretching higher until it looked her in the face. He waited,
expecting her to recognize her mistake. Instead she pulled it
tighter, feathers ballooning around her arms. He headed back to the
trail, and she followed after him. She thought about the chicken,
warm in her arms, and he thought about how she had left her sandals
behind.
The END.
