Girls Don't Fly Read online

  “Yes,” I say, with about as much interest as I have in eating dirt.

  “Do you want to work here or not?”

  “Hi, Howard.”

  Mom, who is standing nearby, perks up.

  “Are you thinking you’re going to get a raise out of this?”

  “No,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  “Well, how about fifty more cents an hour? That’ll buy you some nail polish.”

  I can do a lot of things, like clean a toilet, go without lunch, and sleep in a disgusting basement. But I cannot go back to the Lucky Penny. “Thanks, Howard. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I know I’m saying no to a job and a raise. But if I go back I’m lost.

  Howard’s voice is loud. “Hell, I’ll fire him if it makes you feel better. He’s a pain in the butt anyway.”

  If he fires Erik for me, no one will wonder who messed up on that order. And Erik will have to look for a job. But I’d still be working for a guy who makes “those Morgan girls” jokes.

  I say, “No. It’s probably for the best.”

  “Better think about this, honey. Jobs aren’t growing on trees around here. I could make you a day manager as soon as school gets out.”

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  His voice jabs through the phone. “Suit yourself. But don’t count on me for a reference!” He slams down the phone.

  He won’t give ME a reference. I could write a reference for him, but they wouldn’t put an ad for that job in the paper. Before I even hang up Mom is marching, still in her pajamas, off into the front yard. I follow her. Dad is pulling out of the driveway. She gets up to his window and says, “Howard called to give her the job back and she turned him down.”

  Dad looks at me. I know he doesn’t care if I keep working at that hole, but he has to side with Mom. Those are the rules of peace in my house. He says, “You can’t be too picky, Myra.”

  “Is there anything I can do at the plant?” I say.

  “Let’s talk when you aren’t in school.”

  “But I need to make money now.” The whine in my voice surprises me.

  “Why?” says Mom, looking curious.

  “I need to get some money saved away for school and stuff. It’s coming up quick.”

  Dad says, “You’ll figure it out. Life’s a do-it-yourself project.” Then he pulls away.

  “If you want to be a hardhead you have to expect a few hard knocks,” says Mom.

  Is there a manual somewhere that teaches parents these expressions? I walk my hard head past her into the house. I need something to clean. I head for the dungeon.

  The thing about the basement is that it’s uncleanable. That’s why Mom would rather pour patio cement than try to fix it up. Down here, you can shove things to the side or sweep a square foot here and there, but there isn’t anywhere to put things away. And no adult in this house seems capable of throwing out the old furniture, boxes of papers and books, old clothes, old toys, stale food storage, and plain old junk.

  I stand at the bottom of the stairs, armed with a lamp I have rescued from the furniture discard pile. I plug it in and start imagining the basement divided into tidy, organized sections. After a minute or two my brain cramps. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat before you start.

  I sit on my sleeping bag and go through my backpack for things I’ve gathered up. More than a clean living space I need a job. Fast.

  “Can I camp with you?” says Carson from the top of the stairs. His voice startles me.

  “It’s not camping unless you’re outside,” I say.

  He plods down the steps. “Why are you sleeping in the basement then?”

  “I’m in exile,” I say.

  “I’ll exile with you. It’s cool.”

  “Freezing is more like it,” I say. “Now I have to do some work.”

  Carson runs back up the stairs, but then parks himself on the top step.

  I say, “I’ll help you with your dinosaur trees tonight if you stop watching me.”

  “Danny stepped on my lagoon.”

  “And I’ll fix the lagoon.”

  “Deal,” he says, and disappears.

  I sharpen a few pencils. I make a list:My Job Experience: Ice Cream Server. No References.

  My Job Requirements: Must be part-time

  Must require no experience

  Must pay enough to raise money for the contest

  Must not be totally disgusting and humiliating

  First I call the marina and get an answering machine, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s not like people are sailing a lot in February. Then again, the sign I saw was a recent posting, and the machine says I can leave a message, so I do.

  Next, I scratch out the last part of my requirements with one of my extrasharp pencils. I can live with humiliating, maybe even disgusting, if it will get me the money I need to apply. The biology guy said the secret to survival is adaptation. I go through the local want ads, crossing out the jobs that require me to work during school, operate heavy machinery, or commute to Egypt and back. I’m left with five jobs.

  I take a break and skim the book that Pete gave me. There are forty kinds of cormorants, or shags, and they are pretty common. We have double-crested cormorants on the Great Salt Lake. But the kind in the Galápagos is flightless and totally bizarre. They have little tiny wings that only work as rudders underwater. Scientists think that they didn’t have any use for flying because it was too far to go back to the mainland, so they just gave up and became swimmers.

  Then suddenly it drives me wild that Pete thinks this bird is a good topic for me. What does he mean when he says these birds “might suit me”? Am I flightless? Forever grounded? Marooned in Landon?

  I put Pete’s dumb book away and pull out my list of job possibilities. Flightless. I’ll show him flightless.

  At the top of my list is a job in a clothing store. I make a phone call. “Hi, I’m calling about the stock girl—”

  “Filled it.” Click.

  I call the next two numbers and get the same basic response, although the other people let me finish my sentence. I have to give myself a Galápagos cheer to get the nerve to make the next call. You might as well step back. Go Galápagos! I’m not sure I can handle it if I get this job.

  “Chicken Little.”

  I say, “I’m calling about the ad you have for a personal advertiser.”

  “You have to dress up in chicken suit.” My worst germ fears are realized.

  “Has the job been taken?”

  “If you want an interview you better come meet me.”

  “I’ll be right in.”

  “Suit yourself,” says the crusty voice on the other end of the line.

  I announce to my cheerless mother that I have an interview. She’s out back pounding a frame board for the patio and I make her miss. “For what?” she says, shaking her hand.

  “Public relations,” I say, and whip back into the house before I have to explain.

  Stella Handy, the owner of Chicken Little, has creases in her face older than I am. She is wearing an aqua-colored T-shirt that has LAS VEGAS written on it in cursive with sequins. We sit in folding chairs in her closet-size office at the back of the restaurant. The room smells of grease and rose perfume. I think she’s giving me the evil eye, but I’m not sure. Maybe she always squints. She says, “Are you a drug user?”

  “No.”

  “Illegal alien?”

  I’m 5 foot 7, have light brown hair, pasty white skin, pale blue eyes, and freckles. I look about as foreign as a supersize cheeseburger. “Um, I was born here, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you faint easy?”

  This is not a question I want to be asked in a job interview. “Not really. Why?”

  “Some people find the suit a little stuffy.” Her lips turn down slightly. “What’s your greatest asset?”

  I consider this a moment. “I like things clean.”

  One penciled-on eyebrow rises. “You know
you’re applying to be a giant chicken, right?”

  I smile as brightly as I can. “A chicken should be clean, don’t you think?”

  She doesn’t smile back. “How clean are you?”

  “I scrub the grout in my shower with a toothbrush.”

  She gathers some mucus in the back of her throat and makes a clearing sound. She rolls her neck around until it pops. I’m already thinking of where I’m going to apply next when she says, “Can you start this afternoon?”

  “Are you serious?”

  The crags in her face momentarily recede into a smile. “You can start wavin’ your tail feathers as soon as you can get the suit on.”

  She opens a cabinet behind her and extracts the chicken suit. It was probably nice when she bought it a century ago. The giant yellow feathers droop with grunge. The sight of it makes me quiver.

  “Is there any way to disinfect it?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and narrows her gaze. “Might ruffle the feathers.”

  I tell myself that when I stand on the lava shores of the Galápagos Islands, I will be glad I subjected my pride and my immune system to this deep-fried torture. I take the suit and head for the bathroom. None of the inmates behind the counter looks at me. It’s lunch rush. Time to sell some chicken.

  Before I get dressed I make a quick phone call from my cheap-ola cell phone to my house and get Carson. Surprisingly my phone works. This phone isn’t designed to do much more than call the person next door. I say, “Listen, buddy, can you tell Mom I got a job so I won’t be home for a while?”

  “How long until you’re home?” says Carson.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Danny fell off his bike.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Melyssa comes on the phone. “Hello.” She sounds irritated. “Where are you?”

  “Is Danny hurt?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “He hit his head. Mom freaked ’cause he wasn’t wearing his helmet. But he’s fine.”

  My chest gets tight. “He has to wear a helmet. He crashes.”

  “Wow. Is there an echo in here? Everyone acts like I’ve never taken care of a kid before. Did you get a job?”

  “I’m starting right now.”

  “Aren’t you a go-getter? Where at?”

  It’s no use. Let the mocking begin. “The Chicken Little Drive-Thru.”

  “Sweet Mother of Grease.”

  I stare at the suit, hanging before me in all its foul splendor. I may have to tell my family I work here, but I don’t have to tell them what I do. “It’s a job.”

  “You have no shame,” says Mel.

  Mel’s ashamed of me. The irony of my life is unending.

  I hang up and reach for the suit. When I unzip it and look inside a spider climbs out. I stand paralyzed for a minute. Not by the spider, but by the idea that I’m about to put something on my body, and over my head, that has been a spider’s home. Maybe there are even eggs in the suit. In all likelihood there are fleas or lice or skin-eating viruses in the flaps and folds of this death bag.

  It comes down to this: How bad do I want out of this town?

  Bad enough. I put on the suit.

  13

  Epigamic Display:

  When a bird dresses up and shakes its feathers to get another bird’s attention.

  I tie my head on and grab my sign. I walk past my busy coworkers and the few people who have come to eat inside. Luckily I don’t recognize anyone from school. I nod my beak in greeting. Except that it’s filthy, the suit is comforting, like having a big, sweaty secret identity. Instead of Wonder Woman, I’m Chicken Little. Galápagos, I silently chant to myself, Galápagos.

  When I get out onto the street, the wind gusts through my beak and into the opening at my neck. I just have to humiliate myself by dancing around, jiggling a sign that says BEST-LOOKING CHICKS IN TOWN. I look through my peephole at the cars passing. People honk at me. I wave. The cold feels good. No one knows who I am. I’m getting paid.

  I realize pretty quickly that I’m going to have to think of ways to entertain myself and keep my feet moving if I’m going to do this for hours. To get my mind off the spider eggs, I try to remember a few routines I did for my brothers when they were all little. I start slow, with a soft shoe that I made up for Andrew. I have to change it up a bit—a claw to the left and a claw to the right. A few more cars honk. I sway a little bigger, kicking my legs up just enough to look like I’m dancing. After a few more honks, a car with guys my age passes. One brown head hangs out the window and yells, “Nice breasts!”

  The funny thing is that instead of shrinking into my three-toed boots, I’m fine. I even give a little wing in response. Inside the costume I can be as weird as I want. A few more cars go by, and then one pulls into the drive-in and parks. As they get out of the car, the middle-age couple gives me a thumbs-up. I feel so proud. I’ve recruited eaters! For the worst job in the world, this one isn’t half bad. Okay, maybe it’s half bad. But the other half is almost fun.

  Around dusk I see a white truck pass out of the corner of my eye. I whirl around. It’s not Erik. Maybe it is. I swear everyone in this town drives a white truck. There is too much traffic to see the head of the driver. The passenger is definitely a redhead. I tilt my beak so I can see better, but it’s too late. The truck is gone.

  I stand there on the street corner in my bird costume feeling ridiculous. I don’t know if I can finish my shift. I want to sit down. I want to go to sleep.

  It’s not that Erik could have recognized me, if that was Erik. It’s because someday soon Erik will be a stranger to me. I won’t know anything about him except gossip. This person I planned my life around will plan his life around some other girl—someone who isn’t a space-sucker or a giant chicken.

  The street is quiet for a few minutes. A dusty wind filters in through the costume. No more soft shoeing. I’m me again, in a gross suit. I stand stiffly holding the sign. Nobody honks. I should quit.

  But I need the job.... I need the money.... Why should I let Erik keep me from making money? From writing a proposal for the contest? I start waving the sign a little. So what if I’m a loser. I’m not going to get fired today. Galápagos, I chant to myself. Galápagos.

  As I’m waving the sign I remember how I used to love dancing when I was little. I did it to entertain my brothers but also because I loved doing it. Just because I’ve turned into this pathetic flightless cormorant doesn’t mean I have to stay one. I can evolve. Adapt. Change. Today I can be a great flightless chicken instead. Not a huge improvement. But chickens travel.

  Across the street I see the flickering of light. The traffic light glazes the asphalt in red, yellow, and green. A silhouette in a sweatshirt stands at the crosswalk, looks over at me, and leans up against the light. I turn my back and keep dancing.

  I think of a video I saw on YouTube once with Mick Jagger and Tina Turner. I’m Tina, hoochie coochie-ing on those amazing legs. Then I’m Mick for a while, flapping my wings. Cars pass and honk. In my head I hear “Brown Sugar” playing. Not the dance of a space-sucker. Not the dance of Erik’s invisible girlfriend. Not the dance of a bird resigned to her fate. I don’t have to take millions of years to evolve. I can do it in the blink of a headlight.

  Right in the middle of my crazed chicken routine, two cars race past, running the red at the intersection. They are honking at each other, windows down in spite of the cold. Luckily no one is coming so they don’t kill anyone. Kids race all the time around here. There isn’t all that much to do on a February night after the basketball game is over and the movies have all started. I keep dancing and flipping my sign.

  Just as they pass me I hear brakes. One of the cars stops and a guy gets out. Then he runs. At me. Into me. I fly backward. My head hits the ground, but it bounces instead of splitting open because of the costume.

  I go numb. Everything spins. Except the weight on top of me.

  I can’t see him ve
ry well—just a patch of blond hair tied in a red bandanna. A jean jacket. He jumps up and laughs. It’s a forced laugh. He doesn’t think this is funny either. He’s just a wannabe banger trying to be cool for his loser friends. Then he’s gone. And I’m flat on my back seeing stars through my peepholes. Millions of lightless stars.

  Stella shows up in my peepholes a few seconds later. There are other people too.

  They take off my head.

  “Myra!”

  In the midst of the mob of chicken workers staring at me, there is a face that shouldn’t be there. I see Jonathon Hempilmeyer’s nose ring. He’s wearing a white sweatshirt. He was the kid on the street corner watching me. “Myra,” he says, coming close. He’s holding his camera, filming me on the ground.

  “Jonathon?”

  Jonathon shuts off his camera and stares at me with that wide-eyed stoner look he gets. “I’m sorry. It all happened so fast. I didn’t know it was you.”

  Everything is still spinning. But the last few minutes are all coming back to me and I’m not dead. I look at his camera. “Don’t you dare post that.”

  Jonathon sputters. “Yeah. No. I won’t.”

  Stella ignores Jonathon and helps me stand up. She says, “You aren’t hurt. You’re fine. Just walk it off. Do you want some ice cream?”

  I go back into the restaurant and sit in a booth. Jonathon doesn’t come in, and I’m glad because I’m almost coherent enough to tell him what a jerk he is for standing there and filming me getting knocked down. Even if he didn’t know it was me. I put my chicken head on the table. I’m done evolving for the day. I drink ice water from a paper cup. One of the workers asks Stella if he should call the police.

  “Of course not. She’s not bleeding, is she?” She looks at me again. “You aren’t bleeding, are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Of course you are,” says Stella.

  I’m going to be fine. I just need to go home. Right after I quit this job, kill Jonathon, and go back to my pathetic, flightless life.