1
I hate chickens.
They are filthy creatures, and they smell like… like… chickens.
“Crystal, it’s your turn to feed the chickens,” Mom says. My least favorite
words.
I carry the seed bucket out to the backyard, and they come scurrying over,
clucking and squawking and flapping their greasy wings. I hate the way they
brush up against my legs as they peck the seeds off the ground. Their feathers
are so rough and scratchy.
My brother, Cole, and I are always trying to convince my parents to get rid
of the chickens. “Just because we live on a farm doesn’t mean we have to have
chickens,” I always say.
“Right! We’re not farmers!” Cole agrees. “So why do we have to have those
smelly chickens?”
“It’s always been our dream,” Mom always replies. Blah blah blah.
Cole and I have heard the dream story a thousand times.
We’ve heard how Mom and Dad grew up in the Bronx in New York City. How they
hated the noise and the dirt and the concrete. How they dreamed of leaving the
city for good and living on a farm near a small country town.
So, when Cole was two and I was four, we moved to Goshen Falls. Lucky us! The
whole town is three blocks long. We have a cute little farm with a cute little
farmhouse. And even though Mom and Dad are computer programmers—not farmers—we have a backyard full of chickens.
Cluck. Cluck. That’s their dream.
My dream is that Cole gets punished for mouthing off the way he always
does. And his punishment is that he has to feed the chickens for the rest
of his life.
Everyone has to have a dream—right?
“OWW!” A chicken pecked my ankle. That hurt! Their beaks are so sharp.
I tossed a final handful of seed on the ground and hopped backward, away from
the gross, clucking creatures. Their little black eyes glinted in the sunlight
as they strutted over the grass. Pecking each other. Bumping each other out of
the way as they dipped their scrawny heads for the food.
I dropped the bucket in the back of the little barn we also use as a garage.
Then I washed my hands under the cold water spigot at the side of the barn.
I heard a low roar. A shadow rolled over the barn. I gazed up to see a small
plane dipping under the puffy afternoon clouds.
I took a deep breath. The tangy aroma of potatoes floated in the air.
That’s what the farmers grow around here. Mostly potatoes and corn.
I dried my hands on the legs of my jeans and hurried off in search of my
brother. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. Most of my friends from school were
away on a 4-H club trip.
Mom asked me to keep an eye on Cole. He’s ten, two years younger than me. But
sometimes he acts like a four-year-old. It seems like he’s always finding new
ways to get into trouble.
I wandered through town. No sign of him. I asked Mrs. Wagner at the bakery if
she’d seen him. Cole likes to stop in there and beg her for free doughnuts.
Mrs. Wagner said she saw Cole and his friend Anthony heading out of town in
the direction of Pullman’s Pond.
Uh-oh, I thought. What are they planning to do at the pond? I started to the
door.
“I just love your hair, Crystal,” Mrs. Wagner called. “It’s such a beautiful deep shade of red. You should be a model.
Really. You’re so tall and thin.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Wagner!” I called as the door closed behind me. I wasn’t
thinking about my hair or being a model. I was thinking about Cole and Anthony
and the pond.
I trotted the rest of the way through town. Waved to Mr. Porter standing in
the window of the Pic ’n’ Pay. Then I turned off the street and followed the dirt
path that led to Pullman’s Pond.
I didn’t have to go far to find Cole and Anthony. They were hiding behind the
long hedge at the edge of Vanessa’s property.
I gazed beyond the hedge to the falling-down old farmhouse where Vanessa
lives.
Who is Vanessa? I guess you might say she is the most interesting person in
Goshen Falls. And the most weird.
Actually,
Similar Books
