Farmed Out by Christy Goerzen Page B

and jeans my mom wanted me to wear.
    I plucked my sketchbook off my desk and sat on my bed, flipping through it. My latest series, Downtown Soles , had turned out pretty well. I had drawn feet in cool shoes at different city locations like the art gallery and the skate park.
    As I carefully placed my art supplies inside the bag, I felt a new flush of frustration. What was the point? I would never, ever find anything to draw on a boring old farm.
    My mom walked by my bedroom door. “How’s it going, Madison?” She had consulted her tarot cards and decided to forgive me for our fight the day before.
    I was still nowhere near forgiving her .
    â€œIf you mean how’s it going with missing out on the chance of a lifetime, then just fine .”
    My mom started rifling through the stuff I had packed. Mothers can be so nosy.
    â€œMaddie, these aren’t exactly work clothes.” She held up my yellow crinoline and striped leggings. “We’re going to be getting dirty. You don’t want to ruin these.”
    I threw my pink What Would Joan Jett Do? T-shirt in the bag. I knew what that 1970s rocker chick would do. She would not spend a week shoveling cow poop.
    I tossed my cell phone charger on top of the T-shirt. Mom laughed.
    â€œYou might as well leave that at home,” she said. “No cell phone reception at Quiet River Farm.”
    No cell phone? This was going to be the worst week ever .

Chapter Two
    â€œHurry up, sunshine. Chop chop!”
    My mom always says “chop chop” to get me to hurry. This makes me want to throw something heavy at her. My Betty Boop alarm clock said 5:45 am . Was she kidding? After she told me to chop chop a dozen more times, I hauled myself out of bed.
    I stumbled through the beaded curtain into the kitchen. Our apartment’s decor is a lot like my mom—an odd mix of office slave and goddess worshipper. In other words, tacky, tacky, tacky.
    My mom sat at the table, packing apples and bottles of water into a cooler. She stood up as soon as I walked in.
    â€œWhat do you think?” She did a little twirl. She was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, denim overalls that were three sizes too big, a straw hat and black rubber boots. It looked like a Halloween farmer costume.
    â€œWhere’s the piece of hay to stick between your teeth?” I said.
    â€œRight here.” She stuck a long piece of grass between her teeth. “I got it from the park yesterday.”
    â€œThat probably has dog pee all over it,” I groaned and yanked the fridge door open.
    Inside was half a tomato, a nearly empty jar of mustard and a carton of blueberry yogurt. Sometimes my mom gets so into living spiritually that she forgets to buy groceries.
    â€œJust think,” my mom said, the grass still sticking out of her mouth. “In less than seven hours we’ll be petting goats!”
    My mom blabbed in a nonstop monologue the whole car ride. She was trying to make up for my lack of interest by being enthusiastic for both of us.
    I crossed my arms and looked out the window the whole time. She still didn’t understand how angry I was.
    â€œI really want to learn more about organic cooking. Ooh, I wonder if we’ll get to milk a goat. That would be fun.
    Maybe we’ll feed the chickens and pigs!”
    After about five torturous hours, our ancient 1984 Dodge Colt started overheating. I couldn’t believe it had gotten us that far.
    â€œDave needs a rest,” Mom said as we pulled off the highway. She calls her car Dave, after an old boyfriend. “Perfect! I’ve heard they have the best veggie burgers at The Hut here.”
    Vegetarianism was my mom’s latest thing. She had even stuck a bumper sticker on the car that said, Animals are my friends. I don’t eat my friends .
    We pulled into the parking lot of the A-frame burger joint. I sat at a picnic table outside while my mom ordered.
    â€œHere’s your