After all, I’d hatched them. I’d named them. I’d saved them from mushy chick disease! These little peepers were mine!
To my relief and my mother’s horror, Mrs. Brubeck said they were indeed mine. All mine.
“Have fun,” she said, then zipped off to help Heidi dismantle her exhibit on Bernoulli’s law.
Mom was quiet the whole way home, and I could tell—she wanted chickens like she wanted a tractor and a goat.
“Please, Mom?” I whispered as we parked at the curb. “Please?” She covered her face.
“Where are we going to raise chickens, Juli? Where?” “In the backyard?” I didn’t know what else to suggest.
“What about Champ?” “They’ll get along, Mom. I’ll teach him. I promise.”
My dad said softly, “They’re pretty self-sufficient, Trina.”
But then the boys piped up with, “Champ’ll piss ’em to death, Mom,” and suddenly they were on a roll.
“Yeah! But you won’t even notice ’cause they’re yellow already!” “Whoa! Yellow Already—cool name.”
“That could work! But wait– people might think we mean our bellies!” “Oh, yeah—forget that!”
“Yeah, just let him kill the chicks.” My brothers looked at each other with enormous eyes and started up all over again.
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