Flipped

  That night after it was all over and I was packing up to go home, Mom asked, “So do these go back to Mrs. Brubeck now?”

  “Do what go back to Mrs. Brubeck?” I asked her.

  “The chicks, Juli. You’re not planning to raise chickens, are you?”

  To be honest, I hadn’t thought beyond the hatch. My focus had been strictly on bringing them into the world. But she was right—here they were. Six fluffy little adorable chicks, each of which had a name and, I could already tell, its own unique personality.

  “I … I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’ll ask Mrs. Brubeck.”

  I tracked down Mrs. Brubeck, but I was praying that she didn’t want me to give them back to her friend. 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. “Kill the Chicks! That’s it! Get it?” “You mean like we’re chick killers? Or like we kill the chicks?”

  Dad turned around and said, “Out. Both of you, get out. Go find a name elsewhere.”

  So they scrambled out, and the three of us sat in the car with only the gentle peep-peep-peep from my little flock breaking the silence. Finally my mother heaved a heavy sigh and said, “They don’t cost much to keep, do they?”

  My dad shook his head. “They eat bugs, Trina. And a little feed. They’re very low-maintenance.”

  “Bugs? Really? What sort of bugs?”

  “Earwigs, worms, roly-polys … probably spiders, if they can catch them. I think they eat snails, too.”

  “Seriously?” My mother smiled. “Well, in that case … ”

  “Oh, thank you, Mom. Thank you!”

  And that’s how we wound up with chickens. What none of us thought of was that six chickens scratching for bugs not only gets rid of bugs, it also tears up grass. Within six months there was nothing whatsoever left of our yard.

  What we also didn’t think of was that chicken feed attracts mice, and mice attract cats. Feral cats. Champ was pretty good at keeping the cats out of the yard, but they’d hang around the front yard or the side yard, just waiting for him to snooze so they could sneak in and pounce on some tender little mousy vittles.

  Then my brothers started trapping the mice, which I thought was just to help out. I didn’t suspect a thing until the day I heard my mother screaming from the depths of their room. They were, it turns out, raising a boa constrictor.

  Mom’s foot came down in a big way, and I thought she was going to throw us out, lock, stock, and boa, but then I made the most amazing discovery—chickens lay eggs! Beautiful, shiny, creamy white eggs! I first found one under Bonnie, then Clyde—whom I immediately renamed Clydette—and one more in Florence’s bed. Eggs!

  I raced inside to show my mom, and after a brief moment of blinking at them, she withered into a chair. “No,” she whimpered. “No more chicks!”

  “They’re not chicks, Mom … they’re eggs!”

  She was still looking quite pale, so I sat in the chair next to her and said, “We don’t have a rooster … ?”

  “Oh.” The color was coming back to her cheeks. “Is that so?”

  “I’ve never heard a cock-a-doodle-do, have you?”

  She laughed. “A blessing I guess I’ve forgotten to count.” She sat up a little and took an egg from my palm. “Eggs, huh. How many do you suppose they’ll lay?”

  “I have no idea.”

  As it turns out, my hens laid more eggs than we could eat. At first we tried to keep up, but soon we were tired of boiling and pickling and deviling, and my mother started complaining that all these free eggs were costing her way too much.

  Then one afternoon as I was collecting eggs, our neighbor Mrs. Stueby leaned over the side fence and said, “If you ever have any extra, I’d be happy to buy them from you.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Most certainly. Nothing quite like free-range eggs. Two dollars a dozen sound fair to you?”

  Two dollars a dozen! I laughed and said, “Sure!”

  “Okay, then. Whenever you have some extras, just bring ’em over. Mrs. Helms and I got to discussing it last night on the phone, but I asked you first, so make sure you offer ’em up to me before her, okay, Juli?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Stueby!”

  Between Mrs. Stueby and Mrs. Helms three doors down, my egg overflow problem was solved. And maybe I should’ve turned the money over to my mother as payment for having destroyed the backyard, but one “Nonsense, Julianna. It’s yours,” was all it took for me to start squirreling it away.

  Then one day as I was walking down to Mrs. Helms’ house, Mrs. Loski drove by. She waved and smiled, and I realized with a pang of guilt that I wasn’t being very neighborly about my eggs. She didn’t know that Mrs. Helms and Mrs. Stueby were paying me for these eggs. She probably thought I was delivering them out of the kindness of my heart.

  And maybe I should’ve been giving the eggs away, but I’d never had a steady income before. Allowance at our house is a hit-or-miss sort of thing. Usually a miss. And earning money from my eggs gave me this secret happy feeling, which I was reluctant to have the kindness of my heart encroach upon.

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Mrs. Loski deserved some free eggs. She had been a good neighbor to us, lending us supplies when we ran out unexpectedly and being late to work herself when my mother needed a ride because our car wouldn’t start. A few eggs now and again … it was the least I could do.

  There was also the decidedly blissful possibility of running into Bryce. And in the chilly sparkle of a new day, Bryce’s eyes seemed bluer than ever. The way he looked at me—the smile, the blush—it was a Bryce I didn’t get to see at school. The Bryce at school was way more protected.

  By the third time I brought eggs over to the Loskis, I realized that Bryce was waiting for me. Waiting to pull the door open and say, “Thanks, Juli,” and then, “See you at school.”

  It was worth it. Even after Mrs. Helms and Mrs. Stueby offered me more money per dozen, it was still worth it. So, through the rest of sixth grade, through all of seventh grade and most of eighth, I delivered eggs to the Loskis. The very best, shiniest eggs went straight to the Loskis, and in return I got a few moments alone with the world’s most dazzling eyes.

  It was a bargain.

  Then they cut down the sycamore tree. And two weeks later Champ died. He’d been spending a lot of time sleeping, and even though we didn’t really know how old he was, no one was really surprised when one night Dad went out to feed him and discovered he was dead. We buried him in the backyard, and my brothers put up a cross that reads:

  HERE LIES THE MYSTERY PISSER

  P.I.P.

  I was upset and pretty dazed for a while. It was raining a lot and I was riding my bike to school to avoid having to take the bus, and each day when I’d get home, I’d retreat to
my room, lose myself in a novel, and simply forget about collecting eggs.

  Mrs. Stueby was the one who got me back on schedule. She called to say she’d read about the tree in the paper and was sorry about everything that had happened, but it had been some time now and she missed her eggs and was worried that my hens might quit laying. “Distress can push a bird straight into a molting, and we wouldn’t want that! Feathers everywhere and not an egg in sight. I’m quite allergic to the feathers myself or I’d probably have a flock of my own, but never you mind. You just bring ’em over when you’re up to it. All’s I wanted was to check in and let you know how sorry I was about the tree. And your dog, too. Your mother mentioned he passed away.”

  So I got back to work. I cleared away the eggs I’d neglected and got back into my routine of collecting and cleaning. And one morning when I had enough, I made the rounds. First Mrs. Stueby, then Mrs. Helms, and finally the Loskis. And as I stood at the Loskis’ threshold, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Bryce in the longest time. Sure, we’d both been at school, but I’d been so preoccupied with other things that I hadn’t really seen him.

  My heart started beating faster, and when the door whooshed open and his blue eyes looked right at me, it took everything I had just to say, “Here.”

  He took the half-carton and said, “You know, you don’t have to give us these … .”

  “I know,” I said, and looked down.

  We stood there for a record-breaking amount of time saying nothing. Finally he said, “So are you going to start riding the bus again?”

  I looked up at him and shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t been up there since … you know.”

  “It doesn’t look so bad anymore. It’s all cleared. They’ll probably start on the foundation soon.”

  It sounded perfectly awful to me.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve got to get ready for school. See you there.” Then he smiled and closed the door.

  For some reason I just stood there. I felt odd. Out of sorts. Disconnected from everything around me. Was I ever going to go back up to Collier Street? I had to eventually, or so my mother said. Was I just making it harder?

  Suddenly the door flew open and Bryce came hurrying out with an overfull kitchen trash can in his hands. “Juli!” he said. “What are you still doing here?”

  He startled me, too. I didn’t know what I was still doing there. And I was so flustered that I would probably just have run home if he hadn’t started struggling with the trash, trying to shove the contents down.

  I reached over and said, “Do you need some help?” because it looked like he was about to spill the trash. Then I saw the corner of an egg carton.

  This wasn’t just any egg carton either. It was my egg carton. The one I’d just brought him. And through the little blue cardboard arcs I could see eggs.

  I looked from him to the eggs and said, “What happened? Did you drop them?”

  “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, and I’m really sorry about that.”

  He tried to stop me, but I took the carton from the trash, saying, “All of them?” I opened the carton and gasped. Six whole, perfect eggs. “Why’d you throw them away?”

  He pushed past me and went around the house to the trash bin, and I followed him, waiting for an answer.

  He shook the garbage out, then turned to face me. “Does the word salmonella mean anything to you?”

  “Salmonella? But … ”

  “My mom doesn’t think it’s worth the risk.”

  I followed him back to the porch. “Are you saying she won’t eat them because—”

  “Because she’s afraid of being poisoned.”

  “Poisoned! Why?”

  “Because your backyard is, like, covered in turds! I mean, look at your place, Juli!” He pointed at our house and said, “Just look at it. It’s a complete dive!”

  “It is not!” I cried, but the truth was sitting right across the street, impossible to deny. My throat suddenly choked closed and I found it painful to speak. “Have you … always thrown them away?”

  He shrugged and looked down. “Juli, look. We didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “My feelings? Do you realize Mrs. Stueby and Mrs. Helms pay me for my eggs?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No! They pay me two dollars a dozen!”

  “No way.”

  “It’s true! All those eggs I gave to you I could’ve sold to Mrs. Stueby or Mrs. Helms!”

  “Oh,” he said, and looked away. Then he eyed me and said, “Well, why did you just give them to us?”

  I was fighting back tears, but it was hard. I choked out, “I was trying to be neighborly … !”

  He put down the trash can, then did something that made my brain freeze. He held me by the shoulders and looked me right in the eyes. “Mrs. Stueby’s your neighbor, isn’t she? So’s Mrs. Helms, right? Why be neighborly to us and not them?”

  What was he trying to say? Was it still so obvious how I felt about him? And if he knew, how could he have been so heartless, just throwing my eggs away like that, week after week, year after year?

  I couldn’t find any words. None at all. I just stared at him, at the clear, brilliant blue of his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Juli,” he whispered.

  I stumbled home, embarrassed and confused, my heart completely cracked open.

  Bryce: Get a Grip, Man

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that I’d traded in my old problems with Juli Baker for a whole new set of problems with Juli Baker. I could feel her anger a mile away.

  It was actually worse having her mad at me than having her harass me. Why? Because I’d screwed up, that’s why. I had egg all over my face, and blaming it on her yard had done nothing to wash it off. The way she ignored me, or so obviously avoided me, was a screaming loud reminder to me that I’d been a jerk. A royal cluck-faced jerk.

  Then one day I’m coming home from hanging out with Garrett after school, and there’s Juli in her front yard, hacking at a shrub. She is thrashing on the thing. Branches are flying over her shoulder, and clear across the street I can hear her grunting and growling and saying stuff like, “No … you … don’t! You are coming … off … whether you like it or … not!”

  Did I feel good about this? No, my friend, I did not. Yeah, their yard was a mess, and it was about time someone did something about it, but c’mon — where’s the dad? What about Matt and Mike? Why Juli?

  Because I’d embarrassed her into it, that’s why. I felt worse than ever.

  So I snuck inside and tried to ignore the fact that here’s my desk and here’s my window, and right across the street from me is Juli, beating up a bush. Not conducive to concentration. No siree, Bob. I got all of zero homework done.

  The next day at school I was trying to get up the nerve to say something to her, but I never even got the chance. She wouldn’t let me get anywhere near her.

  Then on the ride home I had this thought. It kind of freaked me out at first, but the more I played with it, the more I figured that, yeah, helping her with the yard would make up for my having been such a jerk. Assuming she didn’t boss me too much, and assuming she didn’t decide to get all gooey-eyed or something stupid like that. No, I’d go up and just tell her that I felt bad for being a jerk and I wanted to make it up to her by helping her cut back some bushes. Period. End of story. And if she still wanted to be mad at me after that, then fine. That was her problem.

  My problem was, I never got the chance. I came trekking down from the bus stop to find my grandfather doing my good deed.

  Now, jump back. This was not something I could immediately absorb. My grandfather did not do yard work. At least, he’d never offered to help me out. My grandfather lived in house slippers — where’d he get those work boots? And those jeans and that flannel shirt — what was up with those?

  I crouched behind a neighbor’s hedge and watched them for ten or fifteen minutes, and man, the longer I watched, the mad
der I got. My grandfather had already said more to her in this little slice of time than he’d said to me the whole year and a half he’d been living with us. What was his deal with Juli Baker?

  I took the back way home, which involved climbing two fences and kicking off the neighbor’s stupid little terrier, but it was worth it, considering I avoided the garden party across the street.

  Again I got no homework done. The more I watched them, the madder I got. I was still a cluck-faced jerk, while Juli was laughing it up with my grandfather. Had I ever seen him smile? Really smile? I don’t think so! But now he was knee-high in nettles, laughing.

  At dinner that night he’d showered and changed back into his regular clothes and house slippers, but he didn’t look the same. It was like someone had plugged him in and turned on the light.

  “Good evening,” he said as he sat down with the rest of us. “Oh, Patsy, that looks delicious!”

  “Well, Dad,” my mom said with a laugh, “your excursion across the street seems to have done you a world of good.”

  “Yeah,” my father said. “Patsy tells me you’ve been over there all afternoon. If you were in the mood for home improvement projects, why didn’t you just say so?”

  My father was just joking around, but I don’t think my grandfather took it that way. He helped himself to a cheese-stuffed potato and said, “Pass the salt, won’t you, Bryce?”

  So there was this definite tension between my father and my grandfather, but I think if Dad had dropped the subject right then, the vibe would’ve vanished.

  Dad didn’t drop it, though. Instead, he said, “So why’s the girl the one who’s finally doing something about their place?”

  My grandfather salted his potato very carefully, then looked across the table at me. Ah-oh, I thought. Ah-oh. In a flash I knew those stupid eggs were not behind me. Two years of sneaking them in the trash, two years of avoiding discussion of Juli and her eggs and her chickens and her early-morning visits, and for what? Granddad knew, I could see it in his eyes. In a matter of seconds he’d crack open the truth, and I’d be as good as fried.