Free Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser

into each other’s eyes.
    Then we’d kiss. I stare at him and lick my lips.
    “Julie?” he says quietly.
    “Yeah?” I move closer and lightly touch his arm, like I’ve seen Katie do with Alex.
    He glances at my hand and tenses. Or maybe I’m imagining that. I put it back at my side just in case. I think he exhales.
    We continue to stare at each other and I hear little kids by the shore. Suddenly, Kyle splashes me. “You’re it,” he says, and swims away.

Julie
     
    ~ The Chickens ~
     
    T here are benches in a semicircle at the far end of the lake houses beside the dumpsters. Some grandmas lined the grass with newspapers to catch falling chicken guts, and now they’re seated and waiting for the chicken man to begin. He gets out of his truck—white with a big yellow chicken painted on the side—and sets up the cages full of squawking chickens a few feet away. The grandmas get up from their spots to inspect and pick a favorite while Chicken Man sharpens his knives.
    “Have fun,” Katie says, scurrying away to join Kyle on the swings, her favorite place and also the furthest from the slaughter.
    They never watch, but Alex and I always do.
    “It’s just sick,” Katie says each time she sees the truck coming down the gravel path toward the cottages.
    “Please. You eat it after Babushka roasts it. What’s the difference?”
    I’m sure in Katie’s head, it’s not the same. Just like she can have a school boyfriend and a summer boyfriend. She has this way of grouping things—“compartmentalizing” them, my English teacher calls it. Not seeing the killing somehow changes what happened, I guess. Maybe she decides the chicken my grandma cooks is not the man’s but from the store (although those had to be killed, too, so whatever).
    I don’t think I’m sick for wanting to watch. It makes me feel better, like I can somehow give these dying chickens support before they’re sliced. Like a last request before the electric chair. And then there’s a part of me that just wants to watch because I know it bothers Katie.
    Today, Chicken Man is wearing a nametag: Wilbur . The only thing I can think about is Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web , and that’s just wrong. If I were him, I’d opt out of the name tag.
    “Wilbur,” laughs Alex, coming up behind me. “Talk about ironic.” He swings a leg over the bench and sits down beside me.
    “Look who finally learned to read,” I say. I don’t know what surprises me more—that he knows the meaning of irony or that he’s read Charlotte’s Web .
    He raises his eyebrows. “Watch it, little girl, or I’ll have to spank you.”
    He looks like he might actually like to do it, and that grosses me out. I move away from him, and Wilbur picks up his first chicken. The knife slices and blood splatters all over Wilbur’s clothes, face, and hair. He curses and drops the chicken. It flies over the other chickens, leaving its blood on their feathers. The grandmas grimace.
    I glance over at Alex. He looks fascinated. This chicken is a fighter, and he likes that. I don’t know if I do. What’s the point in fighting if you know, in the end, it won’t help. Just better to go quietly and not ruffle any feathers.
    The chicken is not finished and more blood flows from it. Finally, it lands at Wilbur’s feet. Who would want that chicken now? It’s hot and I swear I can smell the blood. My stomach rumbles and I think I’m going to be sick.
    “Shouldn’t stick around if you can’t hack it,” says Alex.
    I want to punch him. I swallow down the vomit rising in my throat. “I can hack it.”
    And the look he gives me is weird, like I fascinate him, like he’d like to see what I would do if I were the chicken.
    “Huh,” he says. “Maybe you can teach your big sister to be tough.”
    Me teach her something? A strength I have that Katie doesn’t? I like that. I clench my fists and bare my teeth. “Maybe.” Wilbur pulls out another chicken and I face Alex. “Bring it,” I