Free Pieces of Us by Margie Gelbwasser Page A

say.

Alex
     
    T oday is chicken day, and I’m pumped.
    “How can you watch it?” Katya asks as she heads to the swings.
    The real question should be, how can you not watch it? It’s Survivor, Real World, and straight-on documentary all rolled into one.
    I’m not some sicko (but no worries, I’ve been called worse) who gets his jollies watching headless animals flail around. It’s just something to do.
    I jump over the bench and sit next to Julie. Today Chicken Man got himself a name. “Wilbur,” I say laughing. “Talk about ironic.”
    “Look who finally learned to read,” she says. Wouldn’t surprise me if she secretly gets off on watching Wilbur wield his knife.
    “Watch it little girl, or I’ll have to spank you,” I say, knowing this will skeeve her out. She plays it so innocent but I wonder if she’s the type who’d be into getting paddled. Not that it matters, since I’m with Katya. Besides, she’s more Kyle’s speed. He needs someone like Julie who doesn’t know a guy’s cock from his balls. A girl who knows what she’s doing freaks him out. I’ve been watching the two of them in the lake, playing tag like lame-asses. How is that kid sixteen? If it were me, there’d be no swimming away.
    Wilbur takes out his knife and starts slicing away. The first victim is a feisty one. They usually aren’t. When the knife cuts the chicken’s artery, severing its head, blood splatters in Wilbur’s face and hair. I laugh, and everyone stares at me but I don’t give a fuck. That chicken deserves some respect. It’s fighting it out, trying to show ol’ Wilbur that it ain’t going quietly. It flies high in the air over the other chickens, raining blood on their feathers. Take that, bitches! You’re next. See you in chicken heaven! Wilbur curses, and the chicken is losing steam. It lands on Wilbur’s bloody shoes. Some feathers fall to the dirt. He picks it up, puts it in a plastic bag, and gives it to a grandma, tossing the head in the green dumpster behind him.
    Julie looks like she’s going to hurl. “Shouldn’t stick around if you can’t hack it,” I say.
    She swallows. “I can hack it,” she says quietly, a fierceness on her face I’ve never seen on Katya’s.
    “Huh,” I say. “Maybe you can teach your big sister to
be tough.”
    She clenches her fists when Wilbur pulls out the next chicken. “Bring it,” she snarls, like this is what she’s been waiting to hear.
    Her eyes flash fire and hate, and I’m glad Katya is not here to see it.

Alex
     
    T hree weeks since the chicken man came, and nothing has changed. Same old shit. The grandgeezers play cards and dominoes all day. The clothes make the same sound on the line outside: Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. At the first sign of gray clouds, the grandmas take down the clothespins and rush the clothes inside. Sometimes I wish for a surprise thunderstorm just to shake things up. If it weren’t for Katya, I’d lose my mind. Doesn’t hurt that we still haven’t done it. I save that for the sluts back home. I don’t want Katya to become one of them . They get me off, but they’re growing stale, like we’re one fuck away from growing mold.
    The saddest, most pathetic shit of all here? Kyle and Julie. One of them needs to grow a pair soon and I’m putting my money on Julie. I’m watching Kyle from the window now, playing another game of Spit. He’s not even trying to touch her. She puts her cards in a pile, leaves her hand in the middle of the damn bench, and I can see she wants him to touch her hand like in those dumb-ass chick flick movies. It’s embarrassing, really. For all the game Katya has, Julie has nada. And I don’t think it’s the age thing, because I had plenty of game by the time I was fourteen.
    So she finally moves her hand after my loser of a brother picks the other pile. The bigger pile. Which makes me wonder if he didn’t go for that one on purpose. You’d think the kid could get play any time he wants with his