Free Knee High by the 4th of July by Jess Lourey

that I was meant to take care of one of those robins. It would grow up believing I was its mom, and it would sing on my shoulder just like in a Disney movie. We would be tight.
    Later, when I was supposed to be napping, I returned to the nest and snatched the weak little thing, I concealed it in the very back of my sock drawer, which was little-used in the summer. I also pilfered a pound of raw hamburger from the pile in the freezer and set it next to the baby. My attention span being what it was, I quickly forgot both baby and burger until the smell became thick like air vomit. I found the bird, five days after I placed it in there, tiny eyes closed forever behind see-through lids. The hamburger was greenish and flirting with maggots. I tossed the burger in the woods and buried the bird in a shallow grave next to my Barbie doll whose head I had accidentally popped off.
    I knew I was the reason the baby bird had died, and if I had only listened to my cousin, it would still be alive and maybe raising some babies of its own. Since that day, I figured the birds knew me for what I was, and I avoided them at all costs. I pretended it was because I didn’t like them, but the truth was, they had every reason not to like me. I was always on guard for the retributive poop missiles, and this sizzling day would be no exception.
    My community ed class with Johnny Leeson was scheduled for 10:00, with the Wenonga Days parade right on its heels at eleven, followed by some Les-hunting at noon. That plan of attack allowed me enough time to wash some clothes, compose a shopping list, and write a postcard to my friend Sunny, whose house I was sitting. As far as I knew, she was still on a fishing boat in Alaska with her mono-browed lover, Rodney, but she had given me the address of the company’s central office, so I had some place to send mail to. I mulled over what to tell her about the current Wenonga situation. I didn’t like to lie, at least to my friends, but I didn’t want her to accuse me of keeping anything from her should all this have a bad ending. I needed to word it just so:
    Hey, Sunshine! It is so frickin’ hot in Battle Lake that my freckles have melted. Luna is doing fine, though I think she might be getting a little pudgy—I’m going to start taking her on more walks. As Chief Wenonga Days approaches, I can’t help but notice something is missing. Isn’t this the first time in your life you haven’t been at a Wenonga Days parade? Big love! Mira
    I was covered. Hopefully, by the time Sunny phoned, which she did every two weeks or so, this would all be solved, the Chief would be back in place, and I’d only have good news to report. I washed, dried, folded, and put away two loads of clothes, realized that I didn’t need anything from the grocery store besides bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice, and let the animals outside with their ice water placed in the shade. I slid gingerly into my dragon’s mouth of a car. I tuned my radio to the rock station out of Fergus Falls, rolled down the windows, and drove as fast as the gravel would allow to move some air.
    It wasn’t until I passed a police car on the north side of Battle Lake, parked amid the traffic of the weekend flea market, that I remembered that driving my car wasn’t a smart move. On a bike, I could blend in. In my 1982 champagne brown Toyota Corolla hatchback, I was a fish in a barrel. I hunched down into my seat, trying to tighten my ear skin so the anticipated police sirens wouldn’t sound so shrieking harsh as Wohnt hunted me down like a dog. When the air stayed blessedly silent, minus the nasal twang of CCR floating out of my radio, I dared a glance in my rearview mirror. The police car was empty, its occupant likely patrolling in the mayhem of the flea market.
    Four blocks ahead, another police rig was parked, and I could just make out Gary Wohnt steering cars away from the marked-off parade route. It was too early in the day to be dumb twice, so I