Free Girls Don't Fly by Kristen Chandler Page A

again. “You aren’t bleeding, are you?”
    “I’m fine,” I say.
    “Of course you are,” says Stella.
    I’m going to be fine. I just need to go home. Right after I quit this job, kill Jonathon, and go back to my pathetic, flightless life.

14
     
    Keel:
     
    The bone that holds muscles together at the front of a bird so it can fly. Flightless cormorants have a stunted keel.
     
     
    “So are you going to stay in bed all day?” says Dad.
    I look at him through the slanted light of the basement windows.
    “I don’t feel so good,” I say.
    “This sulking has to stop, Myra. It’s starting to upset the whole family.”
    “Sorry, I’m just tired,” I say. I stay under my sleeping bag because I don’t know if I have bruises from last night. I don’t think I talked to anyone. All I remember is that I somehow made it home, put the greasy money Stella paid me in my pencil-box bank, and fell asleep in my clothes. I’m still in a semiconscious state this morning, but I know enough not to tell my dad I was tackled by a wannabe gang member.
    “I know you’ve had some bad breaks,” he says.
    “Yep,” I say, hoping he’s not literally right.
    “But we have to move on. Roll with the punches.”
    “I’m trying,” I say. “Really.”
    “Did you get a job?”
    “It wasn’t a good job,” I say.
    “Honest work is good work, Myra.”
    I wish he wouldn’t use that word. Honesty isn’t this family’s strong suit. But there does seem to be plenty of rolling with the punches.
    “We’re going for a drive. Melyssa’s even going to come.... She had another fight with Zeke last night, and we need to get her out today.”
    My dad is a big fan of Sunday drives. Everyone else in our neighborhood goes to church, so I think he feels like we need our own ritual. We drive out of town. Which is a pretty good ritual if you ask me. But lately the boys fight the whole time, and if they’re quiet I can hear my parents not talking. So it makes it hard to care about the scenery.
    “So what about it?” he says.
    “I think I’ll sleep a little more,” I say. I would go if I could stand up without giving the whole battered chicken thing away. And I really do have to study.
    “The boys will be disappointed,” he says roughly. “We were all looking forward to doing something together as a family today.” He marches up the stairs with heavy feet.
    That engineer dad of mine. He knows right where to dig.
     
    By the time they get home from the drive, I’ve made spaghetti with meatballs and fixed Carson’s dinosaur lagoon. I’ve also swallowed enough ibuprofen to burn a hole in my stomach. And I’ve scoured the Internet and seen no sign of Jonathon making my shame viral. At least I won’t have to live that down on Monday.
    No one talks much at dinner except to tell me that the trip was a big downer because Melyssa threw up three times, once in the car. Melyssa stays in her room while we eat.
    After dinner it’s late, and the boys and I lie around on the floor in the family room. Mel is out on the porch with Zeke, so we try to be quiet. Not that we want Mel and Zeke to get back together necessarily. But if they wanted to, it would be okay.
    Andrew tells me in detail about all the shows he watched on TV yesterday, like a rerun without pictures. Brett doesn’t talk. I’m still sore from being tackled, but I’m starting to feel better. Except for the Mel and Zeke show on the porch, it almost feels like a normal Sunday night.
    When Andrew finally finishes his monologue, I talk to Brett. “So what happened to you that day, with the scratch?”
    I scoot closer to him and he scoots away. Maybe if I fessed up about the bruises all over my body he’d talk too. Instead I say, “Who wants to hear what the white witch asked?”
    Everyone, including Brett, moves closer.
    In my best white witch voice I say, “Do you come from the land that holds the magic jewel of Isabela?”
    Danny’s eyes are wide.
    “The pirate king called,