{"id":7770,"date":"2017-12-16T18:56:04","date_gmt":"2017-12-17T01:56:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7770"},"modified":"2017-12-16T18:56:04","modified_gmt":"2017-12-17T01:56:04","slug":"chick","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7770","title":{"rendered":"Chick"},"content":{"rendered":"

Emily Livingstone<\/strong><\/p>\n

 
\n <\/p>\n

My brother and I climb into the hutch with the new turkey chicks. It\u2019s our job to wipe the blood off their beaks, if there is any. If we don\u2019t, Dad says, the other chicks will gang up and peck the bloody ones to death. They can\u2019t stand the sight of blood against the white fluff.<\/p>\n

We also name and cuddle the chicks, forgiving them when they poop in our hands.<\/p>\n

I tell Teresa about the chicks at school. Teresa is probably my best friend, but I\u2019m not hers. She said she didn\u2019t celebrate her birthday this year, but I think she did. I tell her to have something to say, to be one of the girls talking before class, and Bella hears.<\/p>\n

\u201cGross,\u201d Bella says. \u201cWhat are you, some farm girl?\u201d<\/p>\n

I blink at her. I like thinking of myself as a farm girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s next? You going to chop off their heads? Get all bloody?\u201d<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a weird sucking feeling under the ribs on my right side. Bella tosses her head, turning to watch the teacher enter.<\/p>\n

\u201cBloody farmer girl,\u201d Bella\u2019s friend, Charity, whispers, without even turning her head.<\/p>\n

Again, the whooshing sensation in my abdomen, this time right where my belly button is, as if the skin is being sucked in toward my spine. I feel hot and my palms are sweating.<\/p>\n

\u201cMs. S, may I go to the bathroom?\u201d I say, raising my hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait to be called on, Grace,\u201d Ms. S. says, annoyed. \u201cBut yes, go ahead.\u201d Another little prick in my belly.<\/p>\n

I glance at Teresa as I get up, but she\u2019s staring at her notebook.<\/p>\n

The bathroom is empty, thank God.<\/p>\n

I shut the stall door and lift up my shirt. There are three holes in me, two about the size of golf balls, and one the size of a pencil. I use my phone to take a picture of myself. I can actually see the concrete wall and the flusher through the holes in my stomach.<\/p>\n

My knees wobble, but I can\u2019t sit here. I think about the nurse, but I don\u2019t want to show her. I go back to class.<\/p>\n

When the bell rings, Bella leans toward me, saying, \u201cWhere are your overalls?\u201d<\/p>\n

I gasp as I feel another hole shoot through me, right under my breasts. I hope I don\u2019t lose those because they\u2019re small enough already. I know I look about ten compared to girls like Bella and Charity.<\/p>\n

I hurry through the hall, hunched forward, even though no one can see because my shirt covers the holes. I make it through the rest of the day with only two more: my right thigh and my left ankle.<\/p>\n

At home, I\u2019m hungry, but I\u2019m afraid to eat with the holes in my stomach, so I just stare at the refrigerator. My brother pushes past me, opens the fridge door and grabs a soda, like I\u2019m not even there. A hole erupts in my shoulder. This one, you can see — so I get a sweater.<\/p>\n

At dinner, my hands shake. My half-sister, Juniper, is here tonight, telling a funny story about softball practice. Juniper is beautiful. Boys and girls like her, and she moves like a sexy queen in a movie.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere you going tonight?\u201d I ask her as I load the dishes into the dishwasher.<\/p>\n

She shrugs, waving a hand to sweep the inexplicable from my grasp. \u201cOut with Timmy and some friends.\u201d<\/p>\n

Air knifes through my chest, right under my neck, and I drop the glass I\u2019m holding. It smashes. What\u2019s left of me reddens.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d Dad asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe didn\u2019t mean <\/em>to,\u201d Mom says.<\/p>\n

\u201cBe more careful!\u201d he says.<\/p>\n

I know he grew up in a house that had almost nothing. I know. Tears are sliding down my face, and I manage to sweep up the glass before my arms disappear.<\/p>\n

I go to my room feeling crumby, especially since my legs are gone now.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan you try to get along with your father?\u201d my mother says through the door.<\/p>\n

The air sucks away my heart, the rest of my chest, my neck, and my mouth. I can\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n

She walks away.<\/p>\n

Only a face with ears and eyes, I drift out, past my parents sitting in armed silence, past my brother playing a video game, past Juniper, texting on the porch steps. I waft to the turkey coop and peer in at the chicks. I want to cuddle them, but I can\u2019t now. My face is gone, and I\u2019m only a strand of brown hair. A breeze catches me, and I float toward the tree branches. There\u2019s so little left; it\u2019s easy to lose sight of me altogether.<\/p>\n

 
\n 
\n 
\n <\/p>\n

EMILY LIVINGSTONE<\/strong> is a writer, tutor, and stay-at-home mom living in Massachusetts with her husband, daughter, and German Shepherd. Her work has appeared in Cleaver Magazine<\/em>, Necessary Fiction<\/em>, The Molotov Cocktail<\/em>, and others, and was recently nominated for The Best of the Net 2017. She tweets @Emi_Livingstone.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Emily Livingstone     My brother and I climb into the hutch with the new turkey chicks. It\u2019s our job to wipe the blood off their beaks, if there is any. If we don\u2019t, Dad says, the other chicks will … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":7766,"menu_order":3,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-7770","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-21k","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7770","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7770"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7770\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7776,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7770\/revisions\/7776"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7766"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7770"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}