4. Everett #2
I never talk about middle school. Ever. Not to anyone. But I remember it just fine. The summer before seventh grade, I was five-four and maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. That year there was this kid named Derek Roth who decided I was his personal punching bag for no reason other than he could.
Every day. Hallways, locker rooms. He would knock my books out of my hands and call me a bitch when I bent down to pick them up. He’d slam me against lockers, shove my head in trash cans. He’d pull whatever I was holding out of my hands on the bus and throw it out the window while we were moving.
He also told everyone my parents didn’t want me, which was true. It wasn’t something I needed the whole world to know, though.
But that next summer, I grew six inches. I started lifting, too. By eighth grade, Derek crossed the street when he saw me coming. I never touched him. I didn’t have to. But I would have, and he knew it, and that was enough.
That’s the thing about bullies. They only work when you can’t fight back. The second you can, they vanish. They’re nothing. They’ve always been nothing, and they’ve always known it, which is why they always choose someone smaller than them.
Sitting here, I remember all of it so clearly; it makes my pulse pick up and the burger go sour in my stomach. That helpless feeling. Being cornered. Feeling small and knowing there’s nobody coming to help.
I know how it feels. I also know how it feels when it stops.
“The chickens helped,” she continues, picking up another fry. “I know it sounds weird, but they did. They needed me, and I guess I needed something that needed me. Cardigan, Marjorie, Betty, Tennessee, and Starlight.”
“Interesting names.”
“They’re named after Taylor Swift songs.” And now she blushes, and it’s kind of cute even if I can’t agree with her taste. “I also have a rooster. His name is Brad Pitt.”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
“It’s a funny name because he’s not handsome at all,” she explains with a tiny smile that makes her dimples show up.
I have to force myself to stop noticing them.
“They’re my family. I know it’s weird. I know Christine thinks they’re just animals that don’t belong in a residential neighborhood.
But she’s wrong. They’re mine, and they matter.
I’m not giving them up just because some lady with a clipboard and an approved color list says I have to. ”
What’s that quote? I heard it a long time ago. She’s small, but she’s fierce, something like that. It’s Isla in a nutshell. The harder Christine tries to separate them, the tighter Isla will hold on.
“How long do you have?”
“I got the notice yesterday. It said we have ten business days. So... nine business days now.”
“And what happens if nothing changes by then?”
Lines form between her eyebrows when she frowns.
“I don’t know. We’ll probably be fined. There might be a formal hearing.
For two years, Christine has been threatening to escalate.
Grandma thinks she’s bluffing, but I don’t know anymore.
The messages are getting more specific.” If she’s not careful, she’ll chew straight through her lip.
I signal for the check without saying a word.
The waitress brings it, and I hand over my card before Isla can reach for her wallet.
She gives me one of those confused looks where she’s waiting for the catch, and I’m starting to wonder if anyone has ever been decent to this girl without wanting something from her. I mean, just once.
We’re both quiet on the way back to campus.
She’s staring out the window, chewing her thumbnail now instead of her lip.
All I can think about is how much she must need those chickens to make her life feel manageable.
What it would mean to lose them. It would probably feel like giving up part of herself.
Actually, that’s not all I can think about. In the back of my head, there’s a playbook I have to study. Tomorrow’s practice. Another upcoming fight I need to win because the money from it pays my mortgage. My coach, who’s already watching me like he’s waiting for me to screw up again.
My life has no room in it for chickens. There’s no room for a five-foot girl who names her pets after Taylor Swift songs either.
But that little smartass comment she made in the optometrist’s office keeps replaying, ringing in my ears. You don’t actually have to hurt anybody. You just have to make them believe you’ll do it.
I’ve been doing it for a long time now. I might as well have a reason for it.
She doesn’t even have to tell me which car is hers once we reach the lot, not only because the lot has thinned out the way it usually does in the afternoon. I spot her beat-up Honda and slow down before pulling in next to it. “How did you know this one is mine?” she asks.
“It might have something to do with the ‘I brake for poultry’ bumper sticker,” I deadpan.
“Oh. Right.”
She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t reach for the door handle right away. “Will you think about it, at least?”
Staring through the windshield, I reply, “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no either. I’ll be in touch.”
She exhales a huffy little breath before opening the door. “Thank you for the glasses and the food. And for not being a serial killer,” she adds, “because I definitely got into a stranger’s car twice in twenty-four hours, which is not something I plan on making a habit of.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“I know. I just...” She stops and pushes her glasses up. “Thank you.”
I wait until she pulls out of the lot before putting the truck in gear.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not looking forward to my fight tonight.
By now, I’m usually counting the hours. Running combos in my head, noticing a familiar buzz starting in my gut and spreading through my body.
Instead, all I can think about is how stubborn and worried she sounded.
The way her face changed when she told me about the chickens, like she really loves them.
As I pull out of the lot, I remind myself I haven’t decided anything.
That’s a lie, though, because I have. I know I have. I just haven’t said it out loud yet.