7. Isla
ISLA
I’ve texted Everett four times, which is a totally sane thing to do.
An hour later, I stopped pretending to be chill. Are you seriously not answering me right now?
I’m not proud of the fourth one. I swear to God, if you ghost me after what happened, I’ll find you and I will bring Brad Pitt, and he will peck you to death. Yes, I included a rooster’s name in a threat. No, I don’t care how it sounds, because I’m spiraling.
It’s past eleven now. The clock is ticking.
My phone is silent. I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub, arms wrapped around my knees, wondering how I managed to let a guy I’ve known for less than a week touch me in ways I’ve never been touched before and then just not answer his phone the next time I need him.
Was that the point of it? Was he using me?
I don’t want to think about what happened.
I don’t want to remember the way his hands felt.
The way his voice sounded in my ear. The way I came apart like I was nothing, like I was made of paper, like he barely had to try.
I don’t want to think about how afterward he looked at me with those dark eyes, and I couldn’t tell if he was satisfied or amused or something else entirely.
I especially don’t want to think about how much I liked it. All of it. Every second. Even the parts that scared me.
I don’t want to think about any of it because in less than an hour, Christine Jones is going to be standing in my living room, and the one person I was counting on to stand next to me when she does is too busy to respond to a single text.
Okay, four. One of which contained the threat of death by rooster peck.
I should’ve known, right? I should’ve known this would happen.
This is always what happens when I trust people.
They show up when it’s convenient, make you feel things you didn’t ask to feel, then disappear the second you actually need them.
I’ve watched it happen my whole life. My mom disappeared before I was old enough to remember her face.
My dad died when I was six. Every friend I almost made in high school evaporated the second someone louder or funnier or not named Pickel came along.
Now I can add Everett to that list. He made me believe, for a few stupid days, that somebody might actually show up for me. For my chickens.
I’m an idiot.
“Isla!” Grandma calls out from the kitchen. I swear, she sounds like she’s celebrating. “Come have a mimosa with me!”
I would ask if she’s kidding, but I know better by now. “It’s not even noon, Grandma,” I call out.
“That’s what the orange juice is for!”
I drag myself out of the bathroom and go to the kitchen, where my grandmother is well into what I’m pretty sure has to be her second mimosa, based on the champagne level in the bottle and the fact that she’s humming a song I don’t recognize.
She shimmies by the counter, holding her own personal concert.
She’s also dressed better than I expected.
I kind of figured she’d be in one of her flashy outfits, but instead she’s wearing a floral blouse and white pants that are actually age-appropriate for once.
She’s taking this meeting more seriously than she lets on...
or she’s out of leather skirts. It’s hard to say.
“You look tense,” she observes as she slides a glass my way. “Have a sip. It’ll take the edge off.”
“I don’t have an edge. I have a crisis.” I push the glass back and try to ignore the way she rolls her eyes.
“Christine is showing up in less than an hour. I have no plan, no backup, no—” I almost say “no Everett,” but I stop myself, because saying his name out loud right now might actually make me cry.
I refuse to cry before noon on a Saturday. “I have no strategy.”
“Strategy’s simple.” She takes a sip of her drink and smiles in approval. “We smile, we nod, we tell them we’re working on it. And then we don’t work on it. It’s the same strategy I used with your granddad for thirty years, and it worked like a charm.”
When I open my mouth, she waves a hand and cuts off anything else I was about to say. “Relax. It’s going to be fine.”
It is not going to be fine.
There’s a knock at the front door at 11:30. In a panic, I check my phone again. Nothing from Everett. The screen stares back at me, blank and useless. Something in my chest hardens into a knot, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to untie it later.
I open the door.
It’s the Joneses. Both of them. Christine is standing in front with a clipboard in hand, wearing a blazer that probably cost more than my whole wardrobe.
I wonder if it hurts when she pulls her bleached hair back as tight as she did this morning.
Is she trying to give herself a DIY facelift or something?
Her husband, Dennis, is behind her with his hands clasped in front of him, like he’s attending a funeral he doesn’t want to be at. They’re early. Of course, they are. That’s the kind of power move she would pull. Show up before you’re expected so the other person isn’t ready.
“Miss Pickel.” Christine’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It barely reaches her mouth. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. May we come in?”
Like I have a choice. If only. I want to close the door and go sit in the backyard with my chickens and pretend none of this is happening. Instead, I step aside and let them in, because I was raised to be polite even when I want to scream.
Grandma appears from the kitchen with her mimosa still in hand. “Welcome, welcome,” she says, gesturing toward the sofa with her glass. “Please, sit down. I’m sure we can all reach a beneficial conclusion here.”
One problem: she added an extra syllable to the word “beneficial.” I know what that means.
And so does Christine, who looks at the mimosa, then back up to Grandma’s face before her expression shifts into something I can only describe as disgusted pity. Like she’s looking at something on the bottom of her shoe that she can’t be bothered to scrape off.
“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Pickel.” Christine sits on the edge of the couch like she’s afraid the furniture might carry something contagious. Dennis takes the chair across from her. He still looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. “I think we both know why we’re here.”
“The chickens.” Grandma settles into her armchair. “Which, by the way, have never once caused a problem for anyone in this neighborhood.”
Christine looks at her husband as if he’s supposed to say something. Obviously, he doesn’t speak up as soon as she wants him to. “The bylaws are clear, Mrs. Pickel,” she replies. “Livestock is prohibited—”
“Chickens aren’t livestock,” I blurt out.
Well, now everybody’s looking at me. Terrific.
My favorite thing. I have to ignore the prickly feeling along the back of my neck and swallow back my nerves, but somehow, I manage to do it even though my heart is trying to escape through my throat.
“There is nothing in the HOA agreement that specifically prohibits chickens. I’ve read it three times. ”
Christine arches an eyebrow. “The agreement prohibits livestock, Miss Pickel. Chickens fall under that category.”
“Actually, the legal definition of livestock varies by state, and in this state—”
“I’m not here to debate semantics.” She uncaps a pen and makes a note on her clipboard.
“I am here to inform you that the board has voted unanimously to escalate this matter. You have until the end of the coming week to remove the animals from the property, or we will be forced to involve the authorities.”
“The authorities?” My voice cracks. “You’re going to call the police over some chickens?”
“And a rooster,” Dennis adds helpfully from his chair, like that’s the detail that really tips the scales. Christine closes her eyes for a beat, like she’s irked he chose now to speak up.
Then she says, “We will do whatever is necessary to enforce the community standards that every resident agreed to when they moved in.” She clicks her pen twice for emphasis. Somehow, that’s the most threatening thing anyone has ever done in my living room.
“Oh, come on now,” Grandma cuts in, waving her mimosa.
Her words are now running together in a way that tells me she’s passed the point of taking the edge off and well into the edge doesn’t exist anymore territory.
“You’re going to call the police? For what?
Are they going to put handcuffs on the chickens?
Read them their rights? ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you cluck can and will be used against you?’”
Christine’s mouth tightens into a line so thin it practically disappears. “Mrs. Pickel, I assure you this is not a laughing matter.”
“Everything is a laughing matter if you’ve lived long enough, Christine.” Grandma takes another sip. “I’ve been in this neighborhood longer than you have, and I’ll be here long after you’ve moved on to terrorize some other cul-de-sac. So let’s all just calm down and—”
There’s another knock at the door.
There goes my heart, sinking to my feet. Of course she would bring reinforcements. Somebody ready to nod along with whatever she decides. I drag myself to the door and open it, bracing for whatever’s coming next.
It’s Everett.
He’s standing on the porch in a T-shirt that’s damp at the collar. His hair is still wet, like he came straight from wherever he was without stopping to dry it off. He’s got a gym bag over one shoulder, and he’s a little out of breath, but he’s here.
“Sorry,” he says. “Practice ran late.”
All I can do is stare at him. There are roughly forty-seven things bouncing around in my head that I could say to him right now, but all that comes out is, “They’re already here.”
His jaw tightens before he drops the bag by the door and walks in like he owns the place. Considering he takes up roughly a third of the hallway just by existing, that doesn’t feel completely inaccurate.
Grandma spots him first. Her face lights up like a Christmas tree that’s been plugged in after a long winter in storage. She gets up from her chair, walks right over to him, and squeezes his arm with both hands. “There he is. My future grandson-in-law.”
“Grandma,” I murmur. This is not the time. Not that there is ever a time for her antics.
“What position do you play again, honey?” She gives his biceps another squeeze, clearly for her own enjoyment. “Tight end?”
Everett glances at me. I give him a look that says please don’t encourage her, but he’s already fighting a smile. “I’m a linebacker.”
“Even better.” She pats his arm one more time before returning to her chair, grinning.
The Joneses, meanwhile, are doing something I’ve never actually seen them do before. They’re sitting quietly.
Dennis stares at Everett with the expression of a man who just realized the meeting he walked into was not the meeting he prepared for.
His hands have gone from clasped in his lap to gripping the chair armrests.
Christine is still holding her clipboard, but the pen has stopped clicking.
Her eyes move from Everett to me and back to Everett, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t look like she’s in complete control of the situation.
“This is Everett,” I announce, because somebody has to say something. “He’s a friend, and he’s very fond of the chickens.”
“Marjorie is my favorite,” he helpfully adds.
Christine stands, smoothing her blazer. “I think we’ve covered everything we need to cover today. Dennis?”
Dennis is already halfway out of his chair.
“Yes. I think... yes. We should probably—” He glances at Everett one more time, and whatever he sees makes him move faster.
“We’ll be in touch before the end of the week.
And if you think bringing in some muscle is going to change the board’s decision, Miss Pickel, you can think again. ”
He says it to me, but his gaze slides to Everett.
Whatever he was hoping to convey with those words gets swallowed up by the low sound Everett makes in response.
It’s not quite a growl. It’s more like the sound a very large engine makes when someone turns the key.
Just once. Just enough to let you know what’s under the hood.
Dennis Jones is through the front door before his wife has even picked up her purse.
Christine follows him, but not before giving me one last look that says this isn’t over. I believe her. But I also just watched her husband almost trip over his own feet trying to get away from a twenty-year-old, so the threat feels a little less terrifying than it did half an hour ago.
The door closes, and the house goes quiet. Grandma finishes her mimosa and smacks her lips. “I’m going to take a nap.” That’s all she says before heading straight to her room, leaving her glass on the end table.
Now it’s just me and Everett, standing in the living room. “Fuck those people,” he grunts, staring at the closed door. “We’re not giving in.”
We. He said we. Something about that word coming out of his mouth makes the knot in my chest loosen halfway. “I texted you four times,” I whisper with my fists clenched at my sides. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“My phone was in my locker. I didn’t see your messages until after practice,” he explains. “But I’m here now.”
“You’re here now,” I repeat. I hate how much better that makes me feel. I hate how much I need this to work and how much of that need is starting to have less to do with the chickens and more to do with him. “So what do we do now?”
He’s quiet for a second before replying, “I want to spend the rest of the day with you.”
Okay, not at all what I was expecting. My stomach flips, but I don’t think it’s nerves. Or maybe it is, but it’s the kind of nerves that come with a warm, fizzy feeling underneath. I don’t have much experience with that feeling, and I’m not sure what to do with it.
I gulp. Hard. “Okay. You want to hang out here?”
He glances toward the hallway. Behind Grandma’s closed door, I’m sure we can both hear her singing something off-key. “My place. More privacy.”
The word “privacy” does something to my pulse that I’m choosing to ignore. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I said okay.”
He almost smiles. “Then let’s go.”
I grab my bag and my keys and follow him out the front door. Behind us, in the backyard, the girls cluck softly. They can afford to be oblivious to everything.
At this point, the passenger seat is starting to feel familiar, which is either comforting or concerning. I haven’t decided which yet.
But I got in, didn’t I?