they're yellow already！” “Whoa！ Yellow Already—cool name。” “That could work！ But wait—
people might think we mean our bellies！” “Oh； yeah—
forget that！” “Yeah； just let him kill the chicks。”
My brothers looked at each other with enormous eyes and started up all over again。 “Kill the
Chicks！ That's it！ Get it？” “You mean like we're chick
killers？ Or like we kill the chicks？”
Dad turned around and said； “Out。 Both of you； get out。 Go find a name elsewhere。”
So they scrambled out； and the three of us sat in the car with only the gentle peep…peep…
peep from my little flock breaking the silence。 Finally my
mother heaved a heavy sigh and said； “They don't cost much to keep； do they？”
My dad shook his head。 “They eat bugs； Trina。 And a little feed。 They're very low…
maintenance。”
“Bugs？ Really？ What sort of bugs？”
“Earwigs； worms； roly…polys … probably spiders； if they can catch them。 I think they eat
snails； too。”
“Seriously？” My mother smiled。 “Well； in that case …”
“Oh； thank you； Mom。 Thank you！”
And that's how we wound up with chickens。 What none of us thought of was that six chickens
scratching for bugs not only gets rid of bugs； it also
tears up grass。 Within six months there was nothing whatsoever left of our yard。
What we also didn't think of was that chicken feed attracts mice； and mice attract cats。 Feral
cats。 Champ was pretty good at keeping the cats
out of the yard； but they'd hang around the front yard or the side yard； just waiting for him to
snooze so they could sneak in and pounce on some
tender little mousy vittles。
Then my brothers started trapping the mice； which I thought was just to help out。 I didn't
suspect a thing until the day I heard my mother screaming
from the depths of their room。 They were； it turns out； raising a boa constrictor。
Mom's foot came down in a big way； and I thought she was going to throw us out； lock； stock；
and boa； but then I made the most amazing
discovery—chickens lay eggs！ Beautiful； shiny； creamy white eggs！ I first found one under
Bonnie； then Clyde—whom I immediately renamed
Clydette—and one more in Florence's bed。 Eggs！
I raced inside to show my mom； and after a brief moment of blinking at them； she withered
into a chair。 “No；” she whimpered。 “No more chicks！”
“They're not chicks； Mom … they're eggs！”
She was still looking quite pale； so I sat in the chair next to her and said； “We don't have a
rooster…？”
“Oh。” The color was ing back to her cheeks。 “Is that so？”
“I've never heard a cock…a…doodle…do； have you？”
She laughed。 “'41 blessing I guess I've forgotten to count。” She sat up a little and took an egg
from my palm。 “Eggs； huh。 How many do you
suppose they'll lay？”
“I have no idea。”
……… Page 34………
As it turns out； my hens laid more eggs than we could eat。 At first we tried to keep up； but
soon we were tired of boiling and pickling and deviling；
and my mother started plaining that all these free eggs were costing her way too much。
Then one afternoon as I was collecting eggs； our neighbor Mrs。 Stueby leaned over the side
fence and said； “If you ever have any extra； I'd be
happy to buy them from you。”
“Really？” I asked。
“Most certainly。 Nothing quite like free…range eggs。 Two dollars a dozen sound fair to you？”
Two dollars a dozen！ I laughed and said； “Sure！”
“Okay； then。 Whenever you have some extras； just bring 'em over。 Mrs。 Helms and I got to
discussing it last night on the phone； but I asked you
first； so make sure you offer 'em up to me before her； okay； Juli？”
“Sure thing； Mrs。 Stueby！”
Between Mrs。 Stueby and Mrs。 Helms three doors down； my egg overflow problem was
solved。 And maybe I should've turned the money over to
my mother as payment for having destroyed the backyard； but one “Nonsense； Julianna。 It's
yours；” was all it took for me to start squirreling it away。
Then one day as I was walking down to Mrs。 Helms' house； Mrs。 Loski drove by。 She waved
and smiled； and I realized with a pang of guilt that I
wasn't being very neighborly about my eggs。 She didn't know that Mrs。 Helms and Mrs。
Stueby were paying me for these eggs。 She probably
thought I was delivering them out of the kindness of my heart。
And maybe I should've been giving the eggs away； but I'd never had a steady ine before。
Allowance at our house is a hit…or…miss sort of thing。
Usually a miss。 And earning money from my eggs gave me this secret happy feeling； which I
was reluctant to have the kindness of my heart
encroach upon。
But the more I thought about it； the more I realized that Mrs。 Loski deserved some free eggs。
She had been a good neighbor to us； lending us
supplies when we ran out unexpectedly and being late to work herself when my mother
needed a ride because our car wouldn't start。 A few eggs
now and again … it was the least I could do。
There was also the decidedly blissful possibility of running into Bryce。 And in the chilly
sparkle of a new day； Bryce's eyes seemed bluer than
ever。 The way he looked at me—the smile； the blush—it was a Bryce I didn't get to see at
school。 The Bryce at school was way more protected。
By the third time I brought eggs over to the Loskis； I realized that Bryce was waiting for me。
Waiting to pull the door open and say； “Thanks； Juli；”
and then； “See you at school。”
It was worth it。 Even after Mrs。 Helms and Mrs。 Stueby offered me more money per dozen； it
was still worth it。 So； through the rest of sixth grade；
through all of seventh grade and most of eighth； I delivered eggs to the Loskis。 The very best；
shiniest eggs went straight to the Loskis； and in return
I got a few moments alone with the world's most dazzling eyes。
It was a bargain。
Then they cut down the sycamore tree。 And two weeks later Champ died。 He'd been
spending a lot of time sleeping； and even though we didn't
really know how old he was； no one was really surprised when one night Dad went out to
feed him and discovered he was dead。 We buried him in
the backyard； and my brothers put up a cross that reads：
HERE LIES THE MYSTERY PISSER
P。I。P。
I was upset and pretty dazed for a while。 It was raining a lot and I was riding my bike to
school to avoid having to take the bus； and each day when
I'd get home； I'd retreat to my room； lose myself in a novel； and simply forget about collecting
eggs。
……… Page 35………
Mrs。 Stueby was the one who got me back on schedule。 She called to say she'd read about
the tree in the paper and was sorry about everything
that had happened； but it had been some time now and she missed her eggs and was
worried that my hens might quit laying。 “Distress can push a
bird straight into a molting； and we wouldn't want that！ Feathers everywhere and not an egg
in sight。 I'm quite allergic to