Read Online Girls Don't Fly by Kristen Chandler - Free Book Online
Authors: Kristen Chandler
Ads: Link
me. I know he doesn’t care if I keep working at that hole, but he has to side with Mom. Those are the rules of peace in my house. He says, “You can’t be too picky, Myra.”
“Is there anything I can do at the plant?” I say.
“Let’s talk when you aren’t in school.”
“But I need to make money now.” The whine in my voice surprises me.
“Why?” says Mom, looking curious.
“I need to get some money saved away for school and stuff. It’s coming up quick.”
Dad says, “You’ll figure it out. Life’s a do-it-yourself project.” Then he pulls away.
“If you want to be a hardhead you have to expect a few hard knocks,” says Mom.
Is there a manual somewhere that teaches parents these expressions? I walk my hard head past her into the house. I need something to clean. I head for the dungeon.
The thing about the basement is that it’s uncleanable. That’s why Mom would rather pour patio cement than try to fix it up. Down here, you can shove things to the side or sweep a square foot here and there, but there isn’t anywhere to put things away. And no adult in this house seems capable of throwing out the old furniture, boxes of papers and books, old clothes, old toys, stale food storage, and plain old junk.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, armed with a lamp I have rescued from the furniture discard pile. I plug it in and start imagining the basement divided into tidy, organized sections. After a minute or two my brain cramps. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat before you start.
I sit on my sleeping bag and go through my backpack for things I’ve gathered up. More than a clean living space I need a job. Fast.
“Can I camp with you?” says Carson from the top of the stairs. His voice startles me.
“It’s not camping unless you’re outside,” I say.
He plods down the steps. “Why are you sleeping in the basement then?”
“I’m in exile,” I say.
“I’ll exile with you. It’s cool.”
“Freezing is more like it,” I say. “Now I have to do some work.”
Carson runs back up the stairs, but then parks himself on the top step.
I say, “I’ll help you with your dinosaur trees tonight if you stop watching me.”
“Danny stepped on my lagoon.”
“And I’ll fix the lagoon.”
“Deal,” he says, and disappears.
I sharpen a few pencils. I make a list:
My Job Experience:
Ice Cream Server. No References.
My Job Requirements:
Must be part-time
Must require no experience
Must pay enough to raise money for the contest
Must not be totally disgusting and humiliating
First I call the marina and get an answering machine, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s not like people are sailing a lot in February. Then again, the sign I saw was a recent posting, and the machine says I can leave a message, so I do.
Next, I scratch out the last part of my requirements with one of my extrasharp pencils. I can live with humiliating, maybe even disgusting, if it will get me the money I need to apply. The biology guy said the secret to survival is adaptation. I go through the local want ads, crossing out the jobs that require me to work during school, operate heavy machinery, or commute to Egypt and back. I’m left with five jobs.
I take a break and skim the book that Pete gave me. There are forty kinds of cormorants, or shags, and they are pretty common. We have double-crested cormorants on the Great Salt Lake. But the kind in the Galápagos is flightless and totally bizarre. They have little tiny wings that only work as rudders underwater. Scientists think that they didn’t have any use for flying because it was too far to go back to the mainland, so they just gave up and became swimmers.
Then suddenly it drives me wild that Pete thinks this bird is a good topic for me. What does he mean when he says these birds “might suit me”? Am I flightless? Forever grounded? Marooned in Landon?
I put Pete’s dumb book away and pull out my list of job possibilities.
“Is there anything I can do at the plant?” I say.
“Let’s talk when you aren’t in school.”
“But I need to make money now.” The whine in my voice surprises me.
“Why?” says Mom, looking curious.
“I need to get some money saved away for school and stuff. It’s coming up quick.”
Dad says, “You’ll figure it out. Life’s a do-it-yourself project.” Then he pulls away.
“If you want to be a hardhead you have to expect a few hard knocks,” says Mom.
Is there a manual somewhere that teaches parents these expressions? I walk my hard head past her into the house. I need something to clean. I head for the dungeon.
The thing about the basement is that it’s uncleanable. That’s why Mom would rather pour patio cement than try to fix it up. Down here, you can shove things to the side or sweep a square foot here and there, but there isn’t anywhere to put things away. And no adult in this house seems capable of throwing out the old furniture, boxes of papers and books, old clothes, old toys, stale food storage, and plain old junk.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs, armed with a lamp I have rescued from the furniture discard pile. I plug it in and start imagining the basement divided into tidy, organized sections. After a minute or two my brain cramps. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat before you start.
I sit on my sleeping bag and go through my backpack for things I’ve gathered up. More than a clean living space I need a job. Fast.
“Can I camp with you?” says Carson from the top of the stairs. His voice startles me.
“It’s not camping unless you’re outside,” I say.
He plods down the steps. “Why are you sleeping in the basement then?”
“I’m in exile,” I say.
“I’ll exile with you. It’s cool.”
“Freezing is more like it,” I say. “Now I have to do some work.”
Carson runs back up the stairs, but then parks himself on the top step.
I say, “I’ll help you with your dinosaur trees tonight if you stop watching me.”
“Danny stepped on my lagoon.”
“And I’ll fix the lagoon.”
“Deal,” he says, and disappears.
I sharpen a few pencils. I make a list:
My Job Experience:
Ice Cream Server. No References.
My Job Requirements:
Must be part-time
Must require no experience
Must pay enough to raise money for the contest
Must not be totally disgusting and humiliating
First I call the marina and get an answering machine, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s not like people are sailing a lot in February. Then again, the sign I saw was a recent posting, and the machine says I can leave a message, so I do.
Next, I scratch out the last part of my requirements with one of my extrasharp pencils. I can live with humiliating, maybe even disgusting, if it will get me the money I need to apply. The biology guy said the secret to survival is adaptation. I go through the local want ads, crossing out the jobs that require me to work during school, operate heavy machinery, or commute to Egypt and back. I’m left with five jobs.
I take a break and skim the book that Pete gave me. There are forty kinds of cormorants, or shags, and they are pretty common. We have double-crested cormorants on the Great Salt Lake. But the kind in the Galápagos is flightless and totally bizarre. They have little tiny wings that only work as rudders underwater. Scientists think that they didn’t have any use for flying because it was too far to go back to the mainland, so they just gave up and became swimmers.
Then suddenly it drives me wild that Pete thinks this bird is a good topic for me. What does he mean when he says these birds “might suit me”? Am I flightless? Forever grounded? Marooned in Landon?
I put Pete’s dumb book away and pull out my list of job possibilities.
Similar Books
