Read Online Girls Don't Fly by Kristen Chandler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kristen Chandler
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Flightless. I’ll show him flightless.
At the top of my list is a job in a clothing store. I make a phone call. “Hi, I’m calling about the stock girl—”
“Filled it.” Click .
I call the next two numbers and get the same basic response, although the other people let me finish my sentence. I have to give myself a Galápagos cheer to get the nerve to make the next call. You might as well step back. Go Galápagos! I’m not sure I can handle it if I get this job.
“Chicken Little.”
I say, “I’m calling about the ad you have for a personal advertiser.”
“You have to dress up in chicken suit.” My worst germ fears are realized.
“Has the job been taken?”
“If you want an interview you better come meet me.”
“I’ll be right in.”
“Suit yourself,” says the crusty voice on the other end of the line.
I announce to my cheerless mother that I have an interview. She’s out back pounding a frame board for the patio and I make her miss. “For what?” she says, shaking her hand.
“Public relations,” I say, and whip back into the house before I have to explain.
Stella Handy, the owner of Chicken Little, has creases in her face older than I am. She is wearing an aqua-colored T-shirt that has LAS VEGAS written on it in cursive with sequins. We sit in folding chairs in her closet-size office at the back of the restaurant. The room smells of grease and rose perfume. I think she’s giving me the evil eye, but I’m not sure. Maybe she always squints. She says, “Are you a drug user?”
“No.”
“Illegal alien?”
I’m 5 foot 7, have light brown hair, pasty white skin, pale blue eyes, and freckles. I look about as foreign as a supersize cheeseburger. “Um, I was born here, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you faint easy?”
This is not a question I want to be asked in a job interview. “Not really. Why?”
“Some people find the suit a little stuffy.” Her lips turn down slightly. “What’s your greatest asset?”
I consider this a moment. “I like things clean.”
One penciled-on eyebrow rises. “You know you’re applying to be a giant chicken, right?”
I smile as brightly as I can. “A chicken should be clean, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t smile back. “How clean are you?”
“I scrub the grout in my shower with a toothbrush.”
She gathers some mucus in the back of her throat and makes a clearing sound. She rolls her neck around until it pops. I’m already thinking of where I’m going to apply next when she says, “Can you start this afternoon?”
“Are you serious?”
The crags in her face momentarily recede into a smile. “You can start wavin’ your tail feathers as soon as you can get the suit on.”
She opens a cabinet behind her and extracts the chicken suit. It was probably nice when she bought it a century ago. The giant yellow feathers droop with grunge. The sight of it makes me quiver.
“Is there any way to disinfect it?” I ask.
She shakes her head and narrows her gaze. “Might ruffle the feathers.”
I tell myself that when I stand on the lava shores of the Galápagos Islands, I will be glad I subjected my pride and my immune system to this deep-fried torture. I take the suit and head for the bathroom. None of the inmates behind the counter looks at me. It’s lunch rush. Time to sell some chicken.
Before I get dressed I make a quick phone call from my cheap-ola cell phone to my house and get Carson. Surprisingly my phone works. This phone isn’t designed to do much more than call the person next door. I say, “Listen, buddy, can you tell Mom I got a job so I won’t be home for a while?”
“How long until you’re home?” says Carson.
“What’s wrong?”
“Danny fell off his bike.”
“Is he okay?”
Melyssa comes on the phone. “Hello.” She sounds irritated. “Where are you?”
“Is Danny hurt?”
“He’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“He hit his head. Mom freaked ’cause he wasn’t wearing his
At the top of my list is a job in a clothing store. I make a phone call. “Hi, I’m calling about the stock girl—”
“Filled it.” Click .
I call the next two numbers and get the same basic response, although the other people let me finish my sentence. I have to give myself a Galápagos cheer to get the nerve to make the next call. You might as well step back. Go Galápagos! I’m not sure I can handle it if I get this job.
“Chicken Little.”
I say, “I’m calling about the ad you have for a personal advertiser.”
“You have to dress up in chicken suit.” My worst germ fears are realized.
“Has the job been taken?”
“If you want an interview you better come meet me.”
“I’ll be right in.”
“Suit yourself,” says the crusty voice on the other end of the line.
I announce to my cheerless mother that I have an interview. She’s out back pounding a frame board for the patio and I make her miss. “For what?” she says, shaking her hand.
“Public relations,” I say, and whip back into the house before I have to explain.
Stella Handy, the owner of Chicken Little, has creases in her face older than I am. She is wearing an aqua-colored T-shirt that has LAS VEGAS written on it in cursive with sequins. We sit in folding chairs in her closet-size office at the back of the restaurant. The room smells of grease and rose perfume. I think she’s giving me the evil eye, but I’m not sure. Maybe she always squints. She says, “Are you a drug user?”
“No.”
“Illegal alien?”
I’m 5 foot 7, have light brown hair, pasty white skin, pale blue eyes, and freckles. I look about as foreign as a supersize cheeseburger. “Um, I was born here, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you faint easy?”
This is not a question I want to be asked in a job interview. “Not really. Why?”
“Some people find the suit a little stuffy.” Her lips turn down slightly. “What’s your greatest asset?”
I consider this a moment. “I like things clean.”
One penciled-on eyebrow rises. “You know you’re applying to be a giant chicken, right?”
I smile as brightly as I can. “A chicken should be clean, don’t you think?”
She doesn’t smile back. “How clean are you?”
“I scrub the grout in my shower with a toothbrush.”
She gathers some mucus in the back of her throat and makes a clearing sound. She rolls her neck around until it pops. I’m already thinking of where I’m going to apply next when she says, “Can you start this afternoon?”
“Are you serious?”
The crags in her face momentarily recede into a smile. “You can start wavin’ your tail feathers as soon as you can get the suit on.”
She opens a cabinet behind her and extracts the chicken suit. It was probably nice when she bought it a century ago. The giant yellow feathers droop with grunge. The sight of it makes me quiver.
“Is there any way to disinfect it?” I ask.
She shakes her head and narrows her gaze. “Might ruffle the feathers.”
I tell myself that when I stand on the lava shores of the Galápagos Islands, I will be glad I subjected my pride and my immune system to this deep-fried torture. I take the suit and head for the bathroom. None of the inmates behind the counter looks at me. It’s lunch rush. Time to sell some chicken.
Before I get dressed I make a quick phone call from my cheap-ola cell phone to my house and get Carson. Surprisingly my phone works. This phone isn’t designed to do much more than call the person next door. I say, “Listen, buddy, can you tell Mom I got a job so I won’t be home for a while?”
“How long until you’re home?” says Carson.
“What’s wrong?”
“Danny fell off his bike.”
“Is he okay?”
Melyssa comes on the phone. “Hello.” She sounds irritated. “Where are you?”
“Is Danny hurt?”
“He’s fine.”
“What happened?”
“He hit his head. Mom freaked ’cause he wasn’t wearing his
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