Page 44 of Snowballed

“He’s really good. Maybe our best defender.” Derek pauses to think. “Of course, Hunts is a better individual player: he’s bigger and tougher, with a better shot. I mean, Hunts has been drafted, right? But Goody, he’s the glue. Whoever he gets paired with plays better right away. I love playing with him. Everything’s easier. He can see the plays way before they happen.”

“And he tells you where to be, right?” I remember my experience in the co-ed game.

“Sure, but it’s more than that. He’s in the right place and then I’m in the right place too. And I feel more confident about my game.”

I nod. That was exactly how I felt, that I was good again. A fantasy that was quickly dashed by my next game.

Derek concludes. “I feel like we’re a better team now that Goody’s here.”

“Are you two listening to me?” Helen interrupts our interesting conversation, and we return to the auction details. But my mind keeps going back to Noah. I had a preconception of what he was going to be like based on his looks, his lifestyle, and his family. We got off on the wrong foot because his looks unnerved me. I thought he was grouchy, but maybe he was unhappy. But what would he have to be unhappy about?

After the meeting, I drive back to the farm. Obviously, Noah can handle the chores now because he did them when I was gone last weekend, but I still double check everything.

I microwave the dinner that my mother left for me and do some readings while I eat. Noah comes in and sits across from me. He pulls out one of his ever-present bottles of water.

“How was the meeting?” he asks.

“Boring beyond belief. I’ve got an info sheet for you though.” I root through my backpack and hand it to him.

“Thanks.” He reads through the paper and folds it up. “I saw you in the barn checking up on me,” he says.

“I never,” I say with my fingers crossed under the table.

“Liar.”

“I trust you. You did a whole weekend without me.” Unless he got help from Derek.

“Then let me do the milking by myself tomorrow. You can sleep in,” he says.

Sleep in? I haven’t done that for months. “Well, okay.”

“I think you mean thank you,” he says, but he leaves before I can thank him.

Of course, it’s impossible to sleep in if you’re used to getting up at 5:00am every day. I try turning over and going back to sleep, but it’s not working. Well, the least I can do is make Noah a nice breakfast. I get up and whip up some muffins. Once they’re in the oven, I look outside. I can see the chickens out there pecking around, but there are no goats yet.

I can’t help it. I sneak out of the house and go to the barn. I try to peek through the windows but they’re too cloudy. I go to the door and crack it open as quietly as I can. There’s a faint noise that I can’t identify. I peek inside and see Noah’s back as he milks Cookie. He’s doing really well; I can see a steady stream of milk and Cookie’s relaxed posture as she munches away.

And then I realize what the sound is. Noah is singing to the goat. His voice is wavering and off-key, but I recognize the song right away. It’sBaby Got Backexcept when he singsback, it’s all goat-y, like baaaack.

I step back from the door. What happened to the grouchy, gruff Noah? He’s completely adorable. I feel a warmth in my chest. Noah’s right: I didn’t really know who he is, but now I can feel myself falling completely for the real, sweet Noah. But even as my heart softens, I know there’s no way that he could like me back.

15

Zoe

When I get home from school, a horror show is waiting for me. Some predator, probably a hawk, has gotten into the chicken yard. There are feathers and blood on the ground and not a chicken to be seen. Pete is circling the chicken yard and he looks embarrassed because his job is to protect the chickens. I pat his head. “It’s okay, boy. It’s tough to defend against air attacks.”

I feel guilty. While it’s common to leave animals during the day as long as they have food, water, and shelter, it’s obviously better to be here in case of emergencies like this. I brace myself and then open up the chicken coop. Instead of the usual cooing and squawking, I hear only stress cheeps. All the birds are gathered in one corner.

“Everything’s fine, guys.” I walk closer but they back away from me into each other. They’re too scared to recognize me, and they’re going to end up hurting themselves, so I take a step back. The chickens run as a group to the far corner. I do a quick head count, and only see ten chickens. Two are missing and I try to figure out which ones they are.

I think Leila is gone. She was a pretty white Leghorn. A movement catches my eye. There’s still one chicken in the first corner. She’s got blood on her. I get closer, and she looks pretty bad. It’s Amelia. Her head is a funny angle, her wing is askew, and she can’t even scramble away from me. Her injuries are very serious, and she’s suffering. It’s awful, but I steel myself. I can hear my dad saying not to get sentimental about animals. But it’s tough to harden your heart completely, and Amelia is a sweet-natured little bird. I take a big breath in to calm myself.

“Poor baby.” I look over the rest of the chickens, and they all seem to be fine. A few have blood on their feathers, but it doesn’t seem to be their own. I run into the house and change into my coverall. I grab a big pot from the kitchen. Even when bad things happen, I’m not going to let a chicken go to waste. Our chickens are layers, not roasters, but I can still make soup. But I’ll have to pluck the bird which is a lot of work. I fill the pot with water and set it up on the outdoor cooktop. Then I sharpen the small axe.

When the farm was bigger, we used to raise roaster chickens, and my dad regularly prepared birds for Sunday dinner. One wooden beam in the barn still has a killing cone which is made from a cut-up, upside-down plastic bleach bottle. I grab an old towel and head back to the chicken coop. The faster I do this, the kinder it is for Amelia.

She’s still shivering in the same corner I left her. I scoop her into the towel and take her into the big barn. Quickly, I turn her upside down and insert her into the cone. Her head is sticking out of the end and she barely squawks. I pick up the axe from the table andthwack.It’s done. Her body spasms and blood runs down into a bucket on the floor.

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