not eight. Sometimes I have things to do. And it’s only five miles to town, so even if I got a flat tire or my bike chain fell off, I could walk my bike home. Plus, there’s only one road to town, so if they got worried, all they’d have to do is drive in and find me.
They finally agreed, and I promised that if I went anywhere but the library I’d lock my bike up outside so they would see it and could find me if they needed to.
I did ride a little extra carefully into town. The edge of the highway isn’t very wide, you know, and people get in a hurry sometimes, and I didn’t want to fall down into the grassy ditch next to the road. (Dad says you took him down to catch tadpoles in the ditch in spring, and then they’d turn into frogs, but right now it’s too hot and dry to even have water in it.) And there are lots of small hills between our farm and town, so my legs were pretty tired when I got there.
Most of the buildings in town look like they’re from old-timey days, maybe when you were young, with those tall fronts that are just for show, like in Wild West movies. There are lots of stores that are just for the tourists; I don’t bother with those. I love to look in the window of the bookstore, though. I bet you did too. You sure had a lot of books, all over the living room. But not very many kids’ books.
The library is old too, but newer than the rest of the town. I locked my bike up and went inside. Ms. O’Malley helped me find some more chicken books (she thought I’d like one called Prairie Evers, and I think one called The Great Chicken Debacle sounds interesting). I gave her back The Hoboken Chicken Emergency, even though the new chicken hasn’t heard it yet. Maybe I’ll get it again tomorrow if neither of these is as good.
There was a white girl with brown hair and brown eyes reading in a chair by the window. She looked like she might be about my age, and she was reading a book about llamas. I wonder if she has a llama. She looked up from her book and smiled at me, and I smiled back. But I couldn’t think of anything to say to her, and I don’t know anything about llamas. So I put the books in my backpack and wheeled my bike up to the feedstore. Maybe I’ll see her again sometime. If I do, I’ll ask her about llamas, I think. Unless I feel too shy to talk.
I like the feedstore a lot. It’s got almost everything—hardware-store stuff and feed and bits of tractors and plants and huge bags of stuff to kill bugs and weeds and cans of paint and even animals. There aren’t any chicks right now because it isn’t the time of year when they get them, but Jane, who works at the paint counter, says they get hundreds every spring, and sometimes ducklings too. She saw me admiring all the colors of the paint chips and told me I could take some, but I just shook my head. My mom says it isn’t right to take things we won’t use, even when it’s just paint chips. We’re still clearing all kinds of things out of the house, so I can’t really even see the walls yet. But I already know which one I’d paint my room if we could afford it: it’s the most beautiful yellow ever, like baby-chick fluff, and it’s called Sunflower Sky. Isn’t that a great name?
Anyway. Today I wasn’t there just to look around, like when I come in with Dad and he takes forever deciding which kind of wire to get. Today I needed to find out about chicken food and how much it costs. Because even though I already calculated that I have enough food left to feed Henrietta until after school starts, now I have that invisible chicken too. Plus, Agnes says the black streak is one of my chickens too — I just don’t know how to go about catching it yet. And I need to have a plan before I tell Mom and Dad about the others.
Chicken food comes in really big bags. I was afraid they would be expensive, but they’re mostly under thirty dollars. Of course, that’s still expensive for me and for my parents, since we haven’t got
They finally agreed, and I promised that if I went anywhere but the library I’d lock my bike up outside so they would see it and could find me if they needed to.
I did ride a little extra carefully into town. The edge of the highway isn’t very wide, you know, and people get in a hurry sometimes, and I didn’t want to fall down into the grassy ditch next to the road. (Dad says you took him down to catch tadpoles in the ditch in spring, and then they’d turn into frogs, but right now it’s too hot and dry to even have water in it.) And there are lots of small hills between our farm and town, so my legs were pretty tired when I got there.
Most of the buildings in town look like they’re from old-timey days, maybe when you were young, with those tall fronts that are just for show, like in Wild West movies. There are lots of stores that are just for the tourists; I don’t bother with those. I love to look in the window of the bookstore, though. I bet you did too. You sure had a lot of books, all over the living room. But not very many kids’ books.
The library is old too, but newer than the rest of the town. I locked my bike up and went inside. Ms. O’Malley helped me find some more chicken books (she thought I’d like one called Prairie Evers, and I think one called The Great Chicken Debacle sounds interesting). I gave her back The Hoboken Chicken Emergency, even though the new chicken hasn’t heard it yet. Maybe I’ll get it again tomorrow if neither of these is as good.
There was a white girl with brown hair and brown eyes reading in a chair by the window. She looked like she might be about my age, and she was reading a book about llamas. I wonder if she has a llama. She looked up from her book and smiled at me, and I smiled back. But I couldn’t think of anything to say to her, and I don’t know anything about llamas. So I put the books in my backpack and wheeled my bike up to the feedstore. Maybe I’ll see her again sometime. If I do, I’ll ask her about llamas, I think. Unless I feel too shy to talk.
I like the feedstore a lot. It’s got almost everything—hardware-store stuff and feed and bits of tractors and plants and huge bags of stuff to kill bugs and weeds and cans of paint and even animals. There aren’t any chicks right now because it isn’t the time of year when they get them, but Jane, who works at the paint counter, says they get hundreds every spring, and sometimes ducklings too. She saw me admiring all the colors of the paint chips and told me I could take some, but I just shook my head. My mom says it isn’t right to take things we won’t use, even when it’s just paint chips. We’re still clearing all kinds of things out of the house, so I can’t really even see the walls yet. But I already know which one I’d paint my room if we could afford it: it’s the most beautiful yellow ever, like baby-chick fluff, and it’s called Sunflower Sky. Isn’t that a great name?
Anyway. Today I wasn’t there just to look around, like when I come in with Dad and he takes forever deciding which kind of wire to get. Today I needed to find out about chicken food and how much it costs. Because even though I already calculated that I have enough food left to feed Henrietta until after school starts, now I have that invisible chicken too. Plus, Agnes says the black streak is one of my chickens too — I just don’t know how to go about catching it yet. And I need to have a plan before I tell Mom and Dad about the others.
Chicken food comes in really big bags. I was afraid they would be expensive, but they’re mostly under thirty dollars. Of course, that’s still expensive for me and for my parents, since we haven’t got
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