Chicken by Chase Night Page A

his head and tosses it on the dusty concrete in front of the screen door, behind which there’s a splintered wooden door standing open, letting out the sounds of running water, clinking dishes, and inspirational family radio. 
    He presses his face against the screen and hollers, “Mama! Could you bring me and Casper some dry clothes? Boxers too!”
    Sister Cindy doesn’t reply, but the water shuts off and tired feet shuffle across cheap linoleum. Brant leans his back against the door’s metal mid-beam, folding his arms over his bare chest. His sharp hip bones poke over the drooping band of his waterlogged jeans. I look away.
    Left of the door, there’s an enormous deep freezer where the Mitchells store venison and other wild meats. Heavy brown tools hang on a pegboard above it. Wrenches. Axe heads. Lumberjack saws. A giant bear trap that’s probably illegal. Man things. Stuff that Brant will transfer to his own garage one day when his father dies in the real future where we don’t share a home or a cat, probably don’t even know each other at all.
    Brant reaches into his pocket and comes out with a crumpled black straw. He blows off the lint. “Do you know what it does to me, Casper?”
    I squirm in my clingy, wet pants. “What does what do?”
    Brant puts the straw in the corner of his mouth, leans an elbow against the wall. “Leaving this house every day, seeing this junk every day. You know what that does to a man?”
    I scratch the mosquito bites on the back of my neck. “Can’t say that I do.”
    “Makes me hungry.” He scowls at the old brown tools. “For a Cracker Barrel breakfast.”
    I roll my eyes, but now that I think about it, he’s right. The tools do look like something you’d find hanging on the walls of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. Suddenly, I have a fierce craving for bacon. Unfortunately, Cracker Barrels exist only in cities on the Interstate, and Hickory Ditch is not on the Interstate.
    Brant pulls out the straw, blows make-believe smoke at the ceiling. “You have any idea what it’s like to live with an unscratchable itch like this?”
    I scratch another bite on the side of my face. “Conway ain’t that far. They serve breakfast all day.”
    He grins. “Alright, I’ll tell my mom we’re skipping church, and then we’ll tell yours we’re going for a ride in my truck.”
    I lift my hands, take a step back. “On second thought.”
    Brant sticks the straw between his teeth. “So you reckon I could sell ’em this crap after the old man kicks the bucket?”
    I move over between the truck and the freezer. “I think they got enough saws, but maybe the trap. Yeah. The trap for sure.”
    “Nah, that’s the only thing I’ll want to keep.”
    “What are you gonna do with a bear trap?”
    He pries a piece of mud off his stomach. “Hang it on my wall.”
    “Why don’t you just sell it to Cracker Barrel, and then eat there every day?”
    Brant grins and slaps the wall, making the smaller tools quiver on their pegs. “You know what you ought to be when you grow up? A conflict resolutionist.”
    I frown. “That sounds like a girl job.”
    “Nope. Guys can do it. Especially guys like you.”
    I’m not sure if his words put the chill in me or if I’m just now noticing that the water in my shirt has gone cold. “Guys like me?”
    Brant lowers the straw, exhales. “Yeah, you know. Nice guys. Sensitive guys. What’d the hippies say? Guys who make love not war?”
    I jam my hands in my pockets to hitch up my soggy pants. “I could make war if I wanted.”
    “Sure, but you don’t ’cause you’re too busy with the other.” He leans in, rests his arms on the dusty freezer, and wiggles his eyebrows. “Am I right?”
    “Wrong.” I comb a hand through my sopping hair. “You know Hannah took the pledge.”
    Brant snorts. “Her and every girl on Teen Mom.”
    “And you, as I recall.”
    He shrugs and grabs his crotch. “Can’t let Han and Chewie fall into the wrong