Page 103 of You've Got Hate Mail
“It’s my chicken,” Cricket calls from the bathroom. “I found her. I’m keeping her. If that’s okay. Or even if it’s not okay. We need chickens. I like chickens, and it’ll cut down the egg costs. Unless she’s someone’s lost pet. Or if she wants to be free. Then—then I’d cry, but I want what’s best for everyone.”
“I’m unaware of anyone who keeps chickens for pets, but I can ask around,” Mabel says.
“I won’t keep her if it’s too much trouble.” Cricket’s voice is getting smaller, and that pisses me off.
“You leaving anytime soon?” Mabel asks.
There’s a long, long, long pause, and then, even quieter, “I would prefer to be useful and stay at least through the wedding.”
“We’ll figure it out then. But you’re responsible for her.”
“Really? Can I get her friends too?”
“If you want to take on a project that helps feed us, I have no objections.”
“I don’t have a lot in savings, but I have my last paycheck, and you can have it all,” Cricket says. “And I’m looking for a job. I’m even working up to maybe listing pictures of my feet on that one site and spreading rumors that they’re mine to see if I can get some subscription fees coming in until I find a real job again.”
“We’ll work something out,” Mabel replies.
It’s what she always does.
She probably knows a chicken rescue place that would take the hen if Cricket leaves without her.
And she probably has an idea of how Cricket could sell pictures of her feet.
I start to growl to myself.
I don’t like that idea.
Mabel turns her attention back to me. “You gonna make it?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, breathe for a minute to keep myself from puking, and vow to never touch red wine again.
Pip’s grin slides into a scowl. She’s wearing clothes this morning, but just barely. Her emerald-colored shirt is cut so low between her breasts that I can almost see her belly button, and her short shorts don’t leave much to the imagination.
She gets props for the pink feather boa though.
It’s a soft enough color that it doesn’t hurt my eyes in the way that makes me want to hurl, though there’s something sparkly on her cowboy boots that I don’t like, and her short platinum hair seemsmoretoday than usual.
“What?” I say to her as the scowl gets deeper.
“Those are Dean’s pants. I hid them so I’d never have to see them again.”
I look down at the rainbow-striped horror on my legs. “Was he a clown for kids’ birthday parties in his spare time?”
She grimaces, but then starts to smile. And that smile grows.
And grows.
And grows. “Now that you mention it… He was. Favorite hobby. Always dressing like a clown.”
It was not his favorite hobby. She’s rewriting his history to get even with him. And that would be funny if I was in a place where I could think anything’s funny. “Should’ve donated them to a circus if you didn’t want to see them again.”
Mabel smiles too, and she doesn’t even try to hide it.
“Am I amusing, or are you laughing at my pain?” I ask her.
“You’re amusing. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk before. Or heard you cuss this much.”
