The fucked-up part is that I know there are nice people out there. I see them all the time. Laughing, hugging, sharing notes in class and being generally cool human beings. But the nice ones steer clear of me.
“I think I’m cursed,” I mutter.
“See,” says River. “That. That right there is why I’m a psych major. You’re stuck in a one-man pity party, and I’m going to pry you out of there with my magical psychology crowbar.”
“I’m not your patient. And, for the record, Riv, my checklist making isn’t an attempt to control things. It’s efficient. I like being organized. Helps free up time.”
“So you can bury yourself in some stupid video game or fantasy book?” she scoffs.
“What can I say? I’m a well-rounded man.”
“No, you’re a turtle, and it’s time to kick your shell to the curb.”
“I like shells. Shells are nature’s most practical invention,” I say flatly, thinking how shells sometimes come with comforting, gooey cheese in a box. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of the gourmet macs. I personally make a mean hotdog mac.
“You’ll change your turtle ways when you see all the cute girls here. And if they aren’t enough to get you out of your shell, the city is a twenty-minute drive.”
I hate cities. Too many people.
“Oh crap,” River says. “I gotta go! We have that sorority thing for our rushes, the ‘fresh flowers.’ Don’t forget to text when you get here. Love you. Bye.”
The call ends, and I stare at my suitcase, that nervous pit in my stomach growing into a mess of slithering snakes. Is this a mistake? Leaving my parents, my home, the familiarity of everything?
I look around my room—the Stars and Stripes bedspread, the random crap I’ve collected off the internet, like old army patches and replicas of WWII bayonets. I have a poster of Captain Fierce Flag, the hero from the video game I like, where the Captain slices up the bad guys with his red cape. If a person didn’t know me, they’d think a normal guy with some personality lives in this room. But I’m far from normal.
My eyes gravitate toward the poster next to the window. Ultra Mega Chicken from Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Sure, the chicken has fangs and horns, but it’s a more suitable mascot for me than a turtle, because at the end of the day, that’s me. A giant chicken.
“Huff?” my mom’s voice calls from the other side of my bedroom door. “It’s time to head to the airport.”
“I’m…”
I’m about to say I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going. Because as much as I hate this town and all the people in it, the thought of going to a new state, new city, new university makes my head feel like it’s being crushed under the weight of a million chicken nuggets.
My eyes toggle between my posters of Ultra Mega Chicken and Captain Fierce Flag.
Stay or go?
Live beneath the dark cloud of this town, or seek sunnier pastures for my chicken ways?
The past, or the future?
Let go of Joy, or keep her memory close?
Crossroads aren’t easy for chickens. Especially the ultra-mega ones.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Mom, let go of my face.” I pry my mother’s hands off the sides of my head as people pass by in the busy airport. “Dad, tell Mom to stop.”
My dad, aka “Mr. Khakis and Golf Shirts,” chuckles and holds up his phone to snap another photo. “Man up, Huff. And stop moving so I can get a good shot of her kissing your cheeks.”
While he laughs, I feel like diving into the nearest trash can for cover, and Mom goes in for a final round of kissy-cheeks. So cool of her to wear her neon-orange tracksuit so no one can possibly miss seeing us. “Mua! Mua! Mua! I’m going to miss you so much, Hudson.”
It’s funny how I tower over her at over six feet tall, but I still feel two feet shorter. At least Dad doesn’t baby me in public. Just lots of photos and a good ol’ handshake.
Like men.
Not that I feel or look like a man. He got me a set of weights for my twentieth birthday, and I’ve been working out in the garage just about every day, only to produce biceps the size of an egg.
A quail egg.
My legs are twigs, and my ass is nonexistent. Almost like Mother Nature decided to stretch me out but forgot to add the rest of the equipment.
At least my dick isn’t bad. According to the internet, it places a solid average for both length and width. In my world, average is normal, and anything normal about me goes right into the “shit I don’t have to worry about” pile.
Finally, Mom lets go and hands me a brown paper bag. “I packed you a ham sandwich, no crust, with some apple slices.”