Sky Page 8

  ‘She’s so pretty, don’t you think?’ I wait again, holding my breath, hoping he won’t agree.

  ‘Sure, she’s great-looking,’ he replies. ‘Really pretty. You can’t be a supermodel otherwise. And with the catalogues and everything, she’s doing awesome. It’s cool when you see someone’s dreams come true; she’s wanted to be a model since she was, like, five.’

  His smile is big and proud, like he’s rooting for her like he really cares, like a boyfriend would look if his girlfriend succeeds. He’s into her for sure. I nod in agreement, trying to keep my expression neutral.

  ‘So, about the gala, do all you girls have dates yet?’ he asks.

  Oh no. He wants to ask about Marissa.

  ‘Sky!’ I see David waving to me from the car.

  ‘Gotta go,’ I say to Oliver.

  ‘Hold on,’ he says, but David’s beeping and I’m already running.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know about today,’ I shout over my shoulder.

  I’m sure he wanted to ask if Marissa is going with anyone to the gala so he can ask her. At least I didn’t have to answer. To be their matchmaker would be pure torture.

  How can I compete? She’s beautiful, silky blonde, with perfect boobs, a mocktail-making mother, an awesome dad and an infinity pool.

  To me, it’s clear. Marissa likes Oliver, Oliver likes Marissa.

  But I am in the popular group at school, secure and accepted. It’s what I’ve always wanted. I should feel happy. But I don’t.

  Maybe I will ask WildRider to meet me after all.

  Chapter 12

  After school, with the help of my map app, I catch a different bus, heading west. Paula texts asking if we can talk later, but I tell her I’m going to Marissa’s to study. If she knew Marissa she’d know how unlikely this possibility is.

  Today, everyone was talking about their school projects and it’s stressing me out. I have to win the money because I have nothing to wear for the gala. I must be ‘extraordinary’ and earn those bonus marks.

  I stare out the window, thinking of Marissa and Oliver, trying to imagine them together, making out at the gala. Oliver lighting her cigarette. Marissa flicking her hair and laughing. If I prepare myself I won’t freak out when it happens. But most importantly I need to stop thinking about him, those eyes, and that too-cute freckle.

  I see the road Paula pointed out that day we drove to town and nearly hit Bella. I get off the bus and walk towards the farm. Paula telling me I can’t go there makes me want to even more.

  It’s a hot day, the sun burns and the black tarmac road could fry an egg. My hair has erupted into frizz.

  On the barbed wire fence in front of me is a mosaic of signs warning trespassers away. But I notice a small intercom with a sign on the right post: ‘Visitors please ring - prior appointment only’. I don’t want to be turned away so I decide to walk along the fence. I find a narrow gap.

  Should I? A surge of adrenalin rushes through my body; I’m not a rule-breaker, always a good girl. But this is a new life.

  I throw my bag over the fence and squeeze through.

  Three enormous sheds stretch out before me. They are long and grey with large cylinders attached to their sides. I follow a sign to the entrance that says, ‘All visitors required to report to the office’, stopping to make myself presentable before the glass doors open automatically and a burst of air cools my skin.

  No one’s at the front desk and I look around. Large printed canvases of chickens standing on bright green grass stare down from the walls. They look happy and healthy. On the desk stands a silver framed photo; in it a man grins as he stands next to a podium that is bannered with West Creek Agricultural Awards; he is holding a golden trophy.

  ‘Hi there,’ someone appears from a back door. It’s the guy from the picture.

  ‘Yes, please’ I say.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he says, ‘I’m Greg, what can I help you with, let me guess, a school project?’

  ‘How’d you know,’ I smile and tell him about the Celebrating Agriculture competition.

  ‘So can I take some pictures?’ I ask. ‘It might help me win, which would be great publicity for your farm, and I’d love to see inside. I’ve never been into a chicken shed before.’ I’m assuming country kids go on farm excursions all the time while I’ve only been to a bunch of city museums.

  ‘Can’t help you with that, sorry,’ he smiles, ‘we don’t allow entry into the farm due to biosecurity. It’s to protect our chickens from disease. But here,’ he shuffles papers around the desk to find a glossy folder packed with brochures, ‘this is our special school kit, it will answer all your questions. Good luck with the competition and let me know if you win, we’ll send out a press release.’

  I take the kit. The cover is a cartoon of a smiling chicken dancing in a field of grass. ‘Farm fresh, all natural, cage-free,’ the headline reads. ‘No antibiotics.’ I flick through the colourful diagrams. A bunch of brochures isn’t going to make my project extraordinary or win me any money,

  ‘But why?’ I ask. ‘Please?’ I say as sweetly as possible, trying to imitate Marissa’s baby voice. The man looks friendly and maybe he’ll bend. ‘I’ll be one minute, tops,’ I promise. ‘I won’t touch anything, I can take off my shoes if that helps, I had a shower this morning, I’m not sick or anything.’

  ‘Teenagers!’ Greg smiles, sitting back down at the desk. ‘Hard to satisfy you lot, isn’t it? No worries. Take a seat and I’ll tell you all about our little family farm. That should help your project. Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say.

  ‘How about a bickie, got a packet of Tim Tams I’ve been planning to get stuck into for a while,’ he winks.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile, ‘maybe just one.’

  Greg brings a small plate with a selection of biscuits and a glass of cold water for each of us.

  ‘Can I record you?’ I ask, ‘It’s easier than writing notes.’

  ‘No worries. Record away, Miss Journalist.’

  I dig in my bag for my phone and notice a new message. Oliver’s sent me a short video. ‘Thanks for the tip, this is Tiger going nuts over his new ticklish spot.’ I take a quick look and try not to laugh. I delete it – Oliver likes Marissa and I need to stay away from him.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say pressing record and positioning the phone close to him. I can transcribe this as an interview and earn some extra points, even if I don’t get to see the farm itself.

  ‘We Aussies have a love affair with chickens,’ Greg says, taking a bite of a Tim Tam.

  ‘How many do we eat?’ I ask.

  ‘Guess?’ he says.

  I try a few numbers but he shakes his head, ‘Ten million birds a week.’

  ‘How much is that in kilograms?’ I ask.

  ‘One kilo per person, per week, but that’s nothing compared to the Yanks.’

  ‘How many do they eat?’ I ask, flexing my interview muscles. If I want to be a journalist, I have to know how to probe.

  ‘Eight billion!’

  That sounds gross but I don’t say anything.

  ‘Did you know there are more chickens than any other breed of bird?’ he says. I’m getting the feeling he has practiced this speech more than once.

  ‘There are two hundred breeds of chicken and what we have here is the Cornish Rock Cross,’ he points to the photos on the wall showing chickens in grass fields, glossy feathers and beady eyes glinting in the sun.

  I’ve heard the name somewhere, but I wrack my brain and can’t remember where.

  ‘How many do you have, exactly?’ I ask.

  ‘Twenty thousand. Air-conditioned to a perfect temperature.’

  ‘What temperature?’ Numbers are good to add to assignments; teachers lap them up, the more the better.

  ‘You’re even nosier than a journalist,’ he smiles, which makes me very happy.

  Greg answers with ‘The temperature ranges from twenty to thirty-four degrees.’

  ‘Thirty
-four?’ I think of my sweaty walk here. ‘That’s hot!’

  ‘Just the way they like it,’ he says. ‘Keeping them comfortable is a science,’ he opens up a large diagram and starts pointing. ‘We look at air velocity, air speed, air composition like gas content, ammonia …’

  I write down all the words, as he explains the systems; automated feed, water, lights and more. I can google things I don’t know later. I’ll add references because that will impress Mr Peterson. I’m feeling confident, like a real journalist.

  ‘They have a good life, no cages and plenty to eat and drink,’ he says. ‘It’s like Club Med,’ he winks again. ‘In an indoor environment chickens are less stressed and have a lower mortality rate, that means their survival rate,’ he adds, ‘and without happy healthy birds, we wouldn’t have a good quality product or a successful business. So it’s in our interests that they are well looked after.’

  It all sounds pretty good to me.

  He glances at his watch. ‘Is that the time? The wife’s going to kill me,’ he gets up. ‘I’ll walk you out. Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  I thank him but decline and start walking up the road. He waves goodbye from the open roof of a silver convertible.

  Stopping for a moment to put the folder in my backpack, I wonder if all the information is enough to make my project extraordinary. If only I could get one photo, nothing fancy, or a quick video on my phone. I’m thinking my project can be a multi-media presentation with a cheesy soundtrack to boot. I can edit it online. That would take it to the next level. If I want to be a real investigative journalist, and I’m thinking New York Times, BBC, CNN, they don’t just take what they get, they search for the truth.

  But then again, climbing through a fence is one thing. I don’t want to get in serious trouble. But what if I take a tiny look around – there must be something I can take a picture of. Anyway, I just missed the bus, and the next one isn’t for a while. I text Paula again and tell her I’m going to town with Marissa.

  I walk down a dirt road alongside the sheds, not a person or car in sight. Greg did say everything’s automated, but it’s strange how thousands of animals are inside these buildings, and no one looking after them except the machines.

  I’ve read about battery hens on Franimals, stacks of cages where chickens don’t have room to move, and Mum always bought free-range eggs. But this is different – it isn’t an egg farm, and ‘meat’ chickens, like his brochure says, are able to roam freely. But I can’t imagine there’s grass inside like the cartoon showed. Grass needs sun and water. And how much space do they really have? It’s hot in there, are they comfortable? But it’s a family farm, he seems nice, and he promised they were happy and healthy.

  At the back of the third shed, I notice a door that is slightly ajar.

  No one’s around and I look at my watch. Lots of time.

  A quick peek. I think of winning the money, a glam dress for the gala, Oliver blown away by my gorgeousness.

  I think of Mum and Melody, their stories of bravery standing up to the bulldozers when the old growth forests were going to be destroyed. What would Mum say if she saw me now? Something super cheesy like, ‘Sunshine, follow your dreams’ or ‘Dance like there is no one watching’? No. I don’t know what she’d say and that makes me beyond sad.

  Melody will certainly be impressed when I tell her about it. If she ever visits me, that is. But then I think of Paula and how furious she’ll be. My brain gets tired of all the thinking. I just want to do it. One teensy look? It can’t hurt.

  I pull the door open a little more and stick my head inside.

  No sign of life so I take off my backpack and enter.

  Machines whirl, large white cylinders, rows of steel boxes mounted on the walls, lights, buttons and switches … it must be the control room. Another door with a bright orange sign reads ‘DO NOT ENTER. Biosecurity. Authorised Personnel Only.’

  Can I?

  A real journalist would.

  I slowly move the steel handle down bit by bit and open the door centimetre by centimetre. My adrenalin levels are going insane and I’m starting to sweat, a trickle making its way down my spine.

  No abrupt movements.

  One step, then another.

  Then it hits me. My hand instinctively goes to my face to cover my nose and mouth. The smell is unbearable. I gag a little but thankfully don’t vomit.

  My eyes sting, but not from tears. I can only see a blurry yellow and I squint.

  The room is enormous, even bigger than it looked from the outside, and I can’t see to the end of it.

  The floor sways and tens of thousands of tiny chicks come into focus. Little beaks, baby wings. I can see thousands of them squashed together as far as my eyes can see and it’s like a yellow sea. But not pretty, not fluffy, not cute. It is weirdly horrifying.

  I stand and watch, my hand still covering my face, completely forgetting to take out my camera phone.

  Grey fans whirr rhythmically, circulating the putrid air. Long hanging beams stretch into the distance and dim fluorescent lights dangle, forming bright circles on the floor. There are no windows. The ground is divided by plastic pipes, with circular apparatuses attached. Just like the diagram showed.

  But this isn’t Club Med. And no one’s smiling. No air, no sunlight, no plants, no grass, no space, with nothing to do, nowhere to go; it’s way more than sad.

  I open a low gate that separates me from the birds and kneel down slowly so as not to frighten them. Bird poo covers the floor and smudges my skirt.

  I wish I could ask Mum what this means, what to think. Did she know? She’d explain everything like when I was little, in a way I can understand. Now my eyes sting twice as bad from sorrow and from what I’m seeing.

  Chicks crowd around my legs nervously. One approaches. I reach to pick him up but my charm bracelet jingles and he races off, lost in the crowd. I take the bracelet off, stuff it in my pocket and wait patiently. He approaches again and gently I grab him, brush off the filth, and bring him up to my cheek.

  ‘Hi there.’ I whisper, ‘How are you? I’m Sky.’ He looks straight at me.

  ‘You’re so sweet,’ I whisper, smoothing his soft feathers against my skin. His heartbeat pulses in my palm.

  I look around the room again; the air is so thick I can see the particles floating. The little life in my hands contrasting with the bleakness around me feels icky.

  I know I have to leave, that what I’m doing is wrong. But the chick has fallen asleep in my hand, so warm, so trusting, so little …

  I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted, my mind racing with questions, and then my thoughts decelerate like slow-motion. I don’t know how long I’m sitting. It’s like I’ve left the building.

  And then, Mum. I feel her with me.

  She’s in every cell of my body. I’m so relieved I want to cry. Through the acid sick smell, a waft of baking flour and Mum’s rose petal perfume embraces me, and she blankets my shoulders in a hug.

  ‘I love you, Mum,’ I say out loud, ‘so very, very much. Can’t you come back? I’m lonely without you. Please?’

  A waterfall of tears cascades down my cheeks and into my mouth. I taste the salt and know the answer.

  ‘I won’t leave you,’ I kiss the chick softly, again and again. ‘I promise.’

  A car door slams, knocking me out of my dreamlike state and I jump.

  I put the chick down, but then pick him up again. I’m not leaving him here. No way.

  They won’t miss him; what do they do, count twenty-thousand chickens every day? The chick trusted me and I’m not betraying him. I’m guessing he’s a boy since he’s being grown for meat, not eggs.

  I run back to the entry door and peek outside. The daylight blinds me and the chick squeezes his eyes shut – is this the first time he’s seen sunlight? I drink in the fresh air like water and kiss him again. At least he’s saved. Or is he?

  A pick-up truck blocks the road, my exit path.

  Ther
e’s no escape.

  Chapter 13

  I’m so stressed I can barely breathe. I can’t return to the dirt road in case I’m seen. My only option is the large fence to my left. Can I climb over it? It looks to be least two metres high.

  I have to try.

  ‘Just relax here for a moment,’ I say as I put the chick carefully in my backpack and sneak to the fence line. But when I put my foot to the fence, it doesn’t fit into the small holes.

  Shit. I can’t even imagine the trouble I’m going to get into. I’m too young to go to gaol, but what about juvenile detention?

  I walk quickly along the fence, hoping to find an unlocked gate.

  Nothing. But then I see a tree, large roots making their way under the steel fence. One is so thick that it’s pushed up a section of the fence leaving a narrow opening, big enough for a rabbit.

  It is completely silent out here. No wind, no clouds, like the soundtrack of a horror film. I can’t push my backpack through, so I take out a few folders and slide them under first. I lie down and slither like a snake to the other side. If I survive I’m going to need a long shower after this.

  I hear an engine start up and I begin running, passing the entry road, a sign saying ‘STOP. Biosecurity area. No trespassing’, and there is a large pole with a spotlight. I veer onto a track that leads up a hill, and once hidden in a grove of gum trees I catch my breath.

  Note to self – get fitter. I’m panting like a dog. This breaking-the-rules business isn’t for me. I’m not tough enough, a total scaredy-cat. I find a big rock to sit on and brush the chicken poo off my uniform, but it’s no use. I look at my watch and realise I’ve missed the damn bus. Double shit. I check that the chick is okay and I give him a kiss.

  I text Paula, telling her I’m still in town and will be home soon, and I feel a tinge of guilt. I look at the map app and calculate a thirty-minute walk back home if I cut through a few fields. I’ll make it before dinner.

  I reach the peak of the hill and start to go down it. Rounding a corner I walk straight into Lucy.

  Can this day get any stranger?

  ‘Hi,’ I say as if is a perfectly normal thing to do. Me, alone, in the bush, at sunset.