Just then a branch smacks against the window with a loud crack.
I rush to the window to confirm Operation Yard Sale is a complete washout.
6
Vegetarians Don’t Eat Chicken
So, here we are 6:00 a.m., Saturday morning with nothing to do but listen to rain, which is coming down in buckets. The wind is howling, and the lights in my bedroom just flickered. According to the guy on the radio, we’re in the middle of a tropical storm. No wonder the windows are rattling.
Rachel shrugs. “Too bad we couldn’t have had the yard sale last week when it was warm and sunny.”
“Guess we should have checked the weather forecast.”
“Yeah.” Rachel frowns. “Your dad is a meteorologist.”
“Well, maybe I could have asked him if he were ever home,” I say throwing up my arms in frustration. “He’s always working now, and when he is home, he’s tired and grouchy. You know what? His new job kinda sucks.”
“Yeah, your mom said the same thing when she was over for yoga the other day. Anyway, let’s remember to check the forecast next time, okay?”
“So, I wonder what else we forgot?”
Rachel throws her arms up. “Advertising! We forgot advertising.” She looks out the window. “We didn’t put an ad in the paper; we didn’t even put up a single poster.”
“You know,” I say, looking out the window at my waterlogged neighbourhood, “maybe this rain did us a favour. Now we have an extra week to make it even better!”
“Yeah, I guess at least we have time to do some promotion.”
“Rachel, we can do better than that!” I exclaim. “Look at all those driveways.” I point out the window.
“Okay, what are you getting at?” She lowers her eyebrows.
“What about a huge sale with the entire neighbourhood! Don’t you think it would bring in, like, way more people than a single yard sale? Plus, we can split the cost of advertising with all the neighbours!”
“Hannah Smart!” Rachel says, grinning. “You are living up to your name.”
* * *
For the rest of the week we knock on doors, rallying the neighbourhood for our new and improved plan: Operation Street Sale. We put an ad in the paper, make posters, and even plan a coffee-and-muffin station.
The week flies by and before we know it, Saturday morning arrives. The sky is clear and forecast is super. Everything is perfect.
“Okay, here we go!” Rachel squeals, and pinches my arm as she spies an old couple approaching the driveway.
“I’m already picturing those concert tickets in my hand,” I whisper.
“Nice morning girls,” the old guy says, as he scans the driveway.
“Oh, look, Harold!” the lady exclaims. “The girls are selling bran muffins.” She claps her hands together. “I love bran muffins! How much are your bran muffins dear?”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel, says, “but we only have chocolate chip. Would you like one?”
“I’d like a bran muffin, please,” the lady replies, smiling.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have bran muffins,” Rachel says, slowly.
“Well, yes you do, dear.” The old lady grins, shaking her head. “They’re right there.”
“They’re chocolate chip,” I repeat, trying to save Rachel.
“But I don’t like chocolate chip!” she cries. “I like bran muffins.”
“These are really delicious, even better than bran muffins!” I say, nodding.
“I’m sure they are dear. Now how much are your bran muffins?”
“Um …” I start.
“We’re looking for china,” her husband cuts in.
“Royal Albert, Old Country Roses,” the lady says smiling. “Such a lovely pattern. Please show me your china dear.”
“No, sorry. We only have …”
“Ooooo-wee. Lookie there, old girl!” the old guy interrupts me, pointing to my neighbour Gertrude’s driveway. “Looks like a good one over there!”
“Oh my!” The lady’s eyes widen as she spies Gertrude’s driveway overflowing with yard-sale treasures. “I hope they have bran muffins.”
My neighbour Gertrude is, like, seventy-eight years old, and downsizing: she’s moving into a condo or nursing home or something. Anyway, her whole front lawn and driveway are littered with old furniture and dishes and crap, so she’ll probably have something they’ll want. Who knows, she might even have bran muffins.
The next couple wanders in munching on granola bars and sipping from their eco-friendly water bottles.
This time I am determined to sell something.
“Would you have anything baby-related?” the guy asks, searching the driveway.
“I’m expecting … my first,” the woman says, beaming, as she rubs her hand over her giant belly.
“No, sorry. No baby stuff,” Rachel replies, squishing up her nose.
“Well, could we interest you in some coffee or a freshly baked muffin?” I ask.
They both hold up their water bottles. “No thanks. We’re good.”
“Okay, then,” I say, scrambling to pick up a book from the table, “could I interest you in this great cookbook? 101 Ways to Cook a Chicken!” I hold it up to show her. “It’s got loads of great recipes, and it even has a very informative section on how to take all the bones out! See …” I flip the cookbook open to the “Deboning a Chicken Carcass” page and point to a picture at the top where a lady is stabbing a sharp knife into a raw chicken.
“First, lift the skin of the chicken’s neck with a sharp blade,” I read from the book, “then, saw the wishbone from the chicken’s flesh and give it a good yank. Drive your knife in deeply to separate the bones from the soft, fleshy tissue. Then slice the connections of the legs and the wings to the carcass. Pull the leg toward you so the thigh bone pops completely out of its socket.” I look up at her with my widest smile and try to pass her the book.
Her eyes are bulging out of her head. “No, I don’t want it!” she cries, thrusting the book back at me.
Wow, I was not expecting that reaction. I mean, I gave a pretty impressive sales pitch. Actually, if my mom hadn’t given us this book to sell, I’d seriously think about buying it for her myself!
“We don’t eat chicken,” the pregnant woman says in complete disgust. She’s actually starting to gag a bit.
“Really?” I say confused. “But chicken is such a healthy choice for your family. Maybe you should consider it.” I pat her belly. “It’s low-fat!”
“I’m not fat!” she protests angrily, “I’m pregnant!”
“I wasn’t calling you fat,” I stammer, “I just meant …”
“Listen, kid!” she cuts me off. “We’re vegetarians! Not depraved chicken butchers!”
“So, are you sure?” I shrug. “I mean, think of the baby.