Read Prairie Ostrich for Free Online Page B

least once during the semester and blubber during the Easter play. It is best to stay away from his bratwurst fingers. Mrs. Ayslin, skittish in her long summer sleeves, is always hovering on the edge of the teacher’s assembly. Mrs. Ayslin will sport a shiner after Christmas break, always running into a wall, a door, whatever is handy, everyone knows.
    It’s grown-ups who play pretend most of all.
    Miss Chapman’s voice pierces the air. “Now why does Ivan Ilyich feel such torment? He’s dying, but why at that moment?”
    All heads are bowed.
    â€œDebbie.”
    Debbie Duncan, Kathy’s friend. Debbie’s mum takes in the wash for the Crawleys and Stintons and Fiskens. Her father is nowhere to be found.
    Debbie falters, “Sorry, Mrs. Chapman. I wasn’t —”
    â€œThat’s Ms. Ms. Chapman,” she cuts in, “and no, you weren’t.”
    Egg stares at the curve of Ms. Chapman’s eyebrows, the twist of her lips. Ms. Chapman, from outside Bittercreek. They do things differently there.
    Ms. Chapman’s head swivels and snaps. “Kathy. What about Ivan Ilyich? His torment?”
    Kathy unfurls herself from her don’t-pick-me slouch. “Ah, it’s the world that he’s in, it’s so hypocritical, and it’s — he had his chance but he blew it.” Chapman turns, a dismissal but Kathy continues, “It doesn’t seem fair though, like he only had this one chance then —”
    â€œFair has nothing to do with it.” Chapman clicks and rattles. “Irrevocable moments. But he chooses, he chooses not to save himself. Character is destiny,” she proclaims. She whips out her last statement and slams it down like a cosmic gavel.
    Character is destiny. Egg furrows her brow. How is that so? Character is character and destiny is destiny. That’s why they have different words. Kathy has told her that metaphors are lies that tell the truth but what’s the truth in that?
    At the end of the day, Egg slaps the blackboard brushes together by the pencil sharpener. She doesn’t mind the chores. This keeps her out of harm’s way until the school bus pickup and maybe Mrs. Syms won’t be so mean. Fresh pencil smell but the chalk dust makes her sneeze. Egg likes to sneeze. The heart stops when you sneeze, that’s why you say “Bless you.” She empties the cylindrical sharpener and pokes her fingers through the different sized holes. The sharpener is like the sausage maker down at Gustafsson’s, only in reverse. Reverse and opposite are kind of like the same but not.
    Egg dashes to the open doors of the school bus. Mr. Johnston, the bus driver, must be in the teacher’s lounge scrounging up a cup of coffee and maybe even one of Mrs. McCracken’s homemade butter biscuits. Egg scans the schoolyard. Martin Fisken is nowhere in sight. But she can see Kathy on the basketball court, showing off for Stacey. All the rest of the bus kids are far to the other side of the yard, by the picnic tables or on the jungle gym; their squeals bounce off the concrete. Egg looks back at her sister, at Stacey, who waits on the sidelines. The late autumn light blazes behind them, two silhouettes made smaller by the crush of the sky. Kathy holds the ball in her hands, standing in the free throw circle. Egg watches, waits for her sister to take that shot. But the shot never comes. Why, Egg wonders, why is Kathy just standing there? Egg feels a sudden sense of things beyond her grasp. She wants to call out to her sister, to shout some warning, for Kathy seems so lost and alone. But Kathy is not alone. Stacey slowly walks onto the court. It seems to Egg that it takes Stacey a long time to reach her sister. Kathy, head down, stares at the ground, her body small, as if she has folded something precious, tucked it up inside herself and hidden it away. She stands so still. But Stacey just walks out to Kathy and places her hands on