Prairie Ostrich Read Free

Bittercreek is so small you could spit from one end to the other and flat enough you could watch your dog run away for a week.
    Egg taps her feet.
    They are the only Japanese-Canadian family on the prairie, except for the mushroom farm way out in Nanton. Lethbridge is so far away, it doesn’t even count, even if they do have the Japanese Garden. Coal River has the Lucky Dragon Café but they are Chinese and no one has an ostrich farm. The birds come all the way from Africa. Everyone is different but only white people are normal. Even the television says that.
    They pull into the school parking lot, to the looming red brick and concrete, the biggest building in town, built for the Confederation centennial: Bittercreek Central School.
    The doors of the bus fly open and the aisle is a mass of gangly legs, jutting elbows, the shove and holler as the stampede to the yard begins. Egg hunkers down and waits — the rush is like rattling stones in a soda pop can. When she hears, “Last one off is a dirty, rotten egg!” she stiffens, but no, that is not for her. With the big kids out of the way, Egg peeps her head above the green vinyl seats to make sure the coast is clear. Then she grabs her bookbag and lunch box.
    Egg steps off the bus into the dazzle of light. First day of school and everything is new like a stack of birthday quarters. She taps her feet together. The blue whale has a heart the size of a car, and the speed of light is the fastest ever. These are facts. Irrefutable . Egg holds the word on her tongue as she steps towards the playground. The grit of the dirt crunches beneath her feet; she likes the shuffle-scratch sound. She takes a deep breath. The freshly mown scent of the football field tickles her nose and the white gravel of the baseball diamond actually seems to sparkle. A part of her, that twisty tight part of her deep in her chest, loosens ever so slightly as the warm brush of light glows against her skin. School is books too, the best Dictionary of all and Evangeline Granger in the library. A once upon a time and a happily ever after.
    It’s a new year and everything can be different.
    There is a sting at her fingers, a jarring tug, and the handle of her lunch box is yanked away. The flash of her shiny tin — Martin Fisken grins his fox grin, teeth bared, his laughter high and mocking. The sun glints on his flaxen hair. He smiles, his freckles seem to dance in delight across the bridge of his nose. Egg stands, stunned. There is no time, not even for surprise, as Martin kicks her brand new Six Million Dollar Man lunch box over the curb and into the gutter.
    â€¦
    Egg thinks bumblebee bats. Bats the size of bumblebees. She knows they are the smallest mammal ever.
    â€¦
    Egg straggles to the end of the line outside her classroom. She slouches, her shoulder slides against the wall, as if willing herself to blend into the painted cinder blocks. The screeches in the elementary school hallway careen off the concrete and granite. Cacophony, Egg thinks, like black crows against a barren field. She sticks her fingers into her ear sockets but she doesn’t like the squeeze. She thinks of the world under water, of unbearable pressures, or copper-burnished diving helmets in the murky depths. If only she could be invisible! There are magic words — abracadabra , presto magico — she wills it — shazam !
    â€œCome along.” Egg feels Mrs. Syms’s fingers claw into her shoulder, pushing her forward. “Idle hands do the Devil’s work.”
    Mrs. Syms is Egg’s grade two teacher. Mrs. Syms pinches.
    Mrs. Malverna Syms, with frosty hair tied back in a bun, has taught elementary for as long as anyone can remember. Egg has heard her voice ringing out from the teacher’s lounge: how she is soon to retire but how she loves the children. Mrs. Syms is a fairy tale grandmother, as if in a storybook, pictured with a gingerbread house behind her. As she walks the