Ten Miles Past Normal - By Frances O'Roark Dowell Page 0,2

think farms are nice. Especially farms with stables.”

Eight months later, we were farmers. I remember the day we moved out to the farm, the excitement I felt as I ran like a maniac up and down the stairs of the farm house, built circa 1892, with its windows that rattled with every breeze and broad oak floors that groaned in the middle of cold winter nights. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Anne of Green Gables; I was a girl who lived on a farm. Outside, the honeysuckle was just beginning to bloom and the whole world smelled sweet.

And the kids at school? They thought it was cool we’d moved to a farm. We had the fifth-grade end-of-the-year party out by our pond, and the sixth-grade fall festival took place in the barn. Being Farm Girl meant social bonus points.

High school changed all of that. For one thing, no one I met in high school had fond memories of hanging out in our barnyard and feeding corn to the chickens. For another, no one thought it was cute that half the time I smelled like the barn I spent the first thirty minutes of my morning in.

They thought it was weird. They thought I was weird.

And suddenly I realized that living on a farm was weird. Milking goats and pushing a chickenmobile around the yard every morning, dumping eggshells and coffee grounds into the composter every night after the dishes were done. Knowing way too much about manure and fertilizers and the organic way to grow bok choy. What kind of normal teenage girl lived this way?

The people at school were right—I was weird.

And I only had myself to blame.

Chapter Three

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch . . .

Saturday morning I’m awakened at an absurdly early hour by Ty Cobb, our rooster, who doesn’t know from weekends. Every day is a day to get up with the sun, in Ty Cobb’s opinion.

“I think Ty Cobb would taste good for lunch, don’t you?” I ask my dad when we meet in the hallway, both of us yawning. “You can eat roosters, you know. Some people have rooster for Thanksgiving instead of turkey.”

My father heads downstairs. “We need Ty Cobb. Without him, we don’t get baby chicks. You like chicks, remember?”

I clomp down the staircase after him. “No, that’s Avery who likes baby chicks. Or at least she likes flushing them down the toilet.”

I learned very early in my farming career not to get too attached to the smaller animals. There are always predators like Avery around who will break your heart by flushing away the livestock.

“That was years ago,” my dad points out. “I can’t even think of the last time Avery put a chick in the toilet.”

“Dad, we’ve only lived here five years. It’s not ancient history.”

We arrive in the kitchen, where my mom and my eight-year-old sister, Avery, are digging into their scrambled eggs. Farm-fresh scrambled eggs, my mom would be the first person to point out.

I would be the first person to point out that we don’t actually live on a farm. It’s more like a farm-ette. A mini-farm. No, make that a wannabe farm.

I am the only person in my family who has these sorts of thoughts.

“Avery and I are going to the flea market after chores this morning,” my mom informs me at breakfast. “Do you want to come?”

“I’m going to go to Sarah’s,” I say, pouring myself some juice, my tone making it clear that even if I had no plans, my answer would be Not a chance. “We’ve got work to do on our project.”

“I need your help this afternoon, don’t forget.” My father is standing in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, about to head out back. “It’s Mr. Pritchard today.”

I sigh but make an honest effort not to roll my eyes. “Okay. But can we not stay out there all afternoon?”

“I thought you liked Mr. Pritchard.” My dad sounds vaguely hurt, like he can’t understand why I’m not doing cartwheels at the thought of spending yet another weekend afternoon helping him gather data for his latest academic adventure.

“I do, but the last time we went to see him, we were there for, like, five hours.”

“He’s a fascinating old guy.” My dad grabs his pink Al’s Garage cap from its peg and shoves it on his head. “And he won’t be around forever.”

I have to admit this is true. We’ve gone to visit Mr. Pritchard four times now, and each time he’s seemed a little