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(part 2: The Anatomy of a Chicken)

Locking the door to my house, I walk up the stairs to my room and plop myself onto the bed. It takes me about two full hours of staring at the ceiling to realize that I couldn't fall asleep.

Suck it up. He's dead; he can't do anything to you. Suck it up.

I tumble out of bed the next day without having slept a wink.

Pandora isn't at school today. I sit uneasily beside her empty chair, barely hearing the teacher's voice in the background. I wonder what happened to her. Why didn't she show up?

The noisy clang of the bell interrupts my thoughts. I barely remember to glance at the board. No homework for today, good. As if I could take any more. I take one last fleeting glance at the empty seat beside me - and scream.

Old Man Jack's skeletal frame sits, facing my direction. An empty blackness lies in place of his eyes. And where his foot - the foot that I had so foolishly removed - should have been, lay mine. I look, only to find my foot indeed missing. The blood slowly drains from my face.

"Hey. Excuse me! No screaming in the lab, please." I look up at the teacher, my eyes wide. He didn't see the skeleton. I turn back toward Pandora's chair. It was empty.

Eyes downcast, and shaken out of my wits, I manage to let out a small apology. Satisfied, the teacher walks back on his pudgy pair of legs, shiny leather shoes squeaking with every step.
---
It's been a week since that night, and Pandora's been missing in action for the same amount of time, give or take. I haven't been feeling so good either. I keep getting the feeling that someone's been watching me, but when I look back, no one's there. Worried, I decide to pay Pandora a visit. I get her address from the school directory.

I walk all the way up to her house--it isn't too far from the school campus. Her front door is unlocked. I slip past it without a second glance, and head straight up the stairs of her two-storey townhouse. I get her bedroom right on my first guess, and am welcomed by Pandora's quivering figure. She's on her bed, with her blankets all the way up to her neck. Her face is pale, almost an ashen gray. I move closer.

Her eyes slowly blink at me in recognition, and she cranes her neck upward. "The bones. We have to put them back." Her voice is cracked and whispery. I have no qualms understanding what she has to say.
---
It's a Saturday afternoon when we finally decide to put Jack's bones back. The road to the graveyard is long and tiring, and the sun's sweltering heat does little to ease our discomfort. There isn't a single cloud in the sky.

We take a left upon entering through those same gates, trudging down paths I'd rather not remember. Pandora's right in front of me, a quiet confidence surrounding her previously cadaverous state.

We're about twenty paces from Old Man Jack's grave when I realize we aren't alone. There's a solitary figure up ahead, standing in front of the same grave we dug up several days prior. The figure increases in size as we inch closer. It's when Pandora stops that my brain registers that the figure's actually a girl.

"Hello." The slight turn of her head signals that she's finally spotted us. "You're paying your respects, too?"

My voice is caught within the hollows of my throat as Pandora takes over, "N-no, we're here for something... entirely different. Is this man... your grandfather?"

"Yup." The girl nods her head. "Do you have some sort of business with him?" Her voice is high-pitched and childlike, carrying a sense of eerie politeness for a girl her size.

No, but we'd like to talk to you about a few things, I say as soon as I am able. Though... I think it would be best if we took this someplace else, I add, noting the large gray nimbus clouds quickly forming above us.

"Sure!" Her face brightens to an even wider grin, and she points her hand out in the opposite direction. "We can go over to my place. It's just a short walk from here."
---
Her place appears to be the small bungalow right across the cemetery gates. Its roofs are missing some shingles and the bright yellow shade the house must have been painted in a decade prior has begun to fade into an ugly, mottled mess.

"We're here!" The girl yanks the door open, and a puff of dust greets us as we walk through. My gaze drifts towards Pandora, and for a slight moment, we seem to be thinking the same thing.

"So, what did you want to tell me?"

We tell her the story of our grave-robbing escapade. She listens attentively enough, seemingly sympathetic. We finish up by saying how sorry we are, and that we'd put it back as soon as we could. I could sense Pandora's anxiety at that moment, the same feeling in my chest. There's a long pause after our story is finished. The wait sends shivers through my spine. Up, down, and back again.

"Well." A small childish voice breaks the premature silence pervading the room. "You could put Gramps' bones back tonight." She pauses. "You'll have to go alone, though," her gaze tilts toward Pandora, "I don't think Gramps will want anymore unexpected visitors."

We leave the house right after that, and as soon as we're out of earshot, I turn to Pandora. Are you all right with this? Going back there alone, I mean?

"No, I'm not. But I got us into this mess." Her throat gives off a slight movement, swallowing. "So I'll get us out of it."

I say no more after that, and reluctantly agree. She's fearless after all, those kids at school say, and I find that I believe them.
---
I am restless later that night. Finding myself unable to sleep, I kick off my blankets and grab a set of clothes. Pandora is somewhere in that graveyard. I need to make sure she gets back okay.

Before I know it, I'm at the cemetery gates once more. It's dark out at night, and the incessant cricket-chirps do nothing to drown out the rapid palpitations in my chest. Bracing myself, I race through the cemetery, taking a left toward the beaten path I've come to know so well.

I arrive just in time. Pandora is just about finished digging, and is slowly beginning to lift up the coffin's wooden cover. I find myself unable to move as skeletal hands jut out from underneath her, dragging her down into Jack's grave. She lets out a muffled scream as the coffin closes itself, letting out a satisfied click.

There's a shrill, ear-splitting laugh cawing out in the distance, right when my legs regain their movement. I know exactly whom it comes from.

Today's the day Pandora disappears.

---

Time shifts back to normalcy three weeks after her disappearance and I find myself back at school, listening to the toneless drone of my aged Anatomy teacher.

Sitting in my seat, a few paces away from him, I notice something strange. He tells us it's an anonymous donation, this box wrapped up in grays and browns and blacks. He's quite grateful, I'll bet, and his face practically lights up as he opens the life-sized package. I sit back as the entire class moves in swarms and droves up front to see what's inside.

He lifts it up with all the care in the world, the skeletal remains of what is to be our new subject matter, all assembled, brushed up and polished. It's quite small for an anatomical model, scrawny in build, with holes where a fine set of eyes could have been. There's something wrong about the entire thing, but I just can't seem to figure it out.

"Ah, too bad." My thoughts quickly topple onto the floors of my skull as he continues, "it would've been perfect if not for the missing foot."

(fin.)

---

Had to cut it.

The Anatomy of a Chicken

There's a girl in my Anatomy class. I walk past her on the way to my seat. She's quite small for her age, scrawny in build, with a glint in her stormy gray eyes that speaks volumes of her inane curiosity. I ask around about her often, when I have the chance. She's Pandora, I hear, and they tell me she is fearless. I believe them.
---
She's in Lab, too, I find out the next day. The quiet girl splotched with grays and browns and blacks, sitting alone in her little corner and constantly blowing her experiments up.

I watch her the whole time, disregarding the monotonous drone of an anonymous teacher in the background. She's messing with the lab equipment--the beakers and the acids, and I recall that we're dealing with hydrochloric toda--No, wait, have I done anything wrong? Because, right now, she's walking right up to me, with a wide Cheshire grin quickly forming on her smallish face. Missed anything? Yes, apparently I had.

As comprehension rises within slowly turning cogs and gears, I am faced with this reality. "Hey, Mister over there tells me we're lab partners now." And this human enigma. "I'm sure we'll have a smashing year together." Do tell me there is a God.
---
I am not psyched for Lab today. This is the mantra that thunders through my insides even as I enter the front door and smile at the lab partner on the seat next to my own. She smiles back. I wonder when we'll start talking. The teacher walks in at that moment, folders in hand. The thoughts seem to quiet themselves, if only for a little while.

We're dealing with sodium today. It's supposed to be simple. Drop a sufficient--but not too large, else it will blow up on your faces--amount of solid sodium in a container filled with water and note the reaction that takes place. I tell her this, and she all but laughs.

"Where's your sense of fun? Let's drop the whole piece instead." I give off a grimace at that. "Mister won't find out. At least, not 'til the fire's up and burning."

I don't want to get into trouble.

She is persistent. "Come on! It'll be worth it. The explosions, the action, the expression on Mister's face when he finds out!"

No, I'd rather not. I've heard about this before. What happens when it ends up burning straight through the ceiling?

To that, the scalding reply: "Where's your spirit? Where's your spunk?" There are no more arguments after that.

The period ends in the same monotonous melody it had in the beginning. Our teacher, the tomcat, radiates satisfaction up front. He flashes me a smile; there are no explosions that day.

Looking away, I veer my gaze toward the board and jot down its contents--Monday, chicken bones, don't forget--in a hurried scrawl. Finishing up, I turn back to say goodbye, but stop as I catch sight of the disappointment on her face. Where's your spunk, I recall, and I can do naught but agree.

It's when the bell rings that I come to my senses. I slide my chair backward and stand up to leave. Before I get any further, though, there's a slight tug on my sleeve. It's her. She seems to have gotten that spark back. Curiosity, it implies. Mischief. I remember that glint all too well, and decide that this sudden change in her disposition wouldn't mean me any good.

Swallowing up my uncertainty, I face her. Well, what is it?

"Chicken bones are lame, don't you think?" Her words knock me out of my stupor.

Well, isn't that the most random thing anyone's said to me today. I flash her my most incredulous stare. She brushes it aside completely, the shine in her eyes growing brighter by the second. "I think we should try out something cooler."

The teacher will find out. It was my only defense against this growing nonsense.

"So? I've always thought that human metatarsals looked a lot like chicken bones."

Wait. Human bones? I couldn't even believe I was hearing this. I don't think--

"So you're a coward then, aren't you?"

Where's your spunk, I recall, and her proposition grows in appeal. My interest finally peaks. Where do we get them, then?
---
It's six o' clock on a Saturday, and I find myself standing outside towering gates. St. Louis' Cemetery I make out on a ruggedly chopped plank hung up beside the entrance, and begin to question my sanity. We're going grave robbing today, and the star of the show has yet to arrive.

She turns up ten minutes later, lugging a large black bag--two pairs of gloves, two shovels and a knife. It's then that I realize she isn't so scrawny after all.

"Hey," she says. "Sorry I'm late. I had to go pick up a few things."

I shrug, letting her blunder slide. Lead the way, I say. And she does.

We take a left as soon as we enter the cemetery, heading straight for the graves out back. "It's best if we go for the older ones." Her voice drowns out the frog croaks, and cricket chirps. "That way, it's less likely for people to notice that they've been messed with. Not too old though, else we'll end up with nothing to work with."

You sound like you've done this before. I try my best to look as doubtful as I possibly can. I hope she can take a hint. It doesn't work.

She turns her head around, giving it an abrupt tilt to the right. She lets out an amused laugh. "Me? Of course not! These," she gestures toward our equipment, arms splayed out and mouth upturned, "I learned from the movies." I wonder how much of her insight will help.

My watch reads a few minutes past six thirty. We finally reach the cemetery's end. The skies are dark, and the trees surrounding us look as ominous as ever. Pandora tosses me a flashlight, and I fumble for it before it falls to the ground.

"Here, we'll dig up this one." She points her torch toward a gravestone only a couple of paces away. The inscriptions are faded with age and wear, but I can make out a few words. Old Man Jack, it reads, we'll never forget. There's a shiver traveling up my spine, and for the first time since entering this graveyard I am filled with unease.

"Hey," she says. There is a slight waver in her voice. "Stop dawdling. The sooner we're finished digging, the sooner we'll be able to get out of this damn place."

She tosses me a shovel and a worn-out pair of gloves. I put them on. We're digging up a dead man's grave. The entire thing isn't supposed to be difficult. Immoral, yes, but other than that, it shouldn't be too hard. Suck it up--suck it up and dig.

We strike gold moments later as my shovel stabs through aged wood. "Finally," she says. "That's it." We put our shovels away and lift the cover up. The metatarsals, the bones of the feet. My eyes veer toward the remains of Jack's foot. Pandora pulls out her knife and hands it to me. "This is your dare," she says. "Prove yourself."

I take the knife from her and drag it across the remaining tendons somewhere below Jack's ankle. It takes a couple more tries, but the foot eventually comes free. I pass it over to Pandora. We run straight toward the exit as soon as we're done fixing the grave up.

It's approximately 8 o'clock by the time we get out of there, panting and out of breath. We break into fits of laughter. Relief.

You're crazy. The moon is out, and there's sweat on my brow. It drips to my eye, and stings.

She gives me a knowing grin, "You agreed to this, didn't you? Consider yourself crazy, too."

I watch as she walks off in the opposite direction, carrying--quite proudly--the bones of our labor, before going my own way.