Twixie's Wishbone

Mama slides the knife through the skin. The first slice folds down pretty as you please, and my mouth gets all juicy. But I don’t want the meat. I need the treasure buried beneath it. The turkey skeleton will work perfect for future creations, but right now all I can focus on is the magical bone in that big, ol’ bird. The final piece for my most special project. 

Once they think of it, my eight brothers and sisters will team up in pairs to fight for that special bone, each with a twin to help. It’s like a big mirror runs down the table, reflecting green beans, buttered rolls, and evil siblings. Only Twixie the Oddball faces an empty chair instead of a reflection. 

At one end of the table, Daddy double-shovels mashed potatoes into the drooling babies. The poop-screamers have already squeezed their pink cribs into my room, squishing me and my bed in the middle. They can’t ruin this, though. Their pudgy hands are too floppy to break the wishbone. 

Next in line are the crayon-breakers, with identical cracks in their glasses. They’ll snap my precious wishbone easy as a toothpick, and it won’t mean a thing. They’ll drop the pieces and hunt their next victim: a doll to rip in half or a book to shred. 

One of the curse-mumblers sits too close to my other side, chewing a deviled egg with his mouth open. Across from him, gravy dribbles down his reflection’s chin. They’ll yell the loudest and fastest, speak words sharp enough to crack the wishbone without touching it. 

My oldest brothers cram yams in their faces like they’re racing. Because they are. The better-at-everythings compete all the time. When they stomp us younger kids at board games or freeze-tag, they push us aside to challenge each other. If they want the wishbone again, they’ll win it. 

Mama sits at the head of the table, a bookend to Daddy ten miles away at the far end. She slices more turkey with a surgeon’s precision. Because she is one. I gnaw on a corncob as she whittles away the last strands of meat, exposing the glorious bones. 

“I want the carcass,” I blurt. “The whole thing.” 

“Big surprise,” says a mumble-brother. 

Mama frowns. “I wish I knew what you do with all these bones.” 

“She probably eats them.” 

“Or sticks them in her ears.” 

“And dances in the graveyard.” 

“I bury them,” I say, leaving out the part where I dig them back up. “So can I have it? Every last bone?” 

Daddy answers above the bawling stink-diapers, “Nobody else wants the nasty things.” 

“Clean your plate first,” Mama says. 

I gulp down the slippery glob of cranberry sauce and crawl beneath the table where my hand-me-down doctor’s bag waits. I wedge myself between a cursing brother and a bony-elbowed one and drop the beautiful, dripping bones into my bag. 

“Hey,” the smash-em-up sisters yell in unison, “she’s stealing our wishbone!” 

But I’m already out the door, sprinting towards the woods, my leather-wrapped treasure clutched to my chest. Blood-red leaves cover the trail, but I know the way by heart. I twist and turn, hop over dead logs until I reach the stone wall. I squeeze through the rusty iron gates, take the shortcut through the tombstones, and only stop to catch my breath once I reach the shadow of my workshop. 

Silent fog wraps around the gray stones of my old mausoleum. Inside, it’ll be even quieter. Before I go in, I make sure everything’s in order. I wiggle the sharpened sticks sticking out of the ground to ward off intruders. They’re secure. I circle the building, plucking vines trying to smother the stones. They’re not allowed. The sign by the entrance applies to everyone except me. Because I wrote it. KEEP OUT or you’ll be trapped forever.