we talk about wishbones

We’re drinking twisted teas and talking. Just talking. 

It’s the hottest day of the year, the fourth of July– maybe the hottest day in living memory, and there’s nothing else to do. So here we are, the three of us–Mickey, Mar, and me, that is. Sitting on plastic chairs in Mickey’s backyard. None of her roommates are home, so we have the whole place to ourselves. And it’s cozy enough, the backyard, with a bluetooth speaker and fairy lights that switch on when the sun sets and a grill for meats and cigarettes. 

So of course this is where we’re drinking tweas, fun fun together together, and talking for the first time in ages. As usual, Mickey does the most. 

“I’ve been buying whole chickens.” Mickey’s got moxie; she’s a real talker, fast and kinda adhd but articulate and sound. She studied psychology. “They’re so cheap and there’s so much meat. All you have to do is carve them yourself.”

“Have fun with that.” I’m trying to be sincere, but I swear Mickey scowls for half a second before her smile returns, so I keep going. “I just mean, I probably wouldn’t. Whole chickens. What am I gonna do with all the necks and gizzards and stuff? I’m good with just the thighs.”

“Sure, it’s a lot of work,” Mickey continues breathlessly. “A lot of parts. Ugh you guys though. It’s tastyyy. It’s so worth it. And there’s so much of it!” 

“I don’t know how to carve a chicken,” Mar says. Mar is tallest, quick and springy like an airbender. They’re kissing a vibrant teal vape, occasionally blowing smoke that smells like mint candy apple. “Ugh, now I’m hungry,” Mar complains, and hits their vape. “I wish I had a whole chicken right now. I guess I don’t know how I’d like, eat it, though.” 

“Come on guys,” Mickey says, her eyes shining. “Why are you… I’m really trying here. Lighten up! It’s fun! I even bought a special knife for it. Duh. I can show it to you if you like. Chicken knife.” 

“Chicken knife,” I agree, hoping Mickey will move on already. I forgot she could be like this. Mickey used to live with me and Mar and our friend Misty. But Misty moved to Philadelphia and Mickey moved in with a lover and then they broke up. By then Mar and I were four months into a two year lease with Sammy. We’re six months in now. Sammy’s like, nice. 

Now Mickey’s making this weird face I can’t read. Did she say something that I missed? Sometimes I tune her out. I blink and force myself to pay attention. Mickey shakes her head. “You guys, I didn’t even tell you the best part. I’ve been saving the bones in my freezer. And onion scraps and celery and stuff. I’m gonna make broth.” She swats her knee. “All those bones. Not yet though. Duh. It’s summer. It’s hot as shit. I’ll do it later. In the fall. It’s gonna be so good. And peppercorns…”

“I saw someone on tiktok who does that,” I remember. “I forget their name–they’ve had the same ugly boyfriend forever. But they’re always buying these big whole chickens and stuff, and making broth with the bones.” 

Mar’s tapping their leg nervously. “I don’t know how to make broth, either.”

“You can have some of mine! I’ll make a big ole batch of broth and you can come over and have as many bowls as you like.” Mickey puts her can of twisted tea down under her seat.

“Did someone say best day ever?” Mar says. “Best day ever alert. Mickey’s broth, Mickey’s broth. Best day ever. Broth day ever.” 

Mickey and Mar giggle and I giggle a little too, but it’s forced. It wasn’t that funny. 

“Ugh. I miss you guys,” Mickey says, looking at us both. Mar smiles and is about to say something. 

“This is stupid,” I interject. “All this chicken talk, I mean. I’m hungry, too. Let’s just go get food. We’re not so far from that taco place. I think. I forget. Let’s go there.”

“It’s not stupid,” Mickey says, so soft I can barely hear. There’s a pause before she says, “Wait you guys. Let’s get food in a bit. Let’s just do that later. I’m having such a nice time. I don’t wanna go anywhere. I want to stay here, in my backyard, maybe forever. I don’t wanna go, get food, eat and all that. I’m having so much fun with you both. When was the last time it was just the three of us, sitting and talking? Let’s just stay here.”

Truthfully, I don’t remember the last time it was just the three of us talking. But we don’t live with Mickey anymore. I never see her. I look at her pleading eyes, but she avoids my gaze, looking instead to Mar. 

“Besides, I don’t wanna spend money. Duh.”

“I am broke as shit,” Mar concedes. 

“I know what we can do. I have the perfect thing. Just a second, guys, wait here, let’s have fun, it’ll be so fun. Just wait here. Don’t go anywhere.” Mickey sashays to the sliding door and disappears. 

For a moment, me and Mar sit in silence.

“I’m still hungry,” I say. I look to Mar. Their eyes flash to the fairy lights, then they hit their vape, and as their head floats in a cloud of disgustingly sweet scented smoke their gaze falls back to me. They grin.

“Me too,” Mar confesses. “We could leave.”

“I haven’t seen Mickey in forever.” I snicker and add, “Duh.” 

“You should’ve came to that show Murray did. Mickey was there and we stayed up like all night doing picklebacks and playing ISpy.” 

“Ugh,” I say. “After this we can get food. Let’s stay a bit longer. Like an hour. Forty minutes, tops. Let’s get tacos.”

“Okay, I’m down.” Mar nods and puts their vape in their pocket and then immediately takes it back out. 

The song changes to something I’ve never heard before. 

“Love this song,” I say and bob my head. 

“Never heard it,” Mar mumbles. 

I don’t really know what I should be saying. But I should be saying something, I know. I just don’t know what to say. Mar probably doesn’t know, either, but they don’t seem to mind. 

I resist the urge to pull my phone from my pocket. Then I remember it’s in the bottom of my bag, which I left inside. A fool! An idiot fool! I scrunch my face up, loathing, but Mar isn’t on their phone either and notices.

“What’s with the face?”

“Uh, my feet hurt,” I say. “Flat feet. Aching, they’re aching. My god, they’ve never hurt like this. I’m not wearing my inner soles. Yesterday I took 10,000 steps. I might as well have wore sandals.”

Mar giggles. “Inner soles? My feet feel fine.”

“You don’t have flat feet, lucky Mar.” I massage my foot dramatically, sighing. “A familial curse.” 

“Why don’t you just wear the inner soles then?” Mar asks a fair question, but I wish they hadn’t.

“I had some, but they got really worn down and I never bought new ones. I know, I need to get on that. Get inner soles, I mean. Gotta just do it. I’ll get to it eventually.” 

When Mickey slips back out into the backyard I’m relieved, even though she’s kind of annoying me. She’s bearing gifts, too: in one hand a silver tray of fun minty drinks on ice and in her other hand, a bent gray mystery. 

“Hellooo,” Mickey sings. “I’m BACK!” She suddenly screams and lunges at us, then falls away laughing. “You guys weren’t scared.” Mar blows smoke.

Mickey giggles to herself, undeterred, and sets the tray down on the glass table. I swear it sags under the weight, but it doesn’t budge or wobble as tables sometimes do. “I made mojitos, duh. Yours has brown sugar,” Mickey says to me. “I remember you like it that way.”

“Omg, thanks.” I’m grinning. I do like it that way! She’s right, but I wouldn’t have even remembered.

“Ours are normal,” Mickey says, winking at Mar. “For us normals.”

Mar takes a mojito gratefully, their vape lying forgotten in their lap. “Thanks, Mick.”

“Cheers,” I say. We drink, mint tickling our mustaches. We place our glasses on the tray, delicious, and listen to the ice crackle and melt. 

“Anyways,” Mickey says, and forgoes the ice. “Guys. I present to you the best part of buying whole chickens. The crown jewel. The best bone of all. The wishbone, duh.”

She puts it on the tray, in the middle of our drinks. There’s a pool of drink sweat glistening on the tray, but the bone is dry and wrapped in a red paper napkin. We stare at it, a bent gray mystery no longer.

“Is it…chewed? Did you chew it?” Mar asks.

“No, Mar, I didn’t chew it,” Mickey snaps impatiently. “Duh. It’s just a wishbone. Haven’t you ever seen a wishbone before?”

“I don’t know,” Mar answers.

“Let’s play wishbone!!” Mickey exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. Her many bracelets jingle and slide to her elbows. We stare at her, so she adds, “You guys, haven’t you played wishbone before?” There’s a tinge of worry in her voice.

“No. I haven’t played,” I say. “You make a wish?”

Mickey nods enthusiastically. “I saved it for today, in my freezer but separate from the other bones and then out in the sun. I ate this chicken five days ago, with rice and squash, yum-yum. But I saved the wishbone! And now we wish.”

I don’t have to think, really. “Nice. Okay. I’ll play. I wish for a million wishes.”

Mickey rolls her eyes, but Mar laughs out loud and now Mickey must respond. She does so angrily and simply: “You can’t do that.” The four words hang there under the fairy lights. 

I shrug. “You said make a wish.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t count. You can’t wish for a million fucking wishes.”

“Why not?” I ask. Mickey’s face flushes and tightens but I’m feeling the mojito now and besides I don’t care. I want a million wishes. “I want a million wishes.”

“I just…you’re supposed to…” Mickey grips her chair. “That’s not how this game is meant to be played!! You get one wish.”

My wish is a million wishes, I want to shout, to chant, to sing. But I take a calming sip of mojito, almost all ice and brown sugar now, and explain, “But I can’t decide. I wish for my flat feet to stop hurting, yes, better yet my feet to not be flat at all. And I wish for a better apartment, true, ours has mice right now, and more space would be nice.” I nod to Mar, who’s listening intently. “And god, what if I want to wish for a hot pink Ford pickup truck with bedazzled wheels and a thousand vintage bumper stickers!”

“You don’t even know how to drive,” Mar points out. Like a smartass. Sooo annoying. Sometimes I wish they’d rip their stupid fucking vape instead of saying something. 

But I swallow my pang of anger, and more ice, and add, almost choking, “See! I have to wish for a driver’s license, too!”

Mar’s laughing along and I’m grinning too, my anger forgotten, but Mickey remains serious. She shakes her head. “You play like this. Two people make wishes, and then they pull the bone like so. By its clavvie-cull. Clavicle lol. Until it breaks. And when it breaks, whoever has more–whoever has the bigger piece–their wish comes true. Two people. One wish.” 

Three glasses on the tray. “Three… glasses.”

Mickey nods. “Yep. Mar, what would your wish be?”

Mar coughs up candy apple. “Me? God. Um. Like, I don’t know. Me? I don’t know. Um.”

“It’s okay, take your time,” Mickey coos, her voice suddenly ever so soft and understanding. I scoff. I wish Misty were here. 

“I don’t know what I’d wish for, tbh,” Mar says after a time. They hit their vape to buy another thought. “I wish I did know. I guess, yeah, well, I wish that I did know.” They flick their gaze to me. “Your wishes were very literal. Tangible. What if it was more abstract. There are soo many things I feel like I don’t know, but I wish I did. I wish I knew.” They’re standing now. Their vape falls forgotten to the ground. “I wish I knew everything! I wish for enlightenment!” 

“Oh yeah, very good, Mar, very abstract,” I deride. 

But Mickey’s back and grinning wider than ever. That makes me even more annoyed. 

“I like it,” she says. “Fun. Thinkin’ outside the old box.”

“So, what, do we break the bone now?” I ask. My arms are crossed.

Mickey says, “Well, I haven’t put my wish out yet.”

“Wish well,” Mar titters. 

“It’s simple,” Mickey starts and I sigh. “Mine is kind of abstract too, you guys, don’t be mad. Don’t make fun of me.”

“We won’t,” I say, and take a sip of brown sugar water. 

“Thanks,” she says earnestly. “I wish to never be hungry again.”

“Huh?” I’m confused. Mar is, too. They don’t vocalize it, but I can just tell.

“It’s just so cumbersome,” Mickey explains. “And expensiveee.”

“I get it,” Mar says. They wiggle their vape in front of our faces. “But food is like, good. And delicious.”

“I agree with Mar,” I add. “Like good, and delicious. You’re telling me you never want to slurp up another delicious ramen bowl? You never want to eat a french fry again? Dipped in ketchup, or mayonnaise, or any other tasty dip of your choice? Hummus?? Harissa?? My god. A cheeseburger?? Think of the cheeseburgers, Mickey.”

Mickey shrugs. “You guys. I agree. Food tastes good. But it’s just so annoying. It takes so much time to cook, and eat, and you have to do it three times a day, plus snacks sometimes. Three times a day plus snacks seven days a week. That’s so much time and effort not to mention money.”

“That’s so sad,” Mar says solemnly.

“Cheeseburgers,” I agree.

“Cheeseburgers,” Mickey considers. “But tbh, cheeseburgers. I don’t know. No love lost. Look, I just don’t want to have to worry about it. Think of how much time and money is wasted on food.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you can in good conscience shoot down my million wishes but allow something as blasphemous as no more food.”

“For me,” Mickey protests. “No more food for me. You guys can eat all the ramen and harissa and cheeseburgers you want. Forever.”

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. “I wish we were on the beach right now.”

Mar nods. “I can get behind that.”

“You should think bigger,” Mickey says to me. “But that’s not a bad wish.”

“No, it’s a bad wish,” I realize. “Cause I don’t need a wishbone to go to the beach. We could just do it. Why would I wish for something I could obtain so easily?”

“Let’s do it next week,” Mar offers.

“Yeah,” I agree. I clap my hands together. “Awesome. Let’s beach next week.” Pleased, I sit back and nod enthusiastically. The music changes, and for the first time in a while I remember it’s even playing. I listen in, recognize the song, mumble a few similes. 

“But first,” Mickey butts in. “Come on, you guys. Wishbone, wishbone, here and now.”

“You guys go,” I say. “I can’t decide. Too many wishes.”

I half expect them to protest, but Mar and Mickey lock eyes and nod wordlessly. I’m almost offended but bite my tongue, watching. 

“I wish to never feel hunger,” Mickey says.

“I wish to know everything,” Mar says. “Like, enlightenment.”

“The wishbone knows what you mean,” I add. 

They ignore me, so I don’t say anything else. But I could. I really could. Believe me.

Mar and Mickey scoot their chairs closer to the table, now sitting opposite one another.  Mickey takes the silver tray with the empty mojito glasses and sets it on the ground. She retrieves the wishbone, safely ensconced in the red paper napkin. She allows this napkin to flutter to the ground, leaving just the simple gray thing. It’s small and unimpressive. Mar and Mickey gaze upon it reverently. 

“Okay, you can grab that end.” Mickey is trembling. Her face is melting and dripping like a wax candle. “Grab that end. With your pinkie.”

Mar complies. I can’t see their vape. Desperately, my eyes dart to their lap, then absurdly to the fairy lights, then under their chair, where a twea lies on its side and leaks everywhere. No vape. Is it gone? Suddenly I wish to taste it. I want my tongue to burn with mint candy apple, my eyes streaming and my throat closing in on itself. In this scenario my lungs trap sweet smoke and I hold it beautifully, fleetingly, and my heart pumps naked ecstasy before I exhale it through my nose in fun little floating rings. I’ve seen people do this before–not Mar, who smokes normally, but on tiktok or reels or whatever. Vape tricks. I wish I could do those. I wish I wished for vape tricks and nothing else, so it could be me instead of Mar or Mickey pulling and breaking the wishbone.  

The bone breaks. Mickey gasps.

I lean forward as Mickey and Mar both jolt back in their chairs. Neither of them fall over. My eyes pry their fingers open for them impatiently, and then after a thousand years my friends do, too. My best friends in the world, probably, I realize. I’m so curious as to which of them won this game of wishbone.

And then Mickey’s wailing. 

“Nooooooo,” she reels. “You cheated! You cheated! You twisted your hand, you have to pull straight, you’ve ruined everything! There’s no do-overs! It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!!”

Mar’s holding their end of the wishbone, a single clavicle fixed to the fusion point with a jagged edge. Mickey’s cradling her clavicle, sharp and broken and tiny, sobbing. 

“Well?” I demand. 

“No fair…no… fair…” Mickey’s voice breaks.

“How do you feel?” I ask Mar impatiently. “Come on Mickey, shhshh. Mar, how do you feel? Do you know everything? Are you enlightened, even?” I don’t know why I’m so invested.

“I don’t…” Mar trails off. Takes a breath. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Goddamnit, I knew this was a fucking waste of time,” I sigh. 

“You guys,” Mickey blubbers. “You guys, I’m still hungry… You cheated… you hate me… my god… noooo… I was supposed to win…I dried the bone…”

“Mickey, hey, we gotta get going,” I say. I stand up, remembering my bag inside the apartment. My gorgeous vintage Coach I thrifted with Misty. “Thanks for having us. Beach next week?” I don’t wait for a response, because it doesn’t look like I’ll get one. Mickey’s a mess. “Come on, Mar, let’s get tacos.”

“I’m not hungry.” Mar’s not moving for some reason. 

“Marrrr,” I complain. “You said we could get tacos.” 

“I know,” Mar says.