Chapter 2: A Bantam’s Bounty, as Boundless as the Sea

B. P. Meyer 

Romance Writer in Residence

They said his name was Tucker. He had a 2.6 GPA, and his daddy was a famous journalist. He was something like a legend, known for the homecoming weekend incident where he put up a banner on his frat’s house with a backward ‘g’ and two ‘e’s in weekend. All I knew about him was that the sweat rolling down his round, short neck glistened in the Friday night lights in a way that made my heart flutter. The night I laid eyes on him, I suddenly understood every love song, every poem, and they were all about him. All this before I’d even spoken a word to him. 

Was I crazy? 

Ovulating? 

Living in a fantasy? 

Can chickens even ovulate? 

Could Tucker? 

I was so consumed by these fundamental life questions that I hadn’t even noticed him breaking away from the crowd and nearing the sideline where I was standing, leading the audience in yet another rendition of the chicken dance. In the corner of my right eye, I saw him begin to dance: his elbows bending perfectly, a gently and perfectly in tune hum filling the field, he was radiant. Was this magnificent man dancing my people’s dance? Dancing with me? Dancing for me? It was difficult to continue, but with the knowledge that his eyes were on me, I finished a final chicken wing flap and knee bounce with grace and contemplation. Once the last accordion note hit, I looked around hoping to meet his gaze. He had disappeared quietly, as quickly as he had appeared.

The next morning, I woke up in my Summit South dorm to a Taylor Swift “Cruel Summer” and Drake’s “Gods Plan” remix emanating from the food trucks across the road. I had dreamt about him. We were out on the Jesse/Miller field. Alone. No players. No crowd. Just us, and we were slow dancing, the flood lights bouncing off his white film covered tongue as he laughed. After being unable to fall back asleep, desperate to dive back into this dream, I reached for my phone and opened Yik Yak. A sea of long winded political commentary sprinkled with a couple Yaks about an abandoned pair of Shrek themed panties discovered on the Funston Hall laundry room floor later, I read a a post from 10 hours ago, just after the game ended:

“Banty kinda bad…she a liberele?”

My heart stopped. Could this really be? Who else would notice me? I replied,

“she doesn’t know because she is a bird” 

and promptly responded to myself, 

“She is I. I am Banty. Are you Tucker?”

I hit post and went to put my phone down until its vibration stopped me in my tracks. 

“AmericaFirstBabyBoy05 has sent you a direct message!”

My thumb trembled as I tapped the notification. The message, a single word, a single calling,

“Banty…”

Then the typing bubbles appeared.

Stopped.

Appeared again.

“Lets meet alone tonight, out on the feilde, wear that hot beak”