‘Hi.’ Rob flashes me a white grin and leads me to a man in a sheepskin coat. As I walk along the rest of the row, each boy stops plucking and looks. Their turkeys swing as I go by, claws groaning gently on the bar. The sanitary pad smell wafts over me.

‘This is the girl I said about,’ Rob announces. The man in the sheepskin nods, looks me over. ‘Next time, wear trousers. And boots. Don’t want you slipping on turkey gizzards.’ He huffs out a not-funny laugh.

The birds are much bigger than they look under cellophane. Some of them hang down almost to my knees. Their feet are tied to a hook and their claws stick up like killer fingernails. Their heads are missing, and their necks are still bloody. I’m glad their heads are gone. I wouldn’t want to see their beady eyes.

Sheepskin Coat hands me a turkey on a hook. ‘Secure your bird on the rail,’ he says, hanging it up. ‘Don’t want him flying away.’ He smiles. He’s missing a tooth. ‘Best way is to pluck quickly, but carefully. Don’t go grabbing great handfuls.’ He plucks the feathers out – one, two, three – and lets them drop to the floor. ‘See?’

All the time, Shane’s staring at me and the bird.

‘Shouldn’t look too hard, son. You’ll wear her out.’ As he walks away, he taps Shane on the head with his clipboard.

My turkey sways in front of me. Its wings are spread out like the bird in our school logo. Its white feathers are flecked with dirt. I tap it, lightly, and it swings some more. I dig my fingers into the greasy feathers and grab hold of a few. My fingertips meet warm flesh.

I let go, leap back.

‘You get used to it,’ says Rob.

‘I thought it would be cold.’

‘They haven’t been dead long.’ Rob looks serious, as if he’s apologising.

I try again. I wrap my fingers round a single feather. It’s hard and spiky. When I tug, there’s a tearing sound. It doesn’t come easy.

Then Shane comes over. He doesn’t speak. He just grabs my bird in one hand and starts ripping feathers out with the other.

Rob steps back and looks round to see if Sheepskin Coat’s noticed Shane’s doing something he shouldn’t.

Shane’s arm is going in and out, in and out. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. Grab, pull, rip. He chucks feathers over me like confetti.

‘Is the spacky helping her?’ says Luke. ‘Why doesn’t he help me?’

A glob of turkey blood hits Shane’s parka.

‘Don’t do that,’ I say. I put a hand on his arm. He can’t notice, because his elbow keeps moving back and he catches me under the chin, hard. My teeth slam together.

I cry out.