Night of the Zombie Chickens (10 page)

And then, fate gives me a break. Alyssa bursts out of the music room. She stops short when she sees Mr. Cantrell.

“Why, Alyssa,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing in there? Aren't you supposed to be in class?”

“Uh, yes, I was looking for something, but I couldn't find it,” she blurts. Her face is turning ten shades of red. Only I know she's blushing because she was waiting for Jake Knowles and he stood her up. And the result is she looks guilty as sin as she hurries away, slinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“It seems everyone has lost something today,” Mr. Cantrell muses. “Shall we look for your ring, Kate?”

“Oh my gosh, look, there it is!” I scoop up the ring I planted underneath the drinking fountain and wave it in front of Mr. Cantrell. It's a cheap dime store ring with a plastic pearl, so I'm hoping he won't look too closely.

He looks vaguely puzzled. “That was lucky. Be more careful next time.”

“I will. Thanks, Mr. Cantrell!”

I duck into the bathroom until he goes back in his office. A part of me feels like crying and another part of me is completely amped, like I drank three Frappuccinos in a row. I take a deep breath and wipe my face. If that was the trickiest part, this next is the hardest.

I slip into the music room. It's so quiet I can hear the clock tick to the next minute. A fly buzzes along the window like a mini chain saw. I make my way over to the counter beneath the big windows. My heart is pounding in my ears like a cheesy sound effect from a second-rate horror flick. I swallow hard and glance nervously at the door. I've never taken school property before. If I'm caught, I'll be in big trouble.

I tell myself I'm only borrowing it, but my hand shakes as I grab the Cute Red Wig off its plastic head and stuff it into my backpack. I hurry outside and breathe a shaky sigh of relief. The hall is empty. I'm late to class and I get a tardy, but I don't even care. Relief washes over me as I slide into my seat. The deed is done. Excitement mixes with terror as I try not to look at my backpack. The trap is set. Now it's time for BD to take the fall.

T
he news spreads fast the next morning—the Cute Red Wig has been stolen. By the time Mr. Cantrell tells us in choir class, everybody already knows. He looks paler than normal, and I notice he gives Alyssa an extralong look. I was afraid Mr. Cantrell's music-soaked brain might not do the math, but it looks like he's put two and two together.

“Yes, it's true,” he tells us. “Someone has taken the red wig for our
Annie
production. If anyone has information, I hope you will come to me. Otherwise, let's hope the thief comes to his—or her—senses and puts the wig back.”

Everyone is glum, even Lydia. “This bites,” she says loudly.

“Yeah,” Alyssa agrees. “Who would want to steal the wig?”

“Who indeed?” Mr. Cantrell says quietly.

I wait for him to quiz Alyssa, but he doesn't say another word. Instead, he reaches for his songbook. Then it hits me. He'll probably question her in private. I feel like shaking him. Is this how Tim Burton feels when actors flub their lines? It looks like I'll have to take matters into my own hands.

“Hey, Alyssa, weren't you in the music room during sixth period yesterday?” I say, like it just occurred to me. “Remember, Mr. Cantrell? We were looking for my ring and we saw Alyssa. Did you see anything suspicious?” I ask innocently.

The entire room goes quiet. I almost hear the whirring brains as some of the kids remember that Alyssa hurried in late to English class, probably looking flustered.

Mr. Cantrell removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Yes, that's right. What were you doing in the room, Alyssa?”

Alyssa's face turns a sickly color. In a single second, she knows and I know and everyone else knows that she's become suspect
numero uno
, as Mrs. Liebowitz would say. “I wasn't doing anything,” she stammers. “I was looking for a book I left.”

“What book?” Mr. Cantrell asks.

And then, poor Alyssa's brain freezes. She gulps and hems and haws. All she needs to do is blurt out a title, any title, but she can't do it. “My English book,” she finally manages.

“You had your English book in class yesterday,” Jennifer Adams, our straight-A eager beaver pipes up. “We shared it, remember?”

“Yeah, I found it in the music room,” Alyssa quickly covers. “The wig was still there when I left the room—I'm sure of it. I remember looking at it and thinking, ‘Oh, the Cute Red Wig!'” She says it in a funny way and some of the girls chuckle. Alyssa's breathing easier now. She grins at Lydia, who says:

“Dang, you could have caught the criminal red-handed! You should have hid in the closet!”

Everyone laughs and settles into their chairs. Crisis averted.

I hold my breath. Mr. Cantrell is one of those old guys whose age is hard to figure out because he still has hair and he's still slender. He has to be in his forties, though. Does he have enough brain cells left to remember all the way back to yesterday, or has middle-age memory rot already kicked in? The clock ticks to the next minute.

Mr. Cantrell frowns and holds up a finger. Hallelujah. It's pointed at the ceiling, but an adjustment of a few degrees and it would be pointing at Alyssa. “You said yesterday that you didn't find what you were looking for in the music room.”

You can almost feel the air get sucked out of the room. It's like we've suddenly been thrust into the middle of an old
Perry Mason
rerun, and Perry has just outfoxed the criminal at the eleventh hour. As Alyssa looks like she's about to cry, a part of me feels sorry for her. I remind myself of the last week of torture, until
Crapkate
rings in my ears. I can't let my resolve crumble now.

“I didn't take it!” Alyssa babbles. “I swear I didn't!”

To a jury of adults, that sounds like a denial. A jury of seventh graders has way sharper ears. We know a clear admission of guilt when we hear one. Our legal reasoning goes something like this: people don't bother to deny something unless they've actually done it and therefore need to deny doing it.

This is where my superior scripting kicks in. Alyssa grabs her backpack and opens it. “See, I don't have it!”

Of course, no one expects her to be carrying the wig around in her backpack. Who would be that stupid? That's why I haven't bothered to plant the wig there. What I did plant on
top
of her backpack, as I passed behind her at the start of class, was a tiny curl of red hair that I yanked from the wig. To be honest, I didn't really expect a payoff from this, because Alyssa's backpack is dark and stuck under her chair. It wasn't likely anyone would notice, but I figured it couldn't hurt to try.

As Alyssa lifts her backpack to show everyone, the bright red curl slips onto the white linoleum like a bloody, crooked finger pointing right at Alyssa. Sometimes life does a better job scripting than I ever could.

“What is that?” Lydia shrieks. She picks up the curl and holds it up. Even she is struck speechless. She finally flicks it at Alyssa. “Dude, just give the frickin' wig back.”

The supreme court justice of seventh grade has spoken! The verdict:
Guilty
. Alyssa's goose is cooked.

“I didn't take it!” Alyssa insists again, but no one is listening.

Mr. Cantrell carefully picks up the red curl of hair, then motions for Alyssa to follow him. Her face is absolutely white and her lower lip trembles. She stands up and slowly follows him. Mr. Cantrell pauses at the door. “Jennifer, please lead the class in ‘Oh My Heart' until I get back.” He turns and Alyssa trails after him like a scolded puppy.

A
good script has to be believable. Each plot development should make sense, like it could really happen. Alyssa dumping the wig in her locker just wasn't believable. Who's stupid enough to steal something and then put it in their locker, which can be searched? A lock of hair that accidentally ripped from the wig and stuck to her backpack—that was more believable. Plus, this way the wig is still missing. Therefore, people are still mad at Alyssa. Of course, I'll return the wig long before
Annie
is ready to hit the stage. I just want to let the resentment simmer a bit.

I find out later that the principal and Mr. Cantrell questioned Alyssa but she denied taking the wig. She had no idea how the lock of red hair got on her backpack. They asked to see her locker, but of course the wig wasn't there. There's really no proof that she took it, so they finally let her go back to class. By then, almost the entire school has heard that
Alyssa Jensen took the Cute Red Wig and won
'
t admit it
. All her denials only make it worse. Lydia pronounces her totally lame. She's toast.

And then it hits me: I've succeeded. Bogie has outwitted the Beautiful Dame. I go over and over the script in my head, amazed my crazy plan actually worked. Even the chickens couldn't mess it up. I spend the rest of the school day floating on a cloud. Lydia even comes up to me in the hallway and says, “Can you believe it? What is up with that chick?”

I guess she says it to me because I've been Alyssa's friend for so long. I notice Lydia already has a new BFF, Tina Turlick, who was her best friend for a while last year. At least Lydia recycles. Tina is one of her more rabid followers. She cut and colored her hair to look like Lydia's and she shops at all the same stores.

Tina makes a disgusted face. “She was probably just jealous because she knew you were going to get the part of Annie, Lydia. Mr. Cantrell practically said so. She couldn't handle it, so she took the stupid wig.”

“Yeah, pretty lame,” I agree. “She wasn't like that when we were friends.”
She isn
'
t like that now
. I squelch the tiny voice, but my stomach starts to hurt. I ignore it.

“It blows,” Lydia says cheerfully. “So how's the zombie movie coming, Mrs. Movie Director? When do I get to see my big scene?”

I freeze. Did I really throw the footage from Lydia's scenes into the trash? I rack my brain, trying to remember if I emptied the trash can on my desktop. I'm almost positive I didn't, which means I can still recover her scenes. Of course, there was hardly any useable footage, but maybe if I make it a really short scene...

“It looks great,” I say, trying for enthusiasm. I feel a small thrill. Lydia isn't calling me
Crapkate
. She suddenly thinks my movie is cool enough to mention.

“Uh-oh,” Lydia says. “Margaret Dorkel at three o'clock.” She snaps her fingers. “Hey, maybe that hair on Alyssa's backpack was actually Margaret's! Check her hair and see if she's missing a chunk!”

Tina grins. “We could shave Margaret's head and make a new wig.”

I can see Margaret's smile falter as she approaches us. Twelve-year-old girls have a built-in sonar that can detect when they're being talked about from a quarter mile away. I stifle a desire to slap Lydia and Tina.

It doesn't seem fair that they love the Cute Red Wig but make fun of Margaret's hair. Why is being a ginger adorable in a musical but joke material in real life? There are other redheads in school who don't get teased like Margaret. So I guess part of Margaret's problem is that she's a Henrietta. Except where Henrietta is too timid, Margaret is just too nice. Anyway, she can't help it if she has bright red hair. And messed-up teeth are just genetics. What can she do about that except beg her parents for braces?

Margaret gave me a seat in the lunchroom. She acted like a friend when even my BFF ignored me. Lydia didn't do any of that. And then I realize, Lydia might be funny but she's careless. She makes everything a joke so no one can accuse her of being mean. And maybe everything is just a big joke to her, but it isn't to me. And now, a couple words from Lydia and I'm practically drooling on the floor. Maybe I should slap myself.

“Hey, Margaret,” I say loudly. “How's it going?”

“Hi.” Margaret shoots a quick glance my way. “That's strange about the wig, isn't it? Maybe whoever took it will put it back.”

“We shouldn't wait,” Lydia says. “Let's go raid Alyssa's closet. I bet she's got the wig stashed with her dirty laundry.”

Tina wrinkles her nose. “Yuck. It would be like putting dirty underwear on your head.”

“You did that the last time you were at my house!” Lydia shrieks. “You should have seen her! She grabbed my underwear and stuck it on top of her head and went running around the house! My brother thought she was on drugs!”

“I did not!” Tina screams. “They were clean!”

“Are you kidding? Nothing on my floor is clean!”

“You put underwear on your head, too!”

“At least it's my own, moron.”

By this time they're both cracking up. Mr. Brumberg, one of the science teachers, appears at his door and frowns. “Hello, Mr. Brumby,” Lydia sings out. She has a nickname for almost every teacher. The weird thing is, none of them seem to mind.

“Don't you girls need to go to class?” he inquires.

“We're cutting class,” Lydia informs him. “We thought we'd stand outside your door and entertain you today.”

Mr. Brumberg lips twitch. “Move along, Lydia.”

“Okay, Mr. Brumby, whatever you say!”

Lydia and Tina amble off and I try to get away fast, too, because I'm pretty sure I know what Margaret wants to talk about.

But she's too quick. “What do you think about Alyssa?”

I shrug. Low-key is best. “I don't know, it's pretty weird.”

“I wonder if Jake Knowles ever showed up in the music room.” Her voice sounds doubtful. Has she figured it out?

If Margaret asks Jake about the note he never wrote, I'm in trouble. “You should ask him,” I say casually, because I'm pretty sure she won't. Jake Knowles is supercute and athletic. I doubt even Margaret wants to ask him if he stood up Alyssa. She shrugs like it's no big deal, and relief washes over me. She doesn't suspect anything.

I hurry off to my last class of the day, feeling like I'm some kind of mysterious Beautiful Dame myself. I've outfoxed them all. I turn a corner and almost run into Alyssa. She turns her tearstained face away and hurries outside, where I can see her mother's car waiting. It's so bad she's leaving school early.

I swallow hard as the car pulls away.
Serves her right,
I tell myself.
Now she knows how it feels.
But suddenly I don't feel nearly so beautiful.