Night of the Zombie Chickens (4 page)

“I see it,” I call, pointing in the distance. “It's over there....”

I hear muted giggling, then all of a sudden Lydia and Alyssa start staggering as if I'm too heavy.

“Aaaagh!” Lydia shouts. “You're mutilating my shoulder!”

“We can't hold you up!” Alyssa calls. “Jump!”

There's no way I'm jumping down from that height. I try to crouch, but Lydia lets go of my leg and then Alyssa stumbles like she tripped. I go flying off their shoulders and land hard on the ground, and the corn really doesn't cushion my fall at all.

“I think we killed her,” Lydia says. They both come over and lift the hair off my face, trying not to giggle, but I slap their hands away and roll over, groaning.

“Are you okay?” Alyssa's voice drips with fake concern. “I tripped,” she proclaims in her worst actor's voice.

“You did not,” I say. “You did it on purpose.”

“Ooooh, someone's mad,” Lydia says. “Don't get mad, Kate. Get even.”

It takes all my self-control not to tell her to buzz off. I manage a smile and say, “Oh, I will,” in a passably evil voice, but somehow it's not funny. This only makes me feel worse.

“I'm going to die if I don't have something to drink, like,
immediately
,” Lydia declares. “Last one to the house is a freakin' zombie.”

She takes off running and Alyssa starts after her, then pauses to glance back at me.

“You okay?”

I nod, pulling twigs out of my hair.

“Come on, then!”

She bolts after Lydia. I sit up and clean off my camera, which fell in the dirt. It took me a long time to earn enough money to buy my camera. I spent an entire summer baby­sitting the neighbors' kids and cleaning out the chicken coop, plus I had to use birthday and Christmas money. It's like my baby. I clean it and fuss over it, and I probably have way too many photos of me posing with it. Alyssa knows all this. I'm always reminding her that electronics break easily and we need to be careful with it, but she still let it drop on the ground without a second thought. This bothers me more than my own tumble.

I slowly stand up and brush myself off. No broken bones, anyway. I limp back toward the house, wondering if any famous directors ever let loose with a few tears when they had a really bad day on the set, but somehow it's hard to imagine Steven Spielberg crying.

L
ydia
ends up getting a ride home with Alyssa at the end of the day, so I don't get a chance to ask Alyssa about her strange behavior.

After they leave, my dad finds me in the kitchen. “How did it go?”

I don't feel like explaining how the day was a major disaster, so I just mumble, “Fine.”

“You have footprints on your back.”

I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, then. As long as you know.” My father drums his fingers on the counter, looking distracted. “Uh, where's your mother?”

“I think she's in the chicken coop.”

He peers outside. “Well, I've got some work to do. I'll be in the den.”

My mother made chocolate chip cookies while we were outside shooting. Alyssa and Lydia each had three before they left. I ate three, too, but I decide one more won't hurt. There's nothing like warm, gooey chocolate chip cookies melting in your mouth to make you feel better.

As I head for my bedroom, I pass the den. It's a small room with old wooden floors that my dad took over as his home office. He usually closes the door when he's working, but today it's open. I glance inside and see why. Wilma is curled up on a chair, snoozing. She has a talent for pushing open doors that aren't quite latched and making herself comfortable. My dad is sitting with his back to me at his desk, on the phone as usual. The way he's talking sounds funny, though. Not businesslike.

“It's getting hard to keep this a secret.” His voice is low, almost a murmur. “It's all getting very complicated.” He chuckles. “I know. Me, too. Have I told you lately how much I—”

Wilma picks this moment to notice me. She jumps off the chair, knocking over a stack of papers. My dad twists in his seat and spots me, frozen, in the doorway.

It's too late to flee, so I push open the door and march in, like I was planning on visiting him all along. I draw near his desk. How can I find out who he's talking to? I'm pretty sure it isn't his boss. “Uh, Dad, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

It sounds suitably vague. My brain is cranking hard, trying to figure out what he can help me with. It doesn't matter, because my dad frowns like the answer is no.

“Not now, Kate! Haven't I told you to knock first before you come in?”

He looks flustered, then tries to smile, not quite meeting my gaze. “Ask me a little later, okay? I'm kind of busy right now.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

He's holding the phone, waiting for me to leave. I trudge out and hear the door firmly click shut behind me.

“It's the weekend,” I mutter to Wilma as I scratch her ears. “Why is he working on a Saturday? And what is he keeping secret?”

If this were a movie, Wilma would be a talking dog and tell me everything she heard while my dad was on the phone. It's not, though, so she just licks my hand.

As I think about his strange behavior, it hits me with a nasty jolt that my dad has been holing up in the den and talking on the phone a lot lately. And he's called my mother from the office several times and told her he has to work late. I never gave it a second thought. Now I wonder. What is he really doing, and who is he talking to?

I don't want to think about why he's acting this way. My dad would never do that, I tell myself, but I can't bring myself to say what
tha
t
is.

I watch him at dinner that night as he talks to Derek about baseball. He catches my eye and smiles at me.

“What do you think, Kate? Will the Cubs go all the way next year?”

“Nah,” I answer. “Not a chance.”

“Yes they will!” Derek bellows. He's a big Chicago Cubs fan.

“You say that every year,” I point out.

My dad laughs and smiles at my mother. Somehow, I feel relieved. He couldn't act so normal with us if he was doing something wrong. Those few sentences I heard could have been about anything.

Plus, I have plenty of other things to worry about, like Alyssa. She calls my cell phone later that night.

“Sorry about today,” she says right away. “I know we were acting like idiots.”

“Yeah, you kind of were,” I say, trying to keep it light.

“It's just, I sort of feel sorry for Lydia. When we were in the park the other night, she was talking about her parents' divorce. I guess her dad had a midlife crisis or something. Now her mom is always saying nasty things about him and how he's a lowlife.” Alyssa pauses. “And I guess he kind of is because he had a girlfriend—that's why they divorced. Lydia can't stand her. And now her sister, Shannon, is in high school, and I guess she's crawling out her window and running around every night drinking with her friends.”

My jaw drops open. “She told you all that?”

“Yeah, everybody left to go shoot hoops, but we stayed and talked. Can you believe that? I never thought of Lydia Merritt having problems.”

“Yeah, she always seems so...loud, like everything's great.”

“Anyway, I wanted to make sure she had fun, you know?”

I nod, then I realize she can't see me. “You should have told me.”

“Well, she asked me not to say anything, so you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“You know I won't.” My head is spinning from so much information. It all makes sense now. I'm hugely relieved, but I'm also a little jealous. Alyssa probably told Lydia about her parents' divorce, too. It's like she and Lydia share a bond now. Still, I feel sorry for Lydia. It seems like every year more and more kids end up with divorced parents.

I feel another twinge of anxiety as I think of my own parents. What, exactly, does a midlife crisis look like? My dad's phone conversation replays in my head. What is getting too complicated in his life? Could my parents' marriage be crumbling in front of me and I don't even realize it?

“Was Lydia surprised about the divorce?” I ask casually. “I mean, did she know they had problems?”

“It was a total shock. She said everything seemed fine. Her dad acted completely normal. And then one day, guess what, kids? We're getting divorced.”

“That's tough.”

“Yeah.” Alyssa's voice is subdued.

Is my dad's strange behavior a warning sign? I suddenly remember other things, too, like the way he swears under his breath after he steps in chicken poop. And the way he rolls his eyes at some of my mom's organic food when he thinks no one is looking. Is he sorry we moved to the country? Is he feeling trapped? My mom always used to look so pretty in her high heels and lipstick. Now she looks like a frumpy farmer's wife.

And what about my mother? Is her crazy chicken farm idea just a midlife crisis? Does she ever wish she had married a big, strapping outdoors type instead of a business manager with glasses and thinning hair? She's always running down the road to talk to Mr. Cunningham. He has a real farm with cows and chickens and horses. He's big and strong and still has lots of hair. Maybe my mom is the one who feels trapped.

I feel dizzy just thinking about it.

“Well, I'll see you Monday at school,” Alyssa says.

“Yeah, thanks for calling.”

As I hang up, a nervous flutter starts in my stomach. I never gave my parents' marriage a second thought before today. What if it's a slow freight train about to head off a cliff? And what about Lydia and Alyssa? If we still lived in town, I would have been at the park that night, too. I could have listened to Lydia and been sympathetic. It would have been the three of us having fun together today instead of me running around clueless in the corn.

I start getting mad just thinking about it. My mother ripped up our family by the roots and transplanted us to the middle of nowhere, just because she got some crazy idea into her head about raising chickens. She never thought about how it might affect me, Dad, and Derek. When I was young, she was always telling me to share and not be selfish, and to think of others. It seems like maybe she forgot her own advice.

A
lyssa
is especially nice at school on Monday. Near the end of the day, when we're at our lockers, she gives me a photo of a hen with glowing red eyes. Her dad is a graphic designer, so I'm guessing he Photoshopped it on his computer.

“It's perfect,” I tell her. “I wish I could get their eyes to do that in my movie.”

I hang it up in my locker as Lizzy Chang and Mimi Reynolds hurry over.

“Did you hear?” Mimi asks. “Mr. Cantrell says the winter musical is going to be
Annie
. All the girls in choir say they're trying out.”

“And Mr. Cantrell says he's already ordered a red wig from New York for the star to wear,” Lizzy chimes in.

Singing is definitely not one of my talents. I'm only allowed in choir class because it doesn't require an audition. “Are you guys trying out?” I ask them.

“No way!” They squeal so loudly that I know they'll be trying out for sure.

Both Mimi and Lizzy have been zombies in my movie. Mimi has a soft voice and her zombie moaning sounded more like someone with a toothache, but she had a great death scene (the infamous riding mower). Lizzy hid under a bed and Mallory killed her by using an extralong sword and plunging it right through the mattress. Derek charged me five dollars to rent his collapsible sword, but it was worth it. When Alyssa plunged the sword into the bed, the tip popped a thin plastic bag full of blood hidden under the blanket. The white sheet turned bloodred. It was amazing. Lizzy pointed out that blood wouldn't seep upward (everybody's an expert), but I explained to her that zombie blood does.

“Are you going to try out for
Annie
?” Lizzy asks Alyssa. She knows better than to ask if I'm trying out for a singing part.

“You should,” I encourage Alyssa. “You'd be awesome.” She's a little pitchy when she sings, but hey, she's a lot better than me.

“Mrs. Director, I'm ready for my close-up!”

Lydia waltzes up, surrounded by her usual group of hangers-on. I'm flattered that she's singled me out. Sara Gonzalez and Emily Foster stare at me like they're trying to decide if I'm suddenly part of their gang. I can't think of a single witty comeback, so I just smile and say, “Hey, Lydia.”

I know, lame.

Alyssa does better. “Heya, zombie,” she says in a carefully careless voice. “Eaten any corn lately?”

We all laugh, and then Lydia turns to her fan club. “Did I tell you guys I was in a zombie movie this weekend? No lie. You should have seen me.”

And just that fast, Alyssa whips out her cell phone and shows them a photo of Lydia, which I didn't even know she'd taken. Sara and Emily grab the phone from each other and scream. Other girls are already edging toward our circle, wanting to be part of the action.

“Seriously,” Lydia goes on, “we were running through this huge cornfield for, like, an hour, and Mrs. Director here was screaming ‘Cut! Cut! You're not being zombie enough,' and making us reshoot twenty times. We got totally lost in the corn, just running around in circles, and finally Mrs. Director stood on our shoulders, and it turns out she's made out of concrete. I think my shoulder's still dislocated....”

“And then you dropped me into the corn and broke my neck,” I add, and Sara and Emily laugh. The most I got them to redo a scene was three times, but that's okay. All the girls are grinning. Any moment, they're going to start begging me to be zombies.

“Oh, and you won't believe this,” Lydia says. “I actually saw a chicken poop. It was the grossest thing.”

Wha-a-a? I didn't see that one coming. Warning bells start clanging in my head.

“A
chicken
?” Sara repeats, like it's a word from a foreign language.

“Her mom's got a hundred chickens running all over the place, and they're
not
exactly what you would call housetrained, ladies.” Lydia pauses for effect. “One almost pooped on my boots. I was like, don't you poop on my boot, Mr. Chicken, or I'll kick you over the garage....”

Everyone's laughing, but Sara and Emily are staring at me like I'm strange. I try to cut Lydia off, but it's like trying to dam the Mississippi River with a stick.

“They're organic,” I say, because at least organic is cool.

“Organic poop,” Lydia says, and I wish she would shut up, or go back to talking about my movie. “So this one lets it rip and, I'm not kidding, this brown stuff squirts out and almost hits me....”

Squeals of delighted disgust all around.

Lydia wasn't anywhere near the chicken, and it's a Mrs. Chicken, not a Mr., and my mother only has fifty hens right now, not one hundred, but I know this is all totally beside the point.

“That is so gross,” Emily says. “Do you ever step in the poop, Kate?”

The truth is it's hard
not
to step in it because the hens do poop pretty much wherever they want. My dad needs to get the outdoor pen finished, quick. I shake my head. “It's not that bad....”

“You should see their dog, Wilma,” Alyssa pipes up. “She's like a poop-eating machine. She
loves
to eat chicken poop. And she likes to roll in it, too.” Alyssa beams as everyone goes into another round of laughing, squealing dis­belief. There are probably ten girls surrounding us now, and they're all darting glances my way, relieved, no doubt, that they're not me. “And her little brother puts dried poop in his slingshot and tries to
hit
us with it!”

Unfortunately this is all true. Eating and rolling in poop seem to be Wilma's two favorite pastimes. My brother only shot poop at us once, though, and he got in big-time trouble for it.

“Oh, yeah,” I say weakly, “it's
so
disgusting.” I'm laughing, but inside I'm cringing because everyone in my family sounds like a weirdo now, including me. Alyssa should have known better and kept her mouth shut, but she's trying to score points with Lydia's gang. Sadly it seems to be working. They're all making jokes about rolling in poop. It's like we're six years old again, which just shows the power of poop, I guess. It's funny at any age.

Nobody asks me if they can be in my zombie movie.

Lydia says, “Here comes Margaret.” Then she does an exaggerated wave. “Hi, Margaret!” while Sara and Emily giggle under their breath.

“Hi.” Margaret beams at us. “Hi, Kate.” She kind of ducks her head and grins, and I thank God that I'm not as socially hopeless as Margaret. I may not be Lydia Merritt, but I know not to grin so much, especially with a mouthful of teeth like hers.

A funny thing about Margaret—she always singles me out. Margaret Yorkel has wanted to be my friend ever since I went to her third-grade birthday party (it was just me, Margaret, and her sister), and I've been trying
not
to be her friend ever since. I don't have anything against her, but it's just a cold, hard fact—being friends with Margaret would be the social kiss of death.

Some days I feel sorry for Margaret and other days I want to shake her. Mostly I'd love to give her a makeover. Now, if I had bright red hair like that, I'd dye it brunette. I'd buy concealer for the freckles and I'd definitely look into contacts. She has pretty blue eyes, but you can't see them behind her thick lenses. And wouldn't you think her parents could spring for some braces? If it were me, I'd lock myself in the bathroom until my parents sold the family jewels or my little brother—whatever it took to throw some braces on my teeth, pronto.

I grab a book out of my locker. My social stock is sinking by the second, and the last thing I need is Margaret hanging around. “Gotta go!” I give a quick wave and head down the hallway. Alyssa doesn't follow, even though we usually walk to business ed class together. That's fine, because I don't want to hear her scratchy, out-of-pitch voice anyway.

Alyssa ends up being late to class. She slips in after the bell rings and smiles at the teacher. Mrs. Chapman is a dour, gray-haired, old-school feminist who always talks about how there used to only be two jobs open to women—nursing and teaching. Men got to have all the other jobs. Then women of her generation finally cracked the glass ceiling, and now we girls have to keep up the fight.

Sometimes Mrs. Chapman will lower her voice and tell us there's even a glass ceiling at our school. She whispers that everyone with power is pale, male, and stale. We all titter and wonder if she's talking about the principal, Mr. Safire, who's actually pretty tan because he plays golf on the weekends, and his breath isn't nearly as stale as Mrs. Chapman's.

I wait for Mrs. Chapman to give Alyssa a detention because she hates it when people show up late, but she actually
smiles
at her.

“As you all know, this is the start of National Career Week,” Mrs. Chapman announces. We all look at one another with blank faces. National Career Week?

“Many of your mothers have exciting careers today, largely due to the efforts of the women of my generation,” Mrs. Chapman goes on. “We fought the battles with blood, sweat, and tears. And now your mothers stand on our shoulders, carrying the torch.”

Mrs. Chapman's eyes look misty. Someone snickers, and she frowns and raps her ruler on the desk. “Alyssa Jensen's mother has graciously agreed to come in today and talk with us about her career and how she got started in it.”

The door opens and Mrs. Jensen slips in. She's dressed like a businesswoman: black pantsuit, nice blouse, high-heeled pumps. Just like my mother used to dress. I stare at Alyssa. She never told me her mother was coming in. Alyssa's cheeks are pink. She looks happy but nervous, because there's always the chance her mother will slip up and say something embarrassing. It's not likely with Mrs. Jensen, though. For a mom, she's pretty hip. She thanks Mrs. Chapman and then perches on the edge of the desk like a bright-eyed bird.

Mrs. Jensen tells us about her job on the marketing team for a high-end cosmetics firm and how she travels all over the country trying to get their brand into department stores. I already knew this, but it's interesting to hear about it anyway. She gets a big round of applause at the end.

Alyssa's mother suddenly whips out a pink lacy-edged shopping bag and announces she's got free makeup samples for everyone. That's when the class goes nuts. All the girls jump up and crowd around her. Lydia is the loudest of all. The boys look glum except for Steve Bascombe, who's into Goth and wears black eyeliner. They look happier after Mrs. Jensen announces she has aftershave for them, even though none of them actually shaves yet.

“Can I have two lip glosses?” Lydia asks right away.

“Sure.” Alyssa has already taken over the pink bag and is handing out cosmetics to all the girls. Her mother looks on and beams, the picture of professional poise.

Alyssa lets Lydia pick her second lip gloss before I even get my first one. By the time I reach the front of the line, all that's left is a brown shade called Raisin the Roof. When we return to our seats, Lydia sits next to Alyssa.

“That is so cool your mom sells makeup,” I overhear Lydia say. “My mother sells houses.” She rolls her eyes to show that houses are pretty useless compared with makeup.

Mrs. Chapman claps her hands and tells us never to forget what a difference we can make and that we have to keep fighting because the struggle isn't over yet. Alyssa's mother looks slightly confused at this, but she smiles and thanks us for letting her come in. I think of my own mother stomping around in her big, dirty boots and stained work clothes, mucking out the chicken crap. She loves what she's doing, I tell myself loyally, but I can't help thinking it's too bad she doesn't love selling cosmetics or jewelry or iPads.