Night of the Zombie Chickens (6 page)

Paranoia is creeping into my bones, fogging my brain. I need to shake it off. I probably imagined the giggle. Suddenly I feel guilty that I suspect Alyssa of such a low deed. “Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. I grab a ball and take Wilma outside. She immediately goes nuts, yapping and jumping into the air and running in circles—all over a dirty, grungy tennis ball. I wish my life could be so simple.

I throw the ball and she streaks across the yard, her little legs pumping so hard they're a blur. What Wilma lacks in size she makes up for in determination. She once came trotting up to me and proudly dropped a dead mouse at my feet. At first, I thought it was a piece of tree bark, but when I leaned down I saw the curled tail, the tiny ears. It looked so small and gray and...dead. I'm sure Wilma thought I was screaming with joy, because she sat down, cocked her head, and
grinned
at me.

“She's a terrier,” my dad explained. “That's what terriers do; they catch vermin.” He gave her a dog treat, but all I could think of was Stuart Little trying to zoom away from Wilma in his little red car. Sometimes life sucks that way. One minute you're minding your own business, tooling along in your sports car, and the next moment the jaws of fate are snapping at you, grinding you up for a snack. And of course, nobody knows until it's too late that they're about to become the next meal.

T
he next morning starts off nice, kind of like in
Titanic
when the orchestra's playing just before they hit the iceberg. (It took me forever to persuade my parents to let me watch that movie. My dad finally watched it with me and fast-forwarded through all the steamy parts.)

First, I decide to try a new hairstyle that Alyssa showed me last week. She's always after me to try something different with my hair, so I know she'll be pleased. Then, my mother makes chocolate chip pancakes, and she casually tells me that she went ahead and fed the chickens for me. I know she feels bad about our fight the day before. So do I, so I eat an extra pancake to show my appreciation. When I miss the bus because I took too long styling my hair, my mother doesn't get mad. She gives Derek and me a ride to school and tells me I get to pick the radio station, even though Derek insists it's his turn.

I make a quick pit stop at my locker and am hurrying down the hall when I hear a shriek behind me. I turn and there are Alyssa and Lydia walking together, with Emily and Sara tagging along. And Lydia's pointing at something on the floor behind me. “What
is
that?” She says it so loud that kids turn and stare. “It fell off your shoe!”

That's when the sinking feeling starts. It feels like the chocolate chips are turning into lead pellets in my stomach. I turn around and see what looks like a clod of dirt on the floor behind me.

“Just dirt,” I announce, and try to kick it away. But Lydia and her entourage are already there, and it bounces off ­Lydia's foot.

She shrieks like it's a dead mouse and yells, “It's dried chicken poop! Dried chicken crap fell off your shoe!”

The lead pellets start churning in my stomach as I realize she's right. My mind flashes back to the day before, when I was throwing the ball for Wilma in the yard. The chickens must have planted some poop right where I was sure to step in it, knowing it would harden in the crevices of my sneaker overnight. And now everything's gone exactly according to their diabolical plan. I wouldn't even be surprised if the chickens had a long-range detonation device to make the clod fall at exactly the right moment. How else would it drop right when Lydia is behind me?

Now everybody's staring at this piece of crud and laughing as they kick it at each other. It breaks up into pieces, which causes more screams, and finally Blake Nash picks one up and flings it at Lydia. “Have some of Kate's crap!” he calls. Lydia deflects it with her books; she's laughing so hard she can't even shriek anymore.

Blake starts smelling his hands and making throw-up noises. “It reeks!” he shouts. “These crapkates reek!”

I guess he means like cupcakes, or crabcakes—I don't know, but everyone thinks it's really funny. They all start shouting, “Have a crapkate!” as they kick pieces at one another, and you have to wonder, are these kids really about to enter eighth grade next year?

And where are the teachers? Are they in on it, too, standing behind their doors, sniggering? Is the whole town in on it? Has it been named National Get Kate Walden Day without my knowing it? Which just shows my paranoia is in full swing, but can you blame me? It turns out the jaws of fate have picked me for their next cosmic snack. They've plucked me from my jazzy little red car and are crunching on my bones. Finally Mr. Greuschen sticks his head out of his classroom and yells for everyone to quiet down and get to class.

Through this whole sordid scene, Alyssa has been laughing while trying to look sympathetic and failing utterly. She shakes her head at me like,
Hey, it's just a little joke,
but a knot the size of Mount Rushmore is lodged in my throat. I just stare at her like I don't know her. It turns out I don't, because Lydia grabs her by the arm and drags her away, and Alyssa doesn't even try to stay behind with me. She looks back and rolls her eyes like,
What can I do?
Even worse, I hear Lydia say, “I haven't laughed that hard since”—she pauses and glances at Alyssa—“since yesterday!”

And I know—
I
know
for sure what I probably deep down knew all along, that I did hear a giggle on the phone yesterday, and that giggle was Lydia. Still, I can hardly believe it. Alyssa—my best friend of six years, my ding-dong ditch conspirator, my lemonade stand partner, the star of all my movies, who loves SpongeBob SquarePants and can eat half a can of Easy Cheese in one sitting just like me, who adores scary movies, and who told me all about her creepy uncle even though she's not supposed to tell anyone—my Alyssa, who braved the water tower, just abandoned me for Lydia.

Remember the snowball effect? Some pathetic cartoon character gets kicked into snow and starts rolling down a mountain. He turns into a humongous snowball and finally hits rock bottom and explodes. That's kind of how my day goes. Everywhere I go I hear
crapkate
!
Even the
sixth graders
are saying it. I'm dreading lunch most of all, so when the bell rings I duck into the bathroom and stay there until it gets quiet. I consider sitting in a bathroom stall all period, but my stomach is rumbling so hard it hurts. Finally I can't stand it any longer. I head for the cafeteria and get a tray of food.

Even though I'm mad at Alyssa, I still look for her because we
always
sit together and sitting alone is out of the question. A tiny part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, there's a good reason why she ran off. Maybe she will apologize and explain everything, just like she did before.

Alyssa is sitting with Lydia and her friends. Mimi and Lizzy are there, too, chatting happily away, and there are
no empty seats
. No one saved me a seat. I'm so in shock I think my mouth actually drops open. This has
never
happened before. Most times, people won't even ask to sit in the seat next to Alyssa, because they know it's saved for me. And vice versa. But today she's rubbing shoulders with Lydia, laughing it up. I'm pretty sure she sees me out of the corner of her eye, but she ignores me.

It feels like everyone in the cafeteria is staring at me except Alyssa. Even Mimi and Lizzy shoot glances my way. The seats around them are full, but they don't try to make room for me.

For a moment, I'm afraid tears are actually going to spill all over my Tater Tots, which would be the final humiliation, not to mention making the taters inedible. My stomach is queasy and my face feels like there's steam rising off it.

Then a hand at a nearby table shoots up. Someone's waving at me, trying to get my attention. I focus on who it is, and my stomach sinks even lower. Margaret Yorkel. There's an empty space next to her. There's a bunch of empty spaces. The only one sitting with her is Doris Drayburn, who's half a step up from Margaret on the social ladder, mainly because Doris doesn't have bright red hair and freckles and crooked teeth.

Doris has the opposite problem. She has hair so mousy it's practically not even a color, and it matches her eyes. She has thick black glasses, and she always wears brown because that's her favorite color. Doris is practically a genius. I've heard she'll be studying high school level math and science next year. She's never gotten a B on her report card, except for gym class because she's really uncoordinated.

Doris is staring at me, munching on a Tater Tot with a sour look on her face, like she's eating a pickle instead of a fake potato. Of course, she always looks sour so it may not be because of me. If I sit with Margaret and Doris, my shaky social standing will plummet into the toilet. It will be like admitting, yes, this is my lot in life, this is where I belong, with the misfits and social outcasts. It's
so
not fair because I don't belong there at all. I've always had friends—but all of them are sitting with Lydia right now and ignoring me.

I only have a split second to decide—should I pretend I don't see Margaret and go to the nurse's office? I would have to put down my tray somewhere and everyone would watch as I walked alone out of the lunchroom. It would be too humiliating. I gaze around the crowded room, but panic has set in and I can't focus. Where's Kendall ­Carlton, who sits behind me in math class? We have fun joking around together. I could sit with her. Or what about Grace Devlin from Spanish? A blurred sea of faces stares back at me and no one else raises a hand to invite me over.

Then I think about Lydia standing up for Margaret the day before. No one expects the two of them to become best buddies because of that. If I eat lunch with Margaret and Doris, it just means I'm sitting with someone else for a day. Tomorrow, things will go back to normal. In the meantime, I can be nice to Margaret, who is trying very hard to get my attention. I can show my classmates that I'm not as petty as they are. In fact, sitting with Margaret will be a daring act of rebellion against the established social order.

I give Margaret a big smile, and then I sit down next to her, my head held high. I stuff a Tater Tot in my mouth, trying for casual. It tastes like salted plastic. Margaret leans close and stares into my face.

“Are you and Alyssa having a fight?” There's so much sympathy dripping from her words that I feel a fresh round of tears spring up. I close my eyes, try to swallow the Tater Tot, and gag. Margaret slaps me on the back and I finally choke it down. She peers over at Alyssa, trying to think of something nice to say. “It's kind of crowded around Alyssa, but that's just because you were late. I'm sure she wishes you were over there. You'll see, tomorrow will be different....” She trails off and takes a bite of her sandwich.

Even though that's exactly what I was thinking a moment ago, I shrug and poke my fork at another Tater Tot. I want to say, “Sure, I'll catch a seat over there tomorrow. No big deal.” That's what I want to say, but the words stick in my throat. My eyes are burning, my heart is still pounding, and there's a sour, rejected feeling in the pit of my stomach. I open my mouth to agree with Margaret. Instead, resentment pours out.

“I'd much rather sit with you guys,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I wouldn't sit with Alyssa if she were the only person in the cafeteria. I mean, look at her.” I stab my fork in her direction. “Sucking up to Lydia, trying to be Miss Popular. I hate that kind of thing.”

Doris glances over at me, probably surprised at the savagery in my voice.

“I'm not sitting with her tomorrow, or the day after, or any other day,” I continue loudly. “Alyssa is a sucky friend.”

Some girls at the next table glance over, and I know Alyssa will hear about my comment by the end of the day. Well, good, I think stubbornly. She deserves it. Margaret is watching me with a worried look, so I try to muster the energy to smile at her.

Doris gazes at me through her Coke-bottle glasses. “I don't think
sucky
is a word.”

Have these girls not heard of contacts?

“It's probably considered slang,” she goes on. “They do include colloquialisms in the dictionary, so it could officially be a word. I'm just not sure. It would be fun to look it up and see.”

Fun? With a supreme effort, I manage not to roll my eyes.

“Yeah, that would be fun,” Margaret agrees, but she doesn't sound too excited. Maybe there's hope for Margaret after all.

By the end of the day, sick despair is hardening into anger. Who does Alyssa think she is, dumping me like yesterday's flat soda and picking up some fruity, artificial new flavor of the day? We've spent the last two years saying how glad we were not to be one of Lydia's hangers-on, and now Alyssa's suddenly camping with the enemy. And she clawed her way next to Lydia at my expense. The enormity of the betrayal is almost too much to take in. I got braces, lost my best friend, and became a loser, all in one week.

When Alyssa marches over to my locker at the end of the day, she has the nerve to act like she's mad at
me
. She leans against a locker and gives me a cold stare.

“Jennifer Adams said you called me a sucky friend.”

“Yeah, so?”

Alyssa has decided that the best defense is an over-the-top offense. She flicks back her long hair. “I can't believe you would say that.”

Normally I would never carry on an argument in a school hallway where anyone can and will listen in, but I'm so mad I don't care.

“Stop acting all innocent,” I snap. “You make fun of my family, you laugh at me behind my back, and you don't even save me a seat at lunch. You're so sucky, you don't even deserve to be called a friend.”

“I was talking about your dog, not your family, and it was just for fun. Can't you take a joke? And you didn't show up for lunch. How am I supposed to know you're going to stroll in fifteen minutes late? You weren't there and then Lydia and Emily and Sara sat down. I can't believe you're acting like such a baby.”

Sure enough, the entire hallway has gone quiet. Everyone, even the boys, are watching Kate Walden and Alyssa Jensen fight—hoping, no doubt, we'll start rolling on the floor, ripping each other's hair out. I find myself picturing it as if it were a scene in a movie. Close-ups of angry faces. Cutaway of me slamming shut my locker. Maybe a dolly shot down the hallway...