Night of the Zombie Chickens (9 page)

O
ver the weekend, I make preparations. I slave over the note from Jake. I have no idea what his handwriting looks like, but I'm pretty sure Alyssa doesn't, either. When I try for masculine, it looks like Superman wrote it. When I tone it down, it's like something my mother would pen. How do boys write? Sloppily, I decide. I finally craft something I think will work. I notice my mother watching me as I gather a few more props around the house.

Both my parents have been eyeing me a lot since my outburst at the dinner table. My mother never said another word, and I figured she had forgotten about it. I should have known better. On Sunday night, my dad and Derek disappear right after dinner, and that's when I know I'm in for it. My mother clears her throat and says she wants to talk to me. We sit down at the kitchen table. My mother looks very formal and serious. She clears her throat again.

“Kate, you said a lot of things last week, and I've been thinking about them. You said that you felt I was ruining your life. I suppose you mean the talk I gave in your class?”

That already seems like it happened another lifetime ago. I could tell her it's just the tip of the iceberg. Instead, I gaze at my gnawed fingernails. “That, and other things.”

My mother nods, as if now we're getting somewhere. “What other things?”

I shrug. How can I explain everything that's going on in my life? She wouldn't understand.

“You mentioned the hens,” my mother goes on. “You think they're somehow to blame?”

I stare at the tiny cracks in our old wooden table. I never noticed them before. I can feel my mother waiting. Why is it suddenly so hard to talk to her? She's expecting me to say something. I take a deep breath.

“If you hadn't gotten the chickens, then we wouldn't have moved out here. I would still be living in town near all my friends.” I feel a spurt of anger just talking about it. “I would still
have
some friends.”

“You have lots of friends,” my mother protests. “Alyssa and Lizzy and Mimi...”

It feels like a hot needle pricks me each time she says a name.

“Has anybody invited me over lately? Do I go anywhere?” I let this sink in. “You're just too busy with your chickens to notice. Everybody at school makes fun of me. You know what my nickname is now? Crapkate. As in chicken crap, mom! CHICKEN CRAP!”

My volume level has switched to “high.” I can't seem to dial it down even though I know my mother's trying to help. She
can
'
t
help, though, so it just makes it worse.

“They think it's weird we have chickens. They think my movie is stupid. And you know what? They're right!”

My mother looks worried, like she's not sure how to handle this. “Now, Kate,” she says, “it's normal to have fights with your friends. I'm sure it will all blow over soon.”

She always used to know the right thing to say. Deep down, I was hoping she might still save the day. It's clear she can't, though. I'm on my own.

“Is there...anything else bothering you?” she asks.

Like that's not enough. I shake my head. But then, out of nowhere, I blurt, “Do you think Dad is having an affair?”

I don't know who is more stunned, her or me. I can't believe I just said it out loud.

My mother laughs. “Of course not!” She gets a funny look on her face, then adds more slowly, “Why do you ask that?”

I've gnawed all my fingernails down to nubs, so I chew on a piece of hair. “Nothing. No reason.”

“Kate, you must have had a reason for asking that.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I was just...it doesn't matter. It was a stupid question.”

I can tell the idea hasn't occurred to my mother before this second. I want to kick myself for putting the thought in her head. Now she's gazing suspiciously at me.

“Have you heard something, or seen something?”

She's starting to look a little unhinged. I need to fix the mess I'm making, quick. “It's just...Lydia Merritt's parents got divorced last summer. He was having an affair. So it's been on my mind, that's all. It was a dumb question. Dad would never do that.”

My mother nods. “Of course your dad would never do that. You should know that.” But I can tell I haven't stopped the gears from turning in her head. Is she remembering all the nights he's been working late? The private phone calls?

With an effort, she pulls herself together. “Now, about your friends...”

I stand up. “Don't worry, Mom. It'll all work out.”

She nods, dazed. “Yes, it will. You'll see.”

I walk away and she doesn't call me back. I guess there's nothing left to say.

That night, I carefully stash everything in my backpack. I'm ready. Lying in bed, I go over my script again, looking for problems. Actually, there are plenty. I try not to think about how wrong things could go. One thing I know for sure—my parents won't be very understanding if I'm expelled from school.

I can hear them arguing in their room as I try to get to sleep, but I can't tell what it's about. Their voices rise and fall. My mother sounds upset. What have I done? I bury my head under my pillow. When I finally fall asleep, their harsh whispers seem to follow me, swirling like dark shadows in my dreams.

M
onday dawns crisp and clear. I know because I'm awake, watching the sun rise outside my window. A strange anxiety fills me, as if I have a big final exam in front of me, or a huge audition. I have to make a decision. I can get up and be Crapkate for another day, or I can do something about it.

Or I can tell my mother I'm sick and stay in bed under the covers all day. I do feel ill as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. My stomach feels tight and nervous and I know why.

I can't do it.

My plan suddenly seems silly, and dangerous. It's one thing to write it down on paper. I must have been crazy to think I would actually pull it off. The idea of ditching the plan fills me with relief. I'll file the script away with all my other half-baked ideas. No one ever needs to know.

Still, it's hard when I arrive at school. The hallways fill with students, but no one calls out my name. People's eyes slide past me, pretending they don't see me. I spot Alyssa and for a moment her eyes flicker toward me. Then she turns her back and laughs loudly at a comment from Lydia. They're standing in front of the
Annie
sign-up sheet. Lydia writes something as they snort and giggle together. I duck my head and act like I don't notice.

After they leave, I wander over to see what they were up to. I thought maybe they removed their names, but they're still there. Margaret finally signed up, I notice. That's when I see it. Someone drew a cartoon face by her name that's so covered in dots it looks like she's got the chicken pox. The glasses are huge circles and the hair looks like electrified snakes.

A bolt of anger sizzles through me. Alyssa has gone too far. Now she's making fun of poor Margaret. She and Lydia should pick on someone who can fight back. I take out a pen and scribble in the face until it's an inky blue blob. As I turn away, I know what needs to be done.

“It's on,” I mutter. Luckily, the props for my script are still in my backpack. I grab the fake note from Jake Knowles and stick it in my pocket. Panic seizes me as I search the crowded hallway. I need to find Margaret and plant the fake note, but she's nowhere to be seen. Did she go to class early? Could she have picked this of all days to stay home sick?

“Hi, Kate!” Margaret's voice is so close behind me it makes me jump.

“Margaret, there you are!”

She eyes me curiously. “Were you looking for me?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I just thought—do you want to walk to class?”

She shrugs. “Sure. I just have to grab something out of my locker first.”

We head for her locker and she twirls the combination. I nervously glance at my cell phone to check the time.

Margaret's locker is as neat as a pin. I feel a little sad as I gaze at her carefully hung sweater, her color-coded paper organizer, and the accessories lined up with military precision—a comb, a hairbrush, a lip gloss, even a lint brush. Maybe this is Margaret's way of feeling in control of her life. Maybe being superneat makes it easier to deal with the insults and the chaos that swirl around her every day.

“Hey, Margarine, who barfed on your face?” Paul Corbett slams shut his locker and saunters over.

Margaret carefully nudges a stray paper back into place. She keeps her head down, but I can see her cheeks turning red. Before, I might have been too afraid to say anything, but now I've got nothing to lose.

“Hey, Paulie, who supersized your nose?” I shoot back. Paul got hit in the nose during a fight last year and ever since then it's looked kind of lumpy. “What's the matter, did the doctor use your nose to pull out all your brains?”

I know, not the most mature conversation, but sometimes you have to fight fire with fire. Paul looks taken aback. Margaret usually ignores him.

“Stepped in any turds lately, Crapkate?” he finally tosses back.

“Does your face count?”

I grab Margaret and we sail away while his tiny brain tries to compute an answer. “He is such a jerk,” I mutter.

I expect Margaret to agree, but she just shrugs. “I feel kind of sorry for him.”

“Are you serious? He treats you like dirt. How can you feel sorry for him?”

Margaret straightens the hem of her sweater. “I heard his parents are divorced and his dad married someone else and moved away and”—she hesitates—“and they had a baby, but he never invites Paul to come see him.”

I'm so surprised I can't think of a thing to say. It is kind of sad, I have to admit. Still, Margaret is way too mature for middle school. She should probably be in college somewhere.

The bell rings and I realize I only have five minutes to put my plan into motion and get to class. “Hey, did you leave your locker open?” I ask.

When Margaret glances back, I slip the note out of my pocket and throw it on the floor. “Oh, look,” I say casually. “What's that?”

Right on cue, Margaret scoops up the paper and reads it. “It looks like a note from Jake Knowles to Alyssa.”

Margaret hesitates. Then she throws the note back on the floor and starts to walk away. This is definitely not according to my script.

“Uh, do you think she dropped it?” I say helpfully. “Maybe we should give it to her.”

Margaret makes a face. “Not after the way she's treated you.”

Margaret feels sorry for Paul Corbett but won't even hand off a note to Alyssa because she's been mean to me. I'm touched, but I'm also panicking. This scene seemed so easy when I wrote it, but real life is doing a major rewrite.

“That's true,” I say, thinking fast. “But what if Jake's the one who dropped it? Maybe he meant to give it to Alyssa.”

Margaret purses her lips. “You're right.” She picks up the note.

I let loose a huge sigh of relief. Back on track.

“We should give it to Jake,” Margaret says.

Wha
-
a
-
a
?
Not good. And then, who strolls down the hall toward us but Jake Knowles and his buddies? If I didn't know better, I'd say the hens were behind this.

“There he is,” Margaret says brightly.

I'm desperate now. What would Tim Burton do? “He's with his friends,” I blurt. “Don't you think he'll be embarrassed if we hand it to him in front of them? You know, since it's a note to a girl? They'll probably give him such a hard time.”

Margaret turns and gazes at me, and I wonder if she's starting to suspect. The sweat on my face could be a clue.

“That is very thoughtful,” she says, sounding like my mother.

I feel a twinge of shame that Margaret has such a high opinion of me. I remind myself that I'm doing this for her as well. “I don't want to do anything nice for Alyssa, either,” I babble, “but I suppose for Jake's sake we should just give it to her.” I hold my breath. Will she go for it?

Margaret shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I'll give it to her in gym class.”

Bingo. We're back on script. I wipe my face and hope that's the end of the ad-libbing.

The note handoff goes just as I expected. Alyssa looks surprised but does a good job of covering up after she reads the note. She stuffs it into her backpack, trying hard not to look excited. Alyssa has been waiting so long for Jake Knowles to notice her, and now she thinks he has. Well, the Beautiful Dame is in for a big letdown.

I'm finding it's a lot easier to carry out my plan if I think of Alyssa as the bad-to-the-bone Beautiful Dame. Not Alyssa, the girl with a secret crush, the climber of water towers. I don't really like calling her Beautiful Dame, either. It's too much like a compliment. I'll call her BD.

I shut my gym locker and turn away. BD has taken the bait, I tell myself. On to the next scene.

Halfway through fifth period I raise my hand and ask Mrs. Liebowitz, my Spanish teacher, if I can go to the nurse's office because I'm not feeling well.

She frowns. “No.”

No? I sink back into my seat, stunned. What kind of heartless teacher keeps a sick kid in class? And why does a Spanish teacher have a name like
Liebowitz
, anyway? I'm starting to suspect the chickens have written their own script and sent it out into the cosmos, because nothing is going according to plan.

“Yo no te entiendo,”
Mrs. Liebowitz says, overemphasizing each syllable. She's spent so many years enunciating each vowel that she talks this way in English, too.

I sigh and rack my brain.
“Yo me siento bien,”
I finally manage.
I don
'
t feel
well.

Mrs. Liebowitz beams at me.
“Muy bien, Katerina.”
She nods at the door and I shoot out of class.

I hurry to the nurse's office and announce I have a major headache and can I lie down? Mrs. Stickney barely looks up as she waves me toward the cot. I wait ten minutes, then bounce up and announce I'm all better.

“Can I have a pass to get back to class?”

Mrs. Stickney, pleased at my quick recovery, hands me a pass.

I'm starting to feel a little like I'm in the middle of a
Mission: Impossible
plotline, but without all the fancy gadgets. And without Tom Cruise. I return to Spanish class. When the bell rings, instead of going to my sixth-period class, I trail behind Alyssa as she hurries to the music classroom. Once she disappears inside, I quickly plant my ­second prop, and then I say a prayer. Mr. Cantrell has sixth period free. He usually stays in his office nearby, but he could decide to go to the teacher's lounge or even to the men's room. Considering how long my dad can camp out in the bathroom, this is a bleak thought.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief when I pass Mr. Cantrell's door. He's inside, humming to himself and conducting an invisible symphony. He looks so happy I feel sorry for him. He probably dreamed of being a world-famous conductor, and now he's stuck teaching pimply preteens in a suburban middle school. I make a note to myself to be nicer to Mr. Cantrell. Of course, if my plan backfires, I'll be at the top of his Most Hated Student list. A nasty case of doubt hits me like a bad bellyache. It's still not too late to ditch the plan. I suck in a deep breath and try to steady my nerves.

If I just picture what I'm doing as a movie shoot, it makes everything easier. After all, didn't Shakespeare say we're all just actors on a stage? Or maybe it was Jim ­Carrey. I try to ignore a nagging question, but it worms its way into my brain—does Alyssa really deserve this? I'm afraid of what the answer might be if I think about it too long. I've spent hours dreaming of this moment, and now it's already been set in motion. I think of Alyssa and Lydia laughing at their squiggle of Margaret and grit my teeth. I duck into the nearby bathroom and ease open the door so I can monitor the music room.

This next part is the trickiest. I have to guess how long Alyssa will wait for Jake before she gives up and goes to class. Five minutes feels like five hours. Suddenly, Miss Chell walks into the bathroom. I'm so startled I jump back and let out a hiccupy squeak.

Miss Chell teaches family and consumer education. Everyone calls her Miss Chill because she never smiles. Sure enough, she gives me a frosty look. “Do you have a pass?”

I quickly hold out the pass the nurse gave me. If Chilly reads it, my goose is cooked because the nurse wrote the time on it and that was half an hour ago. I've noticed, though, that most teachers don't bother to actually read the green slip. They just want to make sure you have one. Sure enough, Miss Chell purses her lips, then nods curtly and waves away the pass. I practically run out of the bathroom. What if Alyssa left while I wasn't looking?

She's still in the music room, rereading the note and looking fidgety. I race to Mr. Cantrell's office and burst through the door. “Mr. Cantrell, I've lost my mother's heirloom ring! I think I left it in the choir room this morning; have you seen it?”

He looks concerned. “Why, no, Kate, I haven't.”

“She's going to kill me,” I say in a choking voice. “It's really valuable. She'll be so upset if someone's taken it.”

“Have you looked in the room yet?” he asks.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, pretending to mishear him. “That would be so nice if you'd help me look. It's a pearl ring, a real pearl. She let me borrow it, and it must have slipped off my finger....”

“I'm sure we'll find it.” Mr. Cantrell stands up and we move into the hallway. No sign of Alyssa, which means she's still waiting for Jake.

“Wait!” I cry. “Wait, I think...maybe it wasn't the choir room after all. Maybe it was during gym class. I can't remember now.”

“Well, it can't hurt to search the room, Kate. If we don't find it, you can go look in the gym.”

“I don't want to waste your time.”

“You're not wasting my time,” Mr. Cantrell assures me.

Actually, I'm trying to buy time. I need to keep Mr. Cantrell in the hallway. Alyssa is in the music classroom. If we duck into the choir room two doors down, he won't see her leave. The little voice in my head has grown bigger and louder, and it's got lots more questions. What happened to that nice girl, Kate Walden? How did I ever think I was going to pull this off? Just because silly ideas succeed in movies doesn't mean they work in real life....