Night of the Zombie Chickens Page 14

  “No!” I wriggle in my seat. “Well, maybe a little. Can you blame me?”

  Now even Margaret and Doris think badly of me. What if they don’t want to sit with me anymore at lunch? It would be like a so-sad-it’s-funny scene out of a movie—Alyssa and me eating our lunches in side-by-side bathroom stalls because no one else wants to sit with us.

  Finally, Margaret speaks. I’m expecting she’ll be mad, but her voice is quiet. “I get why you did it, after the way Alyssa treated you. It was really stupid, but I get it. But now I’m kind of part of it. You made me an accessory.”

  “No one would blame you,” I quickly say. “Anyway, no one will know.” I give them a sideways look. “I mean, unless you decide to tell someone.”

  Doris has been busy polishing her glasses, not looking at me. A few weeks ago, I was embarrassed to sit with her. Now I feel a horrible sinking in my stomach at the thought I’ve disappointed her. She finally glances at me. Her brown eyes are really sort of pretty now that I can actually see them. “That depends on what you’re going to do.”

  “I was only going to hold on to the wig a couple of weeks and then return it,” I say eagerly. “Once the wig is back, no one will care. No harm done.”

  “People will still think Alyssa took it,” Margaret points out. “They’ll always remember. Even in high school, she’ll be the girl who stole the wig in seventh grade.”

  “And I’ll still be remembered as Crapkate,” I retort. “They’re going to write in my yearbook: The girl most likely to step in crap.” My voice goes up a notch. “I only did to her what she did to me!”

  Doris carefully replaces her glasses. She turns her newly cleaned focus on me. “Do you think it was Alyssa’s fault that crap fell off your shoe?”

  “Well, no. She made fun of me afterward, though. She ditched me to hang out with Lydia.”

  “So she made things worse, but she didn’t cause the problem,” Doris says slowly, like she’s working out a logic problem. “She didn’t set out to hurt you on purpose, correct?”

  I’m not sure how to answer, so I just shrug.

  “And she didn’t try to get you in trouble at school, or with the other kids.”

  “No,” I mutter. Doris has dissected the ugly matter like it was a dead frog in biology class. My shriveled black heart lies exposed for all the world to see. I know it’s selfish to worry about myself, but I can’t help asking again, “Are you guys going to tell anyone?”

  Margaret and Doris glance at each other. My life hangs in the balance. They both shake their heads, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  “I think we should help you undo the mess, not make it worse,” Margaret says. “We need to come up with a new plan.”

  Over the next few days, I think hard, but once again I come up blank. I have no idea how to return the wig and get Alyssa off the hook for taking it. I can only hope that Margaret’s and Doris’s supersize brains will hatch a plan. I’m so thankful they’re not giving me the cold shoulder that I would gladly follow any scheme they come up with.

  I also don’t want to think about the baby monitor stuffed in my closet. After risking my life to rescue it from the basement, I can’t find the nerve to use it. I’m scared of what I might hear. Plus, I’m not keen about adding snoop to my list of dubious achievements.

  It’s much easier to focus on my movie. I’m excited as I watch the final scene we shot. I’ve already edited parts of my movie, but now it’s time to get serious about finishing it. I recently read on the Internet that making a movie longer than two hours is a serious no-no unless you’re a big-name director with a megastar cast. Movie theaters can’t show a long movie as many times per night, which means they make less money. It’s all about pushing the popcorn and making a buck. I figure if the big boys can keep their blockbusters to two hours, then so can I. I have to grit my teeth as I slash scenes that took days of work to write, plan, and shoot. It feels a little like I’m slashing my own children.

  It turns out I have way too many scenes of Alyssa being chased by zombies and not enough footage of the hens. At least, not good footage. Even though Alyssa and I tried to capture zombie behavior, in most shots the hens are running away from the camera.

  If I had a big budget, I could call up one of those Holly­wood animal companies and it’d ship me over some trained chickens, no problem. They probably have hens that will drop dead on command or run around in circles and act berserk. Or I could hire a special effects guy to make their eyes glow red and give them huge razor claws and beaks. But since I’m on a shoestring budget, it’s all up to me. I’ve got to make those ladies perform.

  I take my camera out to the chicken coop, watching the hens from the corner of my eye. In Chicken Run, the hens have a secret room underneath the chicken coop where they make all their plans. I jump up and down, testing the floorboards. They seem solid enough. I stroll over to their laying beds and dig under the straw. No hidden trap doors.

  Suddenly, I feel silly. Of course there aren’t any trap doors. That was an animated film about hens that built an airplane, blew up a barn, and flew the coop. These ladies clucking at my feet are real birds, simple barnyard animals. There’s no plan to ruin my life. The only thing they know how to do is eat and peck and poop. They’re all watching me right now, but only because they’re used to me serving up their meals. They probably can’t figure out why I’m not feeding them.

  My camera is set up on its tripod in a corner of the coop. I turn it on, then take out a box of my mom’s organic oatmeal. Hens love oatmeal. I grab two handfuls of it and fling them into the air. The hens go crazy, trying to snap up the flakes. I throw another handful and some of it lands on their backs, so now the hens are pecking at each other, too. They’re not hurting each other—they just want the oatmeal—but in the camera it looks like a chicken mob scene. In my movie, this scene will come right after the hens have eaten the polluted chicken feed, when they’re all starting to zombify.

  After the oatmeal is gone, a hen I’ve named Spike wanders over and pecks at my tripod, like she’s hoping it’s a big black worm she can gobble up. Spike may not have lots of brains, but she’s at the top of the pecking pyramid. She’s a tough chick, with a mean beak and a quick claw. I’m surprised her eggs don’t come out hard-boiled.

  Spike tries to peck at my shoe, and I shove her away with my foot, but this gives me an idea. I’ve been trying to get a super close-up shot of just an eye and a beak, but whenever I get near a hen with my camera, she gets nervous and bolts. Spike seems pretty fearless; maybe she will let me get my shot.

  I open the coop door and the hens bolt out after me.

  I shake out some more oatmeal in the grass, then sink down at eye level near Spike and focus my camera. At first she gives me the evil eye, but she’s distracted by the oatmeal. The shot would be better if her eyes were rolling backward and rabid foam dripped from her beak, but I can’t get too picky. Just as I hit the on button, I hear the loud crunch of gravel behind me, and Derek shouts, “Whatcha doin’?”

  Spike squawks and runs away. The rest of the birds scatter. Another great film moment lost forever. “Derek!” I shout. “You scared them off!”

  “Sorry,” he says, his voice whiny. “I just wanted to see what you were doing.”

  Sometimes I think Spike has a bigger IQ than Derek. “When I’m pointing my camera at something and looking through the viewfinder, that means I’m shooting video.”

  I say it sarcastically, but he just nods and kicks at the grass. Then he grins sideways at me. “Wanna see something funny?”

  “No.”

  “Come on,” he whines. “It’s really funny.”

  “Fine, whatever. Just hurry up.”

  I’m thinking he’s got something stupid in his pocket to show me, but he reaches up and sticks his finger in his nose and starts shoveling around inside.

  “That is not funny,�
�� I inform him. “That is totally lame.”

  “Just wait.” He’s actually biting his tongue in concentration as he fishes around. I watch him, horrified. How will I ever win back friends with a little brother like this?

  Derek finally pulls out his finger and shows me his disgusting prize. Then he leans over and offers it to a nearby hen. She cranes her neck forward. It probably looks like squished worm guts. She nervously dances around, then darts over and gobbles it off his finger. Derek grins at me like he’s just taught the bird to speak French.

  I’m so revolted I don’t even know what to say. But I can’t help it; the corner of my mouth twitches. The thought of my mother’s elite hens eating Derek’s nose snot is kind of funny.

  Derek lets out a hoot. “Trevor and I must have fed them half a pound yesterday. They love it!”

  “You are so weird,” I murmur. “You’re lucky Mom didn’t catch you.”

  “Yeah, she’d be like”—he scrunches up his face and makes his voice screechy—“‘Derek, those boogers aren’t certified organic. What are you thinking?’”

  At this, I break out laughing and Derek grins.

  “What are you doing?” he asks again. “Can I help?”

  “Ha. Like you helped last time with the egg in the pocket? I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, come on, that was just a joke. I promise, I’ll do whatever you say.” He looks at me, jiggling up and down like’s he’s cold, even though it’s perfectly warm out. “Come on, ple-e-ease? Pretty please? I’ll get the chickens to do whatever you want. Please please please please...”

  “Fine!” I tell him, just to shut him up. I sigh loudly but secretly I’m glad. It’s more fun shooting with someone else.

  As Derek helps me herd the hens, it reminds me of when we were younger. He and I used to spend hours playing together with our toys. We loved to pretend that his trolls were slaves in my Barbie castle. They had to brush the Barbies’ hair, cook their meals, and wash their dresses, all because of a curse laid on them by the evil Transformer space aliens. In the last couple of years, we’ve done more fighting than playing. Maybe fighting is the only thing we know how to do together anymore, now that I’m too old to play with toys.

  “So what kind of shots do you want?” Derek asks, suddenly all business.

  “I’d love to get a hen flying at the camera like it’s attacking, but it’s impossible. I’ve tried sprinkling oatmeal near the lens, and insects....”

  Derek snaps his fingers like, no big deal. “I’ll throw one at the camera. It’ll look like it’s attacking.”

  “Derek!” I may not like the chickens, but I can’t believe he wants to throw one. “Mom would kill us.”

  “A little toss doesn’t hurt them,” he scoffs. “They have wings. They land on their feet.”

  “You mean you’ve done this before?”

  He grins. “Trevor and I had a contest once to see which hen would fly the farthest.”

  “Who won?”

  “Henrietta. She went about half a mile trying to get away from us!”

  Derek runs after Henrietta, as if to show me. She tries to scurry away, but he catches her like an old pro. I’m impressed despite myself. I tried to pick up Spike once, and she gave me a nasty peck on the hand. Since then, I’ve avoided trying to grab the ladies.

  Derek carries Henrietta inside the coop, where our mother can’t see us. I set my camera at a low angle in a corner, and he stands just out of frame. When I give him the cue, he gives Henrietta a gentle toss. Sure enough, she flaps her wings like crazy and lands right in front of the lens. She skids a little, kicking up dust, then squawks and bolts away.

  “That was perfect!” I shout.

  Derek grins modestly. It occurs to me that I should have hired him a lot earlier. I never would have gotten that shot with Alyssa. She’s even more scared than I am to touch the chickens.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon shooting together. Derek even grabs Spike and holds her tight so I can finally zoom in and get my crazed eyeball shot.

  I’d forgotten how much fun my little brother can be. I even let Derek hold my camera and get a few shots on his own. When we’re done, he hands the camera back to me.

  “You know, I think I’m going to make a movie, too,” he says.

  On another day this might have made me mad, because he’s always copying what I do. But I realize it’s probably the biggest compliment Derek can pay me. It’s like he’s saying that he wants to be like me.

  So I clap him on the shoulder. “Just do yourself a favor. DON’T make a movie about chickens.”

  “Nah,” he says. “Mine’s going to be about vampires.”

  “Good choice.”

  He grins sideways at me. “Race you to the house?”

  I roll my eyes. “We’re not six anymore.”

  He looks down and I’m gone, camera and all, feet pounding as fast as I can. It feels good to run, to hear him hooting and hollering behind me, to laugh as we collapse on the porch steps together. Most of all, it feels good to get there a step ahead of Derek. It won’t be too many years before he will suddenly be taller than I am, with a deep voice rumble I won’t even recognize. I know, because I already see the boys at school changing. At least for now, though, Derek still looks up to me. At least for now, I’m still faster than my little squirt brother.

  It’s funny, but I’ve been noticing that hardly anyone calls me Crapkate anymore. In fact, my old friends run up to me in the hallway; they all want to talk about Alyssa. I shrug. It feels like I’m in the wrong movie. I should be all happy, but I’m not. I can’t just forget about all the weeks where they ignored me. We talk and it’s nice, but it’s definitely not back to normal. I still sit with Margaret and Doris at lunch.

  Luckily, no one sits close by, because our conversation is all about Alyssa and the wig.

  “I was thinking about...what we talked about on Saturday,” Margaret tells me. “I think I have an idea how to return the item in question.”

  I feel a cold jolt in my stomach. I’d been focusing on my movie, trying to forget about that item.

  Doris leans forward. “Good, let’s hear it.”

  “First, I watched The Maltese Falcon yesterday. Just to see what you were talking about, Kate. You’re right, great movie. And I did some research on film noir on the Internet. To try to get some ideas.”

  I can only listen, amazed. If this were a school project, Margaret would get an A-plus. I’m guessing that’s an average grade for her.

  “So anyway,” she goes on, “I asked myself, what would Bogie do? What would the Beautiful Dame do? And it hit me. What does every film noir tough guy have? An airtight alibi!” She beams at us, then modestly adds, “Well, that’s what I read on the Internet, anyway.”

  “You’re incredible, Margaret,” I tell her.

  She blushes pink. It occurs to me that Margaret probably doesn’t get a lot of compliments.

  Doris nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. Alyssa needs an alibi.”

  “I thought we could do it during choir class,” Margaret goes on. “I’ll stick my head into the music room on the way to class and make a comment to someone about how the wig is still missing. Alyssa can get sick and leave class early. Then Kate can put the wig back, and we’ll make sure someone discovers it.”

  Right away, I notice one huge flaw in the plan.

  “We would have to tell Alyssa so she would know to leave early,” I point out.

  Margaret sips her drink, not looking at me. “Don’t you think maybe you should tell her? Doesn’t she kind of deserve to know?”

  Now they’re both gazing at me.

  “No,” I say right away. “No. I can’t tell her. She doesn’t know I took it, and she doesn’t need to know I’m putting it back. As long as I get her off the hook, that’s what matters.”

  My voice must s
ound a little mad, or desperate maybe, because Margaret quickly says, “Okay, okay.” She plays with the straw in her drink. I can tell she’s not happy with my answer, but there’s no way I’m telling Alyssa, period.

  Doris clears her throat. “There’s another problem with that idea. Everyone would think Alyssa put the wig back after she left class early. They would still think she did it.”

  I sigh with relief. Off the hook.

  Margaret frowns. “Yeah, you’re right. But when else can we do it? First, people need to see that the wig is missing. Then, after Alyssa’s alibi is in place, they need to see the wig has been returned. That way, they’ll know Alyssa couldn’t have done it.”

  “I don’t know,” I say gloomily. “But Annie auditions are Monday. I need to get this wig back quick.”

  Doris stares at me.

  “What?” I wipe my mouth, thinking I must have left a blob of jelly.

  Doris does her cackle-honk laugh. “That’s it.”

  “Of course!” Margaret cries.

  I’m definitely out of my IQ league here. “Of course what?”

  Doris pushes her glasses up her nose like she does when I don’t get a math problem. “Return it during auditions.”

  I snort. “Auditions?” I can’t think of a worse time to try to pull it off.

  “No, listen, it’ll work,” Doris says. “After Alyssa auditions, she’ll leave, right? She’s not going to want to hang around. Once she’s gone, you and Margaret make sure people see the wig is still missing. You wait a little while, Kate, and then you slip in and return the wig. After that, you just have to make sure someone sees it’s back. Alyssa will already be gone. Everyone will realize that she couldn’t have done it.”

  Margaret’s curls bounce as she nods. “I think it can work.”

  I’m already shaking my head. “People will get suspicious if I’m just hanging around during auditions. I mean, why would I be there?”

  Doris and Margaret exchange a look.

  “No way,” I say. “NOT happening.”

  “It’s the only way,” Doris says.