Night of the Zombie Chickens Page 19

  Just as I thought, Alyssa is upset when I decide not to reshoot the end of Night of the Zombie Chickens. Luckily, the more she gets to know Margaret, the less she seems to care. The truth is, it just doesn’t feel right cutting Margaret out. It would be like admitting that she was just a last-ditch idea to patch together my movie. Maybe it did start out that way, but the more I look at the footage, the more I like it. It’s the absolute perfect ending for Night of the Zombie Chickens.

  It takes me a month, but I finally finish the entire movie, with music and sound effects and everything. My parents even offer to rent the old Roxy Theater downtown for an evening so I can put on a real premiere. At first, I didn’t think there were enough people to invite to bother. By the time I make a list of everyone who acted in it, though, the list is pretty long. Then the newspaper somehow gets hold of the story. I suspect my mother called it.

  A reporter actually calls up and interviews me. Their photographer snaps a photo of me holding a chicken, and I show up on page three under the headline YOUNG DIRECTOR SETS SIGHTS ON HOLLYWOOD. All of a sudden, everyone at school is asking about my movie and they think it’s cool we have chickens. Go figure.

  At the theater on the night of the premiere, my mother gives me a huge grin, then whips out a cardboard sign. It reads: TICKETS: ADULTS $3, STUDENTS $2. And underneath that: TICKET SALES WILL HELP FUND KATE’S NEXT MOVIE.

  “I wasn’t going to charge people to get in,” I tell her.

  “Nonsense. It’s for a great cause. People will be happy to pay.” My mother arranges the sign on a table and places a money box next to it.

  “That’s a great deal,” my dad chimes in. “Your movie is worth way more than that.”

  He pulls out a twenty and winks at me as he throws it in the money box.

  I throw my arms around my mother and give her a hug. I’m surprised how happy she looks as she hugs me back. My dad smiles at my mom, and I can’t believe that I ever thought he was cheating on her. They may have their problems, but that’s not one of them. I hug my dad and he whispers in my ear, “We’re really proud of you.”

  I’m supernervous. I just know that no one’s going to come. The reporter will take a photo of an empty theater and publish it in the newspaper for the whole town to see.

  People slowly start to trickle in. Pretty soon, I can’t believe how many have shown up. The picnic zombies all wave at me. Even Mr. Cantrell is there, along with some of my other teachers. A lot of kids from school make it, including Lydia and her gang. And everybody takes out their wallet like it’s no big deal. After they read the sign, some even throw in a few extra bucks.

  Finally, the big moment arrives. The theater goes dark. The voices quiet. I hear a loud giggle, which has to be Lydia.

  Night of the Zombie Chickens is no Hollywood blockbuster, but it gets some laughs, mostly at the right times, and it has some semi-scary moments, too. When Mallory whips off her ski mask at the end and it’s Margaret, a murmur of surprise runs through the crowd. I’m happy that my twist ending worked.

  My parents told me that, as the director, I should go up afterward and thank everyone who helped with the movie. So at the end, I slowly mount the stairs to the stage, feeling like my knees will give out. I clear my throat and thank everyone for coming out. When I thank my parents for their help, I can feel myself starting to choke up. A few tears prickle my eyelids as I realize it’s really over. My first movie is finished. One day, when I’m a big Hollywood director, I hope people will say that Night of the Zombie Chickens was made during my formative years. I like the sound of that.

  I ask Alyssa to come up, and when I introduce her as Mallory, everyone gives a huge round of applause. Then I call out Margaret’s name. She joins us, blushing as red as her hair, and I introduce her as the other Mallory. Even the kids at school clap wildly for her. Alyssa grins at Margaret, then grabs her hand and they raise their arms up over their heads. I’ve never seen Margaret smile so big. There aren’t any fancy actors or red carpets, but I feel like my first movie premiere ever has been a big success.

  Afterward, I’m amazed as I count all the money. For my next movie, I will finally have a real budget!

  Everyone except me is shocked when Margaret Yorkel gets the lead for Annie. Tina Turlick even mutters that it’s just because her hair is red and Mr. Cantrell can’t afford another wig. Then Tina hears Margaret sing and that shuts her up. Two weeks after my movie premiere, Alyssa, Doris, and I go to the opening night of the school musical. Margaret rocks the house, just like I knew she would. I like to tell everyone that I discovered her first.

  Afterward, the four of us go to Twisters for a burger.

  “Isn’t it funny how we went through all that for nothing?” Margaret says as we wait for our food. “All that work, and the Cute Red Wig just flies off in a storm.”

  And that’s when an idea hits me with the force of a volcanic cataclysm. I have to catch my breath as I picture it—zombies in wigs. It’s the perfect sequel. I’ll call it Red Wig in a Storm. Now all I need is a tornado, a big glass window, and blood. Lots of blood.

  I wish to say a special thank you to:

  My daughters, Daniela and Rebecca, for letting me listen in on their lives—the tears, the tumult, and, most of all, the laughs.

  My critique partner, Diane Swanson, for all her invaluable insights, which made this a better story, and for her most egg-cellent friendship.

  My beta readers, for bravely wading through early drafts and for all their thoughtful feedback: Annika Swanson, Carly and Lauri Miranda, and Sofia and Colleen White.

  Ben and Lyssa King, who provided friendship, support, wise counsel, and delicious food, all at crucial moments along the way.

  My agent, Catherine Drayton, and editor, Emily Meehan, for all their talents in bringing this project to life, and for getting the humor and believing in it.

  And, of course, to Henrietta, Agatha, and all the Ladies, without whom this book never would have hatched.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at Kate Walden Directs: The Bride of Slug Man!

  All the cafeteria lunches at Medford Junior High taste like they’ve been boiled in a rusty cauldron, but the hot dogs are the worst. The cafeteria lady keeps them swimming in a greasy vat of lukewarm water and by the time you bite into one, it’s cold and rubbery. Normally, I squirt on globs of mustard and choke it down, but for some reason today I just can’t bite into something that looks like a leftover body part. I throw my hot dog down on my tray and it rolls off the stale bun, falls from the table, and bounces on the floor. Alyssa snickers, Lizzy makes a sound like, yech, and Margaret grimaces. Doris leans down, picks it up, and puts it back on my bun.

  “I am not eating that,” I inform her. “They’re made from cow brains, you know.”

  Doris blinks at me through her thick lenses. “Actually, hot dogs are a blend of pork, beef, chicken, and turkey. Not cow brains.” As if to prove her point, she takes a bite of her own and happily munches away. I should know better than to argue with Doris. She’s in the gifted program for math and science. Oscar Mayer probably calls her to consult on the chemistry of their wieners.

  I steal a potato chip from Alyssa’s lunch, glancing around at my friends. They’re all busy eating. No one has remembered. And to think I’ve been nervous all morning, waiting for this moment. Margaret and Doris are talking about their brainiac math teacher’s new hairdo. Apparently, it’s the square root of ugly. Lizzy and Alyssa are talking about track. Track? Since when are they interested in running around in circles? None of them seems to care that I promised to show them a script from my newest movie project today. I thought for sure someone would have asked about it by now. I guess it’s lucky they’ve forgotten, since I don’t have it anyway. I haven’t written a single word. Still, the least they could do is seem…disappointed.

  I chew on a fingernail, since I don’t have anything else to eat. Finally, I can’t stand it any
longer. “So, I guess you guys probably want to know what kind of movie I decided to make.”

  They all stop talking and gaze at me. Alyssa pops a chip in her mouth. “Oh, yeah, what did you finally decide on?”

  I take a deep, dramatic breath. “I’m completely stuck. I mean it. I need help.”

  “Make a zombie sequel,” Lizzy says right away.

  I finished making my first-ever full-length movie last semester, called Night of the Zombie Chickens. I’ve been telling my friends for weeks that I’m starting a new movie, but the truth is, I’m kind of nervous. I made Night of the Zombie Chickens for fun. I figured only my friends and family would see it. Then, my parents rented the old Roxy Theater downtown for a premiere, and the newspaper wrote a story about it. Lots of kids from school and even some teachers came to see it. Now, students come up to me in the hallway and beg to be in my next movie. Everyone wants to know what it’s going to be about, which is probably why I have writer’s block.

  Alyssa makes a face. “No more zombies, please. I’m tired of getting splattered with blood.”

  “I know!” Margaret says. “Make a musical!”

  My eyes bulge at the idea. For Night of the Zombie Chickens, I had to work with my mother’s evil diva hens, who tried to ruin my life. That was bad enough. But directing a bunch of yowling middle schoolers?

  “Sure,” I say, always the diplomat. “That could work.”

  “I thought you were going to make a romance this time,” Alyssa says loudly. “Remember?”

  I never said the word romance. When Alyssa mentioned it, I didn’t say no, either. I guess that sounds like yes to a seventh grader who’s eager to have a romantic scene with a certain somebody. Alyssa has a secret crush on Jake Knowles, except everyone has pretty much figured it out. Even Jake, probably. Alyssa is the only one who doesn’t know that everyone knows. So, like I said, it’s a secret.

  Doris removes her glasses and polishes them with a greasy napkin. “You should make a movie about dark energy. Did you know that dark energy makes up seventy percent of the universe? You and me and everything on Earth—all the planets and stars everywhere—all the matter, we only make up five percent.”

  She holds her glasses up to the light. They look even more smeared than before. Margaret snatches them from her and takes a tiny spray bottle from her backpack. She mists the lenses and polishes them with a special cloth, then hands them back. Doris squints through her squeaky-clean glasses and blinks. She’s probably never seen the world so clearly before. She peers at us to see if these mind-blowing facts are sinking in. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “Yeah. Wow.” I try my best to look like my mind is blown.

  Brave Margaret asks the question the rest of us are avoiding. “So, what is dark energy?”

  Doris’s eyes light up. “It’s some kind of mysterious dark force. Einstein predicted that empty space wasn’t really empty. That it has its own energy. Scientists think it’s pulling the galaxies farther apart. But you can’t see it and they can’t prove it’s really there.”

  Alyssa leans forward. “Then how would we make a movie about it?” The only dark energy she cares about involves a romantic scene with Jake Knowles.

  “You could show a scientist trying to discover this huge mystery of the universe,” Margaret offers. “She could sing a song about the stars,” she adds dreamily.

  Alyssa rolls her eyes. “That sounds thrilling.”

  “Well, it’s more exciting than a romance,” Margaret shoots back.

  “Well, I vote for werewolves,” Lizzy says.

  My friends are not much help.

  I’m about to jump in before they start arguing, when I see something fly past our heads from the corner of my eye. A moment later, Paul Corbett bellows at the next table. A slimy handful of green beans is sliding down his hair onto his collar.

  Our heads snap around to see if Lunch Lady saw what happened. Luckily, she’s yelling at some poor sixth grader on the other side of the room. Most of the lunch ladies at our school are moms who volunteer. They have names, like Mrs. Daley or Mrs. O’Neill. Lunch Lady is different. For one thing, no one knows her real name, which is why we have to call her Lunch Lady. There’s a rumor she escaped from a loony bin and is hiding out at our school, waiting until the coast is clear. It might be true, because Lunch Lady is always there and she’s always watching us. Her hair is an odd rusty color, permed into little corkscrews, which she keeps flattened to her head with a black net. She has swinging folds of arm flesh and big hammy hands and fingers that remind me of miniature boiled hot dogs. No one misbehaves when Lunch Lady is nearby.

  Paul whips his head around and shouts, “Who threw that?” He stares at everyone behind him, searching for a telltale smirk, a guilty face.

  Even though we haven’t done anything, it’s important to look like we haven’t done anything. Otherwise, Paul might decide to make our lives miserable. Luckily, we’re old hands at this. Alyssa is lazily stirring her chocolate milk. Doris is eyeing my hot dog like she might stick it in her backpack for an afternoon snack. Lizzy doodles on a napkin. I’m gazing off into space, nibbling on a potato chip, the kung fu master of humble innocence. Paul’s eyes practically scorch us with their glare, but there are a lot of kids sitting behind him and they probably all have their reasons for throwing something at him.

  I hate food fights, ever since a chewed-up piece of ketchup-covered hot dog once hit me in the face. Still, if anyone deserves wet, slimy green beans in his hair, it’s Paul Corbett. Lizzy has her back to Paul, so she’s making funny faces at us, mimicking him. Margaret can’t help it; a tiny smile escapes. Big mistake.

  Paul’s eyes narrow. “What are you laughing at, Margerine? You think it’s funny? Did you throw those?”

  Paul and Blake Nash pick on a lot of kids, but they keep their worst for Margaret. She’s an easy target because she’s so nice. Sad to say, but nice can be hazardous to your health in middle school. Plus, she has red hair, freckles, and crooked teeth. She used to be completely ignored until last semester, when she got the lead part in the musical Annie. Since then, people have been a little nicer to Margaret, except for Paul. If anything, he’s been worse. He points a finger at Margaret. “You’re dead, Red.” He grabs the beans out of his hair and throws them on the floor.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” a voice bellows. We all freeze. Lunch Lady steams up the aisle, arm flesh flapping, pointing at the beans. “Pick those up right now!” Her mammoth chest heaves with indignation as she glares down at Paul. I’m pretty sure Lunch Lady would protect that lunchroom floor with her last, dying breath.

  “Someone threw them at me,” Paul whines.

  Lunch Lady’s face scrunches up even tighter. She’s like a teakettle on boil, right before it shoots out steam and starts screaming. Paul jumps up fast and starts picking up beans. Every kid at our table is grinning. It’s like the time a guy in a convertible Porsche roared past my dad and me on the highway, probably going a hundred miles an hour. My dad looked mad, but also a little jealous, and grumbled something about rotten drivers. When we saw the Porsche pulled over by a highway patrol car a few miles later, my dad smacked his hands together and waved, grinning, as we drove past. He hummed under his breath for the next fifty miles. It pretty much made his day.

  That’s how we all feel about Paul getting down on the floor, picking up slimy beans. Finally, justice is served.

  The bell rings and we move to dump our garbage. Suddenly, Margaret nudges me. “Look, there’s the new boy. His family moved here from New York City.”

  We all turn and watch as a boy stacks his tray. You can tell right away he’s not local. There’s something about his clothes and his haircut and his look. I can’t figure out exactly what it is. It’s just a striped shirt. And it’s just some dark blond hair falling into one eye. He’s not real tall or big. But somehow, put it all together, and it’s one step beyond cool. It’s cool without trying to look cool.

  I’m so busy staring, I
almost miss the garbage can as I toss my spare body part hot dog. “Wow,” I murmur.

  “Wow,” Lizzy agrees.

  Doris also gazes at him through her thick glasses. “I just remembered something. I heard he’s like you, Kate.”

  “Wha-at?” I say, stunned. “He likes me?”

  I haven’t even met the kid! Could he possibly have seen me in the hallway and developed one of those instant crushes? A tiny, secret part of me is thrilled. A cool boy from NYC likes me? My mind starts fast-pedaling into the future, imagining our first meeting, shy smiles, my witty remarks, his glowing admiration. In another minute, we’ll be married with kids if I don’t slow down.

  “No, I said he’s like you,” Doris repeats. “I mean, he also likes to make movies, like you.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I thought that sounded weird.” I try to sound nonchalant. Still, it’s embarrassing. Lizzy and Alyssa are grinning at each other. My head, which expanded like a hot air balloon, now shrinks smaller than a week-old wiener. Of course he doesn’t like me. Why would he? I’m just a boring kid with braces and frizzy brown hair. No boy is ever going to like me, especially with Alyssa standing right next to me. I sigh as I look at her. Tall, perfect teeth, shiny blond hair. She may not understand the scientific theory of dark energy but I’m pretty sure that isn’t what seventh-grade boys care about.

  I’m just lucky no one heard me except my friends. Someone like Paul Corbett or Tina Turlick might have run over to the new boy and started screaming things like, Kate Walden thinks you like her! She thinks you have a big crush on her! Middle school is like that—a series of social land mines just waiting to explode in your face. Even though I know it’s unfair, I feel a tiny stab of resentment toward the new boy. What is he, too good for me? I’m not sure which surprises me more, that this kid likes to make movies or that Doris heard and passed along a piece of gossip.