Night of the Zombie Chickens Page 9

  Sometimes, flashes of genius hit when you least expect them. I sit for a moment in class, but no one seems to have noticed my gasp of excitement. That’s because no one pays any attention to me. First, I savor my idea. It’s so easy, yet so impossible....

  Then, I immediately tell Mr. Cantrell that I feel sick, which is kind of true after watching Lydia’s and Alyssa’s silly dance. He excuses me to go see the nurse, and half an hour later, my mother pulls up to the curb.

  At home, I dash into my room, lock the door, and run to my computer. If my life were a movie, then Alyssa would be the villain. Everyone knows the villain doesn’t win. The good guy always comes out on top. That means I need to write an ending where I triumph and Alyssa gets her just reward.

  It reminds me of a movie my dad made me watch once called The Maltese Falcon. I wasn’t too excited, because it’s old and in black and white, and the lead actor’s name is ­Humphrey Bogart. Not too promising. But my dad said his nickname was Bogie, which is kind of cool. He said if I wanted to be a Hollywood director I had to see this movie because it’s one of the best-ever examples of film noir.

  So I looked up film noir (pronounced “nwar”) on the Internet. It’s a film style that was really popular back in the nineteen forties and fifties. The movies are mostly crime dramas with harsh lighting, deep shadows, and plenty of hard-boiled characters. Most of the endings are not happy. Some of the acting is kind of corny, but now it’s one of my favorite movie genres.

  In The Maltese Falcon, Bogie plays this tough detective who falls for a Beautiful Dame. It turns out she’s setting him up to take the fall for a murder she committed. Bogie’s too clever, though. He outsmarts her and sends her to prison, even though she’s probably the love of his life. Like I said, not a lot of happy endings.

  So here’s my genius idea. I’ll write a scene like something out of The Maltese Falcon. I’ll be Bogie, who makes sure the Beautiful Dame gets what she deserves.

  It’s not like I want to get Alyssa expelled or anything. I just want her to know how it feels to get dumped by people you think are your friends.

  There’s this old saying my mom loves to quote about not judging people until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. I guess that’s because you don’t really understand what someone else is going through until you go through it yourself. That’s why I think it will do Alyssa good to tromp around in my size sixes for a while. They may pinch since she’s a size seven, but as my dad loves to say, no pain, no gain. So really, I’m doing Alyssa a favor. I’m helping her to understand other people’s pain.

  Once my computer’s up and running, I open my scriptwriting software and gaze at the blank screen. The first words are always the hardest. I glance around my room, searching for inspiration. A photo on my bulletin board catches my eye. It’s Alyssa and me when we were seven, laughing like crazy at something, our heads thrown together. There’s another photo of us on my tenth birthday, holding up a pink cake, blowing out the candles together.

  I push back from my desk and wander over to the open window. It feels like it should be a cold, drizzly day, but the sky gleams deep blue, like someone cranked up the color knob on the TV. As I close my eyes and the sun pours through the glass, warming my face, it occurs to me that maybe I’m overreacting. After all, friends have fights all the time. Friends go their separate ways.

  A breeze stirs the trees outside and I can hear their leaves whispering. I’ve always loved trees. They weather storms, wind, hail. They stand their ground. They lean on each other, they protect each other. Alyssa and I were like two intertwined trees. Other people had fights, but not us. We always had each other’s back. We were closer than sisters. She was like my second half, my cosmic twin.

  I guess that’s why I’ve never been hurt this much by anyone in my entire life. I’ve never been so mad, either, which makes me feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. There’s no point in denying it. I miss Alyssa. I wish I could call her and pretend like nothing happened. I wish we could shoot the perfect last scene for Night of the Zombie Chickens.

  I could call her. But what if I say sorry and then she doesn’t? What if she pretends it was all my fault or, even worse, acts like she doesn’t care if I’m sorry or not?

  A shadow falls over me and I open my eyes. A cloud has slid across the sun. I push away from the window, feeling chilled.

  If I did call, Alyssa would probably be with Lydia. She would pretend to be nice and then laugh at me behind my back. After all, she’s best buddies with the MPG while I’ve come down with a bad case of Crapkateitis.

  I grit my teeth and sit back down at my desk. I can’t call Alyssa. What I can do is come up with a plan. If I have a plan, that means I’m doing something. I’m not just giving up like Henrietta. And once I have a plan, I’m pretty sure I’ll feel better.

  I crack my knuckles and stare at the blank screen. I stare at the blinking cursor. I stare out the window. Hey, even J. K. Rowling probably gets writer’s block.

  Finally, the words start to flow:

  INT: SCHOOL HALLWAY—DAY

  BOGIE strolls down the hall with MARGARET YORKEL.

  BOGIE

  Oh, look, what’s that?

  Bogie points to a piece of paper. Margaret picks it up and opens it.

  MARGARET

  (reading aloud)

  “Alyssa, please meet me after fifth period in the music room. I need to ask you something. Jake.”

  (This is where knowing Alyssa so well comes in handy. NOBODY else knows she has a crush on Jake. She says she’s over it, but I know she will be in that music room, no matter what.)

  BOGIE

  I wonder if Alyssa dropped it.

  MARGARET

  Should we give it back to her?

  BOGIE

  I can’t. I’m not talking to her. Why don’t you give it to her? I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.

  CUT TO:

  Gym class. Margaret approaches Alyssa and hands her the note. Alyssa opens it and her face goes dead white.

  I write the rest of the afternoon until the script is done. I consider teaching Lydia a lesson, too, but it seems silly. It would be like getting mad at the sun for burning you—what’s the point? Strange as it sounds, I know Lydia doesn’t have anything against me. She must know that she ruined my friendship with Alyssa, but she’s probably too busy being popular to worry about how I feel. If someone told her I was miserable, she might put an arm around my shoulders and say “Why so serious?” in her best Joker imitation, but that would be it. The stories about the chickens, kicking the poop around—it’s all just laughs to her. It’s about creating a whirlwind of energy and being at the center of it. Lydia is just being herself. Alyssa is being her anti-self.

  So my script focuses on Alyssa. And everyone has their part to play, even Mr. Cantrell. The timing is important. It needs to happen before the Annie auditions. In fact, the sooner, the better. I study the calendar and circle Monday in red crayon on my calendar. D-Day (Duh-lyssa Day) is three days away.

  Over 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 o
f 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.

  Monday 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.