Night of the Zombie Chickens (19 page)

Thunder cracks overhead as if on cue. “Don't drown,” Tina calls, and everybody nervously laughs.

Mr. Cantrell calls out another name and the next victim follows him into the choir room. Roughly half the girls are now gone. I decide to wait for a few more auditions before “discovering” the wig. Only a few girls need to see it. The rest of the class will hear about it in a nanosecond or two once the first text message goes out.

As we head into the names that start with
S
, Margaret suddenly starts telling me how she's redecorating her room. “Do you want to come see it when it's done?” She talks fast and her eyes dart around the hall. We're both nervous. I can tell she's trying to figure out how to “discover” the wig without raising suspicions. Suddenly, the storm lets loose with a humongous boom of thunder.

Margaret jumps up and screams. “Did you hear that?”

She runs back to the music room door and peers through the window. I follow behind her and so do a few of the other girls. We gaze out the window, exclaiming how dark it is—and seriously, it is dark and scary-looking by now. I want to blurt out something about the wig, but I know I have to be careful. After all, I'm the one who pointed out the bald head earlier. If I mention the wig now, it will be too on the nose. That's a script-writing term for “too obvious.”

Margaret must be hoping the others will notice the wig because she doesn't say anything, either. The problem is, it's so dark outside that the whole room is deep in shadow. Even
I
can hardly see the wig, and I know it's there.

It helps to have God in your special effects department because I'm pretty sure he lets loose with a whopper of a lightning bolt just then. It floods the entire room until it glows whitish blue. Margaret catches her breath. Did she notice the wig's sorry condition? I haven't had a chance to tell her about that yet. Thunder rattles the windows. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a horror flick—
Curse
of the Wer
ewig
.

“Did you see that?” Cindy Syvert suddenly asks.

“Yeah, that was huge,” I say innocently.

Cindy presses her face against the glass. “No, look, it's the wig! I think the wig is back!”

“No way!” Holly Taylor screeches.

We all peer through the window. A moment of doubt, then I say, “You're right, I see it!” Maybe I should skip directing and go into acting. I definitely seem to have a knack for it.

“That's too weird,” Margaret pipes up. “It wasn't there just twenty minutes ago, remember?”

Holly opens the door as another burst of lightning floods the room.

“Wait!” I cry.

The last thing I want is for them to inspect the wig. I was tempted to leave the door locked just so this wouldn't happen, but I finally decided to leave it wedged open. That way, it looks like someone could have snuck in and returned the wig while the rest of us weren't paying attention.

“We should tell Mr. Cantrell right away!” Margaret chimes in quickly. “Before anyone messes with it.”

Holly is still staring at it. “You know, I'm not sure that's the wig. Does it look funny to you?”

“Definitely the Cute Red Wig,” I reassure her. “It's just dark in there. Come on, let's tell Mr. Cantrell.” I close the door until I hear the click of the tumblers falling into place. For now, the wig is safe from prying eyes.

Mr. Cantrell pokes his head out of the choir room to motion another girl inside. He looks tired and his hair is rumpled like he's been pulling his hands through it.

“Mr. Cantrell!” Holly practically screams. “The wig is back! Someone put it back!”

“No way!” Tina Turlick howls. She and the five remaining girls stampede to the door.

Everyone stares at the wig from the doorway. All I can say is, it's a good thing it's on the other side of the room, in deep shadow.

“Alyssa snuck it back in!” Tina says.

I hold my breath. This is the fateful moment. There's nothing worse for a director than to carefully plant clues in a movie, only to have the audience miss them. Were they paying attention?

Then Holly shakes her head. “Alyssa couldn't have done it. She was already gone.”

“That's right,” Linda Uecker agrees. “Remember, we came to look out the windows and the wig wasn't there. Wasn't that after Alyssa left?”

Now it's my turn. I chime in like I'm just following along. “Yeah, she was gone. She had a doctor's appointment or something.”

I'm telling you, Angelina Jolie couldn't have delivered that line better. It had just the right amount of bored deadpan to give it the ring of truth. Not that I'm bragging.

“Oh my gosh,” Margaret says. “That means Alyssa really didn't take the wig. And all this time everyone's been accusing her and she was telling the truth—”

Wow. Her innocent surprise almost tops my performance.

“That's weird,” Tina says with a shrug. “I wonder who did it, then.”

And just like that, victory is achieved.

I turn my back on the wig. “Uh, Mr. Cantrell, not to rush you, but the weather's getting really bad and I have to be somewhere soon. Do you know how much longer?”

All this time, Mr. Cantrell has been staring at the wig with a strange look on his face. I can't tell if he's surprised, suspicious, relieved, or just dazed from hearing “Tomorrow” thirty-six times in a row. He comes to and checks his watch. “Yes, it's getting late. Let's finish up, girls.”

“Isn't that amazing, Mr. Cantrell?” Margaret gushes. “I bet someone was just playing a prank, and now they brought it back. And here everyone thought Alyssa did it but she didn't.”

“That is something, isn't it?” Mr. Cantrell says.

We troop back toward the choir room. The other girls have already whipped out their phones, and I know the entire seventh grade will know within minutes. A jury of Alyssa Jensen's peers has thrown out her guilty verdict. Court is now adjourned.

I
slide down the wall and sink to the floor, suddenly exhausted. In the choir room, Mr. Cantrell plunks out the first chords of “Tomorrow” yet again. I really wish it
were
tomorrow.

There will still be plenty of talk about what happened to the Cute Red Wig, but at least no one will be blaming Alyssa. Or me. You'd think I'd be feeling pretty great by this time. My plan went off without a hitch. Alyssa's name has been cleared. But something's eating at me down in my belly. I figure it's hunger, so I buy a candy bar from the vending machine and munch on it. Still, the feeling doesn't go away. Something's wrong, but I have to chew on it for a while before I figure out what's bothering me.

My mother advised me to tell my “friend” to return the stolen item and admit the truth. I did tell Alyssa, but Mr. Cantrell is the one I actually stole from. I swallow hard. I want to be the kind of person who does the right thing. On the other hand, I definitely
don
'
t
want to be the kind of person who gets in trouble for stealing.

All my fancy footwork this afternoon doesn't change the fact that the wig is now ruined. I could blame the chickens or Derek, but even I'm not quite that lame. The ache in my stomach turns into a gut-pounder as I realize Mr. Cantrell deserves to know what happened to his wig.

I wish there were more girls in front of me to delay the painful moment, but there are only three of us left. I didn't think the storm could get much worse, but it has. I can barely hear Linda Uecker's quavery soprano over the howling wind. She hurries out, ashen-faced, and then it's my turn. I've just heard the song a bazillion times, but suddenly I can't remember the first line. In fact, I can't remember a single word except
tomorrow
. Another funny thing. I can't get up. It feels like someone has superglued me to the floor.

Margaret leans over. “Don't worry, you'll do great. Don't be nervous.”

“Kate?” Mr. Cantrell stands in the doorway. I drag myself up and follow him inside. We both stare out the windows. I've never seen such black clouds throwing down so much rain. I decide I'll audition first and then confess my crime afterward.

Mr. Cantrell sits at the piano and plays the familiar chords, but the gale-force wind and the rattling windows are way louder than my voice. At least Margaret won't hear me. Of course, neither will Mr. Cantrell. I need to sing louder. I push the words out of my throat as hard as I can, hoping I'm hitting a few notes along the way. Mr. Cantrell's eye twitches, but he gamely plays on.

Just before the chorus, I hear a strange, muted groan coming from outside. At first I think it's the wind. As the sound climbs to a wail, I realize it's the tornado siren. We're almost finished, though, so Mr. Cantrell doesn't stop and neither do I. The siren, the wind, and I all shriek together, until finally it's over.

“Uh, thank you, Kate.” Mr. Cantrell wipes his forehead.

The loudspeaker erupts just then, announcing a tornado warning has been issued and everyone in the building needs to move into a central hallway. Before I can explain anything, Mr. Cantrell herds Margaret and me into the corridor. We plunk down along with a few stray kids. The nervous chatter trails off as thunder booms overhead. It feels like the hallway is shaking. We hear a loud smash of breaking glass from somewhere down the hall. That's when my heart starts pounding. A girl screams and a boy tries to climb inside a locker and gets stuck. Mr. Cantrell tries to calm everyone, but his face is pasty white, covered by a sheen of sweat. Not exactly reassuring.

I take a deep breath. Maybe if I tell Mr. Cantrell right now, he'll be so distracted by the storm that he'll forget to expel me.

“Mr. Cantrell?” Margaret suddenly raises her hand like she's in class. “Can I audition for you while we're waiting?”

I can only stare at her. Is she from another planet? Does she really expect him to wheel the piano into the hallway? Mr. Cantrell nods, dazed. Margaret stands up and smoothes down her skirt. She starts to sing, without accompaniment, in the middle of a tornado, with kids gaping and Mr. Cantrell sweating. And it turns out freckle-faced Margaret Yorkel can sing.

I think my mouth actually drops open. Something like relief washes over Mr. Cantrell's face as he listens to Margaret. I'm pretty certain he's just found his Annie.

Plenty of students were probably praying a tornado would sweep the school away, but in the end the storm just dies out. The wind quiets and the voice on the loudspeaker gives the all clear. Mr. Cantrell, Margaret, and I wander down the hall to see where the breaking glass sound came from.

The music classroom looks like it's been visited by its very own personal tornado. Two of the big plate glass windows are smashed and there's glass everywhere. A blizzard of papers and trash blanket the room. As we crowd in to survey the damage, I notice it first—a dented plastic head lying on the floor. I glance out the jagged windowpane just in time to see a scrap of red bounce through the parking lot. The three of us silently watch as it snakes along the ground, jumps into the air, cartwheels across the soccer field, and flies away over the trees.

Finally, it shrinks to a tiny speck and disappears. After all my plotting and planning, the Cute Red Wig is history. I'm not sure whether I feel like laughing or crying. Mr. Cantrell's face looks equally amazed. Even Margaret seems struck speechless.

“Can you believe that?” she finally murmurs.

Mr. Cantrell smiles wanly at us. “I guess that wig just wasn't meant to be in our musical, girls.”

Margaret and Mr. Cantrell peer out the window, as if hoping the red mop will reappear, but I know it's gone for good. I grin as a gust of wind tousles Margaret's hair. As it turns out, I'm pretty sure we don't need that red wig anyway.

And then it hits me—I'm off the hook. I tried to do the right thing, but the wig is gone, despite my best efforts. Is God giving me a pardon?
Don
'
t waste it
,
a voice says inside my head.

So did I get away with something? Maybe. I endured plenty of punishment, though. And I've learned some things. In my wildest dreams, I never would have scripted a storm as the ultimate thief, which makes me think, who needs movies? Life has more than enough bizarre plot twists. And just like quirky characters make a movie more fun, quirky friends do the same. Which is why I think everyone needs at least one friend who loves Math Club and laughs like a congested goose.

Mr. Cantrell turns away from the window. “Well, that's that,” he says.

Even I can't think of a better closing line.

T
he next day, everyone treats Alyssa especially nice to make up for accusing her of being a low-life thief. When I sit down with Margaret and Doris at lunch, I see Alyssa hesitate. There's a seat open next to Lydia and she waves Alyssa over.

I'm really glad that Alyssa and I have gone back to being friends, but things aren't exactly the same as before. I guess they can't be, because we're not exactly the same people. Before, I just wanted to have my little group of friends at school and not rock the boat. Then I got kicked out of the boat and all the rules changed. The old me might have worried about whether Alyssa was okay with sitting next to Margaret and Doris at lunch. Now I just wait to see what she will do.

Alyssa waves back to Lydia and then heads over to sit next to me. Mimi and Lizzy gape, but they follow her. At first it's awkward, but everyone gets along, just as I thought they would.

I come to think of Alyssa's friendship with Lydia as a kind of sickness—a rare, exotic flu that she's recovered from. I watch for signs of a relapse, but she seems to have built up a strong immunity to Lydia. Sometimes when we make plans, it's just the two of us. But other times, Mimi and Lizzy join us with Margaret and Doris, and then it's pure craziness, especially when Doris decides something is funny.

And Lydia, of course, remains Lydia. I can't really dislike her. In small doses she's fun. You just can't count on her for anything, including friendship. She gets her ears double-pierced, puts red streaks in her hair, and still calls me Mrs. Director.

There's only one thing still bothering me. The baby monitor sits upstairs in my bedroom, hidden inside my closet. I haven't had the courage to use it. Now, with the wig out of the way, it's time. I know spying on my dad is bad. I must be a bad kid, then, because I can't help it. I have to know.

I sneak into his office one afternoon after school and plant the plastic base, which transmits the sounds. After looking around, I finally hide it in a bushy fake ivy near his desk.

That evening, my mother asks my father about his day. He's gazing out the window and doesn't even hear her, until she repeats the question.

“Dull,” he answers. “Just like yesterday. Too many meetings. Too many numbers. I think I need a vacation. Or maybe a brand-new Mustang convertible.” He winks at Derek.

“Yeah!” Derek shouts.

I narrow my eyes. My dad craves change and excitement. He wants to buy a new, expensive toy. He sounds like a midlife crisis poster child. Does he want a new family to go with the new car?

“By the way,” my dad says casually, “I have a business trip coming up.”

My mother brightens. “Remember, we talked about my going with you on one of your trips? Maybe this would be a good time to—”

“Not this time,” my dad cuts her off. “It's to Indiana. It's going to be very boring.”

After dinner, he disappears into the den. My mother watches him go, a small frown crinkling between her eyes. So she's noticed, too.

I run up to my room, lock the door, and turn on the monitor. It crackles a moment, then my dad's voice springs into the air like he's standing in the room with me. “Third quarter's down. Yeah. Six-point-two percent. Give me the differential. Okay, how about Howie's sector? Five-point-nine? Ouch. Okay.”

As I listen to him spiel off random numbers, it sounds like poetry. I breathe the hugest sigh of relief in the world. He really is doing office work. And it sounds pretty darn boring.

“Okay, thanks, John. Bye.”

I hear the tiny beep-beep-beep of his cell phone and then his chair creaking. I lean forward to turn off the monitor.

“Well, hello, Junie. How are you this fine evening?”

I freeze. I hardly recognize my dad's voice, it's so changed. It sounds teasing, flirty...undadlike.

“Please give me some good news. Tell me you got our tickets to Bali. I've been thinking about it all day.” He gives a low chuckle.

So that's it. I sink to the floor. I can't breathe, can't think. That low-down, cheating rat. When I think of my unsuspecting mother, tears well up in my eyes. She will be crushed. He's going to tear apart our family, all for some bimbo named Junie.

“I know. That gave me a scare,” he goes on. “I thought she found out. But we're okay.” He pauses. “Sure, the kids will be upset about being left behind, but I'll explain it to them.”

He sounds so...nonchalant. How can a person be so two-faced? I'm so steaming mad that I'm ready to march downstairs and thump him over the head with the monitor. Then, sadness overwhelms me and all I can do is listen, tears streaming down my face.

My dad croons, “I can't believe this is finally going to happen. After all our planning.” He chuckles. “I'll tell Jean you're the one who did it all.”

I grimace. Did what all? Stole his heart and destroyed our family? Does my mother know this woman?

“She is going to be thrilled. You only turn forty once, right? Oh, it'll be a surprise, believe me. And the hotel is booked, too? Fantastic. I know this has been a lot more work than you expected, after that first trip fell through. You're an angel, Junie, doing this on your own time. You do such a great job on our business travel, I knew you were the one to call.”

I frown at the monitor, not sure I heard right. These things should come with a rewind button. What did he say? Then, it slowly sinks in. My mother's birthday is in January, just a few months away. My father's taking a trip, but not with Junie. He must be planning a surprise vacation for my mother's fortieth birthday.

Relief washes over me like a strong river as I realize my dad is exactly the man I thought he was. I just sit for a moment, eyes closed, as my fears slip free and float away. I suddenly feel wonderfully light. Then the first pang of guilt hits. How could I think my father would ever do such a terrible thing?

I throw down the monitor, fling open my door, run downstairs, and burst into his office. He stands up, alarmed at the tears still on my face. “Kate, what's wrong?”

I fly into his arms and cling to him. He wraps his arms around me, and I wish I could stay there forever.

He strokes my hair, his voice worried. “Baby, what's the matter? What's wrong? Tell me what it is.”

I start bawling again because he's so worried about me and it's so sweet and I'm so relieved. Pretty soon, though, I'm laughing and assuring him that nothing's wrong. “I'm just happy,” I tell him.

My dad sinks into his chair. “Happy? Are you sure, Katie? You gave me quite a scare.”

“I'm really happy—that's all.”

I kiss the top of his head, and if he thinks
Teenage hormones
, at least he doesn't say it out loud.