Night of the Zombie Chickens (21 page)

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.

“Really, he makes movies? You actually heard that?”

Doris adjusts her glasses. “Noah Fleming told me in Biology.”

Noah Fleming is like Doris reincarnated as a boy. He's a supersmart science geek. He's not bad looking, in a tall, skinny way, but his nerd factor totally outweighs his cute factor.
Plus, Paul and Blake stuck him with the unfortunate nickname Nose Phlegmy.

I peer at Doris. “How did Noah hear that?”

“Noah's locker is near Tristan's, so they were talking. I guess Noah mentioned you and your movie. That's his name—Tristan Kingsley.”

Tristan. Jeez, even his name is cool. A strange tingling starts in my face. People were talking about me. The new boy from NYC was talking about
me
. He probably did a double take when he
heard I've already made a feature-length movie. It
is
just a little impressive. The tingle turns to a warm glow. And then it hits me. Noah's locker is just down from mine. That
means Tristan's locker is near mine, too. We can talk movies together. It will be so great to have a filmmaker buddy! A cool NYC filmmaker buddy with blond hair falling in one eye.

I
'm still pondering my movie as I head for the bus after school. It's early April and most of the snow has melted into gray slush. I
hate my clunky snow boots so I left them at home. Now, the cold slop seeps into my sneakers. By the time I climb on the bus, my feet are soaked. I slide in next to Lizzy and she grins and removes
her earbuds.

Lizzy Chang's family moved to Medford when she was in fifth grade. Her parents speak with an accent and Lizzy speaks perfect English and perfect Chinese. Sometimes, just for fun, or when
she's mad, she'll talk to herself in Chinese so we don't know what she's saying. We're all good friends but Mimi Reynolds is her BFF. Mimi's family moved to
Texas a month ago, so it's been a tough time for Lizzy. She's tiny, even shorter than me. Some people make a mistake and think she's delicate, like a china doll. Really,
Lizzy's more like the Great Wall of China. Have a run-in with her and she'll be the last one standing. She's tough and funny and, best of all, she likes making movies.

Olivia Sykes leans forward from the seat behind us. “Anything exciting happen in school today?”

“Why weren't you in gym class?” Lizzy asks.

Olivia pops her gum. “A field trip. We went to the art museum.”

“No fair!” Lizzy exclaims. “Why didn't we get to go?”

Olivia shrugs. “It was fun.”

Lizzy loves painting and crafty stuff. She can take fabric and whip up a cute toy or purse while the rest of us are still staring at our material, trying to figure out what to do.

Olivia lowers her voice. “Jack Timner got in trouble at the museum today.”

Lizzy grins. “What'd he do?”

We both glance toward the back of the bus where Jack sits. He isn't a bad kid, but he can't settle down. He's always trying to be the center of attention. He'll do any
stupid thing if he thinks someone will laugh, which lands him in trouble a lot. Jack isn't laughing now, though. His face is sullen, legs splayed out in the aisle. He's probably hoping
someone will trip over them.

Jack suddenly looks up and catches my eye, like he knows we're talking about him. He glares and I look away. Both his parents are ex-military. I heard they crack down hard on Jack and have
threatened to send him to military school. No wonder he looks glum.

“He pretended like he was going to draw on a painting,” Olivia whispers.

I give a delighted gasp of horror. Even I know that is serious. That's like joking on an airplane that you hope the bomb in your suitcase doesn't go off. “Are you kidding? What
happened?”

“He was holding up a marker near a painting, trying to be funny for his buddies, and two guards ran over shouting at him. They grabbed him and took him away, and Mr. Graves had to go talk
to the museum director. Now Jack can't go on any more field trips and he's got about a month of detentions. They called his parents.” Olivia makes a face. “You know what
that means.”

I risk another glance at Jack. That's when I notice Tristan Kingsley sitting in the seat behind Jack. I quickly turn around. I can hardly believe my luck. The cute moviemaking boy from New
York City rides my bus.

Olivia taps me on the shoulder. “So when do you start your next movie? I really want to be a zombie.”

“Haven't you heard?” Lizzy says importantly. “No zombies this time. Kate's going to do something completely different. She's just not sure what.”

“Oh, I know!” Olivia squeals. “You
HAVE
to do a vampire movie! Vampires would be SO cool. And we could make it really scary. Everyone would want to be in it!”