Night of the Zombie Chickens (5 page)

A
fter
school, I have an appointment with the orthodontist. My teeth aren't nearly as crooked as Margaret's, but my parents have decided that I need braces. I don't mind too much, because most of the kids in school have them and I get to pick the color of the wires, which I've decided will be purple. The orthodontist's name is Dr. Payne. The first time I met him, when they took X-rays of my teeth, he started joking about his name right away. “Hi, I'm Dr. Payne. Terrible name for an orthodontist, isn't it? But don't worry, little lady, we specialize in painless orthodontics. So you get Dr. Payne, without the pain.” He beamed at my mother and me. I politely laughed and wondered where my mother came up with this guy.

On this day, Dr. Payne is all business. He's tall and thin with stooped shoulders, like he's spent too many years bending over kids' mouths. He cranks me up superhigh on the chair, then starts asking questions while his rubber-gloved hands are poking and prodding inside my mouth. “You like school this year? Doing any sports? Getting good grades, I hope?”

“Aauurgh,” I answer each time, which he seems to understand, because he nods and fires off another question. When it's finally over, my lips feel rubbery from all the pulling and stretching. I stare with horror in the mirror. Other people don't look bad in braces, but I look repulsive. All that shiny metal grinning freakishly back at me. Alyssa is lucky; her teeth are straight and she doesn't need braces. I touch the bands with my tongue, wishing I could rip them off.

“They look great,” my mother says in her fake hearty voice. I brush past her and hurry out to the car. At least they don't hurt too bad. I had heard that braces could be painful, but I guess I have a pretty tough mouth.

When my mother stops at the grocery store, I pretend I'm sleeping so I don't have to go inside with her. I spend the whole time staring at my mouth from every angle in the rearview mirror. I could be a zombie in my movie. People would scream with fright at the sight of me.

My mother finally returns with groceries, and I pretend to be asleep again.

As soon as we get home, she turns to me as if she knows I'm fake sleeping. “Can you take all the groceries inside, please? I need to take care of a few things in the chicken coop.”

“I have homework,” I point out, my eyes still closed, but she's already out of the car, hurrying away. I sigh, then grab some bags and head for the house. As soon as I get inside, my cell phone rings. Alyssa. I'm not sure if I want to talk to her after she sold me out for a few laughs. But deep down, I have to admit it
was
pretty funny. I can see why Alyssa got carried away. Lydia is popular. That's the nearest thing to being a celebrity in our boring, suburban town where nobody famous ever steps foot. And it's hard to resist Lydia's personality—kind of like trying to stand firm in a tsunami without getting swept away.

In fact, I've noticed that Lydia has her own gravitational pull, like the sun. People get sucked in and then they're trapped. They keep revolving around her, too scared to break away and see what life might be like outside her mega-voltage. The tricky part is, Lydia only has one best friend—or at least one at a time. She switches about once a month. She and the chosen one are always together, hanging on each other, laughing a mile a minute—until the next month. Then Lydia gets bored and moves on, and the girl is left with a Lydia hangover, wondering what happened.

Still, the whole scene in the hallway left me looking pretty lame. So I answer the phone and just say, “Yeah?”

There's a pause on the other end. “Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” I ask, even though we both know perfectly well why.

“You know....” Alyssa's voice trails away. “After I told that story about Wilma, I wasn't sure if you minded me telling people. I guess I got carried away.”

“You definitely got carried away.” At this point I can stay mad at her or I can be gracious and let it go. I decide to let it go. “It's okay. I guess it was funny.”

“I was nervous, too, about my mother giving her talk.”

“Yeah, why didn't you tell me about that?”

“I thought I did tell you,” Alyssa says hurriedly.

And I'm pretty sure that means she told Lydia instead. Then Alyssa launches into a long story about how Paul Corbett got caught trying to plug a toilet in the boys' bathroom and almost got suspended, but his mother called the school and threatened a lawsuit, so they decided to give him a warning instead.

“This officially qualifies Paul for the Kate Walden List of Morons,” I tell her.

“That's probably the highest achievement of his life so far,” Alyssa jokes.

“Hens are in the garage again!” Derek suddenly shouts from the kitchen window.

I glance over and see two hens jump into the back of the car. In my rush, I left both the garage and the car door open. “Gotta go!” I tell Alyssa.

I dash outside. The hens love the garage because it's shady and they can roost on the shelves. They peck and poop and make a huge mess, so we're under strict orders to keep the garage door closed until my dad finishes the outdoor pen.

Four chickens are throwing a party in the back of our Suburban. They're pecking away at the rest of the grocery bags like it's a feast. Four apples are already DOA, and I no longer have to worry about eating zucchini for dinner. Some other hens found the loaf of bread, carried it out of the car, ripped open the plastic bag, and are now chowing down as fast as they can.

They all freeze and stare at me with their beady eyes. It actually makes me pause. There's something spooky about a bunch of chickens staring at you. Then they all start clucking like something is hilarious and I quickly see why. The evil birds have pooped inside the car. Not in the garage on the concrete, where it would be easy to clean up. They've pooped all over the carpeting of my mother's seminew Suburban.

“That's it!” I shout. “You stupid birds are dead meat!” I chase them out of the garage and throw a chewed-up apple after them. Derek sees it through the window and tells our mother, so I get in trouble for leaving the car door open, letting the groceries get ruined,
and
throwing the apple. The fact that I'm stressed about my new braces doesn't seem to matter. I'm stuck cleaning up the poop
and
I'm grounded off TV for three days. Once again, the hens have out­maneuvered me.

My dad tells me my braces look fantastic and Derek says I look like Frankenstein's Bride, so I figure it's somewhere in between. By the end of dinner, my teeth are beginning to hurt. I go up to my room and stare at them again from every angle. I look like a baby now. A part of me wishes that Alyssa needed braces. It wouldn't be quite so bad if she were getting them, too. Of course, she has a perfect mouth to go along with her perfect hair. I practice smiles from every angle, but they're all horrible. It's depressing. I won't be able to smile for the next two years.

W
hen I wake up the next morning, my mouth feels like every single tooth has been yanked out and glued back in. I have to force down lumpy oatmeal for breakfast because it's too painful to chew anything else. As I'm eating, I overhear my dad tell my mother he's going to be home late again. He waves as he heads out the door but doesn't notice when I don't wave back. I guess he's in a big hurry to get to the office.

If he has a secret, then why is he sharing it with a mystery person on the phone and not with us? I want to ask my mother what she thinks, but then I would have to tell her what I overheard. It would sound like I was spying on my dad, and it's probably all nothing anyway, so I should just stop thinking about it.

I beg to stay home, but my mother just hands me some pain reliever. Before I leave to catch the bus, she gives me an extra-big smile. “Have a great day today. I'll see you later, okay?” I swallow the aspirin, not really paying attention. Dr. Payne without the pain. What a load of chicken doo-doo.

By the time I reach school, the aspirin have kicked in and I can at least see straight. I hurry to my locker, hoping to slip in and out unnoticed.

“Kate, you got braces!” a familiar voice sings out behind me. Margaret Yorkel. “They look great!”

How did she see them? She must have X-ray vision because I'm sure I haven't smiled once. I wave without turning around and call out “Thanks!” As I hurry away, Paul Corbett yowls, “Kate, you got braces!” in his annoying falsetto. Now all the kids are looking up from their lockers, waiting to see what will happen next. And Margaret has dragged me into it just by calling my name.

“Hey, Margie, what're all those brown spots on your face—is that a skin disease?” One thing about Paul, he never gets tired of the same joke.

“They're freckles,” Margaret answers.

I groan to myself. Margaret needs to learn
not
to answer—unless it's a quick, verbal kick in the jaw. That's all these boys understand. Now Blake Nash is grinning. He's worse than Paul.

“Hey, Margarine, can I connect the dots?” Blake gets out a marker and acts like he's going to draw on her face.

Margaret reminds me of some of my mother's chickens, the ones with nasty bald spots on their backs. My mother explained to me once how weird expressions like
henpecked
and
pecking order
and
rule the roost
got invented. Put a bunch of hens together and those clucking, mild-mannered birds will peck one another until their feathers fly, trying to figure out who's the head honcho hen. They'll keep pecking until they know everybody's place, right down to the bottom of the heap. Well, if Lydia Merritt is ruler of the roost, then Margaret Yorkel is definitely the Chicken Little of our seventh-grade class.

I listen to Blake and Paul, wishing there was a way to shut them up. But I know if I say anything, I'll become the next target. Those two are like pimply bulldogs. Once they grab hold of something, they don't let go, and I don't want to be their next victim. Just as I'm telling myself there's nothing I can do, Lydia waltzes over and grabs the pen from Blake's hand.

“Can I connect your zits, Nashville?” she says loudly. Everyone nearby laughs. We're all secretly glad to see Blake Nash get zinged. He flushes red.

“Ha-ha, Merritt,” he mutters. He wisely keeps quiet after that. Blake knows he'll end up in shreds if he tries to take on Lydia.

She tosses the marker back to him. It bounces off his head before he can catch it, and everyone titters. Ouch. Blake Nash is suddenly having a bad day. I just hope he doesn't decide to take it out on Margaret the first chance he gets.

I slip into my seat in history class. Lydia put Blake in his place so easily. Of course, she's the MPG. She doesn't have to worry about her social standing or whether Blake will harass her—the things most kids have to worry about. Blake probably has a secret crush on her. Most of the boys do.

The funny thing is, sometimes Lydia makes fun of Margaret, too, although never to her face. We're all guilty of it. The red hair, the freckles, the glasses...she's a tempting target. But today, Lydia stood up for Margaret. Which Lydia is the real one?

It's too confusing to sort out, so I start thinking about the footage I shot of Lydia instead. I know the car shots look great, but after that I'm not so sure. Some really creative editing might save the scene. If I show Lydia a rough cut, maybe she'll get excited and agree to let me grab a few more shots. Maybe she'll forget about the hens and start talking about my movie again. I liked how everyone laughed at her stories, right up until she mentioned the poop.

I plan and plot all day and I'm feeling pretty good by the time business ed rolls around at the end of the afternoon. I sit next to Alyssa, and she hands me a lip gloss that's called Berried Alive, which is a lot prettier than Raisin the Roof. Just as I'm settling into my seat, feeling good about things, Mrs. Chapman walks through the door, followed by my mother.

At first I'm confused and I wonder if everything's okay. Then my mother waves at me, beaming like she's just jumped out of a magician's hat. My stomach does a hard flip and my heart starts to pound. She wouldn't, I think. She couldn't. I sink into my seat, my mind cranking furiously, trying to find a way to stop the train wreck that's about to happen.

At least my mother took off her work boots. She looks clean and pretty normal in blue jeans and a blouse and her good sneakers. She even did her hair and put on makeup. She doesn't look professional like Alyssa's mom, but at least she doesn't look like Farmer Bob.

“I didn't know your mother was coming,” Alyssa whispers.

“Neither did I,” I croak. I think back to my mother's cheery good-bye that morning. She must have been planning this as a surprise. Well, it worked, I'm surprised—although
shocked
might be a better word.

Then Mrs. Chapman claps her hands for quiet. “Class, I'd like to introduce Mrs. Jean Walden, Kate's mother. Mrs. Walden's career path has taken a very interesting twist lately. She's gone from business executive to entrepreneur. Does everyone know what that is? An entrepreneur is someone who has a vision and starts her own business, just like Mrs. Walden. As part of Career Week, she's here today to tell you about it.”

As the class politely claps, I'm riveted to my seat, my face frozen in a glassy smile. My teeth start to ache again. My mother loves what she's doing, I remind myself. In fact, the day she quit her job she got so excited that she called our family together and marched us outside to the fire pit. She had piled up a bunch of skirts, some snarled pantyhose, and a few pairs of high heels (not her favorite ones, I noticed). She splashed gasoline on them, lit a match, and gave us a huge smile like she was about to light the Olympic flame.

The wind blew out the first match. And the second. Some of the gas must have evaporated by then because, after she finally got the pile lit, the pantyhose melted right away but the skirts just smoked a bit. My dad scratched his head. I knew he was adding up how much all those outfits cost, but he didn't want to spoil her big, triumphal moment. We applauded and tried to look happy.

My mother looks happy now as she thanks Mrs. Chapman. She's an entrepreneur—that sounds pretty cool. Maybe it won't be so bad, I tell myself.

My mother takes a deep breath. “I am a chicken farmer,” she says dramatically.

I have to clamp shut my mouth to keep a groan from escaping. From the corner of my eye, I see Emily Foster glance at Lydia and then over at me.

“I used to be a manager at Sun Market Systems, which produces financial software for businesses. It was a good job, but I was starting to feel stuck in a rut. One of my passions is quality organic food. And my dream has always been to work with animals. So I decided to quit my job and raise organic chickens. I sell the meat and eggs to a natural foods chain and to a few high-end restaurants in the city.”

My mother smiles and perches on the desk. “This has meant some big changes, as I'm sure Kate has told you.” The entire class turns and looks at me. If only someone would play a prank and pull the fire alarm. No one does and my mother continues.

“I had to educate myself about raising chickens, everything from housing to chicken feed to processing.”

Nathan Fremont raises his hand. “I thought you weren't allowed to have farm animals in town.”

My mother nods. “You're not, but luckily we live outside town on an acreage.”

Then Emily raises her hand. “Don't chickens poop a lot?” she asks in an overly sweet voice. A snigger runs through the room. Mrs. Chapman frowns at us.

“That's a very good question,” my mother says brightly. “Disposal of animal waste is a problem in any farming operation. Luckily chicken manure makes excellent compost for gardens. And because our chickens are organic, their manure is organic, too. I have people stop and ask if they can buy manure from me.”

My mother actually smiles happily as a titter goes around the classroom. In a crazed moment, I wonder if she's doing it on purpose. Maybe she was more upset by my zombie chicken script than I'd thought. But, no, she's clearly oblivious to the brewing tidal wave that's about to capsize my life.

“Chicken manure is very high in nitrogen, which is great for gardens. I used it in our garden as fertilizer last year, and we had a bumper crop of tomatoes.”

“Crappy tomatoes,” Blake Nash mutters under his breath, and that sets off another round of giggles.

Lydia raises her hand and I wish a flash flood would sweep through or a freak tornado would touch down, but nothing happens. I'm locked rigid in my seat, and my face feels hot enough to cook something on. I can't tell which hurts more, my mouth or my head.

“I saw one of your chickens poop.” The blunt way Lydia announces it makes everyone laugh. “Let's just say it was...fragrant.” She waves a hand in front of her nose and rolls her eyes.

My mother laughs along with the rest of the class. Alyssa, I notice, is laughing the loudest.

“Poop is poop,” my mother says cheerfully. “Yes, it's smelly, but you get used to it. Kate and her brother help me clean up around the yard.”

The looks I'm getting vary from amazed sympathy to sneers, depending on the looker. I can't sink any lower without disappearing underneath my desk, so I doodle on my notebook and pretend my mother's speaking in Greek. It's just a scene from a B horror movie, I tell myself. Soon, the credits will roll and it will all be over.

After school, my mother turns and smiles at me in the car. “I think that went pretty well. Your classmates seemed very interested.”

I had told myself I was going to be controlled and mature. I was going to gently explain to my mother how she was devastating my life. But this is too much. My pulse begins to pound like I've just downed three Monster Energy drinks in under a minute.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I scream. “I can't believe you came to my class and you didn't tell me first!”

My mother looks wary. This isn't the mother-daughter moment she envisioned. “I wanted to surprise you, honey. I thought you'd like having me come talk about my business.”

“Chickens, Mom?” I screech. “You really think I want you to come and talk to my friends about chickens and their
poop
?” I see her hurt look and I know I should shut up, but I'm so mad there's a supersonic buzzing in my head.

My mother's face grows carefully composed. This is her “I'm an adult, you're a hormonal preteen throwing a tantrum” look, which sets me off even more.

“Didn't you hear them laughing? They're all laughing at me, at our family. They think we're total weirdos!” My voice rises and breaks on the last word.

“They do not think we're weirdos,” my mother crisply replies. “I simply told them about my new business. I'm sorry if this embarrassed you.”

I know my mother planned this out as a fun surprise, and I know I've hurt her feelings, but I just wish she would consider
my
feelings for once. She's so in love with her chickens that she hardly pays attention to anything else, including me. No,
especially
me. We don't speak for the rest of the car ride.

As soon as I walk in the door at home, my cell phone rings. “Wow,” Alyssa says. “So that was interesting with your mom. You didn't know she was coming to class?”

“Are you kidding?” I feel a surge of gratitude that Alyssa called so quickly to sympathize. I actually feel tears prickle behind my eyelids, and I'm about do a major emotion dump when I hear a giggle, very soft, in the background. “Do you have me on speakerphone?” I ask suspiciously.

“No,” Alyssa answers, but there's a false note in her voice.

“I gotta go.” I hang up, feeling dizzy. Has there been a sudden shift in the space-time continuum? Am I suddenly living in an alternate universe where my best friend just pretended to be nice while actually laughing at me behind my back?