Night of the Zombie Chickens (17 page)

I
'm not usually allowed to have sleepovers on school nights, but my mother agrees to let Alyssa sleep over that night when I tell her we're trying out for
Annie
the next day and we want to practice our lines. She's so thrilled that Alyssa and I are friends again that she says yes before I even get the question out.

Alyssa and I watch a movie, just to kill some time, and then we take Wilma outside and throw the tennis ball for her. As Alyssa is wrestling the ball from Wilma, she suddenly glances sideways at me. “So have you come up with an ending for
Night of the Zombie Chickens
yet? I was thinking we should try to finish it before it turns cold.”

My face must look shocked because she laughs. “Don't tell me you deleted the whole thing.”

I'd forgotten that Alyssa doesn't know about Margaret. I stammer, trying to think how to explain it. “Uh, well, you know, I figured you weren't going to want to work on it anymore.”

Alyssa lifts an eyebrow. “You really did delete it?”

“Of course not!” I feel my face flush. “The thing is, I asked Margaret to help me finish it. And Doris.”

Alyssa's mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”

“We've been hanging out together the last month,” I remind her, “while you were hanging out with Lydia.” I let this sink in, then I take a deep breath. “They're not so bad. I think you'd like them.”

“Maybe.” Alyssa shrugs. I can tell she isn't convinced. “So how did you finish the movie?”

I have no choice but to tell her. I explain how Mallory eats the zombie egg and transforms. “It's brilliant, isn't it?”

Alyssa wrinkles her nose. “Brilliant? Hitch, I'm Mallory. That's my part. I've been playing her for a year. And now you want me...Mallory...to turn into
Marga
ret
?”

“You were busy, remember?” I remind her. “You dumped me, remember? What was I supposed to do?”

Wilma's eyes are glued on the ball in Alyssa's hand. She's trembling from watching it so hard. She whines, jumps in the air, turns in circles. Alyssa cocks back her arm, and Wilma is off like a shot, her tiny legs churning.

Alyssa pauses, her arm still cocked back. “I know: why don't we just reshoot? It's not like you have to keep that ending, right? It sounds kind of weird, anyway. Write a new ending and we'll finish it.”

Wilma runs back, panting, giving us the evil eye. I grab the ball from Alyssa and throw it. It seems strange to be thinking about the ending to my movie again. It felt good knowing it was done. Plus, I did shout
“It
'
s a wrap!”
so that kind of makes it official. Still, there's a certain logic to Alyssa's words.

It
is
a little strange to have Mallory change into a new person at the very end of the movie. If I reshoot with Alyssa,
Night of the Zombie Chickens
will flow better. Plus, Alyssa and I are a little unsure around each other after everything that's happened. I don't want to do anything to make our friendship shakier.

A guilty pang shoots through me. Margaret is super­excited to be in my movie. Even Doris still asks me how the editing is coming along. Still, I'm the director. It's my job to make the tough decisions. Sometimes, the best scenes end up on the cutting room floor because they just don't fit. But would I really be cutting it for the right reason?

Wilma returns the ball and spits it at my feet. I scratch her behind the ears. The last time I threw the ball for her, I ended up with chicken crap on my shoe. I peek at the soles of my shoes, just to be sure. Clean.

It's funny how a little piece of poop can do so much damage. The memory of
Crapkate Walden
rings in my ears. I'm happy Alyssa and I are friends again, but I don't know if I completely trust her yet. Trust is kind of like an egg—it's easily broken. And once you've spilled it, you have a big mess on your hands.

I throw the ball and watch Wilma gallop after it. I can feel Alyssa's eyes on me, so I nod to her. “Okay. Let me think about it.”

T
hat night, I wake up to the sound of pouring rain and crackling thunder. Lightning bathes my room in an eerie glow. It seems like an omen. Alyssa and I have gone through the plan over and over. We both know what we have to do. Still, I have to stop myself from waking her up and quizzing her.

I've already bagged the wig and stashed it in my backpack. Now, in the middle of the night, that suddenly seems like a bad idea. I know my mother has already heard via the mom grapevine that the wig was stolen. What if she finds some reason to dig around in my backpack in the morning? What if my dad knocks the pack off the kitchen counter as he's rushing out the door to work? I can already see the slow-motion fall to the floor, the wig spilling out, the horrified reaction shots from my parents. These things happen all the time in movies. I decide that, first thing in the morning, I will stow my backpack safely in the car.

It takes me a long time to fall back asleep. Then, it seems like two seconds and it's morning. Sunshine pours through the window. It's exactly the kind of weather I'd hoped for—a blue-skies, everything's-going-my-way kind of day.

As soon as I'm dressed, I lug my backpack safely to the car. When I get back inside, Alyssa is still in bed. She's staring at the ceiling, the covers pulled up to her chin. “I'm nervous, Hitch.”

“All you have to do is sing,” I assure her. “I'll take care of the rest.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

“Hey, my last plan worked pretty well.”

Alyssa gives me a look. “Yeah, a little too well.”

“Margaret's going to help,” I tell her, but she doesn't look reassured.

At breakfast, neither of us eats much. My dad folds up his newspaper and downs the rest of his coffee. “So, this is the big day. You girls nervous?”

Alyssa and I freeze. Then I realize he's talking about the auditions. “Yeah, a little bit.”

“Don't be shy,” my mother advises. “Just get up there and sing loud. Teachers like it when you sing loud.”

Derek smirks. “He won't like it when Kate sings loud. She sounds like a dying walrus.”

That's the funny thing about little brothers. They can be totally sweet one moment and a real pain in the butt the next. I decide it's time to teach him a lesson in manners. I push back my chair from the table and screw up my face like I'm about to cry.

“He's right,” I moan. “I'm not trying out. Forget it!” I cover my face with my hands and then watch through my fingers as my mother gives Derek the evil eye.

“Since you're so concerned with Kate's audition, Derek, you can feed the hens for her this morning. And clean out the coop after school today.”

Derek's mouth drops open in horror. “Clean the coop! All I said was—”

“We heard what you said,” my father sternly interrupts. “Kate has a beautiful voice.”

I open my hands enough to lift an eyebrow and smirk at Derek.
That will teach you to mess wit
h me.

“She's making a face at me—” Derek whines.

“That's enough!” My mother slaps down her spatula and Derek knows better than to say another word. “Don't listen to your brother, Kate,” my mother says in a softer voice. “You'll do just fine.”

It's a great feeling to have my mother backing me up. I quirk another eyebrow at Derek. He doesn't take the bait, but his face turns red from the effort of holding it in. His eyes narrow and he lifts his chin.
Just wait. Your payback is going to
suck.

I bat my eyelids.
So sc
ared.

Derek shoves back from the table and stomps outside. Alyssa smirks. My parents haven't noticed a thing, of course.

Alyssa and I go to my bedroom to finish getting ready. Just as I predicted, the day is getting off to a great start. Seeing Derek get his just reward makes me feel giddy. Or maybe it's nerves.

I watch as Alyssa fusses with her hair and then carefully puts on some eyeliner. “Now remember,” I tell her, “I'll text you when you're next in line, so you'll only have a couple of minutes to get to the choir room.”

Alyssa nods nervously. “I don't know if I can sing. I'm going to be so nervous.”

“It doesn't matter. The important thing is that you leave right away after you're done. Got it?”

“Yes, for the tenth time, I've got it.” Alyssa glances out the window. “Hitch, some of your hens are in the garage.”

I groan. “That idiot. He must have left the coop open. That's okay. He'll have to clean up the mess.”

Alyssa presses her nose against the glass. “I think they're attacking a rabbit or something. It's all bloody. Yuck. I didn't know hens were carnivores.”

I peek out the window. The hens are viciously pecking at something. A sickening feeling comes over me. I can see my unzipped backpack hanging half in, half out of the open car door. Two hens are fighting to stick their heads inside it. Derek must have gone into the car for some reason and left the door open.

Wait a minute. I didn't leave my backpack open. Then, I remember the silent conversation at the kitchen table. This is no accident. It's payback. A hen suddenly swivels her head, and I swear she stares at me in the window. And winks.

Then I'm running, taking the stairs two at a time, with Alyssa right behind me. As we burst outside, I can see the hens aren't killing a rabbit at all. They're killing the Cute Red Wig. Some of the hens carried the plastic bag outside and shredded it with their beaks. Now they're fighting over the wig, dragging it through the mud. And I can see, clear as day, they're inching toward a huge mound of fresh chicken poop.

How could I be so stupid? Those devil birds were never simple barnyard animals. The ladies hate me and they're out to get me. I never should have doubted it. They've hatched another plot behind my back—one last dirty scheme to try to ruin my life.

I give a last burst of speed, splashing through mud puddles, screaming at the hens. Just as I reach them, they scoot away with triumphant cackles. I slowly pick up a wet, muddy, crap-smeared tangle that used to be a wig. I hear a groan, but I'm not sure if it's me or Alyssa. I glance back toward the house. Luckily, my parents haven't noticed anything. Alyssa holds her nose. I grab the water hose and spray off the worst of the poop and grime.

“What are we going to do?” Alyssa moans.

My brain is in high panic mode. I take a deep breath and try to think. “We still have time. We can fix this.”

“Fix it? Look at that thing! It's ruined!”

The Cute Red Wig can no longer be called cute. Or red. It looks more like a drowned rat. “Come on, let's get it inside.”

I know Derek is probably watching from a window, laughing to himself. Luckily, he's clueless about the missing wig or he would have already tattled to my parents. Anyway, I can't worry about him right now. I tuck the wig inside my backpack and we race upstairs to the bathroom and lock the door. Alyssa grabs the blow-dryer and blasts the wig while I towel off the worst parts. The curls turn to instant frizz.

“Curling iron!” Alyssa barks. Alyssa may not be a whiz at math—or science or English—but she's a hairstyling genius. She can cut, curl, crimp, updo, and braid like a pro. I slap the curling iron into her hand.

“Kate!” my mother calls from downstairs. “Time to go!”

“In a minute!” I shout.

Alyssa hefts a lock of the wig in her hand. “Some kind of synthetic fiber,” she mutters. “I hope it's heat resistant.” She tests the iron, then rolls up a lock of hair. Right away it sizzles and the smell of burned plastic fills the bathroom. Alyssa quickly untwists the hair, but half the curl sticks to the curling iron.

“You scalped it!” I yelp.

“It's not my fault! It's a cheap synthetic! Look, at least I tested it in back.” Alyssa twists the wig for me to see. “It won't even show in front.”

She lowers the heat, then gingerly tries another curl. This time the wig doesn't burn, but the curl looks like a perm that's gone bad. Way bad.

“Kate!” my mother calls from downstairs.

“In a minute!” I shout back. I know we've only got one more call, and then my mother will be coming up the stairs for me.

“Hurry,” I prod.

“Do you want to do it?” Alyssa snaps. I don't, so I watch over her shoulder as she works. “It doesn't curl like regular hair,” she complains. “I don't think this wig is meant to be styled. You're not supposed to get it wet,” she adds accusingly.

“What was I supposed to do, leave the chicken poop? That would be kind of a giveaway, wouldn't it? Everyone would know I took it.”

“You did take it,” Alyssa retorts.

I glance at her to see if she's having second thoughts.

She grins at me and dangles the wig. “Crapkate Walden strikes again.” The strange-looking curls bounce up and down. It looks more like a synthetic snarl than a curly red wig.

“The plastic head sits way in the back of the room by the window,” I say, trying to sound positive. “No one will even notice.”

“Kate!” my mother yells up the stairs. “RIGHT NOW!”

“We're coming!”

I pop the wig into another plastic bag. The image of the hens fighting to get into my backpack comes back to me as I stow the wig. What were they after? I search inside my pack and find bread crumbs scattered everywhere. Derek. Grudgingly, I have to admit his plan shows a certain evil genius.

That doesn't stop me from telling my mother what happened when we're in the car. “They dragged my stuff out into the yard and ruined it!”

“I guess Derek needs more practice feeding the hens,” my mother says. “Two weeks ought to do it.”

Derek starts to whine, then snaps shut his mouth after a warning look from our mother. He and I glare at each other.

“Did you hear the thunder last night?” my mother asks in her
let
'
s
-
be
-
pleasant
voice. “We're supposed to have more bad storms this afternoon.”

The sun glares off the windshield, without a cloud in sight. It's sticky and hot for October. Everyone says we're having an extralong summer this year. The tree leaves are usually flaming orange and yellow by this time, but they've only barely begun to turn. Small bursts of color stain the trees like someone went crazy shooting off a paintball gun.

Suddenly, I feel nostalgic. We started shooting
Night of the Zombie Chickens
almost exactly a year ago. In one of the first scenes we shot, a zombie hurries down the road, searching for Mallory. As soon as it's out of sight, Alyssa pops out of a big, colorful mound of leaves and runs the other way. It's one of the movie's more scenic moments. Then I think of Margaret's hair glowing like fire as she walks down the road toward the sunset. That was pretty spectacular, too.

I can't help wondering if Margaret would be so eager to help return the wig if she knew Alyssa wants me to reshoot the end of my movie. If I use the ending with Margaret, Alyssa will be upset. If I cut the ending and reshoot, Margaret will be hurt. My heart starts thumping and a dull pain throbs at the base of my skull as we pull up to school. I decide I can only worry about one thing at a time. My movie will have to wait. First, we have to save my neck and restore Alyssa's honor. Let the auditions begin.