Quack

by Anna Humphrey

  Wak.

  “Come on.” I shook the box a little. “Now’s your chance.” She didn’t budge, so I took a deep breath and reached in. “Ouch!” She bit me. Well, not bit-bit me. It was more of a nip. I couldn’t even tell if she had teeth, really…but she definitely beaked me.

  “Stupid duck!”

  By then, Juliette had spotted me through the back door. She wanted to come out and play. She was barking her head off. It was only a matter of time before she disturbed my dad on his call, and he came to see why I wasn’t letting her out.

  “Okay. Enough,” I told the duck. “Out!” I tipped the box almost upside down.

  Wak, wak, wakwakwakwak.

  Svenrietta was losing her mind—which seemed rude since I was only trying release her into her natural habitat, but as I righted the box, I heard a faint rolling noise. I looked in, and then I understood.

  “Oh.”

  A big grayish-white egg had come to rest in one corner.

  Yes, Svenrietta had bitten/beaked me. But it was because she’d been protecting her baby!

  “Oh,” I said again, this time with dread. I’d seen eggs hatch at an exhibit at the science museum. It happened inside a plastic dome that was temperature-controlled because the eggs and chicks needed to stay warm.

  It was December. There were, like, three feet of snow in the yard. Setting Svenrietta free in the wild was one thing. She had feathers. She’d fly away and make a nest or something. She’d be fine. But if I set her egg free, too, it would freeze. And that was one big step up from ducknapping. That was duck murder.

  I had to think fast—which is where the idea for the plant experiment in the garage came in. I wasn’t even exactly lying. I was planning to do an experiment for the science fair—Do plants grow better when you play them Beyoncé twenty-four hours a day?—and it was a great way to keep my parents out of the garage. (Isolation was my control factor.) Most importantly, the music helped to drown out the duck sounds, because Svenrietta wasn’t quiet.

  At first, it was only going to be for one night. My plan was to drop an anonymous note on Shady’s desk, telling him where and when to find her, then leave her and her egg in a safe spot—but he didn’t show up at school the next day, or the one after that, or the one after that.

  “Sit, Svenri.” I did the hand motion I’d seen Shady do. I tore off a piece of mega-sandwich. She waited until I threw it, then caught it midair in her beak.

  “How’s Aggie today?”

  While Svenrietta ate, I walked over to check. The nest she’d built for her egg was mostly made of shredded newspaper and strips of cardboard she’d pulled off some old boxes. It was nestled inside one end of my parents’ two-person kayak—nice and warm.

  And okay, I know. Aggie? Yes, I’d named the egg. But it was hard not to get attached to both of them. Svenrietta was a good mom—always going right back to the nest after she ate. And I liked the way she closed her eyes and her whole body seemed to relax when I petted her.

  I knew I couldn’t keep them any longer though. Not after Shady’s panic attack. Svenrietta had to go home. He needed her.

  My new plan was simple. Mom wouldn’t be home for another hour. That was plenty of time to put on some gardening gloves, scoop Svenrietta’s nest and Aggie into a box, wrap some old towels around them for warmth, walk the two blocks to Shady’s house, put the box on the doorstep, then ring the bell and wait in the bushes to make sure someone answered and took them in.

  It would have been as easy as that, too, if it wasn’t for the sudden, frantic scratching at the door.

  Yip. Yip. Yip, yip, yip.

  Juliette had finished her peanut butter. Her doggy senses had been telling her for days that there was a duck in the garage, and she was desperate to get in. Of course, I wasn’t going to let her, only…

  YIP, YIP, YIP.

  The barking got louder, nearly drowning out Beyoncé. Before I knew what was happening, Juliette was inside. I must have left the door unlatched when I’d come in! Total disaster!

  “Stop, Juliette!” I yelled as she raced toward Svenri. “No! Bad dog!” I tried to grab her, but she was already nipping at Svenrietta’s tail feathers. The duck flapped her wings frantically and landed on some boxes, just out of Juliette’s reach. For a second, I thought everything was going to be okay, but then she flapped again and went even higher, up into the loft space of the garage where my parents store lawn chairs, the patio umbrella, and other stuff we don’t need until spring.

  “Get out, Juliette!” I grabbed my dog and put her back in the house, but by then it was too late. Svenrietta had waddled to the back of the loft.

  I dragged a storage container over and stood on top so I could see her.

  “Here, ducky, ducky.” I put a piece of sandwich down at the edge of the loft, but she was too freaked out to come get it. Her feathers were quivering. She was panting.

  I searched the garage for something I could climb up on, but even standing on two big containers didn’t get me high enough to swing my leg up, plus it was tippy—then…

  “You in there, sweetie?”

  I nearly toppled off my tower of containers.

  My dad had been away on a business trip. I wasn’t expecting him home that early.

  “Don’t come in!” I yelled. “It’ll wreck the plant experiment.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But meet me in the living room when you’re done. I have a surprise for you.”

  I left some bread and a dish of water on the ledge for Svenrietta, then dragged the big containers back to their spots. My dad always brought good stuff home from his trips. Last time it was a pair of bedazzled noise-canceling headphones he found at the Dallas airport. “I’ll be back to check on you later,” I said softly to Svenrietta.

  It wasn’t until I had my hand on the doorknob that I remembered: Aggie!

  If Svenrietta was too scared to come down to take care of her egg, what would happen to it? The temperature wasn’t freezing in our garage, but it wasn’t exactly warm either.

  I walked over to the kayak and peered inside. “Okay, Aggie,” I said. “I guess you’re coming with me.” I put the egg in the front pocket of my sweatshirt and wrapped one hand around it to keep it warm. Then I went to see what Dad had bought me.

  CHAPTER 14

  Tree Trouble

  Told by Pouya

  With one day to go before the opening night of Santa’s Tree Trouble, Mrs. Carlisle made a truly terrible directing decision.

  “That’s it, Pouya!” she yelled at me. “You’re out of the play!”

  I’ll admit, maybe I’d been hogging the stage a little—but it was only because I was still trying to fully explore the role of the tree.

  “Why can’t it be a juggling tree?” I said as I picked up the last of the three ornaments I’d just dropped. One of them was a bit smashed.

  “Because it’s just not,” Mrs. Carlisle answered with a sigh. “It’s also not a yodeling tree or a tap-dancing tree or a cross-eyed tree with its tongue sticking out. But, more importantly, you’re being disruptive and disrespectful to the other actors.”

  “Totally.” Pearl Summers tapped one curly elf shoe. The shoes were the only part of her costume she was wearing for dress rehearsal, but Mrs. Carlisle never said how that was being disrespectful to the other actors.

  Connor was sweating buckets in his Santa suit and beard. Every other elf was in red-and-green tights and shirts with bells, and I was holding my branches. But Pearl had on a big bulky sweater with a zipper at the front, and she was carrying a shiny purse that she’d bragged her dad had bought her in New York. She had it tucked under her sweater, and she wouldn’t let anyone touch it. I’d even heard her yell at Rebecca that it was private when she asked what was inside.

  “I’ve been saying for weeks now that he’s so disrespectful,” Pearl went on.

  “Pearl.” Mrs. Carlisle shot her a shhhhh look.

  Disrespectful. There was that word again. The same one Mrs. Mackie used the day wh
en I stood up to the evil lunch lady. But I’m all about respect! I mean, there’s a difference between being disrespectful and taking action when things aren’t right. Isn’t there? My moms showed me that when we left Iran (a country where it’s against the law for two ladies to be in love) to make a new life someplace we can live freely.

  And it’s like Shady and I promised to do: make Carleton Elementary a safe place for the underducks. If anyone was an underduck, it was Shady. But now it was my turn. And I was going to have to stand up for myself.

  “You’re being dumb!” I yelled at Mrs. Carlisle. I waved my script around. “It doesn’t say anywhere what kind of tree it’s supposed to be. That’s up to the actor. It’s called creative expression! Plus, the play is tomorrow. How are you going to find a new tree in time?”

  Here’s an important lesson: never call a teacher dumb, even if that teacher is being dumb.

  Mrs. Carlisle pointed in the direction of the office. Then, before I’d even left the stage: “Hayden,” she called to one of the reindeer who didn’t have a speaking part. “Congratulations. You’re our new tree.”

  Hayden? Really? We used to be in Friends of the Environment club together. He’d once upcycled an empty tissue box into a new tissue box by putting different tissue in it. Hayden was nice and everything, but he was about as creative as a rock! The role of the tree needed so much more—even if I didn’t know exactly what that was yet.

  “All you have to say is, ‘Do you think Santa might like a Christmas tree?’” Mrs. Carlisle instructed Hayden as I threw my branches down and stomped out of the gym. “Nice and loud, okay? I’ll cue you.”

  By the time I got to the office, I was furious, so furious that Mrs. Mackie didn’t even bother giving me detention. She was nice to me, which made me even madder.

  “It’s been a hard week for you, hasn’t it, Pouya?” she said. “Especially now that Shady won’t be coming back to school. I think losing the role of the tree is enough of a consequence. You can go back to class. But I want you to remember to be respectful to teachers and other staff members. Even when you disagree with them, okay?”

  I did not agree to that, but she let me go anyway.

  I fumed through the rest of the day, refusing to answer questions in geography and shoving past Pearl when she got in my way near the gym doors. “Watch it!” she yelled, throwing her arms up and pushing me back to protect her precious secret purse. “You almost broke it!”

  “It’s just an ugly purse!” I shouted, but she ignored me, then went straight over to complain that she had a headache so that she could sit out during dodgeball.

  I was still mad when it was time to go to Shady’s place. (Since he was being homeschooled now, his mom wanted him to have social interaction at least once a day, and I was invited back over.) Manda came to pick me up. That was because the Banana Bandit was still prowling the streets in his hairy gorilla costume, and Shady’s mom said no walking alone. Luckily, Manda was in a terrible mood too. She and I barely talked on the way there. And even though Shady and Manda’s mom welcomed me at the door and offered me a fresh-baked cookie, I barely mumbled thanks.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Pouya,” she said with a smile. “Shady will be so happy to see you.”

  But, when I went upstairs, my best friend didn’t seem happy to see me. He didn’t seem happy at all, which—actually—was a relief, because I was in no mood for happiness.

  “I hate Mrs. Carlisle.” I dropped my backpack on the floor. “And I hate Mrs. Mackie even more. I hate that whole school. I’m glad it’s probably going to blow up in ten days along with the rest of the world. You’re lucky you don’t have to go there anymore.”

  Shady was watching a movie on his laptop. Something about invading space aliens that wasn’t even educational. He just stared straight ahead.

  Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said that he was lucky. I would have given anything to get to stay home too. Nobody teasing you about the weird-smelling (but delicious) kebabs in your lunch, no getting up to walk to school in the cold, no Pearl Summers. Sign me up! But I guess when it isn’t your choice, it probably doesn’t feel so great.

  “Sorry,” I grumbled. I figured I should explain what had happened. “I’m just mad because Mrs. Carlisle cut me out of the play.” I dug around in my backpack for my script, then crumpled it up and threw it toward Shady’s trash can—only I missed, and it landed on the floor. “I’m not allowed to be the tree anymore. She gave it to Hayden. Hayden! Have you ever met anyone who’d make a less inspiring tree?”

  Shady lowered the volume on his laptop, so I knew he was listening.

  “All because I was trying to make the role bigger and better. You know, give people one last great show before the world ends.” I picked up the script, took a few steps back, and tried to throw it again. I missed again. “She said I was being disrespectful.”

  I picked up the script. Threw. Missed.

  “Dammit!”

  I don’t know why. Of all the terrible things that had happened in the last few days, that dumb script was what finally put me over the edge.

  Instead of tossing it toward the trash a fourth time, I hurled it at the wall above Shady’s desk. It bounced off and fell to the floor uselessly. Then I lay down on his bed and started to cry.

  I hate crying, but if you have to cry, Shady’s room is a good place to do it. For one thing, it’s dark. The door is always closed, and the curtains are usually pulled. The bed is soft, with a thick duvet. His mom buys Kleenex with lotion, and Shady’s not about to tell anyone you sobbed like a baby.

  The last two times I’d cried were in his room—first because my grandmother, Mamani, died in Iran and I never got to say goodbye, and another time because I failed math, and I knew Maman and Mitra-Joon were going to kill me. Both times, Shady just sat there playing the Evil Undead while he waited for me to finish, which is exactly what a best friend should do.

  This time was no different. At least, not at first. While I buried my face in his pillow, Shady stayed at his desk, working on something. I could hear the scratch-scratch-scratch of his pencil against a paper, same as he always does in class when he’s bored or nervous. And a few minutes later, he sat down beside me and tapped me on the shoulder.

  Look, he said with his eyes.

  He handed me the crumpled script I’d thrown at his wall:

  SCRIPT: SANTA’S TREE TROUBLE

  ©Dolly Shannon, 2015

  SETTING AND SCENES

  SCENE 1:

  Outside the toy workshop at the North Pole, with fake snow and fake evergreens.

  SCENE 2:

  Inside the toy workshop, with benches for toy making.

  SCENE 3:

  In the forest. Fake snow, fake evergreens.

  SCENE 4:

  Back outside the toy workshop. (see Scene 1)

  SCENE 5:

  In the forest (see Scene 3) but with a nighttime sky backdrop.

  SCENE 6:

  Back inside the toy workshop. (see Scene 2)

  PROPS

  Fake ax

  Four large, brightly wrapped cardboard boxes

  Plate of bright, perfectly decorated Christmas cookies

  Various toys

  Various toy-building tools

  Christmas decorations and garlands

  Large, star-shaped tree topper

  APPROXIMATE RUNNING TIME: 30–35 minutes, not including songs from the chorus.

  “It’s like what you made in the sensory room,” I said, remembering the poster with sticky notes. “Is it a poem?”

  He tilted one hand: so-so.

  It was the most he’d talked to me since Svenrietta had disappeared.

  “Is this always what you’re doing when you scribble on paper?”

  He nodded.

  “‘Troubled characters that want to be included…’” I read from the start. “You mean me?”

  Shady pointed at himself.

  “You want to be in the play too?”

  Ano
ther so-so hand.

  I gave that some thought. Obviously, Shady didn’t want a speaking part. At least, I didn’t think so. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to be included somehow. Even though it was hard to tell sometimes, he always wanted to be part of things. Who wouldn’t want that?

  “You want to be in the chorus?” I asked.

  He made a face.

  I made a face back.

  The chorus is where they stick kids who aren’t talented enough to do anything else. Everyone knows that. But why did it have to be an onstage part (which always seem to go to the popular, outgoing kids) or the chorus? It felt unfair that there wasn’t another option.

  “Maybe we can think of a way,” I said. “Can you tell me what you want to do in the play? Write it down or something?”

  Shady answered with an awkward shrug. Now that I realized he was always making poems, I knew he liked writing…but scribbling away words was a different kind of writing. He never liked just saying his thoughts plainly on paper to answer questions.

  “Personally, what I really want is to still be the tree,” I said. “But not just any tree. I want to be a different tree, y’know? A kind of tree that makes the audience stop and think.”

  Shady leaped up and walked across the room. He scanned his bookshelf, looking for something specific. A second later, he pulled a book out and handed it to me.

  ALLIGATOR PIE

  Poems by Dennis Lee

  “You think I should be an alligator tree?”

  He took the book back, opened it, and ran his finger under some of the words. When that didn’t help, he gave up and closed it again. He motioned for me to look, then lay one finger over part of the first line of text: ALLIGATOR PIE

  “A?”

  He nodded, then moved on to the next part: Poems

  “Po-e,” I read.

  More nodding.

  He went back to the alligator part, covering different letters with his fingers: ALLIGATOR