Sam the Man & the Chicken Plan

by Frances O'Roark Dowell

  For my dear friend and superstar librarian Michelle Rosen

  —F. O. D.

  For Emily and her chickens

  —A. J. B.

  A Job for Sam

  Sam Graham wanted a job.

  Everyone else in his family had a job. His dad did something with computers, and his mom did something with clients, and his sister, Annabelle, who was twelve, mowed lawns.

  “Twenty bucks a pop,” Annabelle said when she came home from a job, sweaty and flecked with little bits of grass. “Hard to beat.”

  “What can I do for twenty bucks a pop?” Sam asked his mom.

  “There aren’t many jobs for seven-year-olds,” his mom said. “I’ll give you a dollar to clean your room.”

  Sam didn’t want a job that only paid one buck a pop.

  Besides, his room didn’t need cleaning.

  When Mrs. Kerner stopped by to see if Annabelle would take care of her chickens while she was away, Annabelle said she couldn’t do it.

  “I have three lawns to mow this weekend,” she told Mrs. Kerner. “Hate to say it, but there’s no time for chickens.”

  Sam raced over to Mrs. Kerner. He waved his arms in the air. “I’ll take care of your chickens!”

  “You’re only seven,” Mrs. Kerner said. “Seven-year-olds don’t know the first thing about chickens.”

  “I know they lay eggs,” Sam said, holding up one finger.

  “I know they like to be around other chickens,” he added, holding up a second finger.

  He tried to think of one more thing he had learned on the second-grade field trip to the farm.

  Aha! He held up a third finger. “I know their poop is good for the garden.”

  “Don’t say ‘poop,’ ” said Mrs. Kerner.

  “I like the way it sounds,” said Sam.

  “Still,” said Mrs. Kerner. “Still and all.”

  She looked at Sam for a long time. “You know a lot about chickens. But you’re awfully small.”

  “I’m bigger than a raccoon,” said Sam.

  “I despise raccoons,” said Mrs. Kerner.

  “Me too,” said Sam.

  “Okay, then,” said Mrs. Kerner. “I think we can work together.”

  Don’t Forget the Chickens

  Sam’s chicken job started on Friday afternoon. Friday morning, Sam ate eggs for breakfast, to get ready.

  “Don’t forget the chickens, Sam the Man!” his dad called on his way out of the house.

  “I won’t,” said Sam.

  “Don’t forget the chickens, Sam,” his mom said not two minutes later, putting papers in her briefcase.

  Sam huffed and puffed. “I said I won’t.”

  “How much are you getting paid?” is what Annabelle said.

  Sam didn’t know. He had forgotten to ask.

  “Twenty bucks a pop,” he decided.

  • • •

  Friday afternoon Sam went to work.

  The chickens lived in a coop in Mrs. Kerner’s backyard, which was four backyards down from Sam’s. Mrs. Kerner had only had her chickens for three weeks, so Sam didn’t know them very well.

  When the chickens saw Sam, they squawked. They strutted. They puffed out their chests.

  Sam scooped grain into the chickens’ feeder, just the way Mrs. Kerner had shown him. He picked out a leaf from their water bowl. When he was done, he carefully latched the door to the coop so that no raccoons could get in.

  On Saturday morning Sam filled the feeder and added water to the bowl. He collected the chickens’ eggs and had an omelet for breakfast.

  After lunch Sam’s friend Gavin came over, and they built a fort out of branches and rocks in the backyard.

  Then they filled up thirty-six balloons with water and had a water balloon fight.

  Then Sam used his mom’s blow-dryer to dry Gavin off before his dad picked him up.

  “Don’t forget the chickens,” Sam’s mom said as they waved good-bye to Gavin and his dad.

  “I won’t,” said Sam.

  He put on some dry socks.

  “Don’t forget the chickens,” his dad said as he passed Sam in the hallway.

  “I said I won’t,” Sam said.

  When Sam got to Mrs. Kerner’s yard, the chickens were making a racket. They squawked and clucked. Sam looked around. At the edge of the yard sat a fat raccoon.

  “Go away!” Sam yelled.

  The raccoon just sat there.

  Sam double-checked the lock and then ran home. He got his sleeping bag, his tent, and a box of raisins.

  He told his mom he was spending the night with the chickens.

  “I don’t think so,” said his mom.

  “Not a good plan, Sam the Man,” said his dad.

  That night Sam couldn’t sleep.

  He could not forget the chickens.

  Maybe he should call the police. Maybe they could arrest the raccoon.

  He got up. He stood outside his parents’ bedroom.

  “I can’t forget the chickens!” he yelled.

  Twenty Bucks a Pop

  Annabelle opened her door.

  “It’s two a.m.,” she said.

  “What if the raccoon eats the chickens?” Sam asked.

  “That would be bad,” Annabelle said. “I’ll get the flashlight.”

  When they got to Mrs. Kerner’s yard, the chickens were fine. The raccoon was nowhere to be seen.

  “I think we should stay,” Sam said.

  “Okay,” Annabelle said. “Go grab the lawn chairs from Mrs. Kerner’s deck.”

  “It’s peaceful here,” she said after they sat down.

  “It won’t be when the chickens wake up,” Sam said.

  But the chickens didn’t wake them up. Mrs. Kerner did.

  “I’m home early,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

  “We stayed here all night,” Sam said. “We protected the chickens against a raccoon.”

  “What will that run me?” asked Mrs. Kerner.

  “Twenty bucks a pop,” Sam said.

  “I’ll give you ten,” said Mrs. Kerner.

  “I’d rather have twenty,” said Sam.

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Kerner. “You did stay up all night.”

  She gave him a crisp, green-gray twenty-dollar bill.

  Sam sniffed it. It smelled good.

  Sam and Annabelle walked home. Sam got back into bed. He slept for a long time.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Don’t forget the chickens!” his mom said.

  Sam rolled over.

  He would never forget the chickens.

  Money to Burn

  Sam was ready to spend his twenty dollars. But twenty dollars was too much and not enough.

  Twenty dollars was too much to spend on candy, even if it was fun to think about how much candy twenty dollars would buy.

  Twenty dollars was not enough money for a Marsville Mudcats’ shirt like the one Sam’s favorite player, Evan Faruk, wore.

  Twenty dollars was too much for a Marsville Mudcats’ keychain.

  Besides, Sam didn’t have any keys.

  If he had a car, he would have a key, but twenty dollars was not enough for a car. Not even a beat-up jalopy like his aunt Sarah drove.

  “You don’t have to spend it all at once,” Sam’s mom said. “You could spread it out.”

  Sam didn’t like spreading out money. The last time he spread out money, he’d ended up with:

  1. a koala bear bookmark from the science museum,

  2. eight gumball machine tattoos,

  3. a beef jerky stick from the checkout line at the grocery store.

  Spreading out money was a good way to g
et a whole bunch of nothing.

  Sam went next door to see his neighbor Judy. Judy was a semi-old person who took care of her very old dad, Mr. Stockfish, and Mr. Stockfish’s five cats.

  “I’ll tell you what your problem is,” Judy told Sam when he’d asked her how he should spend his twenty dollars. She was folding laundry in the living room while she and Mr. Stockfish watched the all-day news channel.

  “What’s my problem?” Sam asked.

  “The best things in life are free,” Judy said. “True happiness doesn’t cost a dime, much less twenty dollars.”

  Mr. Stockfish snorted. He was sitting in his puffy chair with a knob he could twist to make it go higher or lower. “Cable TV isn’t free,” he said.

  “It is if your mom and dad pay for it,” Sam said.

  Mr. Stockfish waved his hand like Sam’s words were flies buzzing around his head.

  That was his way of saying he was done talking.

  “Let me show you something,” Judy said to Sam. She picked up a book from the coffee table and pulled a red bookmark from its pages. Stepping closer, Sam realized Judy was showing him a red feather.

  “This didn’t cost anything,” Judy said. “But it makes me happy every time I look at it.”

  She handed the feather to Sam. “You can have it. Maybe it will bring you good luck. Maybe it will help you figure out the best way to spend twenty dollars.”

  Sam took the feather and thanked Judy. Then he went home. He climbed the stairs to his room and sat on his bed. He looked at the feather. He stared at it without blinking for ten seconds, and then he shut his eyes tight.

  He still didn’t know how to spend his twenty dollars.

  Annabelle poked her head into his room.

  “It’s a mess in here,” she said, pointing to his floor, which was covered with socks and tiny plastic building bricks and Popsicle sticks he was collecting to build a race car with.

  “I like it messy,” Sam told her.

  Annabelle nodded. “Me too. Messy is best. Too bad Mom doesn’t think so.”

  “Where’d you get that shirt?” Sam asked.

  Annabelle’s shirt was five times too big for her and had pictures of red and green parrots all over it.

  “It’s Dad’s. Mom was trying to throw it away, but I rescued it.”

  “I didn’t know Dad liked parrots so much,” Sam said.

  “I think he only likes them on shirts,” Annabelle said. “So, what’s that?”

  Sam held up his feather. “Judy gave it to me. For good luck.”

  “It looks like a lucky feather,” Annabelle said. “In fact, it could be a magic feather.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “There’s no such thing as magic feathers.”

  Annabelle shrugged. “Maybe not. But definitely lucky feathers. In fact, I’ve got just the thing for your lucky feather.”

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “Follow me,” Annabelle said.

  They walked across the hall to Annabelle’s bedroom. “You need a special box to keep your lucky feather in,” Annabelle said. She opened her closet door and pointed to a stack of shoe boxes.

  “I have lots of shoe boxes, but I’m using them to stash my lawn-mowing money in,” Annabelle said. “I’m saving up for a goat.”

  “What do you need a goat for?” Sam asked.

  “Goats eat grass. When I get my goat, I’m going to rent it out to our neighbors who think lawn mowers are too noisy.”

  Sam liked that idea. Maybe he could be the person who held on to the goat’s rope while it ate.

  “Now, I do have a very special box,” she said. “But it’s much too special to give away.”

  “Could I borrow it?” Sam asked. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted a box for his feather.

  Besides, he really liked boxes.

  “You could buy it,” Annabelle said.

  She pulled down a wooden box from the closet shelf. It was the size of two large tissue boxes taped together.

  “How much?” Sam asked.

  “Twenty bucks,” she said.

  Sam looked at the box closely. The lid was attached with two hinges and had a clasp so you could shut it tightly.

  Sam liked lids with clasps.

  “I’ll take it,” he said.

  He ran back to his room and got his crisp, good-smelling, green-gray twenty-dollar bill from under his pillow.

  It had gotten a little wrinkled since the last time he’d seen it.

  He would miss it.

  The Bluebird of Happiness

  Sam took his box over to Mrs. Kerner’s. The chickens clucked and squawked when they saw him.

  “I’m starting a feather collection,” he told Mrs. Kerner when she came to the back door. “I thought some chicken feathers might be nice, if that’s okay.”

  “You can have whatever feathers you find on the ground,” Mrs. Kerner said. “And I have a special feather I will add to your collection.”

  A few minutes later Mrs. Kerner came out of her house carrying a small, blue feather.

  “It’s not a chicken feather,” she said. “But it’s special all the same. It is a feather from the bluebird of happiness.”

  “Is there only one?” Sam asked.

  “There are many blue feathers, but only one bluebird of happiness.”

  Sam took the feather and said thank you.

  Then he carefully put the blue feather in the box next to his red feather and closed the clasp.

  “Only feathers you find on the ground!” Mrs. Kerner reminded Sam as he started looking around the coop. “No plucking!”

  “I would never pluck,” Sam said, offended that Mrs. Kerner thought he might.

  Unfortunately, the only feathers on the ground that day were the little downy feathers that stuck to his fingers when he tried to pick them up. He decided not to collect annoying feathers.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he told Mrs. Kerner. “Maybe some of the chickens will shed overnight.”

  “Chickens don’t shed; they molt,” Mrs. Kerner told him. “But it’s almost the molting time of the year. You should come back every day, just in case.”

  If Sam didn’t know better, he might think Mrs. Kerner liked having him around. He guessed he liked being around. Mrs. Kerner seemed mean when you first met her, but after a while she turned out to be sort of nice. Her niceness was like a secret that only a few people knew about.

  Sam carried the box home, being careful to walk slowly and not trip over any cracks in the sidewalk.

  That night at dinner Sam made an announcement. “I have a feather from the bluebird of happiness.”

  “I’d rather have a pie from the blueberry of happiness,” Annabelle said. She grinned at Sam, so he could see the macaroni and cheese stuck in her braces.

  “There is no blueberry of happiness,” Sam told her.

  “I wonder if there’s a blue moon of happiness,” his mom said.

  “Or a blue plate special of happiness,” his dad said.

  Sam ate a bite of mac and cheese, and then he took another bite. It might be a few minutes before his parents stopped being silly.

  “I wonder if it would be okay to take my feather collection to school,” he said when everyone quieted down. “Do you think someone would steal it?”

  “You could ask Mr. Pell to keep it in his desk drawer,” Annabelle said. “The one with the lock on it.”

  Sam stared at his sister. “How do you know about the drawer with the lock on it? You were never in Mr. Pell’s class.”

  “All teachers have at least one drawer that locks,” Annabelle explained. “It keeps people from stealing their lunch bags.”

  Sam had seen what Mr. Pell brought for lunch. Usually, he had a stinky tuna fish sandwich, an apple with brown spots, and kale chips.

  Sam didn’t think Mr. Pell needed to worry about anyone stealing his lunch bag.

  Still, he was glad Annabelle had reminded him about the desk drawer that locked. Sam was pretty sure it was
big enough for his box.

  After dinner Sam went to his room. On his way up the stairs, he started thinking about people who might steal his feather collection.

  Number one on his list was Emily Early. Emily was crazy about birds. On weekends her family went to parks and looked at birds through their binoculars. Once, for show-and-tell, Emily brought in a notebook where she’d written the name of every kind of bird she’d ever seen.

  The list was sixty-eight birds long.

  Boy, oh boy, would Emily Early like to get her hands on a feather from the bluebird of happiness!

  Connor Ross might also try to steal Sam’s collection.

  That was because Connor Ross was a creep.

  Sam knocked on Annabelle’s door. “Maybe it’s too risky to take my feathers to school,” he said when she came to the doorway.

  Annabelle shrugged. “Life is full of risks, Sam the Man. To share or not to share? That’s the question. But my question is, why have something special if you can’t show it to other people?”

  “That’s a good point,” Sam said.

  “All my points are good points,” Annabelle said. “Any other questions?”

  That was the only question Sam had, so he went to his room.

  The box with Sam’s feathers was sitting on his desk. He had left the lid open, so his feathers could breathe.

  He’d also left his window open, so his feathers could feel the nice, evening breeze.

  Sam walked over to the box. He looked inside.

  The box was empty.

  Someone had stolen his feathers!

  He couldn’t believe it. A robber must have climbed through his open window and taken it!

  “Come back with my feathers!” he yelled out the window.

  But nobody yelled back.

  Sam’s collection was gone.

  The Case of the Missing Feathers

  Everyone rushed into Sam’s room.

  “What happened, Sam?” asked his dad.

  “Are you okay?” asked his mom.

  “I’m fine,” Sam said. “But my feathers are missing! A robber must have gotten them!”

  Annabelle walked over to Sam’s open window. “Or else they flew away.”