Night of the Zombie Chickens

by Julie Mata

  “Seriously,” Lydia goes on, “we were running through this huge cornfield for, like, an hour, and Mrs. Director here was screaming ‘Cut! Cut! You’re not being zombie enough,’ and making us reshoot twenty times. We got totally lost in the corn, just running around in circles, and finally Mrs. Director stood on our shoulders, and it turns out she’s made out of concrete. I think my shoulder’s still dislocated....”

  “And then you dropped me into the corn and broke my neck,” I add, and Sara and Emily laugh. The most I got them to redo a scene was three times, but that’s okay. All the girls are grinning. Any moment, they’re going to start begging me to be zombies.

  “Oh, and you won’t believe this,” Lydia says. “I actually saw a chicken poop. It was the grossest thing.”

  Wha-a-a? I didn’t see that one coming. Warning bells start clanging in my head.

  “A chicken?” Sara repeats, like it’s a word from a foreign language.

  “Her mom’s got a hundred chickens running all over the place, and they’re not exactly what you would call housetrained, ladies.” Lydia pauses for effect. “One almost pooped on my boots. I was like, don’t you poop on my boot, Mr. Chicken, or I’ll kick you over the garage....”

  Everyone’s laughing, but Sara and Emily are staring at me like I’m strange. I try to cut Lydia off, but it’s like trying to dam the Mississippi River with a stick.

  “They’re organic,” I say, because at least organic is cool.

  “Organic poop,” Lydia says, and I wish she would shut up, or go back to talking about my movie. “So this one lets it rip and, I’m not kidding, this brown stuff squirts out and almost hits me....”

  Squeals of delighted disgust all around.

  Lydia wasn’t anywhere near the chicken, and it’s a Mrs. Chicken, not a Mr., and my mother only has fifty hens right now, not one hundred, but I know this is all totally beside the point.

  “That is so gross,” Emily says. “Do you ever step in the poop, Kate?”

  The truth is it’s hard not to step in it because the hens do poop pretty much wherever they want. My dad needs to get the outdoor pen finished, quick. I shake my head. “It’s not that bad....”

  “You should see their dog, Wilma,” Alyssa pipes up. “She’s like a poop-eating machine. She loves to eat chicken poop. And she likes to roll in it, too.” Alyssa beams as everyone goes into another round of laughing, squealing dis­belief. There are probably ten girls surrounding us now, and they’re all darting glances my way, relieved, no doubt, that they’re not me. “And her little brother puts dried poop in his slingshot and tries to hit us with it!”

  Unfortunately this is all true. Eating and rolling in poop seem to be Wilma’s two favorite pastimes. My brother only shot poop at us once, though, and he got in big-time trouble for it.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say weakly, “it’s so disgusting.” I’m laughing, but inside I’m cringing because everyone in my family sounds like a weirdo now, including me. Alyssa should have known better and kept her mouth shut, but she’s trying to score points with Lydia’s gang. Sadly it seems to be working. They’re all making jokes about rolling in poop. It’s like we’re six years old again, which just shows the power of poop, I guess. It’s funny at any age.

  Nobody asks me if they can be in my zombie movie.

  Lydia says, “Here comes Margaret.” Then she does an exaggerated wave. “Hi, Margaret!” while Sara and Emily giggle under their breath.

  “Hi.” Margaret beams at us. “Hi, Kate.” She kind of ducks her head and grins, and I thank God that I’m not as socially hopeless as Margaret. I may not be Lydia Merritt, but I know not to grin so much, especially with a mouthful of teeth like hers.

  A funny thing about Margaret—she always singles me out. Margaret Yorkel has wanted to be my friend ever since I went to her third-grade birthday party (it was just me, Margaret, and her sister), and I’ve been trying not to be her friend ever since. I don’t have anything against her, but it’s just a cold, hard fact—being friends with Margaret would be the social kiss of death.

  Some days I feel sorry for Margaret and other days I want to shake her. Mostly I’d love to give her a makeover. Now, if I had bright red hair like that, I’d dye it brunette. I’d buy concealer for the freckles and I’d definitely look into contacts. She has pretty blue eyes, but you can’t see them behind her thick lenses. And wouldn’t you think her parents could spring for some braces? If it were me, I’d lock myself in the bathroom until my parents sold the family jewels or my little brother—whatever it took to throw some braces on my teeth, pronto.

  I grab a book out of my locker. My social stock is sinking by the second, and the last thing I need is Margaret hanging around. “Gotta go!” I give a quick wave and head down the hallway. Alyssa doesn’t follow, even though we usually walk to business ed class together. That’s fine, because I don’t want to hear her scratchy, out-of-pitch voice anyway.

  Alyssa ends up being late to class. She slips in after the bell rings and smiles at the teacher. Mrs. Chapman is a dour, gray-haired, old-school feminist who always talks about how there used to only be two jobs open to women—nursing and teaching. Men got to have all the other jobs. Then women of her generation finally cracked the glass ceiling, and now we girls have to keep up the fight.

  Sometimes Mrs. Chapman will lower her voice and tell us there’s even a glass ceiling at our school. She whispers that everyone with power is pale, male, and stale. We all titter and wonder if she’s talking about the principal, Mr. Safire, who’s actually pretty tan because he plays golf on the weekends, and his breath isn’t nearly as stale as Mrs. Chapman’s.

  I wait for Mrs. Chapman to give Alyssa a detention because she hates it when people show up late, but she actually smiles at her.

  “As you all know, this is the start of National Career Week,” Mrs. Chapman announces. We all look at one another with blank faces. National Career Week?

  “Many of your mothers have exciting careers today, largely due to the efforts of the women of my generation,” Mrs. Chapman goes on. “We fought the battles with blood, sweat, and tears. And now your mothers stand on our shoulders, carrying the torch.”

  Mrs. Chapman’s eyes look misty. Someone snickers, and she frowns and raps her ruler on the desk. “Alyssa Jensen’s mother has graciously agreed to come in today and talk with us about her career and how she got started in it.”

  The door opens and Mrs. Jensen slips in. She’s dressed like a businesswoman: black pantsuit, nice blouse, high-heeled pumps. Just like my mother used to dress. I stare at Alyssa. She never told me her mother was coming in. Alyssa’s cheeks are pink. She looks happy but nervous, because there’s always the chance her mother will slip up and say something embarrassing. It’s not likely with Mrs. Jensen, though. For a mom, she’s pretty hip. She thanks Mrs. Chapman and then perches on the edge of the desk like a bright-eyed bird.

  Mrs. Jensen tells us about her job on the marketing team for a high-end cosmetics firm and how she travels all over the country trying to get their brand into department stores. I already knew this, but it’s interesting to hear about it anyway. She gets a big round of applause at the end.

  Alyssa’s mother suddenly whips out a pink lacy-edged shopping bag and announces she’s got free makeup samples for everyone. That’s when the class goes nuts. All the girls jump up and crowd around her. Lydia is the loudest of all. The boys look glum except for Steve Bascombe, who’s into Goth and wears black eyeliner. They look happier after Mrs. Jensen announces she has aftershave for them, even though none of them actually shaves yet.

  “Can I have two lip glosses?” Lydia asks right away.

  “Sure.” Alyssa has already taken over the pink bag and is handing out cosmetics to all the girls. Her mother looks on and beams, the picture of professional poise.

  Alyssa lets Lydia pick her second lip gloss before I even get my first one. By the time I
reach the front of the line, all that’s left is a brown shade called Raisin the Roof. When we return to our seats, Lydia sits next to Alyssa.

  “That is so cool your mom sells makeup,” I overhear Lydia say. “My mother sells houses.” She rolls her eyes to show that houses are pretty useless compared with makeup.

  Mrs. Chapman claps her hands and tells us never to forget what a difference we can make and that we have to keep fighting because the struggle isn’t over yet. Alyssa’s mother looks slightly confused at this, but she smiles and thanks us for letting her come in. I think of my own mother stomping around in her big, dirty boots and stained work clothes, mucking out the chicken crap. She loves what she’s doing, I tell myself loyally, but I can’t help thinking it’s too bad she doesn’t love selling cosmetics or jewelry or iPads.

  After 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.

  When 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 he
ads 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.