Night of the Zombie Chickens

by Julie Mata

  “Uh-oh,” Lydia says. “Margaret Dorkel at three o’clock.” She snaps her fingers. “Hey, maybe that hair on Alyssa’s backpack was actually Margaret’s! Check her hair and see if she’s missing a chunk!”

  Tina grins. “We could shave Margaret’s head and make a new wig.”

  I can see Margaret’s smile falter as she approaches us. Twelve-year-old girls have a built-in sonar that can detect when they’re being talked about from a quarter mile away. I stifle a desire to slap Lydia and Tina.

  It doesn’t seem fair that they love the Cute Red Wig but make fun of Margaret’s hair. Why is being a ginger adorable in a musical but joke material in real life? There are other redheads in school who don’t get teased like Margaret. So I guess part of Margaret’s problem is that she’s a Henrietta. Except where Henrietta is too timid, Margaret is just too nice. Anyway, she can’t help it if she has bright red hair. And messed-up teeth are just genetics. What can she do about that except beg her parents for braces?

  Margaret gave me a seat in the lunchroom. She acted like a friend when even my BFF ignored me. Lydia didn’t do any of that. And then I realize, Lydia might be funny but she’s careless. She makes everything a joke so no one can accuse her of being mean. And maybe everything is just a big joke to her, but it isn’t to me. And now, a couple words from Lydia and I’m practically drooling on the floor. Maybe I should slap myself.

  “Hey, Margaret,” I say loudly. “How’s it going?”

  “Hi.” Margaret shoots a quick glance my way. “That’s strange about the wig, isn’t it? Maybe whoever took it will put it back.”

  “We shouldn’t wait,” Lydia says. “Let’s go raid Alyssa’s closet. I bet she’s got the wig stashed with her dirty laundry.”

  Tina wrinkles her nose. “Yuck. It would be like putting dirty underwear on your head.”

  “You did that the last time you were at my house!” Lydia shrieks. “You should have seen her! She grabbed my underwear and stuck it on top of her head and went running around the house! My brother thought she was on drugs!”

  “I did not!” Tina screams. “They were clean!”

  “Are you kidding? Nothing on my floor is clean!”

  “You put underwear on your head, too!”

  “At least it’s my own, moron.”

  By this time they’re both cracking up. Mr. Brumberg, one of the science teachers, appears at his door and frowns. “Hello, Mr. Brumby,” Lydia sings out. She has a nickname for almost every teacher. The weird thing is, none of them seem to mind.

  “Don’t you girls need to go to class?” he inquires.

  “We’re cutting class,” Lydia informs him. “We thought we’d stand outside your door and entertain you today.”

  Mr. Brumberg lips twitch. “Move along, Lydia.”

  “Okay, Mr. Brumby, whatever you say!”

  Lydia and Tina amble off and I try to get away fast, too, because I’m pretty sure I know what Margaret wants to talk about.

  But she’s too quick. “What do you think about Alyssa?”

  I shrug. Low-key is best. “I don’t know, it’s pretty weird.”

  “I wonder if Jake Knowles ever showed up in the music room.” Her voice sounds doubtful. Has she figured it out?

  If Margaret asks Jake about the note he never wrote, I’m in trouble. “You should ask him,” I say casually, because I’m pretty sure she won’t. Jake Knowles is supercute and athletic. I doubt even Margaret wants to ask him if he stood up Alyssa. She shrugs like it’s no big deal, and relief washes over me. She doesn’t suspect anything.

  I hurry off to my last class of the day, feeling like I’m some kind of mysterious Beautiful Dame myself. I’ve outfoxed them all. I turn a corner and almost run into Alyssa. She turns her tearstained face away and hurries outside, where I can see her mother’s car waiting. It’s so bad she’s leaving school early.

  I swallow hard as the car pulls away. Serves her right, I tell myself. Now she knows how it feels. But suddenly I don’t feel nearly so beautiful.

  My mother must have told my dad about our little talk because after he gets home from work, he finds me in the TV room. I’ve already hidden the wig in my closet. I changed the hiding place three times and I’m still worried my mother will find it. It makes me so nervous I can barely focus on the TV show. I don’t think Margaret suspects anything, but what if she starts to piece things together? What if Alyssa figures it out? After all, I’m the one who pointed the finger at her. I just wanted to borrow the wig for a couple of weeks to make people mad at her. No big deal, right? But suddenly it does feel like a very big deal.

  And what would my parents think about what I did? A chill runs through me. My dad always lectures Derek and me about how some kids take the wrong path in life and end up as deadbeats, and how we have to be careful not to do that. Is this what he means? Am I a future deadbeat?

  My dad claps his hands together and gives me a big smile. “So, are you shooting another scene for your movie this weekend? Who’s the zombie this time?”

  I stare at the TV. “I’m not working on that anymore.”

  My dad looks pretend surprised. “You mean you’ve finished it? That’s great!”

  I yank a big pillow onto my lap and sink my chin onto it. “No, I deleted the whole thing. It was fun to work on when I was little, but now it’s just kind of stupid.”

  That’s a big, fat lie. I hadn’t really thought about deleting my movie until that second. It sure gets my dad’s attention, though. Lately, I seem addicted to saying whatever will hurt or scare my parents the most. I’m not sure why. I guess, deep down, I kind of like the attention, even though I pretend not to.

  His face actually goes pale. “You deleted it?” he repeats. He collapses in a chair. “Kate, are you serious?”

  “Well, I’m going to delete it,” I mutter, “as soon as I go upstairs.”

  My dad gives a big sigh of relief. It’s nice to know he cares about my movie, at least.

  “Kate, you’ve worked so hard on Night of the Zombie Chickens and it’s almost done. Why would you want to throw it all away? And wouldn’t Alyssa be mad if you did that?”

  Now he’s fishing. My mother has clearly debriefed him.

  I shrug. “Alyssa could not care less.”

  He quietly nods. “Did you girls have a fight?”

  I pretend to be fascinated by SpongeBob SquarePants on TV, even though I’ve seen the episode three times already. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Of course it matters, as in life or death. My dad’s not stupid. He leans forward. “You want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. I used to be such a tough kid. Hardly anything made me cry. I cried when our cat got run over. I cried when I fell out of a tree and broke my wrist. Otherwise, I pretty much sucked it up. Now, just hearing the worry in my dad’s voice brings tears to my eyes. A big part of me wants to blubber on his shoulder and say dumb things like, “What is going on?” Or maybe, “What did I do wrong?”

  But I can’t. I can’t even quite look him in the eye, because I’m afraid he’ll somehow read the truth in my face. Now that I’ve taken the Cute Red Wig and gotten Alyssa in trouble, I feel like I’m perched at the top of a slippery hill, with a huge swamp of mud at the bottom. And it feels like I’m sliding down inch by inch.

  Anyway, how can I trust my father enough to cry on his shoulder when he’s keeping a secret from us? All I can think of is Lydia’s dad and how he lied to his whole family until he got caught. I feel guilty for even thinking my dad might do something like that. But what if he is?

  He stands up and tousles my hair. “If you decide you want to talk, I’ll be in the den. I, uh...” He hesitates. “I need to make some phone calls.”

  I nod, staring as hard as I can at the TV. More phone calls. No, I definitely can’t talk to my dad.

  He pauses at the door. “Just
do me one favor. Promise me you won’t delete the movie. No need to be in a rush. You don’t want to do something you might regret later.”

  I give a big, noisy sigh. “Okay, fine.”

  A couple of minutes after my dad leaves, Derek shows up. He plops down in a chair and stares at me like I’m a lab specimen. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been acting weird lately. And mom says you had a fight with Alyssa and you’re not working on your movie anymore.”

  I sit up straight. “She told you that?”

  “Kind of. I overheard her talking about it with Dad.”

  I give him a withering look. “You should stop listening at doors.”

  Derek shrugs. “So is it true? Did you guys have a fight?”

  I eye him suspiciously. Sometimes, Derek and I get along fine. But other times, he calls me names and teases me and takes junk out of my room and bugs me until I want to scream. So usually I do. At him. Then, we both get in trouble.

  “What do you care?”

  “Sheesh, I was just wondering. You don’t have to bite my head off. Alyssa’s a dumb butt anyway. And that girl that played your last zombie? I had to put earplugs in, she was so loud. She couldn’t even act.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was watching from the window upstairs. She was running around, screaming like an idiot.”

  I smile a little, despite myself. He’s right; Lydia and Alyssa are just two loud, dumb-butt girls. “Yeah, she was pretty bad,” I agree.

  I steal a glance at Derek. He was watching us from a window? Boy, he must have been really bored. Sometimes I forget that living way out here also affects him. Maybe that’s why he’s always bugging me, asking to help with my movie.

  “Wanna play Mario?” Derek asks.

  “Sure.”

  I’m a little touched when he gives me a big grin and jumps up to plug it in. He seems pretty excited just because I’m going to play video games with him. “Prepare to get creamed,” I advise him.

  “In your dreams,” he retorts.

  We grin at each other as he throws me a remote. It feels good to have a truce with one person in my life, even if I know it can’t last.

  My plan has worked better than I could have imagined—or worse than I could have dreamed, depending on how you look at it. The next day, kids start heckling Alyssa in the hallway. “Where’s the wig, Jensen?” People stare at her as she walks by. Lydia and her crew ignore her. Alyssa doesn’t even show up in the lunchroom, which means she’s probably hiding in a bathroom stall, crying and eating her sandwich.

  I keep telling myself that she’s learning a valuable lesson. No pain, no gain. You need to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

  It seems like everybody wants to talk about it. Even Margaret shakes her head at lunch and murmurs, “Poor Alyssa. I wonder why she took it.”

  She glances sideways at me, and for a moment I’m sure she’s guessed everything. Then I decide she’s just waiting for me to say something.

  “Took what?” Doris asks. She glances up from her biology book and shoves a potato chip in her mouth. Doris’s mind must be like an underground cave, vast and soundproof. Nothing sinks in unless it sounds scientific.

  Sighing noisily, I reach over and slam shut her book. Anything to change the subject. “Doris, you cannot study during lunch hour.”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Why not?”

  “Doris, look around you. Do you see a single other person with a book open?”

  She peers around, still frowning.

  “Lunch is for socializing,” I go on. “You’re supposed to talk to people. Have fun.”

  “No one wants to talk to me.”

  She says it matter-of-factly. A few weeks ago I would have shrugged it off, but now she can’t fool me. I know how much work it takes to convince yourself and everyone else that being ignored doesn’t bother you.

  I mock glare at her. “Why do you think Margaret and I are sitting here?”

  “Because you don’t have anywhere else to sit.” Her voice is so calm it makes my insides hurt—for Doris and myself and all the other girls who have to pretend it doesn’t hurt and that we don’t care.

  Margaret inhales sharply. “Doris, how can you say that?”

  “Yeah, Doris, thanks a lot.” My voice comes out weak. I’m ashamed that there’s a little bit of truth in what she said.

  “Okay, fine.” Doris shoves up her glasses. “Sorry. I can still talk and study my book at the same time.”

  I realize suddenly that it’s not about studying. I’m taking Doris’s security blanket away. She doesn’t know what to do without a book nearby. It’s her escape when things get uncomfortable.

  Still, sometimes we all need hard medicine. Doris has been helping me a lot with my math homework. Now I’m going to return the favor. Welcome to Social Skills 101.

  “When you’re staring into a book,” I say slowly, “it makes it seem like you don’t care. Like you’re not listening. And usually you’re not listening.”

  “Yes I am!”

  “Then how come you’re the only one in the entire school who doesn’t know that Alyssa Jensen took the...” I flinch inwardly but force out the words. “That she stole the Cute Red Wig?”

  Doris’s eyes grow large. “She stole the wig?”

  “Well, she maybe took it,” Margaret says carefully. “You’re innocent until proved guilty, right, Kate?”

  Margaret is starting to unnerve me.

  “So no more books at lunch,” I go on, ignoring her. “Trust me, Doris, you’re plenty smart already.”

  Doris shrugs. “Okay, so what should we talk about?”

  We all stare at each other. Nothing kills a conversation faster than asking that question.

  “You know, I really feel like seeing a movie,” Margaret says. “I love movies.” She shoots a sideways glance at me and I know immediately what’s going on.

  What Margaret’s really doing is asking if I want to see a movie. If I sound enthusiastic, then she’ll figure it’s safe to suggest we go see one. If I ignore what she said or change the subject, then she’ll drop it. Since she didn’t ask and I didn’t say no, we avoid all the awkwardness. I have to hand it to Margaret; she understands how to say stuff by not saying it. Unlike Doris.

  “Yeah, let’s go see a movie Friday night,” Doris blurts. “I heard Poisoned Pie is playing at the Westmark. You guys want to go?”

  If it’s not in an equation, Doris doesn’t get it.

  “Uh, Poisoned Pie? I don’t think I’ve heard of that.” I sip on the organic apple juice my mother packed in my lunch, trying to buy time. If I go to a movie with them, will it cement my low social standing forever? I like Margaret and Doris, but I have to be honest with myself, too. I don’t want to be unpopular. I don’t want to be the butt of mean jokes. I don’t want Paul Corbett and Blake Nash calling me Crapkate all through high school.

  My head swirls and suddenly I’m bone tired. My life feels like a chess game where I have to figure out what move to make five turns in advance. I’m sick of worrying about who’s my friend and who’s not, and what people are saying about me. I’m sick of pretending to ignore Alyssa while watching her from the corner of my eye. It’s all too much work. Besides, I haven’t done a single fun thing in weeks.

  “Sure,” I say loudly. “Why not? Let’s go to a movie.”

  Margaret beams at me, and even Doris lifts her upper lip a fraction.

  I wish I could say I feel great, but I don’t. The organic apple juice is already turning into vinegar in my stomach.

  Our boring suburban town is like every other boring suburban town in the U.S. It has a long street crammed full of fast-food joints, chain motels, gas stations, and bowling alleys. The Westmark Theater sits like a fake crown je
wel in the middle of all these McFoods and McSleeps. It has a fancy marquee that glows red and yellow, with the name Westmark lit by hundreds of little bulbs. A few of the bulbs in the “A” burned out once, so for a while it read Westmurk. It was such a perfect name for a horror flick that I shot footage of the sign one night before they got around to fixing it. I’m saving it for my next movie. At least, I was. That was back when I thought Night of the Zombie Chickens might have a sequel.

  I end up arriving late, which is only semi on purpose, so the lobby is almost empty. We quickly buy our tickets and popcorn and slip into the theater. The trailers have already started, so we stumble to our seats in the dark. I scrunch down, feeling the familiar tingle of excitement I get whenever I see a movie. I always pay attention to who’s directing it and I usually tell myself, “One day that will be my name,” but now I just look away and noisily slurp on my soda.

  It feels funny not working on my movie anymore. Sometimes, I still catch myself worrying about the ending. I have to remind myself it doesn’t matter, and then I get this funny feeling, like someone poked a hole in my stomach and forgot to plug it.

  Luckily, movies are great for making you forget your problems. I take a big handful of popcorn and stuff it in my mouth as the opening credits roll.

  Poisoned Pie is rated PG-13 so, depending on the person, it’s kind of scary or it’s kind of funny. It’s about a woman who owns a bakery and makes fantastic pies. Everybody in town is crazy about them. But then she moves her business out of her home and into an old warehouse on the edge of town. Suddenly, weird things start happening. A woman bites into an apple pie and winds up with a piece of intestine dangling from her mouth. A greedy little boy sticks his whole face into a pie, only the filling turns out to be bloody, not cherry. The blood is definitely top quality, I’ll give them that. As I watch it ooze off the screaming boy’s face, I can’t help wondering what ingredients they used to give it such a slick shine.