Night of the Zombie Chickens

by Julie Mata

  I quickly learn that Margaret is a screamer and Doris is a laugher. It’s the first time I’ve heard Doris laugh, and at first I think she’s trying to be creepy to go along with the movie, but it turns out that really is how she laughs. So when something scary happens, Margaret screams and Doris makes a sound like a goose with a head cold. That sets me off giggling. Margaret leans over and nudges me.

  “Don’t you think it’s scary?”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. The truth is, I can only give it a C-plus on my fear factor scale.

  “What are you laughing at?” she whispers.

  I bite my lip. Suddenly, Doris lets loose with another cackle. I can’t help it, I start giggling again. Margaret looks at Doris, then back at me. Pretty soon she’s giggling, too, and then we’re all laughing so loud that we almost get kicked out.

  At the end of the movie I scan the audience, more out of habit than anything. Nobody there I know. We play a few arcade games in the lobby and then decide to walk over to Twisters, a burger-and-ice-cream joint. I know there’s a good chance we’ll be spotted, but I’m starving and I don’t care. It’s strange, but all those things that we used to poke fun at—Margaret’s red hair and crooked teeth, Doris’s lumpy brown clothes and deadpan voice—I hardly even notice now. What I notice more is Margaret’s funny, oddball humor, or how Doris will explain math homework three times over until I get it. I must seem like a mental slug to her, but she never laughs when I mess up. She just pushes up her glasses and starts explaining all over again.

  “I felt so sorry for Nadine, the baker,” Margaret says as we lounge in a booth. “When she found that dead body, I thought she was going to flip out and start chopping it up.”

  “Yeah, that was funny,” Doris says. “But that time portal the undead janitor used?” She shakes her head. “Their explanation of dark energy was totally inaccurate.”

  I think about it. “They had good blood,” I say at last.

  Doris starts cackling, and that sets off me and Margaret. I take a bite of my burger as Doris noisily sucks up the last of her soda. At that moment, Alyssa walks in with her mother. For a split second, Alyssa’s eyes lock with mine and then we both quickly look away. I feel a rush of blood rising up my neck and into my face. Doris is still loudly sucking up drops from the bottom of her glass. I’m tempted to grab the straw and tie it in a knot. I wish Alyssa had come in a moment earlier when we were all laughing.

  “There’s Alyssa,” Doris says in her deadpan voice.

  Margaret glances over her shoulder. All the tables in front of us are full, which means Alyssa and her mother will have to walk right by us toward the back. My heart starts to pound. Mrs. Jensen will probably stop and ask why I haven’t been over to the house lately. Alyssa is probably already embarrassed that we saw her come in with her mother. Clearly, no one wants to hang with her. What if her mother suggests they sit with us?

  Talk about awkward. I stuff a french fry in my mouth, trying to think of what to do.

  “I heard you’re making a movie, Kate,” I dimly hear Margaret say. “Something about zombies?”

  Doris pauses. “Really?”

  Then, a true miracle. An old couple up front stands to leave. As I watch Alyssa and her mother slide into their booth, something squeezes my heart. This was Alyssa’s and my favorite place to eat.

  “Kate?”

  I turn back to Margaret, my mind hazy. “Huh?”

  “You’re making a movie?” she prompts.

  “I was. But...” I sip my drink. “I lost interest. It’s kind of stupid. I mean, it’s not like anyone would want to see it.”

  “You’re making a movie?” Doris repeats. “Wow. That’s really...” She trails off and slurps noisily on her soda again.

  I can’t help wondering what she thinks it is—weird, stupid, unscientific?

  Margaret looks slightly horrified, like I just said I was having a body part amputated. She leans forward and actually grips the table.

  “It’s not stupid. I mean, if it’s something you love, then you should stick with it.” Her voice rises a notch. “Don’t let other people talk you out of going after what you want.”

  When I stare at her, she blushes and mumbles, “That’s what my mother always tells me.”

  I never thought about Margaret going after something. She always seems so quiet. I’m about to ask what it is she wants when Doris finally gives up on finding another drop of liquid at the bottom of her drink.

  “I think making a movie is really...” She tips the cup into her mouth and chews on a mouthful of melting ice—crunch crunch crunch. “It’s really impressive.”

  I glance at her, surprised. That isn’t the word I was expecting.

  “You don’t think it’s lame?”

  “Are you kidding?” Margaret gazes at me through her round glasses. “I don’t know anyone our age who’s doing something that cool.”

  And then I feel it, a catch in my throat, the early warning signal for tears on the way. Unbelievable. I stuff a handful of fries in my mouth and focus on the delicious, hot, salty grease. It works; the tears back off. Still, it feels like Doris’s and Margaret’s words have jarred something loose inside me. Maybe I am giving up too easily. If I quit just because people make fun of it, then it’s like they’ve won somehow. They’re telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. And I hate it when people tell me what to do.

  I smile at Margaret. “Maybe you’re right.” Inside, my heart is soaring at the thought that my movie might not be dead. Then, I remember—I have no star and no ending.

  “Margaret is always right,” Doris says matter-of-factly. “Except in her choice of reading material.”

  Trust Doris to have the last, bizarre word. It feels good to all laugh together, until Alyssa turns and glances our way. My smile fades and I can’t help wondering if maybe she thinks we’re laughing at her.

  All weekend, I think about Margaret’s comments about my movie. On Sunday night, I open up my movie project on my computer, click on a random clip, and wait for it to open in the viewer. It turns out to be some footage of the hens I shot last summer, trying to get some zombielike behavior. First, a hen pecks at the ground. I can hear Alyssa in the background, snapping her fingers. She was behind me, trying to get the hen to look up toward the camera.

  “Here, chickie, chickie,” she calls. “Chicka chicka boom boom.”

  The hen ignores her.

  “Hey, beakface, look over here!” Alyssa shouts. The hen skitters away. The camera is shaking because I’m laughing. Alyssa runs into frame and chases the hen, shouting, “Look over here, you stupid bird!” The frazzled hen bolts for the coop and Alyssa collapses on the ground. I stand over her, shooting down. She throws a handful of grass up at the camera and it falls back in her face. She spits some out of her mouth.

  “You’re probably lying in chicken poop,” I hear myself tell her.

  She screams and jumps up, the camera jerks wildly, and the shot ends.

  It’s nothing special, but I watch it again anyway. When I feel myself wanting to watch it a third time, I know I have to snap out of it. I take a deep breath. There’s nothing useable in the clip, so I make myself delete it. That little snippet of electronic memory is gone forever. It’s like it never existed, like Alyssa and I never chased chickens and laughed and did silly things last summer.

  What is Alyssa doing right now? Is she dreading school tomorrow? Is she begging her mother to let her stay home?

  I stare at the closet. How soon should I return the wig?

  I wish I could just run to the school that night, slip in, and put it back. I’m tired of the whole wig drama. I thought I would feel better once I taught Alyssa a lesson, but I don’t. I feel worse. And when I wrote my plan, I didn’t think about how I would return the wig. I figured it would be easy, but now I’m not so sure. What if someone ca
tches me?

  I tell myself it isn’t quite time to put it back yet. What I really need to do is focus on something else. Anything else. I decide the moment has arrived to finally come up with an ending for my movie. Any kind of creative thinking requires food, so I wander downstairs to find supplies. Wilma follows me, probably hoping I’ll give her a snack. As I pass the den, I can hear my dad talking on the phone again. Suddenly, he gives a low laugh. A private laugh.

  The hairs on the back of my neck feel like a cold hand just brushed over them. I try to listen at the door, but it’s a solid piece of farmhouse wood and all I can hear is the low murmur of his voice. Wilma barks once, trying to get my attention. My dad’s voice stops short. I grab Wilma and race back upstairs, my appetite gone. I peek into my parents’ room. My mother is sitting in bed with her glasses on, going over some paperwork. Waiting for my dad.

  I slip away before she sees me and park myself in front of my computer. When I Google midlife crisis, it says that middle-aged men and women sometimes feel trapped by money worries and family problems. They crave change and excitement. They want new, more fulfilling relationships. They buy expensive toys to make themselves feel young.

  Money worries and family problems. I jab the delete button. My dad probably feels like he has both. Money is tight, my mother’s always busy with her hens, Derek and I bicker too much, the house always needs repairs....The list goes on and on.

  I wander out to the hallway and sink onto the top stair, still clutching Wilma. My problems with Alyssa suddenly don’t seem so important. I need to know who my dad is talking to every night. I can’t live anymore with this fear in the pit of my stomach. I need to know if my dad is the guy I think he is, or if he’s just pretending to be that guy. If only I had a pair of Extendable Ears, like the Weasley twins invented in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I sigh as Wilma licks my face, trying to help.

  Suddenly, I hear the door to my dad’s office creak open. I bolt into my room with Wilma, shut the door, and turn off the light. He slowly climbs the stairs and, a moment later, their bedroom door clicks shut. I huddle in the dark, feeling miserable. Wilma licks my ear, and that’s when it hits me. I may not have magical ears, but I have the next best thing. If I can just find a certain item, I’ll be able to hear everything my dad says in his office. The problem is, I’m pretty sure my mother stored that item in the basement.

  I try to persuade myself to look for it in the morning. After all, it’s too late to spy on my dad tonight. I can’t wait, though. Patience isn’t one of my virtues. I remember seeing the item years ago, stored with a bunch of Derek’s and my old toys and books. It was all useless stuff and I wondered at the time why my mother kept it. Did she finally throw that box away when we moved?

  I ease open my door.

  “Sorry, Wilma,” I whisper. “You need to stay here.” She gives me a mournful look as I shut the door. The last thing I need is for her to sniff a mouse in the basement and start yapping. I slip downstairs and find a flashlight.

  I click on the basement light and gaze at the curved wooden stairs disappearing into the abyss. The flashlight is just in case. If the electricity goes off or Derek is secretly stalking me and decides to shut off the lights, I want to be ready. I feel like I’ve stepped into a weird horror flick. All I need is my own creepy sound track.

  To take my mind off the cobwebs and the rats and the dead-person smell, I hum a few eerie notes as I descend step by step. I stop when I hear a scuttling noise under the stairs. Maybe I should wait until morning. Whatever it was, it sounded big. At the shadowy far end of the basement, I can see plastic bins stacked high. Humming louder, I jump the last few steps and streak past the water heater and the rusty oil tank. Then, the sump pump gurgles at me and I freeze. I’ve heard stories about people losing tiny baby pet snakes in their houses, only to have them show up years later, six feet long and fat as fire hydrants. What if there’s a viper curled up in the sump pump?

  I switch gears and start humming Harry Potter’s theme music. If he could deal with snakes, then so can I. I rush past the sump pump, my heart jumping wildly.

  Only the furnace and the cistern stand between me and the bins. The furnace is mammoth, with big metal octopus arms that reach into the ceiling. Just like in Home Alone. I think of little Macaulay Culkin standing up to his monster furnace, and I even manage to kick ours as I hurry past it. Bad idea. A metallic booming sound fills the basement and echoes off the walls. I gasp, sure my dad will come running. Or worse, Wilma will start barking upstairs. I listen, but there’s no barking, no running feet. Sometimes, heavy old farmhouse walls come in handy.

  The wall of the cistern is just high enough that I can’t see over it. Anything could be in there—rats, dead bodies, vampires, zombie chickens. It’s the creepiest part of the whole basement, steeped in shadowy evil. Even Macaulay Culkin didn’t have to deal with a cistern. I’m trapped—cistern in front of me, and monster furnace and viper sump pump behind. My heart is pounding crazily. It’s my house, I tell myself. It’s my basement. Nothing’s in here waiting to grab me. Nothing wants to suck my blood. Nothing wants to tear out my organs....

  Okay, that pep talk’s not working.

  I lean down, trying to think, and notice my shoelace is coming untied. My Nike shoelace. I close my eyes. Just do it. JUST DO IT!

  I streak forward. From the corner of my eye, I’m sure I see something reach from the cistern and grab at my hair as I run past. Just do it just do it just do it....

  I reach the bins and wheel around, the flashlight raised over my head like a weapon. Nothing. Still, I lift the first lid without turning my back on the empty room. Nothing’s going to sneak up on me if I can help it. A quick glance tells me it’s Christmas stuff. I open the next box. Winter hats and gloves. I push that box aside and open the one underneath it. Christmas again. This could take a while.

  On the sixth box, I hit gold. My old Cabbage Patch doll stares up at me. I’d forgotten how cute she was. There’s Derek’s first pair of shoes, and my favorite cardboard picture book, I Can Fly. It would be nice to reminisce about old times, but I can’t help thinking about that undead janitor and his time portal in Poisoned Pie. Suddenly, that movie doesn’t seem quite so funny.

  I glimpse a white cord and grab it. With a hard yank, the item tumbles out of the bin. Bingo. I hold it up to the light and inspect it. Derek’s baby monitor. I vaguely remember listening to him scream through it. He was a noisy baby. I dig down and uncover the white plastic base. Mission: Impossible accomplished.

  I restack the bins, then dash forward in an all-out, record-breaking sprint. I don’t slow down until I am all the way upstairs safely underneath the covers in my bedroom.

  When Lydia’s loud giggle drifts over from a nearby table, I stifle a desire to throw my lunch at her. How can one person find that many things to laugh at? She belongs in India. She would have the biggest laugh club of them all.

  Next to me, Margaret peels an egg and takes a bite. Hard-boiled eggs smell even worse than fried eggs, if that’s possible. I hunch miserably in my seat and stare at my sandwich. I’m still scarred from my midnight stealth operation in the basement. Even worse, now I have to spy on my dad. How low is that? I’m afraid of what I might hear, but I’m even more afraid of what happened to Lydia and Alyssa—believing everything was fine right up until their dads moved out.

  Margaret dabs a yellow crumb from her mouth and brushes the eggshells into her paper bag. It occurs to me that if nature had simply given Margaret brown hair and fewer freckles, she might be sitting at a table full of girls right now. And who knows? If Lydia had been born with red hair and bad eyesight, maybe she would be the one hanging out with me and Doris. It all seems so unfair. If only there were mutant eggs that could change hair color. Now, that would be a big seller. Forget organic. If my mother could sell eggs like that, we’d be rich. Margaret would probably be first in line.

 
Just as I take a bite of my chocolate cupcake, an idea hits me with the force of a Supertronic laser stun gun. MUTANT EGGS. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?

  The ending of my movie is staring me right in the face. I don’t need Alyssa at all. I’m so shocked that I can’t even chew. All these weeks of struggle, all my writing and rewriting, even Alyssa’s betrayal—for the moment, none of it matters. I turn to Margaret and Doris to break the amazing news, and that’s when I realize my idea has one huge problem. My new ending requires a new star. Right now, my talent pool consists of Margaret and Doris. I sneak a glance at Doris. If I brushed out her hair and got rid of the glasses...

  “Um, Doris...” I’m so nervous about asking that I accidentally drop my organic chocolate, all-natural cupcake. It lands on the table, frosting side down.

  “You going to eat that?” Doris asks me.

  I stare at the chocolate frosting flattened on the dirty, grungy lunchroom table and shake my head. She grabs it and takes a huge bite, and then she wipes her finger along the smeared frosting on the table and pops it in her mouth. I think I might be sick. Margaret is staring very hard at the clock on the wall. I feel a twinge of sympathy for a neat freak like her, hanging around with a slobaholic like Doris.

  “What were you going to ask me?” Doris spews cupcake crumbs as she speaks, and one lands in my drink. I couldn’t have written a better gross-out scene if I’d tried.

  “Uh, nothing.” I try not to look at the floatie in my soda. Social Skills 101 may be a little too advanced for Doris.

  I weakly turn and regard Margaret. Her hair glows nearly orange in the fluorescent lights. She smiles at me, showing all her crooked teeth. I smile back. Night of the Zombie Chickens has a new star.

  Margaret and Doris agree to come over on Saturday to shoot the final scene of my movie. That morning, my mother bustles around acting cheerful. Things are still strained between us. I catch her watching me sometimes. I’m watching my dad, and Derek is listening in on all of us. It’s like we’re all spies, trying to decipher one another’s secret code.