His “combo” was still taped to the back of the lock. About as sharp as a bowling ball, this Yasmany.
I looked at him over my shoulder with spooky eyes and replied, “Fool! I am a magician. I can read your mind.” Then I spun the dial with fast fingers, clock-, then counter-, then clockwise again. I tugged the lock open dramatically and, with a flourish, removed it.
“You want the honors?” I asked him, stepping aside with a gracious magician’s bow.
Yasmany—bro had gone full autopilot by now—stepped forward and opened the locker door, every kid behind him on tiptoe, watching, waiting.
A whole raw chicken, like you get at the grocery store, with bumpy yellow skin and no head, flipped out of his locker, landed on its chicken butt, and went splat.
Kids scattered, screaming. Adults would be here any second. Yasmany did a 180 and looked around wildly. He didn’t have eyes anymore: just fear. “I didn’t put no dead chicken in my locker!” he yelled. “You gotta believe me!”
“I believe you,” I said.
Of course I did. It was I who had put it in there, after all.
Abracadabra, chicken plucker.
The Fire Keeper Page 33
