Don't Chicken Out

by Shawn K. Stout

  PP072539 ruffled its feathers.

  “You want out of there for a minute?” asked Fiona.

  The chicken clucked again and inched toward her.

  Fiona slid open the latch on the cage and opened the door. Right away the bird stuck out its head and took two steps out of the cage. It strutted around the floor. “There now,” said Fiona. “It feels good to have some room to move around, doesn’t it?”

  The bird pecked at the concrete floor. That’s what Flo did when she was hungry. Tom didn’t tell her that she had to feed them. Fiona looked around the pavilion. She spotted a burlap grain bag leaning against a wall. The top of the bag was open, and Fiona sank her hands into the feed. She brought what she could carry over to the chicken and scattered it onto the floor.

  The chicken attacked the grain. “You were hungry!” As soon as the feed hit the floor, all of the other birds flapped their wings and stuck their heads through the openings in their cages. They squawked and shrilled at Fiona. “Feed me feed me feed me feed me!” they cried.

  Fiona didn’t know what to do. Tom wasn’t back from checking on Flo, but all of the birds seemed hungry. Really hungry. Then she remembered how Tom talked to Flo like she was a person. She stood on top of the wooden stool. “Hello, hens! And also roosters and turkeys! Hello!” she said to them. “I need you all to listen to me!”

  The birds quieted.

  “Thank you,” said Fiona. “Now I know you’re hungry. But Tom didn’t say anything about feeding you all while he was away. He’ll be back real soon. He will! And then he’ll take care of feeding you. Until then, everybody just needs to have some patience.”

  The birds made a racket. They hollered and knocked their wings into the cages. Apparently they did not like what Fiona had to say one bit.

  “It’s going to be okay,” said Fiona. “I promise!” But she doubted that the chickens could hear her over all the noise they were making. Fiona looked at the clock. Thirty minutes had passed, and there was no sign of Tom anywhere. She put her hands over her ears and turned her back on them. If she didn’t see or hear them, she could pretend they were all sleeping quietly in their cages. Only, the noises they made were so loud that even putting her hands over her ears didn’t help.

  Finally Fiona couldn’t take it anymore. “You win!” She dragged the bag of feed to the middle of the room and kicked it over so that the grain spilled onto the ground. Then she opened the cages one by one. The birds flocked to the food and began to eat. Once all the birds were out of their cages, the room got quiet. Fiona watched as the birds happily pecked at their food. Some little chickens had a hard time getting around the big ones to find the food, so she helped them push their way through the crowd. “Hurry up and eat,” she told them. “I’ve got to get you back in your cages before the judges come around.”

  When some of them looked like they were done eating, Fiona bent down to scoop one up, just like she had done with Flo, to get her back in her cage. But she wasn’t like Flo at all. She didn’t like to be scooped. At least, not by Fiona. A red one puffed herself up so that she was almost twice her regular size and came at Fiona with wings flapping. The bird even screeched at Fiona and tried to peck her arm. Fiona was scared, but she had to get these chickens back in their cages.

  She tried another one. A smaller bird this time. “Ow!” yelled Fiona when the bird bit her thumb. “What’s wrong with you all? I gave you food and let you out! We had a deal!”

  • Chapter 18 •

  Fiona pleaded with the chickens. “Come on, chicky chickies. Let’s go back into your cages.” She even threw some food into the cages to lure them in, but the chickens weren’t falling for that old trick. “Where is Tom?”

  The door to the pavilion swung open. “Fiona!” said Cleo. “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know!” Fiona scratched her cheek. “They won’t go back in their cages!”

  “What are they doing out of them?”

  “They were hungry. And noisy. I mean, really, really noisy.”

  “I’ll go get somebody to help,” said Cleo, turning back toward the door.

  “No!” said Fiona. “Tom said he would be back before the judges come. He’ll get in trouble if they find out he left.”

  “You’re going to get in trouble if Mr. Bland finds out. We’re supposed to be handing out maps, not playing Duck Duck Goose.”

  “I know that, Cleo,” said Fiona. “And these are chickens, not ducks.”

  “What time are the judges coming?” asked Cleo.

  Fiona picked up a chicken with long black feathers. “Two o’clock.”

  “That’s in ten minutes!” shouted Cleo.

  Fiona put the chicken into a cage and locked it. “Hey, I got one in!”

  “Great,” said Cleo. “Only a billion more to go.” She picked up a bird, a big red one, and held it out away from her body. “What do I do with it now?”

  Fiona said, “Put it into a cage before it bites you!”

  “Which cage?”

  “Any cage!”

  Then Cleo yelled, “Yeeeeooow! Too late!” She dropped the chicken and sucked on her finger where it was bitten. “What are we going to do now?”

  Just then, the door to the pavilion opened. Tom yelled, “Blasted! Fiona, what did you do?”

  “I had to feed them, and . . .”

  “Feed them? They didn’t need to eat,” he said. “They ate this morning.”

  “But they were hungry!”

  “They’re always hungry,” he said. “Come on, let’s get them back in their houses.”

  “We tried,” said Fiona. “But they are kind of bitey. They aren’t like Flo!”

  Then Tom turned out the lights in the pavilion. The birds suddenly became very still. Tom began to whisper, “Hushabye, hushabye. Hush, hush.” He said that over and over again. And as he did, he scooped up the birds one by one and placed them gently in their cages.

  “How does he do that?” Cleo whispered to Fiona.

  Fiona said, “What he knows about chickens is flat-out a lot.”

  “I’ll say.” Cleo looked at the clock. “It’s two!”

  Fiona scrambled to help Tom with the chickens. “Cleo, go stand watch by the door. And whatever you do, don’t let the judges come in until all the chickens are back where they belong.”

  Cleo raced to the door and yanked it open, and there in front of her were a bunch of people ready to do some chicken judging. “They’re here!” hollered Cleo.

  “Oh no,” said Fiona, ushering a brown hen into a cage and locking the door. There were still chickens everywhere, and she was in such a hurry to get them back in that she didn’t make sure they got into the right cages. “Don’t let them in yet!”

  Fiona started to run toward the door. But the floor was littered with feathers and food, and her feet slipped right out from under her. She landed face-first in a pile of chicken feed.

  • Chapter 19 •

  The lights came on. And the judges, there were three of them, stood over Fiona. “What has happened in here?” said one woman, swatting at a feather that came floating by her head.

  Another woman reached down to Fiona and offered her hand. Fiona grabbed on and got to her feet. “Who is responsible for this mess?”

  Tom quickly put the last of the chickens away. Then he stepped forward. “That would be me.”

  The third judge, a man, said, “We’re going to have to notify the owners of these animals right away.”

  “They aren’t hurt,” said Tom. He picked a feather out of Fiona’s hair. “They just got a little rustled is all. If you give me some time, I can make sure they all get back into their proper cages.”

  “And we’ll help,” said Cleo. “Won’t we, Fiona?”

  Fiona had no words. All she could do was nod after Cleo elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Sorry I’m late. Let’s judge some chickens,” said a young man, who appeared in the doorway with a camera. “Whoa, what happened in here?” He snapped some pic
tures. The flash on his camera startled a couple of chickens. “I cover the animal beat for Ordinary News Post. So, where are we with the judging?” His flash went off again.

  “Your camera is bothering the hens,” Tom told him.

  “Sorry,” said the reporter. “No harm, no foul.” Then he laughed.

  “Fowl!” said the judges, laughing.

  “I don’t get what’s so funny,” Fiona said to Cleo.

  “Chicken humor, I guess,” said Cleo.

  “Hold on to your camera,” said the man judge. “We haven’t gotten to the judging as of yet. We’re dealing with something here.”

  “Now,” said the judge to Fiona and Cleo. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Cleo told him that she and Fiona went to Ordinary Elementary School and that they had been handing out maps.

  “Then I suggest you get back to where you’re supposed to be.”

  Tom looked at Fiona and nodded toward the door. Cleo pulled on Fiona’s arm. “Come on, Fiona. Let’s go.”

  Fiona shook her head. What would happen to Tom? He was going to get in trouble because of her. If she didn’t say anything.

  “Go on now,” said the man, looking right at Fiona. Cleo pulled on Fiona’s arm again, harder this time. And her feet began to move. “You kids have no business in here.”

  Maybe it was because she was surrounded by chickens. Or maybe it was because she sucked in too many feathers. But whatever the reason, in that second, Fiona knew what it felt like to really act like a grown-up. It felt like she stepped out of her cage and into a place she’d never been before. She was someplace new, and she didn’t know the rules.

  The man pointed his finger at Tom. “You better come with me.”

  “No!” shouted Fiona, climbing on top of the stool. Her feet were heavy, her toes weighed down with sand. “Wait!” And to Fiona’s surprise, they did. “It was me, not Tom, that did all of this.” She pulled a chicken feather out of her hair and let it fall to the floor. Then she explained what she did and why she did it. “Have you ever heard hungry chickens before?” she asked them. “They are very loud.”

  The judges just looked at each other. They didn’t seem to know how loud hungry chickens could be. So Fiona went on. “And this is Tom. He trains chickens. Or one chicken, anyway.”

  “Fiona,” said Tom. “Stop.”

  “They should know what you can do,” she said. “He is very good with animals, and his chicken, Flo, can walk on a leash. You should see her.” She looked at Tom. “They should know what you can do. You’re probably going to lose your job because of me, and people should know what you can do.”

  The reporter snapped a picture of Fiona. “Is that going to be in the paper?” said Cleo. “Maybe you want to take one of me too.”

  “Fiona Finkelstein and Cleo Button!” Mr. Bland bellowed from the doorway.

  “Do these girls belong to you?” said the judge.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Mr. Bland. “You two. Come with me.”

  Fiona climbed down off the stool. It was over.

  • Chapter 20 •

  The next day, Fiona sat on the couch with Mr. Funbucket’s fishbowl in her lap. “Grown-ups don’t get grounded, do they?” she asked Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “Nope.”

  “Good,” said Fiona. “Then I hope I get grounded.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Max. He jumped off the couch and raced around the living room.

  Fiona smiled at him. “Want to play later? After I’m done being grounded?”

  “You never want to play with me,” he said.

  “Fine,” she said. “You don’t have to.”

  He pulled his swim goggles over his eyes. “Okay, we can play.”

  Dad called from his study, “Fiona, can you come in here, please?”

  Fiona took a deep breath. She set Mr. Funbucket’s bowl on the coffee table. “Wish me luck.” And then she saw them. “Legs! Mr. Funbucket has legs!”

  “Well, what do you know,” said Mrs. Miltenberger. “I knew it would happen one of these days. He’s on his way to being a frog. Are you happy now?”

  Fiona looked closely at his little nubby legs. “It seems like it was only yesterday he was a pollywog without any legs. And now look at him.”

  Max stuck his head into the bowl. “What are you talking about? It was only yesterday!” Then he took off up the stairs.

  “But legs are what you wanted, right?” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  “I thought so,” said Fiona. “But he doesn’t look like Mr. Funbucket anymore.”

  Mrs. Miltenberger shook her head. “You are something.”

  “Fiona!” said Dad. “I’m waiting.”

  “Better face the music,” said Mrs. Miltenberger.

  Fiona trudged into her dad’s office. “Have a seat,” he said.

  She sat in the chair in front of his desk. “Sorry, Dad.” But he was smiling. “What?”

  “I just got off the phone with your mother,” he said. “She got a TV commercial. It’s not another soap, but it’s something. She’s happy.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It also means that she will probably be coming home for a visit soon. So you won’t have to keep asking me about going out to California on your own.”

  “Okay,” said Fiona.

  “Okay? That’s it? After all the talk about you being old enough to get on a plane and fly across the country alone, that’s what you’re saying now? Okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that was easy, then,” said Dad.

  Fiona got up to go.

  “Not so fast.”

  Fiona slid back into her seat.

  “This is the part where you ground me, right?” asked Fiona.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s have it.”

  “Okay, then,” said Dad. “For two weeks, and no TV.”

  Fiona smiled. It felt good to be an ordinary fourth grader again. At least the rules made sense.

  Dad handed her a section of the Ordinary News Post and pointed to a picture. “It’s Tom!” said Fiona. “But there’s no picture of Flo. I hope she’s okay.”

  “He must really have a way with chickens.”

  “He does,” said Fiona. “His pet chicken is named Flo, and she thinks she’s a dog.”

  “A chicken that thinks she’s a dog,” said Dad. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

  And that’s when Fiona got an idea. “Can I go now and start my grounding tomorrow?”

  “Why?”

  “I think I know why Flo’s been acting so strange,” said Fiona.

  • • •

  Fiona found Tom and Flo at the park. “She’s just not herself,” Tom said. “She doesn’t want to go for a walk, and she won’t eat.”

  “Come with me,” said Fiona. “I think I know what’s wrong.”

  The trio made their way across town. Mrs. Lordeau was waiting for them on her front porch with Mayflower. “What are we doing here?” said Tom.

  “You’ll see,” said Fiona. “Now put Flo down for a second.”

  Tom gently put Flo on the grass. She gave a soft cluck and then tucked her head under her wing. “See?” said Tom. “She’s just not right.”

  “Hold on,” said Fiona. Then she nodded for Mrs. Lordeau to bring over Mayflower. He bounded off the porch steps, his legs moving as fast as they could go down the sidewalk. He stopped right in front of Flo, sniffed her head, and then nestled in beside her. Flo clucked and flapped her wings. She rubbed her head along Mayflower’s back and settled in against him.

  “Well, how about that,” said Tom.

  “Now I’ve seen everything,” said Mrs. Lordeau.

  Fiona smiled. “She missed Mayflower! That’s why she wasn’t acting right!”

  Mrs. Lordeau started talking to Tom about chickens and dogs and hardly gave Tom a chance to say much. Which Fiona thought was probably okay with Tom on account of the fact
that he thought people were hard to talk to. But Tom nodded and even smiled once when Mrs. Lordeau called him “lovey.” And Fiona thought that maybe Tom wouldn’t mind some company after all.

  Mayflower howled and ran in a circle around Flo. “What are you doing now, boy?” said Mrs. Lordeau.

  “I think he wants to go for a walk,” said Tom.

  Mrs. Lordeau got Mayflower’s leash, and they started off toward the park. “Aren’t you coming?” Mrs. Lordeau asked Fiona.

  “No,” she said. “You go ahead.”

  “You sure?”

  She was. As Fiona watched them walk toward the sunset, her feet began to feel lighter. She had missed this feeling, and it never felt so good. Maybe it had been there all along, and she just never noticed it before.

  Fiona stretched her legs. She was glad to be back in her world. And she skipped all the way home.

  Shawn K. Stout has an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is also the author of the middle-grade series Penelope Crumb. She lives in Maryland with her husband, baby daughter, and two ancient dogs.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.