“Scars,” she said.
She didn’t mean emotional scars, either.
At least we had a break: the next step was to hose it down, and Martha can stay in for that. We took turns spraying the walls. Pebbles of hardened poop turned into trickles of poop water. Martha hunkered down in the corner and glared at us.
“Can I have a real job now?” said Flynn.
I swapped out the shovel for an ice scraper and trowel.
“I want to help,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” said Ruth.
“You really don’t,” I said, relenting. “I wouldn’t wish this job on anyone.”
“It’ll go faster,” said Flynn.
Ruth’s eyes met mine. “He’s right. And given Martha’s ever-sharpening wits—”
“True,” I said. “Very true.” I gave Flynn the scraper. “This round’s for all the little crap. You scrape; I’ll trowel it into the bucket.”
“And be careful,” said Ruth. “Get out when you hear—”
“Code red,” said Flynn. “I was listening. I know.”
We did a ritual group hug in case one of us didn’t make it.
Ruth cried beguilingly, “Oh, Martha! I am waiting out here! Waiting just for you!”
Martha stuck his head out of the coop.
“I am a beautiful chicken lady, Martha!”
She flapped and did a sort of shimmy. Martha, intrigued, took a step forward.
“Come here, Roosterlicious!”
He took the bait and started chasing her again. Flynn and I leapt into the coop. “Martha doesn’t like being tricked,” I panted as I dumped leaves and poop chunks into the bucket, “so each cleaning stint gets shorter and shorter.”
“Got it,” said Flynn, scraping busily.
We’d done three-fourths of the floor. I heard Ruth clucking. “You know, Flynn,” I said, shoving some sweat off my forehead with the inside of my elbow, “this goes a lot faster with you helping.”
“CODE RED! CODE RED!”
Flynn and I dove for the door. I let him go out first. We made it just in time.
This time Ruth was the one who looked traumatized.
“Guys,” she whispered, “I think he really thought I was a chicken.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“He had an expression that was all…lovey-dovey,” she said in horror.
Flynn put a hand on Ruth’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks, Flynn.” She took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be okay.”
“We’re so close,” I said. “One more time.”
“You better clean fast,” she said grimly. “I am not having an egg with Martha.”
Squawking, she took off across the lawn. As soon as Martha started chasing her, Flynn and I launched ourselves back into the coop. We worked fast. With a grunt, he scraped the last section. “Go ahead and get out,” I told him. “I’ll just get this into the bucket—”
“No, it’s okay.” With his bare hands, he helped me dump the scrapings into the bucket. It was brimming with disgustingness.
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, tossing in a half-dead worm. “I think we’re done.”
We were. The plywood floor practically sparkled. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Go ahead—no, after you—”
“AHHH! SORRY! CODE—”
Martha was in the coop.
He stalked toward us.
We were cornered.
“Holy mother of…,” Flynn muttered.
I clutched the bucket to my chest. “Nice rooster. Nice Martha.”
Martha took two slow, ominous steps toward me. I glimpsed Ruth’s terrified face, peering through the wire grate. “Save yourself, Flynn,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. “I’ll distract him.”
“No,” said Flynn, tightening his lips. “We escape together, or not at all.”
Martha’s beady little eyes were fixed upon me.
“Oh God,” said Flynn.
I, too, turned to prayer. Dear God, I thought, save us. Please save us. I’m sorry for all my sins. I’m sorry for being a jerk to Flynn. I’m even sorry for the Urine-Filled Squirt Gun Incident in fourth grade. I will be a better person, I promise.
All I ask is that we get out of here unscarred.
No.
All I ask is that we get out of here alive.
Martha minced another step closer.
“Do something!” hissed Flynn.
We needed to calm Martha down. “Marthie,” I cooed, “don’t you want to take a nice little nap?”
He didn’t.
“Aren’t you sleepy?”
He wasn’t.
Panic jolted my stomach. He took another step. We needed to get him to sleep. What puts things to sleep—think, Soren, dang it, think—aha!
“Martha want a lullaby?” I said encouragingly.
Another step closer.
“Rock-a-bye, Martha, in the treetop…,” I sang. I was tuneless, my voice shaking.
His sharp beak trembled in anticipation of the kill.
“When the wind blows, the cradle will pop…”
Wait. Were those the right words?
“The cradle will…bop?”
That didn’t sound right either. Plop? Drop? I did remember a certain grisly touch to the song, but—
“Soren,” said Flynn. He stretched his left hand far to the that side of the coop. “When I snap, go for it.”
I saw the brilliance of his plan.
Martha’s tiny head swiveled to follow Flynn’s hand. With his arm fully extended, Flynn snapped his fingers.
Martha’s whole body jerked. He fluttered his wings and dove to the left corner of the coop.
Flynn and I made a break for it.
Ruth was ready. As soon as we cleared the door, she slammed it shut. Martha hit the grating and hit it again, throwing his body against it, furious that his prey had escaped. “COCK-A-DOO-ARGH-ACK-ECK-EH!” he screamed in rage.
It was a near-perfect escape.
The only hitch, actually, was that I’d tripped over Flynn on the way out. The bucket flew out of my arms. I fell splat on my face, and bits of chicken poop rained down all around us.
“I SEE WHY Ruth warned me away from this job,” said Flynn. She’d gone inside, but we’d stayed out to hose down the coop one last time.
“Thanks for helping,” I said. “You saved my life.”
“I’m sure the lullaby thing would have worked eventually.”
I made a noncommittal “hmm.”
“You want a turn with the hose?” he asked.
We fell silent, watching Martha stalk around the coop, dripping wet and highly resentful. We couldn’t put in fresh bedding until the floor had dried overnight (the chickens slept in the garage; Martha just had to deal), so our job was done, technically. But I wasn’t ready yet to go back to the house. “Hey,” I said. Mom says it’s better to talk about stuff than to simmer in resentment. She always says that, simmer in resentment, which I like because (a) it’s a real-life example of metaphor, and once I told it to Mr. Pickett, our Language Arts teacher, and he said I had an excellent ear for idiom, which is another metaphor, and (b) it’s a good metaphor, because that’s what it feels like when you’re angry but not saying anything: you’re a pot and you’re bubbling, boiling, low enough that people’ll only notice if they come really close, but you, pot you, can’t relax. You’re on constant heat.
So I said, “Hey.”
“Hey what?”
All in a rush, since just because it’s good to talk about stuff doesn’t mean it’s easy, I said, “Hey, I wish you hadn’t told Ms. Hutchins about the prank because first of all it was going to be really funny and second I worked real
ly hard on it and you ruined it and I know it’s probably stupid to work hard on something like a prank but I used to have this friend and that’s what we did together and I miss—”
That’s the thing with talking in a rush: sometimes stuff comes out that you don’t expect.
“What I mean,” I said, “is I think pranks are important. I think they’re like mini protests. Tiny ways of saying, We’re here! And I’m careful. I always think about whether they’d hurt people, and if they would, I don’t do them. I’m not that kind of prankster.”
“I know,” said Flynn. “I know you’re a good guy, Soren.”
I don’t know why I cared so much about hearing that from Flynn.
“But I still disagree,” he said. “You think pranks are important. Okay. But I think science is important.”
“So do I!”
“And messing with an experiment, it’s…” He wiggled his mouth like he couldn’t get the right word out. “It’s like Ms. Hutchins said. Science is all about truth. So making science say something untrue—that’s just not right. Science is truth.”
The look on his face, I’d seen it before. I’d seen it on Ms. Hutchins when she talked about animal rights and on Dad when he talked about equal justice under law and on Mr. Pickett when we’d had that metaphor chat.
Maybe that was what I looked like when I talked about pranks.
“Do a different prank,” said Flynn. “One that doesn’t mess with a science experiment.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. You think pranks are important, right? You like doing them? So do a prank.”
I thought, I bet that’s why I’ve been walking around all gray and gloomy. Not because I was mad at Flynn, but because I missed the prank. I missed having something to look forward to, something to think about when I was falling asleep or bored in math.
“Will you help?” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said Flynn. “I just don’t like breaking rules. It’s not fun for me.”
What was fun for him, then?
“But maybe there’s someone else who’d help.”
Did he even have fun?
“And I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines.”
“Let’s go in,” I said. “I’ve got some planning to do.”
* * *
—
DAD WAS AT the stove, stirring something that looked sickeningly similar to the contents of Ivan’s diaper after he tried cauliflower for the first time. “Dad,” I said, “what are the lyrics to that one lullaby? ‘Rock-a-bye baby, in the treetop…’ ”
“ ‘When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.’ ”
“Rock?” I said. “That doesn’t even rhyme!”
“ ‘When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall—’ ”
Ivan looked up from the floor, where he was using silverware to build a prison camp for Gloria (now sporting a leg cast) and his other Barbies. “WON’T!” he shouted.
“ ‘And down will come baby—’ ”
“IVAN WON’T!” He hurled a fork across the room.
“ ‘Cradle and all.’ ”
“IVAN WON’T GO TO BED!”
“That’s a weird lullaby,” I said.
“Perfect for weird kids,” said Dad, smiling. “You used to love it.” He poked me with a wooden spoon. “Dump in those peas for me, would you?”
THE NEXT MONDAY, Ms. Hutchins kicked off the new Ethics in Science unit by making us talk about what ethics was, which turned out to be a good idea because someone, I’m not going to say who, thought it was a type of cheese.
“What’s a synonym for ethical?” said Ms. Hutchins.
“Good,” said Goldie.
Ms. Hutchins wrote good vs. bad on the board. “Give me another pair.”
“Right versus wrong,” said Flynn.
“Fair versus unfair,” said Lila.
They got on the board too. Then she counted us off into groups of four for case studies. I got Tabitha, Olivia, and Flynn. Flynn, of course, grabbed the group worksheet as soon as it floated onto our desks. “We have to read the situation, discuss the ethical issues, and then do a skit for the class,” he said. “Want me to read the situation out loud?”
“Yes!” said Olivia. “Please do, Flynn!”
“Sure,” said Tabitha, one hundred times less enthusiastically.
I hate being read to, but Flynn and I were getting along, so I wasn’t about to protest. “ ‘Case number four,’ ” he read. “ ‘Sam is working on an electrical-circuit lab in science class. Sam is a good student and knows he’s doing everything right.’ ”
“Arrogant slimeball,” whispered Tabitha, catching my eye. I laughed.
“ ‘But when Sam does calculations to see if his data match the formulas in his science book, he discovers that his data must be wrong.’ ”
“Ha!” said Tabitha. “Serves him right.”
“ ‘He suspects the equipment is not working properly, but his teacher, Mr. Volt, is helping a clumsy fellow student.’ ”
“That can be you in the skit, Soren,” said Tabitha.
“Hey!” I said. “No!”
“Typecasting,” said Olivia. They giggled.
“One of you can be the clumsy student. I’m Sam the Science Star.”
Flynn glared at us. “I’m trying to read.” We quieted down. “ ‘Instead, Sam does the math to figure out the correct set of data and simply changes his own data to match what he has calculated.’ ”
“Now what?” said Olivia.
“We have to talk about whether there’s anything wrong with what Sam did, what his other options were, and what we’d have done if we were Sam.”
“And we have to plan our skit,” said Tabitha. “I feel like this story could be way more exciting.”
We didn’t have much time to practice before it was our turn to present. I actually ended up volunteering to be Clumsy Student because it was the smallest part. It’s funny: I don’t get nervous talking in front of the class, but if you turn it into a skit and make me pretend to be somebody else, I instantly get butterflies. Flynn was the teacher, and Olivia was Sam.
“It was a bright and sunny day,” said Tabitha, the narrator, “when Sam the Science Star and his klutzy friend walked into the science lab.”
Olivia pranced onstage, shoving imaginary glasses up her nose. I took one step and tripped over my own feet. Already people were laughing more at our skit than they had at anybody else’s. Success.
“I love science,” said Olivia. Ms. Hutchins crossed her arms and frowned, probably because this lover of science was talking in a super-nerdy chipmunk voice. “And today’s the electrical-circuit lab! Hurray!”
“Get to your lab stations, class!” said Flynn, who made a very believable teacher. “We’ve got a lot to do today!”
“The class began to work with the circuit,” said Tabitha. “But the other student was having trouble.”
“May I help you, uh, Bob?” said Flynn.
“Wait, my name is Bob?” I said, forgetting I was supposed to be in character. Everyone laughed. “Uh, yeah. Help! I dropped all the batteries!”
“I love this lab!” chipmunked Olivia. “And it’s so simple, too!”
“While Mr. Volt was busy helping Bob,” said Tabitha, “Sam the Science Star was putting together the electrical parts. But then—ZZZZZZZZ!”
This had not been rehearsed, but Olivia went with it. She flopped to the floor and twitched violently.
“Sam the Science Star was being electrocuted!” Tabitha cried. “He thought he was good at science, but he thought wrong! ZZZZZ! ZZZZZ!” Olivia convulsed on the floor. The class was in hysterics.
“I’ll rescue you, Sam!” I yelled.
“But little did Bob know,” said Tabitha as I di
d a slow-motion run toward Olivia, “that electricity can be conducted through the human body. When he made contact with Sam”—I touched her—“ZZZZZZZZ!”
Now both of us were flopping around on the floor.
“ZZZZZ! ZZZZZ!”
“Cut!” yelled Ms. Hutchins, marching to the front. “Cut! Now! That is not what’s supposed to happen in your skit! What about your ethical issue?”
“We were getting there,” said Tabitha.
“We were just livening it up a bit,” said Flynn.
Flynn? Defending bad behavior?
Wow.
I twitched one last time, just for fun, and got to my feet. Olivia and I brushed off our pants. “You’ve wasted your classmates’ time,” said Ms. Hutchins, “and they don’t appreciate that.”
“Yes, we do!” said Soup. “That was the best science skit ever!”
“Marsupial, I didn’t ask for your input,” she said, her lips tight. “Now, the four of you, let’s get on with the lesson. Please explain your ethical issue for the class.”
“Should we continue the skit?” said Olivia hopefully.
“No.”
* * *
—
LILA CAME OVER to our group after the bell rang. “Well played,” she told us.
“We got cut off way too soon,” said Olivia. “Ms. H has no appreciation for the arts.”
“Well, she’s a scientist,” said Tabitha. “What do you expect?”
“Not true,” said Flynn. “Look at me. I’m into banjo, drawing, and science.”
“That’s because you’re weird,” I said. In a nice way, though. The way you tell your friends they’re weird because you like them. I hoped he’d get it. He smiled and flushed and focused far too hard on sliding his science folder into his messenger bag, so I was pretty sure he did.
“Get to Language Arts, kids!” said Ms. Hutchins. “Chop, chop! Mr. Pickett will blame me if you’re late!”
Flynn edged behind me in the scrum at the door. “You know how you were looking for new pranking partners?” he whispered. “I don’t think you have to look any farther.”
Here Comes Trouble Page 8
