Chapter Five

           Dodging the popcorn on the floor, Wyatt jumped out of his chair and ran to the door. It really was her—Roberta!—right there on the front porch, looking furious. In fact, she was hopping. Hopping mad.

            “Roberta!” he said, holding out one polka-dotted hand. “Stay away from me! You gave me the pox!”

            Wyatt was about to turn away when a movement on the porch caught his eye. In the glow of the porch light he saw a tuft of shaggy fur and a wisp of whiskers. He saw massive paws climbing the porch steps.

            He saw Roberta freeze in fear.

            And then he heard the howl from the dog climbing the stairs, the howl from the dog inching closer and closer to Roberta. Big sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight.

            “Roberta!” Wyatt yelled. Then he yanked open the door, grabbed the chicken and pulled her inside, slamming the door shut. He locked it, too, for good measure.

            In Wyatt’s hands, Roberta stiffened. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Carefully, he placed her down on the floor.

            In a very tiny voice, she said, “Thank you for saving my life.” Then, she shook out her feathers, stomped one foot, and said in a surprisingly booming voice, “I’ve come for my revenge!”

            “Your revenge?” Wyatt squeaked. “Your revenge? You gave me—“

            “That’s right, my revenge!” Roberta yelled.

            Roberta looked mad—and dangerous—dangerously mad—and Wyatt started to feel nervous. “Uh, what exactly do you mean by revenge? Does it involve pecking?”

            Roberta squawked in rage. “It’s hard enough being a chicken, what with the chicken’s list of grievances! And then you go around cursing us out of windows? I thought you were a friend!”

            “Wait,” asked Wyatt, who was very confused. He grabbed his root beer and took a long sip through the multicolored straw. “A chicken’s list of what?”

            “Grievances.”

Roberta looked at Wyatt, looked away, and began pacing the kitchen floor. Her feet clicked against the tile. “For example: ‘a chicken in every pot.’”

            “A chicken in every pot?” Wyatt asked.

            “That’s a lot of chickens,” Roberta answered. “In pots!”

            “I—guess?” Wyatt said.

            “And ‘the sky is falling.’ Are you really going to tell me that it only falls on Chicken Little and nobody else? Hmm? What about ‘tastes like chicken?’ Everything? Really?

            ‘Are you chicken?’

            ‘Hen-pecked?’ We only peck when it’s perfectly appropriate to peck! Most of the time!

            ‘Like a chicken with its head cut off,’” Roberta whispered, and shuddered in disgust.

            Wyatt was beginning to understand.

            “ ‘Go lay an egg?’ Well, excuse me if that’s how we birth our precious baby chicks! ‘Chicken out?’ ‘Did the cat get your tongue?’”

            “What?” asked Wyatt. “The cat?”

            “Don’t ask,” said Roberta, her voice darkening. Then she continued.

            “ ‘Bird brain!’ ‘Ruffle your feathers!’ ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ Well, who asks YOU why you cross the road? ‘No spring chicken.’ ‘Egg on your face.’ ‘Chicken scratch?’ Our methods of written communication are among the most aviarally advanced in the world! ‘Bad egg.’ ‘Flew the coop.’ ‘Not all it’s cracked up to be.’ ‘Play chicken.’ And the worst, the very worst one of all,” Roberta paused and looked Wyatt right in the eyes. “Chicken pox. Chicken pox!”

            “Chicken pox!” Wyatt shouted. “That’s the one! Roberta! You gave me the chicken pox! I came to play with you and now I’m itchy and polka-dotted and I’m in quarantine! I thought you were my friend!”

            “Squawk! Squawk!” Roberta was so mad that for a second, she couldn’t form words. Then she drew a deep breath and continued in a shaky voice, “Chickens cannot give you the chicken pox. I certainly did not give you the chicken pox.”

            Wyatt was skeptical. “Really?” he asked.

            “Really,” said Roberta. She sighed. How many times had she given this speech in her life? Too many. What was once more? “Chicken pox is spread from person to person by touching the spots of an infected person. It can also be spread through the air by coughing and sneezing.”

            “Oh,” said Wyatt. He still wasn’t entirely convinced. It was called chicken pox, after all.

            “I mean,” said Roberta, “have you ever seen a chicken with the chicken pox?”

            Wyatt looked from his spots to Roberta’s shiny white feathers.

            “I didn’t think so,” said Roberta. “It wasn’t me who put you in quarantine.”

            “Well, why do they call it the chicken pox, then?” Wyatt demanded, holding his ground.

            Roberta shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just another example of chicken injustice.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Wyatt, quietly. And he really was.

            Roberta tossed her beak, pretending not to care. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Tell the rest of the world!”

            Wyatt knew what he had to do. He opened the back door just a crack (first making sure the howling dog was nowhere to be seen), and yelled, “I TAKE BACK MY CURSE! CHICKENS DO NOT CAUSE CHICKEN POX!” Then, he slammed the door shut.

            A shuffling came from upstairs, followed by Wyatt’s mom’s voice. “Wy? Are you OK?”

            “Sorry mom,” Wyatt called back. “I just spilled some popcorn!”

            “Well, don’t forget to clean it up!” Another upstairs shuffling, and then, silence.                           

            Roberta, looking very pleased with herself, kicked around some of the popcorn on the floor. “Is that what all this mess is? Popcorn?”

            Wyatt grinned. “It sure is.”

            And that was how the boy with the chicken pox came to share a midnight snack of Pirate Pop with the chicken who no longer needed revenge.

            An hour later, they were in the middle of making a plan.

            “Loneliness,” said Wyatt. “And bullies.”

            “Howling dogs,” Roberta added—they both glanced at the door, but no menacing dog was in sight. “And the whole entire list of grievances.”

            They were going to be superheroes, and those were the first villains they would vanquish. Roberta had that superhero heart, and Wyatt had the opposable thumbs—and the popcorn.

            “You can be my sidekick!” Wyatt and Roberta both said at the exact same time. Then, Wyatt and Roberta both looked offended at the exact same time.

            “Let’s try that again,” said Roberta.

            “You can be my partner!” they said this time. They said it together.

            “Much better,” said Wyatt.

            Roberta offered her wing for Wyatt to shake, and Wyatt took it politely. Then, suddenly, there was a noisy fluttering of feathers and a snapping of beak, and Wyatt yelped in pain. “Hey! That hurts! You’re pecking my nail polish,” he yelled, pulling his hand away.

            Roberta blushed, and shrugged her shoulders. “My apologies,” she said. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Your nails are so shiny!”

            They both laughed a little, and Roberta kicked the Pirate Pop that still littered the floor. Wyatt executed a few wobbly pirouettes.

            “Well, I’d better get to the roost before morning,” Roberta said. “Don’t want to cause a kerfuffle among the cousins.”

            “Wait one second!” Wyatt said. He reached up and pulled the scarf from his hair, tying it very loosely around Roberta’s neck. “Your very first superhero cape!”

            “I bet I look awesome,” Roberta said, as a thank you.

Wyatt agreed. She did look awesome.

            Cautiously, they surveyed the porch before opening the back door. No menacing dog in sight, no howl to be heard. For now, anyway.

            Roberta stepped out into the night. Her feathers were shiny in the moonlight. She saw something out of the corner of her eye and she couldn’t resist—with an agility and speed that amazed even herself, she hopped up onto Wyatt’s skateboard, gave a kick, and rode across the porch. Wheels spinning, she flew down the stairs and headed into the darkness, headed for home. Her cackling laughter filled the air.

            “Hey, that’s mine!” Wyatt called. He was laughing too. “Bring it back!”

            “Next time,” Roberta yelled, her voice echoing as she rode away.

            “Next time,” said Wyatt, polka-dotted, quarantined, and happy. “I can’t wait.”