The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 3

  “Fine. How come I can understand you?”

  “I dunno.”

  This chicken is no more helpful in death than it was in life.

  “Don’t you have somewhere else you should be?” I ask.

  “Like where?”

  “Like moving toward the bright light?” I suggest.

  “I did see a bright light!” cries the chicken. “Earlier. Shining at me through a tunnel.”

  “I think you were supposed to go toward it,” I say.

  “I thought it was another steamroller,” says the chicken. “Did you see that steamroller? It almost hit me.”

  “It did hit you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why didn’t you go toward the bright light?” I ask.

  “I started to. But something stopped me. I felt like I was supposed to stay here. With you.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I dunno, bestie,” it says. “For some reason, I felt like maybe you needed me.”

  “I don’t. And quit calling me bestie.”

  “Should I call you BFF?”

  “No.”

  “Should I call you homie?”

  “No.”

  “Should I call you bro? Chief? Amigo? El Jefe?”

  “Just call me Rex.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “REEEEEEEEEEEEEEX!” Its ghostly howl sends me diving under the blankets.

  “What?!” I screech.

  “Nothing,” it says. “I was just trying it out. It’s not much of a best buddy nickname, but it’s a start. So how about a name for me, Rex?”

  First, I am having a conversation with a dead bird. Second, he’s a real comedian. Third, he apparently feels bad that he is nameless. Things are getting weirder by the minute. And not in an awesome way.

  “Why would a dead chicken need a name?” I ask.

  “So you know what to call me, of course. Duh!”

  “Are we really going to be talking often enough for that to be a problem?”

  “Oh, I’ll be here for a while,” he says. “As long as you need me.”

  “But I don’t need you now,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  I’m getting nowhere with this. “Fine. How about Flat Chicken?”

  He thinks about it for a second. “Nope. That’s a description, not a name.”

  “Nugget?” I suggest.

  “No.”

  “How about Roadkill?”

  “Hmm.” He considers. “That makes me sound dangerous. Like I have a past.”

  “You do have a past,” I remind him. “You are actual roadkill.”

  “No,” he decides. “It’s not quite right.”

  “Drumstick?” I suggest.

  He walks around the bed, thinking it over. When he turns sideways, I can barely see him. He’s paper-thin. That steamroller really did a number on him.

  “I like it!” he says. “Drumstick it is!”

  The bird sits down on my comforter. His green otherworldly vapor pools around him like a puddle of toxic waste. He scratches his beak with his foot. “You should probably get some sleep,” he says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You’re going to need your rest. I think your life is about to get cuckoo.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I dunno.”

  I think my life may already be cuckoo. But he’s right. The events of this day have exhausted me.

  I lie down. If this chicken is here to be my spirit guide, I’m pretty sure he’s doing it wrong. I think I got a trainee by mistake.

  “Are you just going to sit there while I sleep?” I ask. “Not that that’s creepy.”

  It is creepy.

  “I’m fine, buddy old pal,” he clucks. “I’m just happy we’re back together again.”

  I roll over, pull my covers up to my face. The room is freezing. I try not to think about the fact that there’s a dead barnyard bird sitting on the edge of my bed.

  Darvish is never going to believe it. And that kid believes everything.

  9

  Darvish doesn’t believe it. And that kid believes everything.

  “I don’t believe it,” Darvish whispers. “You must think I’m a real dummy.”

  He is whispering because Ms. Yardley is currently talking about fractions.

  My teacher is a well-educated employee of the state. However, she has a troubling obsession with fractions. I don’t think she believes in anything being whole. All she can talk about are glasses of water that are only one-fifth full, and pizza split into eighths and two-tenths of a sandwich. You’d think it would be a sad way to go through life, never getting a whole sandwich to yourself, but she seems to adore the idea of partial portions.

  However, I am not currently listening to her fraction-focused spiel because I have more pressing business. Like convincing my best friend that I am being visited by the ghost of chickens past.

  “We’ve established you don’t believe me,” I whisper back. “But it’s true.”

  “Like Poopsylvania true?” he asks.

  He is not playing fair, throwing my past transgressions in my face.

  “That was a whimsical exaggeration,” I clarify. “A flight of fancy to keep your life interesting.”

  “My life is plenty interesting.”

  “Mine too,” whispers Sami Mulpepper from across the row. “For example, I find fractions very interesting.”

  I shake my head sadly. These people need to learn the joys of whole numbers.

  “But right now, I can’t hear anything about fractions because someone is chatting to Darvish.”

  I turn to her. “Sami, please quit distracting me.”

  “Distracting you?” she huffs.

  “Yes,” I say. “I am dealing with otherworldly issues from the great beyond. This is no time for frivolous math equations or random discussions with tawny-haired classmates.”

  Sami smiles. “Did you just call my hair tawny?”

  “What?” I say. “Don’t be ludicrous.”

  “Mm-hm,” she says, grinning mysteriously. “Just pipe down, okay?” She turns back around.

  “Tawny has lots of meanings, you know,” I whisper at her. She ignores me.

  “She’s finally snapped,” I tell Darvish. “I knew this day would come.”

  “Mm-hm,” he says, grinning mysteriously.

  I roll my eyes and return to the matter at hand. “Look, Darvish. You are my best friend. My one true compadre. If I tell you I’m being plagued by phantom poultry, you are required to believe me.”

  “We can talk about this later,” whispers Darvish. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

  “Strange happenings are happening,” I hiss. “They require immediate attention, no matter what certain Mulpeppers have to say on the subject.”

  Sami Mulpepper’s love of fractions and shaky hold on reality are not the most troubling things about her at the moment. Her interruption has caused me to lower my guard. Which has allowed Ms. Yardley to sneak up on us like the wily predator that she is.

  “Rex and Darvish,” says Ms. Yardley. “Do I have your full attention?”

  “Yes,” says Darvish.

  “Only about three-eighths,” I admit.

  10

  Adults say they want honesty. It is a lie and a sham.

  And now I am being forced to make posters.

  Convincing your best friend that supernatural happenings are afoot is difficult under the best of conditions.

  It is doubly so when the two of you are elbow-deep in glitter and smelly markers.

  In a couple weeks, our school will have a dance. It is called the Evening of Enchantment Dance. Much of our student body is quite excited about this vulgar shindig. Not me.

  I have never been to a dance, but, as I understand, it works like this: On the night in question, students will dress in garish finery. They will gather in the school gymnasium for refreshment and loud DJ music. And they will cut a rug. Bust a move. Boogie do
wn.

  I think not.

  However, as punishment for talking in class, Ms. Yardley has assigned Darvish and me to create glitzy posters advertising this sordid affair.

  This is called child abuse. It is also called recess detention. Either way, it is probably illegal. I’m starting to think that Ms. Yardley has no regard for the laws of man or nature.

  Thankfully, Ms. Yardley considers recess her “prep” time. Which means she is currently in the teacher’s lounge eating chocolate cake and gossiping with the school nurse. This leaves Darvish and me free to discuss the important issues of the day.

  “So, you’re telling me that a dead chicken slept in your room?” Darvish clarifies.

  “Not a dead chicken,” I say. “The dead chicken. I don’t know if he slept. And I think he might be a rooster. He definitely had a guy’s voice.”

  “Did it have a big comb?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. “But it needed one. Its feathers were a mess.”

  “Not that kind of comb,” says Darvish, shaking his head. “The red flap on the top of a rooster’s head is called a comb. A rooster’s comb is bigger than a hen’s comb.”

  “Quit saying comb,” I tell him. “You know way too much about farm animals.”

  He sprinkles glitter across his poster. “The chicken you got for your birthday was a rooster. It had a big comb.”

  “Well, then the dead chicken in my bedroom last night was a rooster. Because it was the same one.”

  I have glitter and confetti stuck to every exposed surface of my skin. It is making me itch. I think I’m developing an allergic reaction. Or mono. Or whooping crane. My diagnosis is unclear.

  “You’re telling me that the ghost of your dead rooster is talking to you?” Darvish asks.

  “Yes!” I say. “Though he didn’t seem to think he was a ghost. And he wasn’t see-through. But there were green vapors flowing around him. I’m pretty sure it was some type of firm-bodied apparition.”

  “So, you’re being haunted by your rooster?”

  “Well, anything sounds ridiculous if you say it with that attitude,” I point out.

  “Did he say Boo?”

  “No.”

  “Did he rattle chains?”

  “No,” I say. Darvish can be really sarcastic when he wants to be. I usually consider sarcasm an asset. However, a little sincerity would be helpful right now. “He just hung out in my room. We chatted.”

  “So where is this phantom chicken?” he asks, looking around the art room. “I don’t see any ghost birds around here.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. He was gone when I woke up this morning.”

  “That’s convenient,” he says, pulling out a pink marker and brandishing it at a fresh piece of poster board. “It was probably just a dream. Guilt can do strange things to your REM sleep cycles, dude.”

  “First, I am not guilty of anything,” I clarify. “Second, I did not dream it.” I sigh and shake my head. I’m getting nowhere. If you ask me, Darvish picked a rotten time to stop being gullible.

  I snatch up a wrinkled poster board from a dusty pile in the corner. “Gross. This thing has a dead bug stuck to it.” I flick the bug to the floor.

  “Is it talking to you?”

  “What? No!”

  “Why not?” he asks sarcastically, gluing down a large sparkly star. “I thought dead animals were talking to you.”

  “They are! Well, a chicken is!” I throw my glue bottle to the table. “I don’t know how this works!” I take a deep cleansing breath. “Look, I know this sounds made up. But I’m telling you the truth. I’m seeing ghosts.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I grab Darvish by the shirt and look him square in the eye. “I so solemnly swear. Cross my heart and hope to never ever own a chocolate Labrador of my very own.”

  This stops Darvish in his tracks. Glue drips from his bottle onto his shoes. But he fails to notice. “Wait a minute. You’re serious.”

  It’s the biggest, most serious swear I can make, and only a best friend would know it.

  “Dead serious,” I say. “Dead animals are talking to me.”

  “Whoa.”

  “So, you believe me?”

  “I’m required to believe you. You made the chocolate Lab swear. It’s the biggest, most serious swear you can make.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for the chocolate Lab swear.

  11

  Undead barnyard birds. Fractions. Recess detention. And I now have glitter on my arms that will not wash off.

  The events of the last twenty-four hours have been troubling, to say the least. I blame at least three of the four on my teacher. Among these relentless trials, there is one thing that has driven me back from the precipice of total and debilitating madness.

  Darvish is back to believing everything I tell him.

  It is a welcome development. When you are under siege by fiends from the underworld, it’s nice to have somebody to chat with about it.

  We are in my room, where Darvish is eating a baggie-ful of leftover pizza crusts. He has decided to deploy the “Scientific Method” in our situation.

  I fail to see how this helps us. “Yes, I understand,” I tell him. “Rain evaporates and turns into clouds. What does that have to do with ghost chickens?”

  “That’s the Water Cycle,” Darvish says. “I’m talking about the Scientific Method. We learned it in school.”

  “It’s possible I was not paying attention on that day.” It’s been known to happen. It’s not technically my fault. Clever and wily though she is, my teacher has not honed the fine art of giving your audience what they want. But if it leads to a solution, I will let Darvish continue down this path. Though his Parmesan-scented smacking is doing nothing for my frayed nerves.

  He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Your hypothesis is that there is a ghostly chicken appearing to you that nobody else can see or hear,” Darvish states for the record.

  “I don’t have a hypothesis,” I clarify, scratching my arm. “I may have a glitter allergy.”

  “Right. So, the chicken is here right now?” he asks.

  “Yes, he’s sitting right next to me,” I say.

  “Two best buddies,” Drumstick says. “Sitting together!”

  “You can’t see him?” I ask Darvish. “He’s right here.”

  “I don’t see anything,” he says. “Except you. And an empty beanbag chair.”

  “Why is he here?” asks Drumstick. “I thought this was just going to be us.”

  “He’s here to help us figure this out,” I tell him.

  “Ah.” My chicken points at Darvish. “And why is he dressed like that?”

  I look at Darvish’s polo shirt and khaki pants. I shrug. “He always dresses like a golf instructor. I think he even irons his shoes. I understand that it is disconcerting at first. You get used to it.”

  Darvish gives me a stern look. “This is my school uniform and you know it.”

  “Our school doesn’t have uniforms, Darvish,” I remind him.

  “Well, they should.”

  Drumstick sighs. “It reminds me of a pigeon I once knew. Gosh, what a great bird. He had a little paper bag he wore as a sweater vest.”

  “Uniforms promote an environment of academic excellence and rigorous learning,” Darvish says. He brushes imaginary dirt indignantly from his pants. “Besides, everyone looks good in khaki.”

  “Darvish, you said you’d help me. Quit primping and focus!” I point at Drumstick. “Look closely, now. You can’t see his swirly green ghost-mist?”

  “Nope.”

  Drumstick looks up at me. “I’m not sure this kid is the sharpest beak in the henhouse. Maybe we’d be better off without him.”

  I turn to Darvish. “You didn’t hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “He just slammed you,” I explain. “It was witty and cutting. Especially for poultr
y.”

  “The dead chicken is insulting me?”

  Drumstick tugs on my sleeve. “And he’s not using my name.”

  “He doesn’t like you calling him ‘the dead chicken,’” I explain. “His name is Drumstick.”

  “I’m not calling him that,” says Darvish.

  “Then we shan’t be talking,” says Drumstick with a humph.

  “Let’s conduct a methodical and objective experiment,” suggests Darvish.

  “In the name of the Water Cycle?” I ask.

  “The Scientific Method.”

  “If you say so.”

  Darvish reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone. “Let’s try to take a picture of him. Maybe the lens can pick up more than the naked eye.”

  Drumstick tugs on my sleeve. “He said naked.” He giggles into his wing.

  This bird is really growing on me.

  Nakedness aside, it’s a good idea. If we capture photographic evidence, not only will Darvish be able to see Drumstick and assuage his scientific curiosity, but I’ll be able to retire while I’m still in my prime. I hear people pay premium cash for evidence of life after death. Once again, I’ve taken a simply good idea of Darvish’s and transformed it into a brilliant and lucrative plan.

  Except it doesn’t work.

  “No good,” says Darvish, showing me the screen.

  “I changed my mind. This guy is nothing like my pigeon friend,” Drumstick says, pointing at Darvish. “And he’s kind of bringing down our special hangout time.”

  Darvish zooms in on the picture. “It’s just you and an empty beanbag chair. He’s not there.”

  “I am here!” Drumstick is starting to get worked up. It’s not a good color on him.

  Darvish shakes his head. “I hate to suggest it. But is it possible you’re just imagining things?”

  “Imagining things?” Drumstick cries angrily. “Is it possible to imagine the love blossoming in your heart for your newest boon companion? Is it possible to imagine the unique once-in-a-century bond you share with your soul mate? I think not!”

  Drumstick storms up to Darvish. “He’s just doing it wrong! Let me see that thing!”

  The chicken reaches out for the cell phone, but his flat flippers are no good at grabbing and he just swats the phone to the floor.