The Puppet Carver

by Scott Cawthon

  “I told you not to look!” Marley hissed at her.

  “If you tell somebody not to look at something, they’re automatically going to look,” Payton said. “It’s like in elementary school when somebody tells you not to do something, then you do it anyway and say it’s Opposite Day.”

  Marley smiled. It was a dazzling smile even though there was hot fudge sauce on her upper lip. “Sean Anderson is sitting at that table,” she whispered. “Emma Franklin said that Sean likes me.”

  Payton rolled her eyes. “Marley, it’s not like that’s newsworthy or anything. All the guys like you.”

  “That’s not true!” Marley blushed, spooning up more ice cream. “Well, okay, most guys like me, but most guys are gross. Sean’s not gross. He’s on the Principal’s List for good grades and he’s on the basketball team, so he’s well-rounded. Plus, he smells good.”

  “Well, not stinking is important.” Payton said it to be funny, but it was true. A lot of ninth-grade boys were not yet on speaking terms with deodorant, a fact that made the school hallways smell like a giant armpit. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

  “I can’t just go talk to him!” Marley looked at Payton like she’d just said the most ridiculous thing on earth.

  “Okay.” Often Payton felt that there was some kind of script for male-female behavior that Marley had received but that she had missed out on. Payton tended to be straightforward with people, but apparently straightforwardness with the opposite sex violated some elaborate set of rules no one had ever bothered explaining to her.

  “Well, I can’t go talk to him alone,” Marley said. “Maybe as we’re leaving, we’ll walk by his table. If he looks at me, I’ll say hi to him. But it has to look casual, like I just happened to see him as we were leaving, not like I was going past his table to say hi to him on purpose.”

  “Okay,” Payton said again. While hanging out with Marley, there was always so much drama; Payton sometimes felt like she was a minor character in a play Marley was starring in. Payton didn’t feel like she knew all the lines for this play or even like she quite understood the plot, but it was still entertaining, and she was happy that a star like Marley had agreed to let Payton share the stage with her.

  “Okay. Ready?” Marley asked as soon as Payton popped the last bite of cone into her mouth.

  “Sure,” Payton said, still chewing.

  They got up from the table and threw away their trash, then walked past the table where the boys were sitting. Payton watched Marley work. Marley paused by the table just long enough to catch Sean’s eye. “Oh, hi, Sean,” she said, as if she were surprised to see him there.

  Payton noticed that Sean’s ears turned red.

  “Hi, Marley,” Sean said without making eye contact.

  Nobody said hi to Payton, nor did she expect them to. As she and Marley walked away, she heard the guys teasing Sean and laughing. “Oh, hi, Sean,” one of them said in an exaggeratedly high feminine voice.

  Marley smiled. “Well, that got his attention.”

  “I think you already had it,” Payton said.

  “Well, now he knows that I know, which is important.”

  Payton’s grades in school were higher than Marley’s, yet often in conversations with Marley, she felt like she was slow to catch on. “He knows that you know what?”

  Marley let out an annoyed-sounding sigh. “He knows that I know that he likes me, you dork! How can somebody be so smart and so stupid at the same time?”

  Payton smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know—but with your looks and social skills and my book smarts, if you mixed us together, we’d make the perfect person!”

  To Payton’s relief, Marley smiled back. “We would, wouldn’t we? We could take over the world! Hey, I don’t feel like going home yet. Why don’t we walk down to the park?”

  Payton looked up at the graying sky. “I don’t know. I told Mom I’d be home by dark.”

  Marley smiled her charming smile and cocked her head like an adorable puppy. “Come on, we’ll just stay ten minutes. It won’t be full dark for another half an hour.” She nudged Payton’s shoulder. “We can go to the pond and feed the ducks.”

  Payton sighed. She had loved ducks ever since she was a little girl—the way they were so graceful in the water and so hilariously clumsy out of it. She loved their blank, serene little faces and their nasal-sounding quacks. “Okay, but just for ten minutes.”

  “It’s a deal!” Marley said. “Come on, we’ll have more time there if we run!”

  Marley ran gracefully, and Payton jogged along behind her on her short little legs. Like a greyhound being pursued by a corgi, Payton thought.

  Payton and Marley put quarters into the duck food dispensers. At the sound of the pellets pouring from the chute, the ducks swam toward them, then waddled onto land, shaking their wet tail feathers.

  “Here you go, guys,” Payton said, scattering the food on the ground. They bobbed their heads, quacking, and gobbled it up.

  Marley said, “You want it? Go get it!” and tossed the food so the ducks had to waddle a long way to find it. Some of them weren’t bright enough to track where the food had landed, and Marley laughed.

  “You’re making them work awfully hard for those pellets,” Payton said, watching the confused ducks wander around.

  “Hey, they should get some exercise,” Marley said, grinning. “People feed them all day long. They’re little fatties.”

  “They don’t look that fat to me,” Payton muttered to herself, but she let Marley have her fun. When the confused ducks finally wandered back her way, though, she made sure to place some food right in front of them.

  The streetlights came on.

  “Oh no,” Payton said. “We’ve stayed here longer than ten minutes, haven’t we? I’ve got to go. My mom’s going to kill me.”

  Marley shook her head. “You are such a little rule follower. I guarantee your mom isn’t going to kill you. She’s probably just going to yell at you a little. And if she yells at you, so what?”

  Payton knew Marley wouldn’t understand, but the real answer to “so what?” was that Payton didn’t like to disappoint her mom. She got along with her parents much better than most kids her age, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  “Let’s run!” Payton said.

  They ran until they reached the corner of Brook and Branch, where they stopped to part ways. “Thanks for helping me out with Sean tonight,” Marley said, giving Payton a little half hug. “Tomorrow at lunch it’s his turn to say hi to me. If he knows what he’s doing. Which boys usually don’t.” Marley crinkled her nose thinking of it, then gave a little wave goodbye, and disappeared down her street.

  It was definitely full dark. As she walked home, Payton tried to construct her side of the argument she knew she’d have with her mom as soon as she got home.

  “Hi, Payton!” a voice called.

  Payton looked over at the house two doors down from hers, where Abigail Sullivan was sitting on the front porch. What kind of person sits on her front porch by herself in the dark? Payton wondered. But then she remembered how weird Abigail was, which answered her question. “Hi, Abigail,” Payton said, not stopping since she was already late.

  Now Payton and Abigail had so little in common that it was strange to think they were once best friends. Because Abigail’s house was so close to hers, the two of them had played together as preschoolers, playing dolls and store and school, wetting the sand in the sandbox to make castles and pies. They were inseparable when they started school and stayed that way until seventh grade, when Payton started being interested in more grown-up things and Abigail still wanted to play games and talk about wizards and unicorns. Payton had flung herself in the direction of the popular girls, who eventually accepted her. She had left Abigail to fend for herself. Sometimes from her spot at the popular girls’ table in the school cafeteria Payton would see Abigail sitting alone reading a book.

  “I know I’m late,” Payton said as she walked i
n the front door. She figured she would cut her mom’s accusation short by confessing up front.

  “You are,” her mom said. “I was about to ask your dad to drive around and look for you.”

  “Come on, I’m not that late,” Payton said, flopping down on the couch. Her mom was such a worrywart. It was what came of watching all those crime shows on TV.

  “You’re late enough. I told you to be home before dark, and you’re home after dark,” her mom said. “Do I need to explain to you what before and after mean?”

  Payton stifled the urge to roll her eyes. Her mother hated nothing more than an eye roll. “No, you don’t need to explain what before and after mean.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Her mom’s voice was tight with tension. “You know, I never worried about you like this when you were hanging out with Abigail.”

  Payton was in no mood for one of her mom’s “Abigail good/Marley bad” lectures. “That was because Abigail lives just two doors down.”

  “No, it was because Abigail is responsible, and when you were with Abigail, I knew you’d be responsible, too. With Marley, I’m not so sure.”

  “When Abigail and I were best friends, we were little kids. It wasn’t that we were so responsible; it was that an adult was watching us all the time. Marley and I aren’t little kids. You haven’t gotten used to the fact that I’m not a baby anymore.”

  Her mom sighed. “Payton, I’ll still think of you as my baby even when you’re thirty years old. I recognize that you’re growing up, but part of growing up is showing responsibility. If you tell me you’ll be home by a certain time, it’s your responsibility to make that happen. If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to act like one.”

  The eye roll happened before Payton could stop it. But seriously, where had her mom gotten that statement? The Parents’ Big Book of Clichés?

  “Eye rolling—that’s very adult,” her mom said. “Go take a shower and get ready for bed.”

  Payton dragged herself up the stairs as slowly as she possibly could. She didn’t want to push her luck anymore by being openly disobedient, but she also wanted her mom to know that she wasn’t happy about following orders.

  * * *

  This week the unit they were studying in home ec was called “Eggs: The Basics.” On Monday, Mrs. Crutchfield had lectured them on the nuances of shopping for eggs, which included the importance of checking for expiration dates and breakage. They had made both hard-boiled and soft-boiled eggs, which Payton thought was going to be the easiest cooking assignment ever. She was shocked when Mrs. Crutchfield gave her a B because she didn’t wash the egg before boiling it. Seriously? It wasn’t like you ate the shell, and besides, didn’t boiling water clean things anyway?

  At least Payton did better than her mom did when she was in Mrs. Crutchfield’s class. Her mom had been a C-minus egg boiler.

  Tuesday was scrambled eggs—a B plus because they were slightly overdone—and Wednesday was poached (a D plus, and a mess to boot). Payton was beginning to doubt that the course was going to be the easy A Marley had said it was.

  Today, though, they were having a “break from eggs”—Mrs. Crutchfield laughed entirely too much when she said this—to go on their field trip to the Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza Kit Factory where the pizza kits were made. Payton wasn’t that excited about touring the factory, but she was definitely relieved to get away from all those eggs. On the tour, the kids would get to make their own pizza kits, which would be delivered to home ec class the next day. After days of eggs prepared in every way imaginable, a pizza sounded pretty good.

  Payton took a seat next to Marley on the bus. The culinary arts class boarded after them, including Sean Anderson, who caught sight of Marley and promptly stumbled into the person in front of him. Marley and Payton laughed.

  “He’s trying to get up the nerve to ask me to the fall dance,” Marley whispered after he was out of earshot.

  “It would be easier if he didn’t fall every time he saw you,” Payton said, and they both giggled. Payton was glad she could make Marley laugh. She knew she couldn’t be the pretty friend, but at least she could be the funny friend.

  “This tour is gonna be lame,” Marley said.

  “So lame,” Payton said, even though she was actually glad for the break in routine.

  “Freddy Fazbear is for babies, and the sauce on Freddy’s pizza tastes like ketchup. The crust is Styrofoam, and I don’t even know what the cheese is made out of.” Marley yawned, Payton supposed, to demonstrate that she was already bored with the experience even though it hadn’t happened yet.

  “Dandruff,” Payton said. “The cheese is actually the dandruff of the Freddy Fazbear factory workers. They just shake their heads over every pizza.”

  “Eww, gross!” Marley said, but she was laughing.

  When they got off the bus, Mrs. Crutchfield read their names from a clipboard and made them line up alphabetically. “Now in a moment, the factory manager, Ms. Bryant, is going to join us and tell you about the factory’s safety regulations. Please play close attention. Factories are dangerous places if you don’t follow the rules.”

  Marley rolled her eyes. “How dangerous could a pizza factory be?”

  Payton didn’t have time to think up a wisecrack because a pretty, short Black woman, presumably Ms. Bryant, came out to join Mrs. Crutchfield. Though the factory manager wore the same kind of net cap cafeteria workers wore on their heads, her body was encased in a yellow bird costume that looked like a Freddy Fazbear friend that Payton remembered from her childhood. The bird had always been Payton’s favorite, and for a moment she racked her brain to remember its name. Chica … that was it. Payton smiled to see the Chica costume’s familiar bib, neatly printed with the words LET’S EAT with the word PIZZA scribbled in marker below.

  “Good morning, young ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza Kit factory!” the factory manager said, smiling. “We like to think we make the best custom pizzas in the country, and we’re delighted to have you as our guests today. Now first things first, everybody’s going to have to wear a fashionable cap like the one I have on here.” She posed like a model and then laughed.

  Marley let out a loud groan, and Mrs. Crutchfield shot her a look.

  “I know they’re not very glamorous, but it’s a hygiene issue,” Mrs. Bryant continued. “Nobody wants human hair as a pizza topping.”

  Now there were more groans, this time from disgust.

  Ms. Bryant handed Mrs. Crutchfield a box. “Mrs. Crutchfield, if you would pass out the caps, please. Now, ladies and gentlemen, make sure all your hair gets tucked inside. Those of you with long hair need to be especially careful.”

  “This is already worse than I thought it would be,” Marley said, holding her cap between her index finger and thumb as if it were a dead rat.

  Payton put on her cap and tucked her hair inside. “I look like one of the old ladies who works in the school cafeteria,” she said. She scrunched her face up into an old ladyish expression and said, “You want some corn with that?”

  Marley shook her head. “You are such a dork.” She slapped the cap onto her head. “My hair is going to be an ugly, sweaty mess by the time I get to take this thing off.”

  “Now let me continue to have your attention, please,” Mrs. Bryant said. “There are a number of safety rules for touring the facility. Walk in a straight line, and stay with your group at all times. There is to be no touching of any of the factory equipment under any circumstances. However”—she smiled—“each of you will be given a card and a pencil to carry with you as you tour the facility. Put your name on the card and check off the toppings you would like to have in your very own Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza Kit. Each of your pizzas will be assembled and then delivered to you at your school tomorrow.” She smiled widely. “How cool is that?”

  No one offered an opinion on how cool it was.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” Ms. Bryant said. She sounded a little disappointed
that people weren’t acting more excited. “As you enter the facility, make sure you grab some earplugs from James, who’s standing there by the door. It can get awfully loud in there!” She looked around, trying one more hopeful smile. “Well, be safe, and enjoy the tour. Shall we get started?”

  Payton was surprised at how loud the inside of the factory was, even with her earplugs in. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to work in that level of noise all day. Ms. Bryant had to yell into a megaphone to make herself heard over the whirring and chugging of the machinery. “This first area is where the dough is mixed,” she yelled.

  Workers in caps, plastic gloves, and white smocks dumped flour and yeast and water into giant cannisters fitted with enormous metal blades that mixed the ingredients into a gooey, stretchy dough. “And the next room is where it gets kind of hot,” Ms. Bryant said, leading them into a sauna-like room where huge vats of tomato sauce bubbled and steamed while being stirred by gigantic paddles. Even standing in the room for a minute made Payton break out in a sweat, and she wondered how the workers could stand the heat all day. The bubbling vats reminded her of witch’s cauldrons.

  “This is gross,” Marley whispered. “It’s so hot I already feel like I need a shower.”

  “And now if you’ll follow me, you’ll see where it all comes together,” Ms. Bryant said, motioning them forward. “The assembly line. And here’s where it gets really loud!”

  The whirring, chugging, and pounding in the assembly room was almost too loud to bear. Ms. Bryant pointed out where the dough was dropped into balls, then flattened into disks. The disks moved forward on a conveyer belt and were then squirted with sauce. Next, the saucy dough was sprinkled with cheese.

  “Next is what we call our topping bar,” Ms. Bryant said, gesturing toward huge clear cylinders labeled PEPPERONI, SAUSAGE, PEPPERS, GROUND BEEF, MEATBALLS, ANCHOVIES, MUSHROOMS, ONIONS, BLACK OLIVES, PINEAPPLE, ARTICHOKE, SPINACH, EGGPLANT. “Here, let’s take a break. Feel free to fill out the cards choosing what toppings you want on your pizza kit.”