Chicken Girls

by Brat

  Copyright © 2019 by Brat

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation. Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-4218-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-4219-2

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Cover illustration by Bethany Straker

  Printed in the United States of America

  Summer, 2018

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  “Attaway’s not the sort of place you hang around for very long …” The line played over and over in Meg’s head as their station wagon clattered over a streak of potholes and past a green sign that read: ATTAWAY—POP. 39,674. She glanced to the passenger seat and nudged Conrad’s shoulder. “We’re here,” she said to her sleeping brother.

  “I was hoping you’d just wake me up when we’re headed home,” said Conrad, as he fumbled for his glasses. “And done with this wild-goose chase.”

  What home? Meg thought to herself. “C’mon, Conrad. This is our only chance,” she scolded him. When her brother said nothing, Meg stepped on the gas, giving the car a nasty jolt.

  As the town came into sight, Meg thought again about the letter. Not the sort of place you hang around for very long. Maybe so, but at this point, Attaway was their only hope. If nothing turned up here, Meg wasn’t sure what they would do. The summer was dwindling fast.

  “Anything from Uncle Fiske?” Conrad finally mumbled.

  “He won’t notice we’re gone until he’s finished appraising every square inch of that house,” Meg said, stopping at a traffic light across from the town green. This was the place no one wanted to hang around? From Meg’s point of view, it looked pleasant enough. A few kids leaving an arcade, an old clock tower bent at the hip, and coming around the corner, a pretty girl all in pink.

  “Welcome to Attaway,” Meg said to her brother.

  CHAPTER 1

  The town library was a quaint brick building next to the church and across from the fire station. It had an American flag out front and, in spring and summer, rows of white, pink, and blue geraniums that perfumed the stone path to the front doors. Inside, the children’s section shone with primary colors and cardboard displays of literary greats like Stuart Little, Paddington Bear, and Dr. Seuss. Just behind that was the teen lounge—a few high tables and a giant blue bean bag near the window. Beyond that was the periodical room, where Rhyme McAdams was sneezing her way through a big box of dusty archives.

  “Bless you, dear,” Ms. Sharpe said, as she opened an embossed letter from that day’s mail. “And bless us! I can’t believe my eyes, but it looks like a donor has given a very generous contribution to the Attaway County Fair!”

  Ms. Sharpe was Rhyme’s friend Kayla’s mom, as well as the town librarian and “official Attaway historian”—though Rhyme couldn’t for the life of her think of anything worth remembering about her hometown. And yet here she was, on summer break, stuck sifting through the town’s archives. A few months earlier, Rhyme had failed her school’s practice exam (better known as the “Test Test”). In exchange for helping out around the library, Ms. Sharpe had agreed to tutor Rhyme in all of the subjects she’d flunked last spring.

  “Oh yeah?” Rhyme said, hoping the donor might distract Ms. Sharpe from their impending trigonometry session. “Who sent the donation?” Rhyme asked, rising up on her tiptoes to peek over Ms. Sharpe’s shoulder. From the desk of Silas Manderley, was written in curly letterhead at the top.

  “Nobody you’d know,” Ms. Sharpe answered curtly, looking up. “Are you already done with that box? Because we have a date with our good friends sine, cosine, and tangent coming up momentarily.”

  Rhyme sighed and shook her head; it was going to be another long day. Ms. Sharpe was curating an “Attaway Retrospective” exhibit at the county fair this summer, and Rhyme had been tasked with reading through ancient newspapers to find stories that might be “of general interest.” Which was funny, Rhyme thought, considering there was absolutely nothing interesting about Attaway—then or now.

  Five days a week, Rhyme sat at the same round table, facing the back courtyard, bent over a huge stack of yellowing papers. Today she wore a rose-colored summer dress and white slip-on sneakers. Her brown hair hung in two long braids. Doe-eyed and sincere, Rhyme was often described by adults as “the girl next door.” Maybe it was intended as a compliment, but what Rhyme heard was young, quiet, unassuming. She had never craved the spotlight, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be overlooked.

  And speaking of overlooked, Rhyme forced herself to focus on the task at hand. In the past few weeks, she had learned more about Attaway than she’d ever cared to know. Fallout shelters. Scandalous “miniskirts”, which didn’t seem all that mini. Someone from Attaway who came in tenth at an international yo-yo contest. A new fondue restaurant that opened in 1974. The basketball game versus Millwood where the marching band was suspended for performing a Beatles’ song instead of the national anthem.

  “Look at those beehives,” said a voice behind Rhyme. It was Matilda, an older girl from school. Until last year, Matilda had been the editor-in-chief of the school paper. She was in her usual black overalls, with a gray Attaway High T-shirt underneath. She wore her hair loose and un-styled, constantly tucking it behind her ears as she whizzed through the Dewey decimal system. Miraculously, Matilda actually seemed to enjoy their surroundings.

  “Sorry?” Rhyme asked.

  “That hairstyle,” Matilda said, pointing out a blond pouf from a photograph of the 1967 “Groovy” Fall Ball.

  “Oh, right,” Rhyme said, tugging at her own braids self-consciously. She’d never heard of a “beehive” before.

  “And that’s my section,” Matilda said, reaching over and gathering up all of the clippings spread out on the desk.

  “I guess you’re welcome then,” Rhyme said with a weak grin. “More work for me and less for you.”


  “Actually, you’re wrong,” said Matilda, bringing the papers over to the other side of the table. “Now it’s even more work for me.” She scrambled around in her bag for a pen. “You totally messed up the order.”

  “That might be a little bit of an exaggeration,” Rhyme said, holding her thumb and pointer finger just a tiny bit apart. But Matilda was no longer looking at her.

  “Do you spend a lot of time with archival materials while you’re practicing your handstands?” Matilda said under her breath, jotting something down in her notebook.

  “I’m a dancer,” said Rhyme, trying to make her voice as pleasant as possible. “Not a gymnast.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.” Matilda rearranged a bunch of red leather yearbooks. Rhyme sighed. This was officially going to be the most boring summer of her life.

  CHAPTER 2

  Later that evening, Rhyme walked home, exhausted from the day of sinusoidal functions and sixties hairdos. She glanced at her phone—no new messages. No gossip, no selfies, nobody to commiserate with about her miserable summer. It felt as if all of Rhyme’s friends had abandoned Attaway for the break. Ellie and Kayla were back at the dance camp where they’d first met last year. Quinn was staying with her dad for the summer. Rooney and Birdie were traveling through Alaska on a teen tour. Even the PowerSurge girls had disappeared for family trips and study abroad programs.

  And then there was T. K., who had waited until the night of the Spring Fling, the night they shared their very first kiss, to announce that he’d been accepted to an internship all the way out in Los Angeles. T. K. and his friend Flash were staying with Flash’s dad—a big-shot director in Hollywood—and learning to make movies. Earlier in the summer, Rhyme and T. K. had exchanged a few texts and calls, mostly about how sunny it was in California and how boring it was in Attaway. But now, it had been over a week since they’d talked. Then again, why would T. K. want to hear about Ms. Sharpe and the county fair, when he was probably surrounded by glamorous celebrities at fancy parties? Rhyme was happy for T. K.—he was off having the summer of his life. But she couldn’t help but feel like, once again, they were stuck in some kind of in-between.

  As she turned down her street, Rhyme sighed and looked around her neighborhood. Row after row of nearly identical houses stood empty, hardly any cars in the driveways, few lights turned on. The power lines crackled in the heat, and she could hear the faint sound of a jet engine, the plane cabin probably filled with people going somewhere way more exciting. Outside of old Mrs. Simpson’s place, an unfamiliar station wagon was parked too far from the curb. Mrs. Simpson had been Rhyme’s neighbor her entire life. Growing up, the old woman had always babysat Rhyme and Harmony—until last year, when Rhyme finally convinced her parents she was old enough to stay home alone. Rhyme passed the car, hoping it meant Ellie or Quinn had hitched a ride home early. But the plates read NORTH CAROLINA. Weird, Rhyme thought, as she headed up her driveway. Who would ever take a trip to Attaway?

  Rhyme opened the front door and kicked off her shoes. She plunked down on the comfy ottoman, staring out the window. The fireflies hadn’t come out yet. At least I still have my family. They’ll hang out with me, Rhyme thought. In the summers Rhyme and her family would walk to the town green, laying out a picnic and catching the shimmering insects in Mason jars. Harmony never wanted to let them go, but Rhyme always liberated the insects, for fear that their lights might go out forever. Rhyme smiled. Maybe there were still things to look forward to that summer. Her mom’s chicken salad. Iced tea. She’d even be willing to sit on the back porch with her dad and his telescope, as he droned on about Scorpius and Lyra and all of the other summer constellations.

  Just then, Rhyme’s father came barreling down the staircase, looking totally frazzled. Rhyme noticed a pile of suitcases sitting by the landing. “What’s all this?” she asked her dad.

  “Didn’t Mom tell you?” Her dad looked exasperated. “Here, can you sit on this to get it to shut?” he said, gesturing at a bulging bag.

  “Are we going somewhere?” Rhyme asked hopefully.

  Her father, a slight, serious man with brown eyes like Rhyme’s, looked guiltily at the floor. “I’m sorry, honey, but Harmony’s rehearsal schedule moved up two weeks.” Rhyme stood still for a second, and then turned away from her father, already knowing what was coming. “Your mom and I need to take her to LA tonight, and we won’t be back until Labor Day.”

  Before she could respond, Rhyme’s sister sashayed down the stairs. Dressed to the nines in a turquoise halter top, sparkly black pants, and white sunglasses, Harmony’s curly hair was straightened past her shoulders. “No photos, please,” she cooed at her older sister. “I’m simply not camera ready.” Rhyme rolled her eyes. Their mom, following in Harmony’s footsteps, rushed to hold the door, as if the precocious nine-year-old was a really big deal.

  The problem was, Harmony was sort of a big deal. That spring, she had been discovered by a casting agent in Malibu for a new TV show called Hotel du Loone. Playing a kid detective named Jazzy, Harmony had filmed a pilot episode earlier in the summer, to see if the network executives liked the idea. Apparently they were so impressed with her acting that they were bringing Harmony back to film an entire season. Rhyme could only imagine how much her tiny sister’s ego would balloon once the show actually started airing on TV.

  It took over an hour to pack up the car. By then, Rhyme’s dad was in a sweat, and her mom was huffing and puffing about missing their flight. Harmony, meanwhile, lounged in the back seat, firing off texts to her castmates. Suddenly she was using phrases like babe and sweetie. When she wasn’t applying lip gloss, with exaggerated, pouty smacks, Harmony fired off orders to their parents. “I wanted the rainbow scrunchie!” she screeched through the open car window, hardly looking up from her phone. Before they drove off into the sunset, Rhyme’s parents came over to the stoop, where Rhyme had been sitting in a daze.

  “Look on the bright side,” said Rhyme’s mom, as she pulled her dark brown hair into a bun. “Mrs. Simpson has a diving board, and if you want to have any of your friends stay over, you officially have her permission.” She smiled at Rhyme’s dad, who nodded with encouragement. “You’re staying at Mrs. Simpson’s,” her mother said, as if she had already told Rhyme this. Which she definitely had not. “It’s perfect, actually. She broke her hip this spring and is still having some trouble getting around.”

  “WHAT?! I thought we decided I could stay home by myself last year!”

  “Not overnight, dear,” her father said, shaking his head as if it were ridiculous. “Mrs. Simpson’s doing us a huge favor.”

  “Why can’t I just come with you?” Rhyme said, not bothering to listen to her parents lecture her once again on school and the library and “responsibility.”

  “You know we would bring you if we could,” her dad said. “But if you don’t pass your exams in the fall, the school said you might have to repeat a grade.”

  “So that means studying with Ms. Sharpe,” her mom chimed in. “Here’s some pocket money in case you need it, though I happen to know Mrs. Simpson is an excellent cook.” She handed Rhyme an envelope stuffed with dollar bills.

  “Don’t spend it all in one place!” her dad laughed. Rhyme rolled her eyes.

  “Remember to thank Mrs. Simpson,” her mom added. “And to help with Reggie!” Rhyme had almost forgotten about Mrs. Simpson’s yapping Boston terrier.

  “Great. Another chore. Just what I needed,” Rhyme tried to say, pocketing the envelope, which felt more like a bribe than spending money. But her parents had wrapped her in a bear hug, muffling her complaints.

  “We’ll call you every day before bed!” her mom said, as they hurried off to the car. “Love you!”

  Rhyme stood to watch as the car pulled out. Through the open window, Harmony blew her a series of kisses.

  So much for fireflies, Rhyme thought. Across the way, she saw that the station wagon in front of Mrs. Simpson’s had vanished. It hadn’t ta
ken long for the unknown visitors to realize they were better off in North Carolina. With a sigh, Rhyme sat down by the rose bushes that separated her house from Mrs. Simpson’s.

  Inhaling deeply, Rhyme paused and pulled out her phone. Quickly, she typed up a text to T. K. “Hey. Harmony and my parents are on the way to LA Maybe u will see them.” For a long moment, she waited to see the three dots that told her he was writing back. But there were no dots.

  It had always been like this with T. K. Maybe yes, maybe no.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day at the library, Rhyme was tasked with organizing Attaway High report cards from 1960–1963. Everybody had such formal names back then, Rhyme noticed, like Melvin and Lawrence and Gertrude. She wondered what they’d think of Kayla and Flash. At least one thing hadn’t changed: bad grades. One girl, Alice Hargrove, had a C-minus average in the spring of 1962—good luck to her on the Test Test!

  “Makes you look like a Rhodes Scholar,” said a voice over Rhyme’s shoulder. Matilda. Sometimes it was like she could read Rhyme’s mind. “Why are you reading report cards?” Matilda said.

  Was she making small talk?

  “Maybe Ms. Sharpe is a hoarder,” Rhyme ventured, with a small grin.

  “I wasn’t trying to bad-mouth Ms. Sharpe,” Matilda said curtly. “She had asked me to catalog those yesterday, and it looks like you’re interfering again.”

  Rhyme’s ears grew hot. “She asked me to put these in order. Not you,” said Rhyme, all of a sudden filled with anger. “So why don’t you mind your own business?”

  “Because this is my business,” Matilda snarled. “Unlike you, this is a summer job for me. I’m not some spoiled little girl whose parents pay for everything.” Matilda’s icy glare moved to Rhyme’s purse, where three twenty-dollar bills stuck out like ducks’ tails.

  “If you’re so obsessed with organization, have it your way!” Rhyme pushed the pile at Matilda, upsetting the neat stacks.

  Rhyme stormed off to the library’s entryway, to tell Ms. Sharpe that she refused to work next to Matilda. What was her problem? It wasn’t Rhyme’s fault that Matilda needed to earn money! As she rounded the hallway, Rhyme balled up her fists and bit her lower lip—she simply could not work under these conditions! But as she turned the corner, she saw that Ms. Sharpe was not alone.