DOC STAYS WITH us while we wait for Mrs. Lee to come get us. Meanwhile, I fill Joon in on some of the stuff he’s missed. The safe room at school. The Sketchpad of Mystery. The back-and-forth cartooning.
“Wow,” Joon says. “So, can I see the stuff you drew?”
“Soon,” I say. And to Doc, I add, “Joon’s into cartooning, too. He’s a way better artist than me.”
“Really?” says Doc. “Maybe we should look into forming a school cartooning club or something.”
“Yesss!” says Joon.
“That’d be great!” I say.
Which is pretty funny, because when Mom suggested I start a comics club, I thought it was the stupidest idea in the world.
When we pull up at my house, I feel like I’ve been gone for eons. I’m suddenly exhausted. Like I could lie down on my bed and sleep for a year. I get out, thank Mrs. Lee, and head around to the back door—where I hear loud voices. Mom, Gramps, and Cal are standing in the yard by the chicken coop.
“Hey!” I call out to them. “Comic Fest was epic!”
They look up, but no one says a thing. A few more steps forward, and I see why.
One part of the chicken wire is all loose and bent, with a ton of scattered feathers lying around, and dark patches of what I guess is chicken blood. It looks like something pulled our chickens right out from under the sharp wires of the fence.
My stomach squirms like I swallowed a bunch of worms. I think I might throw up.
“They got Henrietta!” Cal shouts it at me, as if it’s my fault. “And Chick. And Fil-A!” He waves his arms around. “They snuck right up in broad daylight. I told you so, Mom. I told you this coop wasn’t secure!”
I try not to look at the bent wire fencing. The rest of the flock struts around our ankles, as if to say, “Hey, when’s dinner?” It’s a good thing chickens are dumber than Albert Einstein. I guess they’re not traumatized.
Mom heads for the workbench in the garage. “Come on, Dad,” she says. “Help me fix this.”
Cal is glaring at Mom’s back. When she’s out of earshot, he mutters, “And who’s going to fix those stupid coyotes?”
I look at my brother carefully. His fists are clenched, and his face is bright red.
“Why are you so obsessed with the coyotes, Cal?” I ask.
He jerks his head back, like I’m an idiot for even asking. “The chickens are one thing. You know they could also gang up and kill Albert Einstein, right? One of them sneaks behind and slits his hamstrings, while the others distract him. Then they close in for the kill. That’s how they take down the bigger dogs. And Albert Einstein’s so dumb and trusting—he’d just stand there and let them. We shouldn’t ever let him out of the house by himself. Not ever.”
Cal’s breathing is ragged. “Look at the chicken coop. It’s a disaster. And it’s Mom’s fault.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Everything is.”
“Everything is Mom’s fault?” I repeat.
“All she does is work. Everything around here is falling apart. Dad’s not around to check on stuff, like he used to be. Gramps can’t help.” Cal glares at me. “She shouldn’t have let Dad go away. She should have stopped him.”
His words feel like they’re twisting around in my chest. For the first time, I see how scared Calvin is. How much he misses Dad, too. But his way is to get angry.
“I miss him, too,” I say. “But how is it Mom’s fault? Maybe she has to work so hard to make more money because Dad’s stupid new job means he can’t send as much. Did you ever think of that?”
Cal kicks at the broken pile of chicken wire. “Figures you’re on her side,” he mutters. “Mommy’s precious Stannie.” Then he stalks into the house.
I had been feeling so great when Mrs. Lee dropped me home. So happy about Comic Fest, and Doc.
Wow—it took like two minutes for it all to go south.